Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  Bernard looks horrified upon hearing the F word, but appears to pull himself together in short order. “Very well, then. I’ll have to plan a special dinner.”

  In fact, Bernard appears to take the engagement in stride much better than I thought he would, especially since it’s coming practically on top of the bad news about the adoption. And whether Bernard is really fine, or simply wants to appear so, he announces that it’s the perfect morning to try out his new family-sized frittata pan. It has a latch that releases the bottom of the pan so your creation emerges perfectly intact every time.

  When I return from taking out the garbage and turning on the sprinklers, Bernard is just finishing a frittata made of ham, onion, red and green pepper, and mushroom that has golden-brown edges and fills the kitchen with a delicious aroma. He carefully removes the pan from the stove and carries it toward the table, where the china plate is ready to go, warm from being in the oven and now garnished with a bed of purple kale. Only the latch slips and the entire frittata slides onto the floor, splattering into dozens of tiny red, yellow, and green chunks.

  “Dammit!” he curses at the pan without a bottom that’s in his right hand. He puts his other hand up to his face as if this is the last straw and he’s going to burst into tears.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I’ll clean it up. The latch probably just needs tightening.”

  Bernard recovers himself and studies the side of the pan. “I don’t think I locked it the way the directions said to.”

  “I was in the mood for cereal anyway.” Grabbing a wad of paper towels, I start to wipe up the floor.

  He lets out a weak laugh. “I guess it’s like what Brandt is always telling me about the computer—a frittata pan is only as good as its operator.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  ONCE THE FRITTATA FIASCO IS UNDER CONTROL AND WE’RE ALL gathered at the table with toast and cereal, Bernard announces, “I’ve invited Gil and his girlfriend, Doris, to dinner Friday evening.” Only he says this as if it’s all his idea. And he appears careful not to use the F word.

  “Well, I think it’s wonderful that the two of you have decided to try and be friends,” Olivia replies with a smile.

  “Since discovering my womb is barren, I’m turning over a new leaf as a more forgiving human being,” says Bernard.

  “Ah, Gilberto, he is like a zon,” Ottavio says with regret in his normally cheerful voice. It’s obvious that he misses playing chess with Gil in the evenings while Olivia would work on her poetry, pornography, and blistering editorials.

  “Now Hallie,” says Olivia, “Bernard told me about your invitation from Ray, and I read in the paper that a new discount airline flying out of Cleveland is offering a fifty-nine-dollar fare to New York this weekend. So if it’s simply a matter of the money—”

  “Mother, what on earth are you thinking?” asks an indignant Bernard. “Trying to send Hallie off to Manhattan unchaperoned, right into the arms of . . . of . . . a . . . well—”

  “Bertie, what are you talking about? I was a year younger than Hallie when I went to New York on my own for the first time,” interrupts Olivia. “How is one to learn about life without living it? The German philosopher Hegel said that the owl of Minerva spreads its wings only with the setting of dusk, meaning that we don’t really understand anything until it’s done.”

  Ottavio gets the drift, too. And he sides with Bernard. “Oh Hallonia, why do you want to be with zis boy if he iz not going to marry you?”

  “Yes, it’s so much more romantic to save yourself!” Bernard is pleased to finally have an ally. He passes me a dish of fresh blueberries. As it turns out, he couldn’t bring himself to let the cereal go un-embellished.

  Fortunately I don’t have to defend myself, because Olivia lays into them both, and good. “Stop promoting the idea that women should deprive themselves while men run about pollinating the world like so many bumblebees. As much as we can thank the ancient Athenians for our democracy, they also started this nonsense of finding a woman and then locking her up. Poor Penelope waited faithfully while Odysseus fooled around all over the place.”

  Not to be deterred, Ottavio places his hands together in front of his face as if cupping something very precious. “Ze woman should be on ze pedestal.”

  “Pedestal?” harrumphs Olivia. “Double standard is more like it! If a woman strays, she’s penalized as damaged goods or accused of being an unfit mother. Meantime, men are practically celebrated for their conquests. Even today a politician’s ratings can go up when he’s caught with his pants down. But of course the wife is still criticized—whether she stands by him or leaves him. Don’t even get me started on countries where men get off scot-free for adultery while the women are stoned to death.”

  “But Mother, once a young lady throws away her virginity, that’s it,” says Bernard. “She can never get it back again.”

  “You should read John Neihardt’s poem ‘If This Be Sin,’ ” says Olivia. However, she saves us the trouble, as she often does, by reciting it, and giving special emphasis to the lines: Can this be sin? This ecstasy of arms and eyes and lips, This thrilling of caressing fingertips.

  Ottavio proudly beams at Olivia as if she’s the light of his life. But then he turns to Bernard and says, “Virgin woman is better, I think. Like virgin olive oil.”

  “And don’t forget virgin wool,” says Bernard.

  Olivia takes a deep breath as if about to continue arguing and then apparently changes her mind. “Oh, what do you know about women anyway?” She directs this comment to her son.

  Bernard gives us a mischievous smile. “It so happens that I dated a woman in college.”

  “This is certainly news!” exclaims Olivia.

  “The event in question was similar to visiting an amusement park,” says Bernard. “It was someone else’s idea, I felt sick afterward, and I never want to go again. No offense, ladies.”

  “None taken,” says Olivia.

  “Whereas dating a man is like reading a good mystery novel and I’m always looking forward to the next chapter,” continues Bernard. “But I’ll have you know that the young lady did continue to consult with me about her wardrobe.”

  “I’ll tell you what the problem is, Hallie,” says Olivia, as if Bernard and Ottavio have ceased to exist. “Men are threatened by our sexuality. They can never really be entirely sure who fathered the baby. That’s why in Judaism the religion is transferred through the mother. It’s rather difficult to fake childbirth.”

  “Mother, why must you politicize everything?” demands Bernard and then turns his attention back to me. “It’s just taking me a little time to accept the fact our little girl is growing up. I miss the frilly pink organdy dresses and matching hair ribbons.”

  “I never wore dresses and hair ribbons!” I strenuously object to this accusation.

  “But you would have looked darling in them,” Bernard teases me. “Especially with white tights and Mary Janes.”

  “I’m merely attempting to simplify the matter for Hallie by filtering out some of society’s more outmoded views on the subject,” says Olivia. “As Georgia O’Keeffe’s paintings became more simplified, they became more sensuous.”

  “Yes, and Georgia O’Keeffe also posed nude for the photographer Alfred Stieglitz,” says Bernard, a distinct edge of disapproval in his voice.

  Olivia smiles and narrows her eyes at him. “Stieglitz was a world-renowned photographer, and not that it should matter, but he became her husband. Besides, what if I told you that I’d posed nude while I was living in Paris.”

  “I’d say that you were part of a scoliosis screening run by the French Surgeon General’s Office.” Bernard squeezes his eyes shut, covers his ears with his palms, and makes a humming noise like a ten-year-old who doesn’t want to hear one more word of the conversation.

  Suddenly Craig comes bounding into the dining room, and when Bernard opens his eyes and removes his hands from his ears, Craig is standing directly in fron
t of him.

  “Hello, Daddy!” he addresses Bernard, and envelops him in a bear hug.

  Being the caring person that he is, Bernard returns the hug, but says, “Son, I met your mother briefly at the Judge’s funeral, and she seems like a very nice woman, but I think we’re getting into sort of a gay area here, because I can assure you that—”

  “Not me!” shouts an excited Craig. “You! You’re back on the adoption list! My dad just told me.”

  I immediately turn to Olivia and blurt out, “But I thought you said the lawyer wanted to sleep with you in order to fix it?” What an idiot I am for opening my big mouth! And what if Olivia had agreed and decided not to tell me. Fortunately the verb sleep drifts over Ottavio’s head and he probably assumes that someone was tired, since he remains calm and looks at Bernard for some reaction to this stunning news.

  Only Bernard doesn’t appear to be at all happy with this sudden turn of events. In fact, he looks as if he might take a swing at Craig.

  “I thought I made it quite clear that I did not want to become the centerpiece of any gay rights campaign,” Bernard says in a stern but controlled tone. “And what kind of fresh start is it for some poor little girl to end up on television and in all the newspapers, especially one who is already struggling with a cultural adjustment?”

  Olivia pops up like a startled bird and darts to her son’s side. “Oh Bertie, calm down. It was me who Kunckle wanted to exact his revenge upon.”

  “Yeah.” A stunned and well-meaning Craig finally recovers his speech. “My father said exactly the same thing—that Kunckle is pissed at Olivia for starting an investigation by the labor department. My dad does a lot of work for Kunckle’s accounting firm, and when they realized he could end up with even more bad publicity if this latest scheme is revealed, Kunckle stopped threatening to pull funding if the adoption wasn’t blocked.”

  For a moment Bernard seems unsure whether to believe that Olivia didn’t organize some sort of hunger strike or chain herself to an orphanage in the Far East. But like the rest of us, he knows that his mother never lies about such things. It’s simply that her undertakings always sound so wacky, any slightly sane person couldn’t possibly believe them to be true. Finally Bernard relaxes and shakes Craig’s hand.

  Olivia gives Craig a hug, mostly around the chest because he’s so much taller than she is. However, she leaves one arm on his waist, steers him from the dining room, and in a somewhat conspiratorial tone asks, “Being as you’re studying botany, have you ever considered becoming an activist in support of the environment, formerly known as nature?”

  Chapter Fifty-six

  ON FRIDAY I SKIP WORKING IN THE YARD IN ORDER TO HELP Bernard prepare our dinner party for Gil and Doris. Only I’m not good for much aside from chopping and scrubbing, because Bernard is cooking stuff I’ve never heard of before—pasta puttanesca, pollo al diavola, and tansy pudding.

  However, it’s a quiet morning, which is a nice change from all the recent drama. Bernard is back on the adoption list, Louise is getting good grades, and Rocky is on the wagon.

  The other commotion that has finally come to an end was from the various installers implementing Bernard’s redecoration scheme, which Olivia refers to as “Madame Bernard’s retail therapy,” after Flaubert’s Emma Bovary and her propensity for shopping. The workers have finally finished, leaving the rooms feeling fresh and clean and airy, just like spring. Though I wonder if the new pillows with the needlepoint designs of naked people frolicking by a river aren’t a bit too eye-catching. But it doesn’t really matter, since we have to keep them flipped over in case Mrs. Farley, my mother, or one of Bernard and Olivia’s relatives on the Judge’s side unexpectedly drops by.

  It’s still hard to believe that Bernard has entirely given up chintz. Gil had once seriously proposed an intervention when Bernard arrived home with a chintz-covered notepad and matching pen-holder.

  The special fare to New York comes and goes without my doing anything about it. As much as I’m still certain that I want to lose my virginity, there’s no way I can miss this dinner with Melik, Doris, and Gil. After all, I organized it. And Bernard is quick to inform me that he’s invited Craig. Only he claims Craig won’t be here in the capacity of my date, but strictly as “the extra man.”

  I’m also puzzled by how Bernard keeps insisting that there’s not going to be a theme to the evening. Whenever there’s a special dinner, Bernard always has a theme, even if it’s just a color, or a letter of the alphabet. For instance, there was the night everything started with C—cauliflower bisque, chicken, couscous, collard greens, and cherry tarts. And of course we drank cider.

  While I slice an avocado for the salad, Bernard goes into the living room and begins blasting “I’m Still Here” on the stereo. So much for a quiet morning.

  He grabs a ladle to use as a microphone in order to perform the last chorus as a duet with Polly Bergen. Three cheers, and dammit, C’est la vie! I got through all of last year and I’m here! Lord knows at least I was there, And I’m here! Look who’s here! I’m still here!

  It’s obvious that he’s in a good mood. As soon as Bernard finishes singing, he announces it’s time for some new Unitarian haikus.

  “I’ll begin,” says Bernard.

  “Seasons of our lives

  Naming, wedding, funeral

  Must choose Birkenstocks.”

  “Worthy of a Pulitzer prize,” I say, and laugh out loud. However, I’ve been saving one that I worked on while bored out of my mind in a poli-sci class, just for the occasion.

  “What do you mean that

  You didn’t vote yesterday?

  End of a friendship.”

  Bernard puts down the pepper grinder and claps enthusiastically. “Bravo! Bravo!”

  Ottavio enters the kitchen and after peering into a pot he delightedly says, “Puttanesca!” Ottavio places a spoonful of sauce to his lips and appears more than satisfied. “Attsa good!” he says and exits toward the living room.

  I’d helped Bernard make the sauce with a spicy concoction of tomatoes, onion, capers, black olives, anchovies, oregano, and garlic, all cooked together in olive oil.

  “What does puttanesca mean?” I ask.

  “It’s derived from puttana, which in Italian translates to ‘whore,’ ” explains Bernard. “The name purportedly comes from the fact that the intense fragrance of this sauce was like a siren’s call to the men who visited such ladies of pleasure. Also, the pepper flakes make it as hot as an Italian lover.”

  I can’t help but sense there is indeed a theme emerging, or it might be more accurate to say “buried.”

  “Now, with regard to the actual pasta, vermicelli means ‘little worms.’ ” Bernard continues with a diabolical gleam in his eye. “Vermilion is a red dye that in the old days was made from the dried, wormy-looking bodies of insect larvae.”

  “And is there anything I should know about the grilled chicken, while we’re on the subject?” I ask.

  “Well,” Bernard says coyly, “pollo al diavola does mean ‘the way the devil likes it,’ but I’m sure that’s merely because it’s spicy.”

  Right then and there I decide to be sure and put out the large water glasses. This is starting to sound like a spell or some sort of witches’ brew rather than a nice convivial dinner.

  “What about the coconut cookies and the dessert?” I ask. Though I’m not sure I really want to know the answer.

  “Coconut comes from the Portuguese word for ‘goblin,’ ” he says with a devilish grin. “And tansy pudding is made with the tart juice of the tansy plant, which takes its name from the Greek word athanasia, a cousin of the word euthanasia or ‘good death.’ ”

  Well, it certainly isn’t as if Bernard hasn’t put any thought into the evening. As it stands now, we’re about one blast of organ music away from a Scooby-Doo episode.

  Fortunately I can rest assured knowing that our guests won’t be able to tell what’s on his mind. There’s always a courtesy in th
e way Bernard treats any and all visitors—taking their things, holding a door, and pulling out their chairs. Especially when it comes to women. I honestly believe that’s why my mother likes stopping by, just to get her fill of good manners for the week. Though I also think that lately she enjoys seeing Louise actually doing her homework, for a change.

  Craig appears at the kitchen window and shouts, “Can Hallie come out and lend me a hand with the fish?”

  “Of course, of course,” says Bernard and merrily sends me on my way.

  I’ll never admit it to Bernard, but it’s been fun to have Craig working on the pond while I take care of the yard. Sometimes he even stands behind me on the mower and we try to carve zodiac patterns into the grass or else make big spirals and pretend that they’re crop circles.

  Once I’m outside Craig asks me to help him “introduce” the fish, which are in a wading pool near the shed, into “the environment,” which is his newly finished pond.

  “Be very careful,” warns Craig. “The koi aren’t mean-spirited or grudge-bearing, but they have extremely sharp, pointy teeth and will easily mistake your fingers for bite-sized snacks.”

  We stand across the pond from each other and slowly lower the buckets holding the fish and wait until they swim out on their own. Suddenly Craig yells and quickly yanks his hand out of the pond. The top of his first finger is missing. I scream like a girl and run to call an ambulance, while he falls onto the ground laughing. Of course it was that old trick you do to fool little kids by bending the top of your finger down toward your hand. Only under the circumstances I fell for it hook, line, and finger.

  After successfully scaring me half to death Craig leaves to buy a new pump for one of his filters and I set to work hacking off a rogue tree branch that has been threatening to poke Bernard in the eye every time he opens the kitchen window. From up on the ladder I can see him taking great pains over the sauce for the chicken and wonder if I should worry about this hex he’s trying to cast. I’m already jinxed enough when it comes to love. Maybe I’d better whip up a peanut butter and marshmallow Fluff sandwich for my dinner just to be on the safe side.