Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  “Who? Edwin the Turd?”

  Olivia looks at me quizzically as she crushes out her cigarette.

  “I mean, Ed Kunckle, Mr. Church Deacon and Town Spirit.”

  “Yes, he’s the owner or the majority shareholder or something like that,” she says with an anxious inflection in her normally warm and delicate voice. “It was difficult to find the exact details on how the ownership is structured based on the papers filed down at the courthouse.”

  “So Kunckle is doing this to get back at you?” I’m stunned that anyone could be so ruthless in their cruelty.

  “Exactly!”

  “I thought that maybe it was because I beat him in poker.” There’s relief in my voice.

  “I’m afraid he’s settling a much bigger score than that,” says Olivia.

  “My gosh, that guy would stab a person in the back and then have him arrested for possession of an illegal weapon!” I say this in my best crime-show-detective voice.

  “Well, I won’t allow it!” insists Olivia. “This is too important to Bernard. And he’d make a wonderful father. So that’s why I’ve decided to work from inside the system! Though just this once.”

  “Shouldn’t we ask Bernard about your plan?”

  “Absolutely not!” Olivia dismisses the very suggestion with a wave of her hand. “Bernard abhors the idea of becoming embroiled in gay rights issues. He claims that doing so in such a small town objectifies him. Only I disagree. I think he simply refuses to acknowledge the fact that discrimination is much more prevalent than people would like to believe.”

  “But what can you do?” I ask. The situation appears to be a prime example of what Cappy describes as “The Golden Rule”—he who has the gold rules.

  “Hallie, you didn’t know my husband back when he was an influential barrister in this town. I still have a few connections with people in high places, and tomorrow I’m going to start making some calls.”

  “Let me know if I can help,” I offer.

  Olivia closes the window, and ties up her robe as if she’s suddenly become chilled. “You just keep an eye on Bernard so as to make sure we don’t have any more late-night dramas.”

  Chapter Fifty

  CRAIG COMES OVER ON SUNDAY MORNING SO WE CAN DRIVE TO the town of Warren, where there’s a building supply center that sells most of what he needs to make the pond. Olivia and Ottavio are coming along because the store also stocks a large selection of lawn statuary and Olivia has decided that we need some Roman gods and goddesses to honor Ottavio’s homeland, and maybe a miniature Coliseum or the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Craig calls out as he does a loose-limbed jog over to the front porch, where we’re all standing around waiting. “My parents made me go to church.” He rolls his eyes as if he only went along with it to make them happy.

  “I worshipped privately this morning,” says Olivia. “Fortunately attendance isn’t mandatory in my religion.”

  “Your religion?” scoffs Bernard, as if to suggest that being Unitarian is more akin to being a supporter of the Cleveland Zoo. “First off, your church doesn’t have services in the summer, because everyone is too busy organic gardening. And second, had you been born two hundred years earlier, it’s most certain that you’d have been burned at the stake by now.”

  “That may be so,” trills Olivia, “but I have faith. Faith is to be found in the head and the heart, not a sanctuary or a temple. Furthermore, I’ll take this opportunity to remind you that Unitarianism is a recognized religion.”

  “Tax-exempt social club is more like it,” retorts Bernard.

  “Well at least I have a religious home,” says Olivia. “Remember the month you were a Buddhist and used the word mums as your mantra?”

  Craig and I giggle as we imagine Bernard in the lotus position, chanting the name of his favorite flower.

  “I suppose I’m a sinner nowadays,” jokes Bernard, and for a moment I think he’s referring to the thwarted adoption and glance toward Olivia to gauge her reaction.

  But she only offers us her placid each to his own smile.

  “Hallie taught me some tricks to improve my odds at blackjack this morning,” continues Bernard.

  “That counts as religion,” I say. “There are twenty-one epistles in the Bible and that makes blackjack. Only these days I’m more spiritual than religious. For instance, this fall there’s a good chance I’ll be having an out-of-money experience.”

  “Funny, you seem too large to be a medium,” quips Bernard as he hustles us all into the car.

  After last night’s rainstorm it’s turned out to be a shiny July morning with a clear arc of blue painted in the east, over the farms, and buttery sunlight filtering down through the treetops. With Craig at the wheel of the big cherry-red Buick we get a chance to test the new tires and brake pads that I had installed for Olivia last week. I tend to think that for once Bernard might not be exaggerating in that Ottavio really is racing around at ninety miles an hour in order to go through tires and brakes so quickly.

  It’s probably a good thing Craig is driving, because neither Bernard nor I could sleep last night. He was distraught about the adoption being canceled and I was worried about him having another late-night party for one where he’s the designated drinker. I suggested that he call Melik to commiserate, but Bernard insisted he didn’t want to be a downer so close to the start of a new relationship. And so we were up until five in the morning playing cards and watching Tallulah Bankhead in Die! Die! My Darling.

  In fact, Bernard is still speaking in Tallulah’s whisky-and-cigarette voice when he tells us the story of how she was once in a restroom in New York and knocked on the wall of the next stall to ask for toilet paper. Supposedly the woman on the other side immediately recognized the distinctive smoke-cured voice and said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Bankhead, but there’s no toilet paper in here, either.” After which a husky Tallulah replied, “Then, dahling, do you have two fives for a ten?”

  I haven’t the slightest idea of where Bernard gets these stories and I don’t know if they’re the least bit true, but they sure are hilarious, at least the way he tells them.

  On the way home Bernard makes us stop at not one, but three yard sales. Olivia is happy to find some inexpensive and fairly large porcelain statuettes of The Muses and also a Cupid, since her search for Roman gods and goddesses at the garden center had been a failure. Their inventory was more along the lines of gnomes and grazing animals rather than Venus and the wonders of the Middle Ages.

  By this time we’re starving, so Bernard instructs Craig to drive us over to The Garden of Eatin’ for lunch. Whenever life gets Bernard down, he loves to order blueberry blintzes with sour cream and play Barry Manilow’s “Mandy” on the wall-mounted jukebox.

  When we finally arrive back at the house it’s apparent from the minute we pull into the driveway that something is amiss. The front door is ajar and the curtain rod on the picture window is hanging down by about three feet on one side.

  “Uh-oh!” Craig says ominously. “It looks like you’ve been robbed.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  IT’S TERRIBLE, BUT THE FIRST THING THAT ENTERS MY MIND IS that at least I can’t be blamed in any way for whatever has happened, because this time I am in possession of a solid alibi.

  We all charge toward the front door, but with his long legs Craig arrives there a half hour before the rest of us. Chairs are knocked over, rugs are pushed back, and lamps are lying sideways on the floor. It appears more like the house was ransacked by a person searching for something specific, rather than just vandalized. Above the fireplace the large Palladian-style mirror with the mask of a Roman god at the top is dangling from a single wire, as if the burglar checked behind it for a safe.

  “Whew!” says Craig and then lets out a long low whistle as he surveys the mess.

  “Do you think someone might still be here?” I ask. “Maybe we should call the police.”

  “I’m sure they would have run out
through the back after hearing a car pull into the driveway,” says Craig.

  “But what about upstairs?” I ask. Bernard has valuable antiques stuffed into every corner of every drawer and closet all the way up to the attic.

  “I’ll go up and check,” says Craig. He grabs the gold-plated shovel from off the floor next to the sofa that must have fallen out when the rack holding the fireplace tools toppled over.

  “It appears that the thief knew what he or she was after,” suggests Olivia.

  “I should say so,” agrees Bernard as he unhappily surveys the destruction and then carefully picks up a small bronze statue of a naked woman with long flowing hair reclining atop a butterfly. “This little piece is easily worth five thousand dollars—any art thief worth his salt would have grabbed it.” A puzzled look crosses Bernard’s face as he quickly discovers other valuable items disturbed but not stolen.

  “Same with these.” From off the floor Olivia gathers up a half-dozen cameos, some encrusted with real jewels, which are usually displayed on a marble pedestal in the corner of the living room. “Bertie, you’d better check on that Rembrandt etching.”

  Bernard hurries into Olivia’s study and opens the drawer in the file cabinet where she keeps the household records. Leave it to the Stocktons to have a Rembrandt etching stuck between the telephone bills in an unlocked file cabinet. “It’s here!” he calls out with relief.

  “En maron!” Ottavio shouts from the kitchen. “Olee-vee-ah! Rocky es hurt.”

  We converge in the kitchen to find Rocky crumpled up in the corner with a crushed lamp shade stuck on one foot.

  “Oh no!” Olivia quickly gets down on her knees to check for signs of life. But when she lifts Rocky’s arm and then his head, they both go limp. “Oh no, oh no,” repeats Olivia as she puts her face up close to his in order to feel for his breath.

  “Oh no is right,” says Bernard, though not with the same note of concern. He picks up an empty bottle of Gordon’s gin from off the floor. And then a bottle of Jose Cuervo tequila from underneath the step stool.

  Rocky slowly comes to and Bernard starts yelling at him about being a drunkard.

  But Olivia keeps her calm. “Hallie,” she says, “call Brandt at the lab and tell him to come home right away. The number is taped next to the phone.”

  “What’s Brandt supposed to do?” asks an angry Bernard.

  “He can talk to Rocky and find out what happened,” says Olivia.

  “It’s obvious what happened!” shouts Bernard. “That stupid monkey went on a spree and ruined how many thousands of dollars’ worth of antiques!”

  “Attsa no good,” concurs Ottavio.

  “Perhaps he fought off the burglar,” proposes Olivia, though doubtfully. Her voice is filled with worry. It’s obvious that Rocky will have to go if he’s capable of this kind of destruction. And we all know from when he first arrived that there’s nowhere else to go except to sleep, for good. The zoos had made it quite clear that they don’t run AA programs for chimpanzees.

  “Mother, he’s clearly intoxicated!” Bernard is fuming. “I can’t believe the mess that he’s made!” He looks down with disdain at the chimp, whose eyes are now half open. “Rocky! I thought you’d reformed.”

  Bernard storms out of the kitchen and continues moving through the house in an effort to assess the damage. Though several lamps and vases have been knocked over and silver boxes and statuettes are on the floor, aside from the ruined lamp shade on Rocky’s foot, only a Delft dry-drug jar and a gilded Bohemian goblet are smashed beyond repair. However, it’s certainly going to take a while to put things back in order. There are chips of firewood everywhere and a lightbulb has been smashed, leaving small shards of glass across the rugs and in the sofa cushions. The Dirk Van Erp table lamp has a crack in the base, but Bernard says it can probably be repaired so that it’s not noticeable.

  Otherwise, the liquor cabinet is wide-open, the mesh screen is dented, and bottles are strewn across the floor in front of it. I’m surprised that Rocky didn’t at least use a glass. Whenever he tends bar he almost always makes mixed drinks.

  Craig comes back downstairs and reports, “All clear. In fact, it doesn’t appear that the burglar even made it upstairs. Everything is in order. Maybe he did get scared off when the car pulled up, and escaped through the woods.”

  I nod toward the kitchen, indicating that Craig should look in there if he wants an answer to the purported break-in. Then I take out a broom and begin sweeping up the glass and broken pottery.

  After a few minutes Craig calls out, “Hey, Hallie, come look at this.”

  I return to the kitchen, where Olivia is still tending to Rocky, who is now sitting up slightly, his face in his hands.

  “It looks as if someone tore chunks out of his fur.” Craig points to the back of Rocky’s neck, which we couldn’t see before when he was lying down.

  “Sure enough, either Rocky had a run-in with my weed whacker or else he’s developed one heck of a case of mange.”

  “Maybe there was an intruder and Rocky fended him off,” suggests Craig.

  But Olivia doesn’t appear encouraged and tears well up in her eyes. She sits with Rocky while he comes out of his daze and gently strokes his head.

  The noisy engine of Brandt’s rust-bucket Dodge can be heard in the driveway and I run out to meet him.

  “Brandt, you’ve got to find out exactly what happened, because I’m afraid they’re going to put Rocky to sleep,” I hastily explain as we head toward the kitchen.

  Brandt immediately starts signing at Rocky. But Rocky just stares back at him with glazed eyes. Rocky’s expression appears so humanlike that one would almost think he’s too humiliated to answer. Only it’s more likely that in his current state, Rocky doesn’t understand what Brandt is trying to say.

  Bernard stands behind us holding an orange-and-blue Imari plate broken neatly in two that he’s just discovered under the dining room table. “It’s just as I told you,” says an angry Bernard. “He went on a spree!”

  It turns out that Rocky understands Brandt perfectly. After a few minutes he begins to slowly sign back.

  Brandt nods understandingly and motions some more at Rocky. The chimp becomes excited and starts gesturing frantically and then hopping up and down and making hooting noises, followed by what sounds like a dog barking.

  “Oh!” says Olivia. “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

  “What?” asks an increasingly frustrated Bernard. “What is he prattling on about?”

  “Lulu,” says Olivia.

  Rocky suddenly looks over to her with hurt in his eyes.

  “He had a fight with that damn dog?” asks Bernard. “In the house?”

  “He’s in love with Lulu,” says Brandt. “Rocky wants more than she does from the relationship. And so he got upset.”

  “It’s summertime,” Olivia says wistfully. “Thoughts turn to love.”

  “And love turns to disaster,” I can’t help but add. It’s tempting to ask Brandt to tell Rocky that I’m actually doing considerably worse when it comes to the dating game. The only difference being that I haven’t ripped apart a house yet. But that doesn’t mean the thought hasn’t crossed my mind.

  “Well, tell him that she’s a Great Dane and he’s a chimpanzee,” says an irate Bernard. “And I’d be happy to show him the difference in a mirror, except that all of mine appear to be broken!”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING A DELIVERY TRUCK PULLS UP WITH everything that Craig ordered for the pond. He’s already at the site and directs the two men in unloading the flagstone, pond liner, bags of concrete, imitation stone bridge, filtration system, water testing kits, and heaven knows what else. It’s the biggest mess I’ve ever seen, and fortunately Craig is expecting some guys he used to play football with to help him get started. In the meantime, it looks as if it’s going to rain any minute, and so I search the garage for some tarps to cover the boxes and especially the concrete. If B
ernard didn’t use the area to store all the furniture he’s someday planning on refinishing, we could just put everything in there.

  On one of the shelves in the back of the garage I come across Gil’s baseball glove. It’s not as if I need an excuse to call him, but I know he’ll want his beloved mitt for the annual company picnic, where he always plays first base. Besides, it’s been weeks since we’ve spoken and it’s easy to see how kids of divorced parents can lose touch with the one they don’t live with, no matter how much they may like or miss that person.

  After finding Craig some big sheets of plastic that were used to cover the floors when I painted last year, I go inside and phone Gil. He sounds thrilled that I’ve called and invites me to Cleveland for dinner that very night. He also asks if I’d like to meet his girlfriend, and even though it’s not exactly at the top of my to-do list, I say okay. However, I don’t tell Bernard that she’s on the menu.

  It ends up raining most of the day, and so after shopping for some new tomato cages over at the hardware store, I sit down with my school course catalogue and try to figure out what classes to take in the fall. It’s hard to believe you can actually earn three credits for studying “The Societal Implications of Television.” My dad would have a fit if he thought his money was going toward something like that. Dad has made it clear on numerous occasions that he believes television, which he did not have growing up, turns people into unemployable idiots. Though he seems happy to make an exception when it comes to watching televised sporting events.

  Finally at four o’clock I shower, dress, and head out the door to make the one-hour drive to Cleveland. “Have fun,” Bernard calls after me from the front porch. “Melik and I are off to a Danish film tonight.” And then as if it’s an afterthought he adds, “I don’t mind if you tell Gil that I’m seeing someone. In fact, I’m sure he’ll be relieved to know that he has no more home-cooked meals to fear from me!”