Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  “Oh, Bertie darling, what a shame!” Olivia is the first to respond.

  “Attsa no good!” says Ottavio, who tends to catalogue all life’s twists and turns as either “attsa good” or “attsa no good.”

  “But you were already approved!” I complain.

  I’ve been watching Craig, who is seated next to Bernard and directly across from me. It’s unlikely he even knew about the adoption plans to begin with, but his expression changes from shock to extreme sympathy in less than a minute. At the Stocktons’, such surprises are around every corner. If Rocky isn’t carefully mixing a Singapore sling in the living room then Olivia is out front being carted off by the police. Besides, Craig always told me that the thing he loves best about being here is that you never know what is going to happen next.

  “Apparently they have a problem with that fact that I’m gay,” Bernard finally lays it on the line.

  “I’m sorry, but adoption by same-sex singles and couples is perfectly legal within the state of Ohio!” Olivia slams down her fork as if it’s a gavel and tosses her napkin onto the table as if she’s going to sue somebody right then and there. “We’ll simply go down to the agency and straighten them out!” And the way she rises up from her chair, I get the feeling that I should bring the car around right this minute.

  “Sit down, Mother,” says Bernard. “It’s not that simple.”

  “But she’s right,” chimes in Craig. “This is a classic case of discrimination.”

  Craig’s an only child and his father is a lawyer, so he’s had to listen to adults talk his entire life and as a result knows all sorts of legal ins and outs, such as how to take someone to small claims court or fight a parking ticket.

  Sensing that a grave injustice has been done, Ottavio immediately jumps to conclusions. “La Cosa Nostra!”

  “There’s no Mafia around here, Ottavio,” Bernard corrects him. “You have to go to Youngstown or Cleveland for that.”

  Craig gives me a look that indicates he’s heard otherwise from his father’s dealings down at the courthouse, but remains silent on the matter.

  “It’s probably why we don’t have any good Italian restaurants,” says Bernard. Only it’s obvious from the pained expression on his face that this joke is meant to hide his disappointment.

  “We’ll organize a protest,” declares Olivia. She seems almost pleased to have a mission and continues with increasing gusto, “I’ll make up petitions and placards and go to their main office and—”

  Bernard takes such a deep breath that I sense the chandelier may have briefly swayed in his direction. “Mother, of course it’s illegal, but that’s not what they’re going to say in the official letter. It will simply state something to the effect that we failed the home inspection or didn’t meet all the financial guidelines. That’s why Mrs. Farley came in person. Apparently . . . apparently a very large contributor to the adoption agency lives right here in town—Edwin Kunckle. And he put the kibosh on it.”

  As Bernard utters my least favorite name he looks over at me, fully expecting the look that says: I told you he’s a jerk. Only I’m too distracted wondering if this happens to be revenge for my beating Kunckle at poker.

  “Oh dear,” cries Olivia and her hands fly up to her face.

  “I believe he’s a member of your church, Hallie,” says Bernard.

  “Not my church,” I fire back. “It just happens to be where the poker game is held. And it’s not my fault that my parents belong there.”

  “Anyway, it’s easy to make the connection,” continues Bernard. “If gays adopt babies, then he stops making donations to the agency.”

  “You really could sue for this!” A furious Craig lands a fist on the table and the silverware and crystal clank and jump.

  Craig’s indignation is sweet, but in my estimation he’s a bit too optimistic about the way businesses and agencies really operate. My dad works for the state and is always telling stories about insider dealings and mutual back-scratching. Furthermore, it seems to me that Bernard, with all his experience buying and selling antiques, has the most heightened sense of awareness with regard to human nature and how the world actually works, much like my bookie pal, Cappy. And according to both of them, favorable transactions are more often the result of kickbacks and pulling strings rather than anything written in law books.

  “I’ll pen a scathing editorial that will rally sympathizers to our cause,” declares Olivia.

  “I appreciate your good intentions, Mother,” Bernard says graciously, “but I don’t want a spectacle to be made of the way I live, with protests and stories in the newspaper and on television. Heaven knows, we’ve had enough of that around here.” He’s obviously referring to Olivia’s continuous stream of activism, which ranges from buying all the toads from the pet store to marching in support of the gay Boy Scout troop leader who was dismissed a year ago.

  “But the best test of truth for any idea is to have a public debate on the matter,” argues Olivia. “That’s one of the main tenets that the English poet and scholar John Milton championed in his pamphlet ‘Areopagitica.’ ”

  “Yes. And after the restoration of Charles II your beloved Milton was arrested, if I recall correctly. So let’s just drop the matter,” Bernard says with an air of finality and lifts his head high. He has an appetite for good food and fine wine as much as he does for martyrdom.

  “We’ll drown our collective sorrow in the world premiere of Bernard’s Bona Fide Bread Pudding in Bourbon Sauce.”

  With great ceremony Bernard places a large chafing dish in the middle of the dining room table and majestically removes the vaulted silver lid so that a delicious cinnamon smell explodes into the air and causes us all to exclaim and lean forward with anticipation.

  By the time we finish dessert Bernard is conversing and joking around as if the adoption rejection had never occurred. He once told me that he’s able to channel Ethel Merman performing “There’s No Business Like Show Business” in order to make it through almost any difficult three-hour period without succumbing to his emotional distress.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  WHEN THE TABLE IS FINALLY CLEARED BERNARD SPREADS OUT his sketches for the new pond and enthusiastically reviews them with Craig. “But of course I want you to be happy with the plan as well, so feel free to make changes and suggestions. Though I do believe the first thing Edith would ask is, ‘What are we trying to evoke?’ ”

  “Who?” asks Craig.

  “Edith Wharton,” I fill in the blank.

  Bernard has been poring over her books for days. He removes a well-worn copy of Italian Gardens off the highboy and passes it to Craig.

  “It should bring to mind the concept of liberty,” says Olivia.

  Bernard rolls his eyes. “We have flags for that, Mother, thank you.”

  “La famiglia,” offers the ever-helpful Ottavio.

  “Actually,” says Craig, “I’ve been thinking of what’s known as a wild pond.”

  “Wonderful!” Olivia claps her hands together approvingly.

  “That sounds perfect,” says Bernard. “I’ve never cared for anything that smacks of being overly staged, thereby giving the impression that we’re trying too hard. Therein lies the key to aesthetics— making the results appear natural and of course effortless.”

  From his leather satchel Craig removes a notebook and several catalogues with a variety of colored Post-it notes marking several of the pages. “Then let’s start with the greenery, because it’s essential for maintaining the ecological balance—you know, algae levels, filtration, and things like that. And plants provide fish with places to hide, which reduces their stress level.”

  “Pesce!” says Ottavio excitedly. Though he’s obviously picturing something prepared in a white wine sauce with a side of linguini.

  “No, it’s not a pond for fishing,” explains Olivia. “A place of beauty—posto pittoresco.”

  Craig places some photographs on the table and begins to describe them
one by one. “First we’ll choose the floating plants. There’s lotus, floating heart, parrot’s feather—this isn’t a good picture, but it has feathery light green leaves that drift on the surface. Then there’s pennywort—that’s the one with the emerald-green cupped leaves that creep across the border or float on the water, and tiny white flowers rise above it.”

  Bernard studies each image carefully.

  “I adore the sound of lotus and floating heart, ” Olivia says dreamily.

  “Mother, you can’t just choose these things based on whether or not you like the name.”

  “They’d all work in this environment.” Craig passes around three more photos. “We might try one of these as well—there’s water four-leaf clover, water hawthorn, and water hyacinth.”

  Without even glancing at the photos, Olivia says, “Definitely hyacinth. In Greek mythology Hyacinthus was a beautiful youth with whom Apollo, the god of prophecy, medicine, music, and poetry, fell in love. However, Zephyrus, the West Wind, also fell in love with the boy and became very jealous of Apollo. One day as Apollo was instructing the boy in discus throwing, Zephyrus seized the missile in midair and hurled it against Hyacinthus’s head. The boy was killed, but where his blood fell there sprang up the hyacinth flower.”

  Bernard snorts.

  However, before they can start arguing Craig moves on. “Fish are a good idea since they help reduce pond waste. And of course they’re attractive and interesting. Most people stock with goldfish.”

  “Well, we certainly don’t want what most people have,” says Bernard.

  Olivia nods in agreement. Although mother and son constantly bicker with each other, they almost always present a united front against ordinariness.

  “Personally I like Japanese koi,” says Craig. He flips to a page showing a gorgeous fish that’s a kaleidoscope of bright orange, gold, black, and pearl gray. “Then there are two breeds of goldfish that are European imports and not as common, Green Thech and Golden Orfe.” Craig points to the opposite page.

  “Not too much gold,” cautions Olivia. “That’s my only complaint about Willa Cather, she tended to overuse gold.”

  “Willa Cather didn’t have a famous garden,” Bernard states with authority.

  “I meant in her descriptive writing—golden sunsets, golden fields, golden leaves, golden steeples.”

  “Hmm,” says Bernard, studying the pictures and ignoring his mother. “Edith doesn’t say anything about fish.” He places his hand on the cover of Wharton’s book as if trying to channel her opinion on the matter.

  “We don’t have to decide about the fish right now,” says Craig. “Actually, they come last. First we need marginal plants, border plants, and most important, oxygenating plants—possibly some duckweed, eel grass, Sagittaria or Anacharis.”

  “Definitely get that last one for Mother,” insists Bernard. “It sounds like anarchy.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  AFTER EVERYONE AGREES ON THE PLANS FOR THE NEW POND, Craig and I head out to the yard so he can get a better idea of the space he has to work with. There’s not a star to be seen, but the blackness above us is velvety and soft. Alongside the stone pathway azaleas bloom with undimmed ferocity, their bright red and orange flowers practically glowing in the darkness. And though we can’t see the roses in Olivia’s garden, they manage to exhale their sweet perfume.

  “It’s really great to see you,” says Craig. “You look terrific.”

  Despite the fact that it’s dark out, I’m suddenly self-conscious about my appearance and try to fix all the wispy strands spiraling out of my ponytail. “Oh gosh, Bernard had me helping in the kitchen until the last minute and there wasn’t time to change or even brush my hair.”

  He lifts his hand as if he’s going to take my arm but instead shoves it deep into his pocket. “So how do you like college life? Gonna stick it out for three more years?”

  “Yeah, if I can afford to. It’s a lot better than high school, don’t you think?”

  “I guess so,” he says in a manner that isn’t overly convincing. “I had more fun in high school.”

  “Are you going to stick with it?” I ask.

  “My parents would kill me if I quit. When you’re an only child there’s no room for a black sheep. You’re lucky.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “All of your parents’ expectations aren’t dumped solely onto the shoulders of one child. My mom sent me that story about Eric in the local newspaper—how he started his first football game and has a full scholarship. And even if you and Eric do mess up, they still have Louise and Teddy and so on down the line.”

  “If the next one of us written up in the newspaper is Louise, it might not be such a great story,” I say. “Rather than Most Likely to Succeed, she’s currently distinguishing herself as Most Likely to Repeat Tenth Grade.” I don’t add that I’m currently vying for “Most Likely to Die Alone.”

  But Craig doesn’t ask what’s going on with Louise and instead catches me off guard with, “So, do you have a boyfriend?”

  Good question. And how differently I might have answered a week ago. But now I don’t know. Is Ray to be considered a boyfriend? He’s phoned exactly once since bagging his visit. And yet if he is still in the boyfriend category, for some reason I’m not sure I want to tell Craig. Likewise, as much as I’d like to know if he has a girlfriend, I’m not really interested in picturing him kissing some girl.

  The wind suddenly picks up and dime-sized raindrops splatter against our skin. A clap of thunder like the rattle of sheet metal comes from beyond the orchard and lightning appears in great zigzags across the heavens, making everything stand out and appear close to us for a moment.

  We dash to the safety of the nearby gazebo. However, when an entire curtain of water starts attacking sideways and forks of lightning move in on us following every crash of thunder, Craig says we’d better make a run for the house. He grabs my hand and we race around the garage to the front door.

  Bernard is standing in the vestibule with big fluffy towels. “I saw you both running to the gazebo and thought of Leisl and Rolf singing ‘I Am Sixteen Going On Seventeen’ in The Sound of Music.”

  Obviously Bernard is not going to stop trying to get us back together anytime soon.

  “Well, I’m seventeen going on eighteen,” I inform him, “And Craig is nineteen going on twenty.”

  “That’s true. But don’t you think I’m perfect to play the Baroness Von Schrader?” He quotes his favorite line after she’s sent Julie Andrews packing: “Good-bye, Maria. I’m sure you’ll make a very fine nun.”

  Craig accepts an umbrella from Bernard and then gives me a chaste kiss good night, the kind you confer upon a geeky cousin at a wedding. And then with a wave to Bernard he heads out into the night.

  Bernard is leaning against the balustrade as if he no longer has the energy needed to stand unsupported, and it’s apparent from the dullness in his normally bright blue eyes that the adoption rejection is more of a disappointment than he’s been willing to acknowledge.

  “I’m off to bed,” says Bernard. “All alone, just like Garbo.”

  “Me too,” I say. “I mean, it’s doubtful I’ll ever get married. You know, we could just live here and . . . and . . .”

  “That’s very sweet.” He gives me a chaste kiss on the other cheek.

  This seems to be my evening for chaste kisses. Saturday nights at the bingo parlor is probably just around the corner.

  “And I appreciate the consideration,” says Bernard as he starts up the stairs. “But perhaps it’s better if I live in your heart, where the world can’t see me,” he quotes Greta Garbo just before she dies in Camille.

  Oh great. Here we go again.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  I STOP IN THE KITCHEN TO GRAB A CHOCOLATE YOO-HOO WHILE debating whether or not to wake Olivia and tell her that we may be back on suicide watch, and Bernard might be upstairs this very minute drafting a note. Until this past mont
h it was simply a source of amusement that Bernard has memorized the last words of so many famous artists, such as the Russian ballerina Anna Pavlova’s “Get my swan costume ready and play the last measure softly.”

  “Hallie,” a delicate whisper comes from Olivia’s den, which is dark except for the flame of a single candle.

  “Olivia?” It isn’t surprising for her to be up late working on a poem or a letter to the editor of the local newspaper. Or else on a pornographic story for Milky Way magazine. As she’s fond of reminding us, “erotic narratives” earn considerably more money than poems and provide readers a harmless outlet for their fantasies. The latter she claims helps to cut down on domestic violence and sex abuse.

  “Why are you working in the dark?” I ask.

  Olivia leans against the wall in front of the open window, wearing a burgundy silk negligee with a kimono-style robe draped over her shoulders while smoking a cigarette and gazing up at the night sky. “The horns of Isis,” she says, and nods toward the vast darkness.

  I search the sky for a constellation but it’s drizzling outside and no stars are visible, just a crescent moon with its points turned upward.

  “The cow was sacred to her, and so when the tips of the moon face heavenward it evokes Isis, the great Egyptian Mother Goddess. Lucius of Patrae, the Greek author of a lost Metamorphoses, addressed Isis in a hymn, saying, ‘Thou dispellest the storms of life and stretchest forth thy right hand of salvation, by which Thou unravellest even the inextricably tangled web of Fate.’ ”

  I assume that Olivia is attempting to summon ideas for solving Bernard’s adoption problem, in her own poetic way. “It’s kind of you to want to help, but I get the feeling he won’t appreciate us interfering in this one,” I gently suggest to her.

  The dampness from the rain enters the room as she attempts to fan the smoke out through the open window with a cardboard folder.

  “Oh Hallie, I’m afraid that the adoption trouble is all my fault!” Olivia’s mouth tightens as if it pains her just to think about it. “A few months ago I wrote an editorial exposing the fact that Valueland was breaking the labor laws. They hire people to bag groceries and help customers to their cars, then reduce compensation based on the estimated amounts of tips received by employees. And in the editorial I included his name.”