Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  IT’S A JOYOUS OCCASION WHEN GIL MOVES BACK HOME THE FOLLOWING day and Bernard and I help him unpack. We’re all making jokes and in terrific spirits, except for Rocky, who follows his old pal around as if he’s been assigned to prevent Gil from attempting another escape.

  “Why is Olivia wearing a WWJD bracelet?” inquires Gil as we break down the last of the boxes. “Has she gone religious on us?”

  “It means ‘Who Wants Jelly Donuts?’ ” jokes Bernard.

  Gil laughs like crazy and I’m so thrilled that they’re together again and that life is back to how it was.

  As Bernard returns Gil’s baseball glove to its place on the closet shelf in their room, Bernard says to me, “Hallie, why don’t you play something like volleyball or soccer at college?”

  “Are you kidding? They travel to schools in three other states, on a bus. As it is, I barely have time to do my homework. And if I can work my schedule so that I don’t have any evening classes, the first thing on my agenda is to find a part-time job.”

  “Well, they must have sports on campus—you could play club badminton or perhaps learn how to fence.” Bernard will not give up.

  “Frisbee?” suggests Gil.

  “Why do you suddenly want me to play sports?” I demand to know. There’s no way that Bernard could be worried about my weight. If anything, I’ve lost a few pounds, between weeding the gardens and not eating pizza or pasta every night. And I wasn’t overweight to begin with. “I get a ton of exercise at school and if I build any more muscle from working in the yard I’m going to have to start wearing a poncho so the women’s field hockey team doesn’t try to draft me.”

  “It’s just that I read an article saying that playing sports helps young women increase their self-esteem.”

  “And because I want to lose my virginity that means I have low self-esteem?” I guess.

  “Oh!” says a surprised Gil. “I wasn’t aware that there’s a campaign afoot.”

  “Playing a sport just sounded like fun,” Bernard says defensively.

  “And exactly what sport did you play when you were my age?” I ask.

  “I was involved with organized swimming in high school,” Bernard cautiously volunteers.

  “Then how come whenever I look at your old yearbooks I can’t find you in any of the photos for the swim team?” asks Gil.

  “I was probably off at another meeting,” explains a defensive Bernard. “There were a number of activities in which I participated.”

  Olivia comes into the room to see how we’re getting along with the unpacking. As always, she moves quickly and gracefully, gliding past objects without actually touching them. It’s easy to see from the broad smile on Olivia’s face how pleased she is that Gil has returned.

  “Perfect timing, Livvy,” says a mischievous Gil, clapping Bernard on the shoulder. “How come old Bernard here isn’t in any of the yearbook photos for the high school swim team?”

  Olivia laughs her mellow easy laugh and in a voice that sounds like an enchanted flute she replies, “Because he was in charge of the costumes and scenery for the water show. Bertie was wonderfully innovative—creating floating bouquets out of Styrofoam and melted wax that safely held candles in the center.” Olivia smiles proudly at the memory. “When they turned off the lights in the natatorium it was truly spectacular. In fact, I think we may even still have the videotape somewhere.”

  But Gil and I are laughing like crazy.

  “I said organized swimming,” Bernard defends himself, “not swim team.”

  “I should have known,” roars Gil and collapses onto the bed. “Synchronized swimming!”

  Bernard pretends that nothing is wrong or the least bit humorous. “Now let’s be serious for a moment, please. I’ve finally come up with the perfect name for the baby!”

  “What?” I ask, still laughing. “Isadora?”

  “No.” Bernard shakes his head regretfully. “It was one of the first that came to mind, but I fear the children would shorten it to Izzy.”

  “Dizzy Izzy!” I take it one step further, but Bernard has already gone on to greater names.

  “Esther Williams,” jokes Gil. When Bernard can’t find an old musical to watch, his second choice is always one of those 1940s and ’50s swimtaculars that have elaborate water ballet sequences like the one in Bathing Beauty.

  “Close!” Bernard declares with enthusiasm. “Ethel! To honor Ethel Merman.”

  “Or Ethel Mertz.” Gil is dubious.

  I nix that one by telling Bernard, “Keep trying.”

  “How about Isis?” suggests Olivia.

  Thinking back to the elementary school playground, I say, “Kids might turn it into Sissy or Prissy.”

  “Bernard is from the High German name Berinhard,” says Olivia, “which translates into ‘being bold like a bear.’ ”

  “One who wears a beret is more like it,” jokes Gil.

  “I believe Gilbert is also from the German,” says Olivia. “Willibehrt means ‘the desire to be bright.’ ”

  “That would be a welcome change,” Bernard jabs him back.

  “Sorry, Olivia,” says Gil. “But I was named after my uncle’s winning racehorse, Gilbert’s Gold.”

  “Oh dear.” Bernard places his hand to his forehead with a dramatic flourish. “This is the first we’ve heard about you being christened after a quadruped.”

  “I consider myself lucky,” says Gil. “My uncle was named Still-man because it was the profits from his moonshine that paid for the first horse.”

  “Kentucky is only two hours by car,” says Bernard, “but for some reason it always feels more like time travel.”

  Gil does have a slight southern accent, but his speaking voice is lovely and people who phone are always saying how charming he sounds. However, Bernard never misses an opportunity to get his digs in about Gil being raised on a farm.

  Olivia has apparently had enough of their reunion silliness. “I’ll leave you to play the name game while I help Louise with her history paper.”

  “I’ll go with you.” I follow her to the door. “Isn’t anyone else hungry? Why don’t I make us all some sandwiches?”

  “Oh, my spirits is rising like a corncob in a cistern,” says Gil in an exaggerated southern accent. “Big Mama, be a dear and throw a brace of possum on the spit for me.”

  Bernard pretends to ignore Gil’s hick routine. “We’ll be down in half an hour.”

  Gil reverts to his normal voice and says, “Yes, with all this help from you and Hallie, unpacking has gone just swimmingly.” Then he raises his arms, brings one hand back down to plug his nose, and pretends to go underwater.

  Chapter Sixty

  MY SISTER LOUISE IS SITTING IN THE DINING ROOM NERVOUSLY chewing a pencil and looking as if she believes there’s a chance that her final paper describing the best and worst President will drop out of the nearby Tiffany lamp. Her natural beauty has returned after the upset of early summer. Without all the dark eye makeup, white powder, and brown lipstick, her hazel eyes and red lips have their own lovely brightness, like the gardens during the first few hours after sunrise.

  Louise welcomes the arrival of the knowledgeable Olivia and immediately asks if she should write about James Buchanan as the worst President.

  “No, he was only the second worst. That political puppet Franklin Pierce was undoubtedly the most dreadful. He was responsible for the Kansas-Nebraska Act, which failed to bar slavery from the new territories. Not to mention he spent most of the time intoxicated, eventually earning himself the title Hero of Many a Well-Fought Bottle.”

  The front door can be heard opening and closing and a moment later Brandt pops his head into the kitchen, where I’m making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—definitely not a Bernard menu. Though at least it’s not peanut butter and marshmallow Fluff.

  “Oh boy, sandwiches!” Brandt shouts as if I’m serving filet mignon.

  “I thought you were a bat that only feed
s at night.” The last time I saw Brandt in the daytime was when I called him home after Rocky’s “bender,” as Bernard now refers to it.

  “It’s kind of hectic over at the lab today since some mice escaped last night, so I thought it would be better if Louise and I had a quiet place to study for her science exam.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Only you’ll have to get in line, because Olivia’s helping her on the final history paper.” I nod toward the dining room, where they’re still debating candidates.

  “The best President,” Olivia mulls the question aloud. “Hmmm, that’s a difficult choice.”

  “My teacher suggested Thomas Jefferson,” offers Louise.

  “Much as I admire Mr. Jefferson, he did his best work beforehand,” says Olivia.

  “And didn’t he own slaves while declaring that all men are equal?”

  “Inconsistency isn’t the same as hypocrisy,” declares Olivia.

  “I guess that leaves Abraham Lincoln or Franklin Delano Roosevelt,” says Louise.

  “Neither were Unitarians.” Olivia utters this statement as if it’s a black mark against them both. “Though a total of five Presidents were—in addition to Jefferson, there’s John Adams, his son John Quincy Adams, Millard Fillmore, and William Howard Taft—not bad, considering we’re less than one percent of the population in this country.”

  Olivia never misses an opportunity to showcase accomplished Unitarians. You can’t put on a Band-Aid without hearing the name Florence Nightingale or listen to a train whistle without her mentioning George Pullman, designer of the sleeper car.

  “There was even one Unitarian King,” adds Olivia. “John Sigismund, in sixteenth-century Transylvania.”

  Bernard trots down the stairs. “Really, Mother, I can’t imagine that Unitarian vampires are a part of Louise’s homework.” He grabs a roll of paper towels off the kitchen counter and heads back to the landing.

  “I’ll have you know that John Sigismund was an excellent king,” counters Olivia. “He allowed for religious tolerance among the Roman Catholics, Greek Orthodox, Calvinists, and Lutherans. Not only that, he was a superior linguist and highly artistic.”

  “Louise, I’ll bet you didn’t know that Mother is working on a petition to have the term Founding Fathers changed to Founding Parents,” jokes Bernard.

  “I’m sorry that in your mind winning the right for women to vote and earn equal pay isn’t as important as Jackie Kennedy redecorating the White House.” Olivia frowns at her son.

  Bernard is too pleased by Gil’s moving home to bicker. Going back up the stairs he trills his favorite line from Gypsy, “Sing out, Louise!”

  Olivia and I are used to Bernard’s musical interludes and we usually ignore him. He’d somehow bribed my sister to sit with him through his favorite musical the other day, probably with one of his delicious quiches, and so now Louise shouts back another line from the show, “My name is Gypsy, what’s yours?”

  Olivia shakes her head as if it’s no wonder that thirty percent of the American public doesn’t know who the Vice-President is. “Best President.” Olivia directs my sister’s attention back to the project at hand by tapping her finger on the cover of Louise’s history book. “Of course, after the whole Vietnam fiasco, no one ever remembers that Lyndon Johnson started his career as a teacher to poverty-stricken children, and later as President he signed the Voting Rights Law. Not only that, he asked Congress to pass legislation requiring the registration of guns and the licensing of owners, though the gun lobby fought and killed the effort. Perhaps we can award LBJ an honorable mention.”

  “Ummm, I think I’ll do Abraham Lincoln,” says Louise.

  “Because he freed the slaves?” asks Olivia.

  “No. It’s who they chose on Star Trek.”

  At the mention of his favorite show Brandt practically falls into the dining room, where they’re working at the table.

  “I beg your pardon?” says Olivia. “Rod Serling was a Unitarian but I believe he was known for creating The Twilight Zone. ”

  This is too good to miss. I stand in the archway taking in the scene from the sidelines while peeling oranges for a fruit salad.

  “On this one episode of Star Trek, the Excalbians have no concept of good and evil and want it demonstrated.” Louise stuns us all with her unexpected knowledge of Trekkie lore. “So they design a competition between four of history’s best and worst people, and one of the best was Abraham Lincoln.”

  “You like Star Trek?” Brandt is barely able to hide his excitement.

  “Yeah, sure.” I observe that Louise no longer talks to him as if he’s intergalactic pond scum. Obviously she truly appreciates the homework help.

  “Do you remember who was the father of all the Vulcans?” Brandt is now bouncing up and down on his toes as if anticipating the release of a new batch of pictures taken by the Hubble telescope.

  “Mmm, I think it was Surak.”

  “Yes!” Brandt practically does a jig. “Spock raises his eyebrows three times in that episode,” he continues eagerly. “And he says the word fascinating twice.”

  “Well, I didn’t watch it that carefully,” says Louise.

  Olivia apparently has little idea of what they’re talking about, and like a teacher whose students have been distracted by the first snowfall, she attempts to bring Louise back to the task at hand. “So you’ve decided on Lincoln for the best President? And now that I consider it, I have to agree with you.”

  “Because he was on Star Trek?” I can’t help but ask, knowing full well that Olivia rarely watches television. And when she does, it’s PBS, not sci-fi.

  “No, because he failed miserably before he succeeded,” she informs me. “Lincoln failed as a businessman, as a farmer, and in his first attempt at political office. He lost when he sought to be Speaker of the Legislature, was beaten in his first attempt to go to Congress, failed when he tried to be appointed to the US Land Office, lost when he ran for the Senate, and also the Vice-Presidency nomination in 1856.”

  “You’re kidding!” Louise quickly jots down some notes for her paper.

  “Not only that, his sweetheart died and he had a nervous breakdown,” adds Olivia. “Oh, if Lincoln hadn’t been assassinated he could have gone on to write the first self-help book since Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography.”

  “Then I’m definitely writing about Lincoln,” says Louise.

  “Speaking of Benjamin Franklin,” says Olivia, “they probably should have asked him to write the Declaration of Independence, rather than Thomas Jefferson, who was indeed a slaveholder as you said earlier.”

  “So why didn’t they?” asks Louise.

  “I imagine they were too afraid that he’d put jokes in it,” says Olivia.

  “Hallie, can I talk to you for a minute?” Brandt asks me in a confidential whisper.

  “May I,” corrects Olivia. Bad grammar has a way of finding her ear no matter how quietly you think you’re speaking.

  “Sure.” I signal him to join me in the kitchen while I finish making lunch.

  “Um, in private,” he says.

  And since there’s no such thing as privacy in this house, we head out the front door and around to the backyard. All the while I’m praying, Please don’t let Brandt start up with the dating thing again. At least not before I’ve at least had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in order to fortify myself.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  BRANDT AND I WANDER OUTSIDE INTO THE FULLNESS OF SUMMER. Under an enormous dome of blue sky and bright yellow sunlight mingle the scents and colors of wisteria, honeysuckle, clematis, and trumpet vine. The thick leaves of a twisted oak tree provide shade, while the trunk offers us something to lean against. Eventually we turn toward each other, and from the look on Brandt’s face I’m suddenly worried that we’re embarking on a Scotty, beam me up moment. In other words, that he’s going to propose.

  “Hallie, you know I’ve always felt that our relationship is special. . . .”

&n
bsp; “Sure, me too, Brandt,” I say. “But more in the special-friendship sort of way. You know, like Frodo and Sam.” I attempt to explain it in Lord of the Rings terminology so there’s a better chance he’ll fully comprehend.

  “Exactly,” agrees Brandt, to my great relief. “So, Hallie, I was wondering . . . do you believe in true love?”

  Uh-oh. Maybe he misunderstood me and I should have tried for a Carl Sagan reference instead.

  “No.” At least not for Brandt and me I don’t. “Well, yeah, sure . . . for some people.”

  “I believe in true love.” He has the same glassy-eyed look as Frodo when the power of the ring starts getting to him. “And also that because human beings are capable of complex thought and emotion, they should mate for life.”

  “Yeah, that’s good,” I say. “Like my parents.” But all I can think of is what a total slut I am, spending the better part of my summer scheming to lose my virginity.

  “Anyway, I hope you won’t be hurt or anything, but I’m in love with Louise.”

  “Oh. Oh!” I’m halfway between shock and cardiac arrest. “Wow, isn’t that something.”

  Brandt starts to explain, “You see, I’ve been looking for some sort of signal from the universe, and when Louise said that about Abe Lincoln and the Vulcan leader . . . I honestly think it’s a sign that we were meant to be together.”

  “Meaning you and Louise?” I just want to be completely clear on this.

  “Yeah,” he acknowledges with absolute conviction. “Me and Louise.”

  Knowing that Brandt is one of these wacky scientists who believe in the lost island of Atlantis and life in different galaxies makes it easier to understand his obsession with “signs.” Like Olivia says, when people are searching hard enough for something, they tend to find it. Although from the perplexed expression on my face Brandt apparently senses my concern with using a TV character to facilitate a love connection.

  “You know, Hallie, in real life Mr. Spock has published some very insightful love poems.”

  I’m encouraged that Brandt is now delineating between Real Life and Spock World. “Uh, Brandt, does Louise know anything about this? I mean, have you said anything to her?” Or is this like my two-week romance with Josh, the one Josh never knew about?