Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  “Yeah, in a way. Because he got quiet. He wasn’t fidgeting with his lighter and cigarettes. He wasn’t fiddling with a chip. He was almost motionless. I . . . I just knew he had ’em.”

  Cappy suddenly smiles as if I’ve actually managed to pull one over on him and then shakes his head from side to side. “So you handed him the pot. And he’ll never know it.”

  “I wasn’t going to mention it,” I say.

  “Obviously Kunckle hates your guts for some reason I don’t need to be told,” says Cappy. “You could have run that pot up another three or four grand—you know I would have backed you— and then you could have split the money with your buddy Al.”

  In principle, Cappy is right, and that would have been the more profitable way to play it.

  “But Al would never take money that way,” I say. “He didn’t even want to accept a donation from the church’s relief fund, one that he’s contributed to for the past twenty years.”

  Cappy nods in agreement. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  Despite all the fuss, Cappy finally appears satisfied with the outcome of the game and actually pleased by the night’s excitement. After all, seeing a round like that last one is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, even if you’re in the business. And though it’s a well-known fact that Cappy thinks it’s okay for “broads” to play the ponies and bet on sports, at the end of the day he believes they’re “too emotional” to ever really make good poker players. Sure, he was wrong about me trying to cheat, but he’s been proved correct on his theory that something was going down, which to him is equally satisfying.

  “I guess you’re right about girls not really having what it takes to play serious poker,” I say now that the storm seems to have passed me by.

  “Yeah, no girls at the poker table,” he says. Then he pats me on the shoulder and says, “But women are okay. Just don’t start getting yourself all tarted up like Texas. In only five hours that perfume of hers ruined the air quality in here. It took me six weeks of burritos and stale cigars to get the atmosphere just right.”

  I say good night and once again start to leave.

  “Hey, you still want a job with me?” he asks.

  “Not yet, thanks. But I might be calling in January.”

  “Good,” says Cappy. “You can crunch numbers and do the books and I’ll take care of the play. I may be an equal-opportunity bookie, but this ain’t no charity I’m operating here.”

  “I know.” I also know that Cappy’s idea of himself as a defender of minorities refers to his willingness to take money off of any citizen who is in possession of enough cash to waste on making stupid bets.

  Cappy switches off the overhead light and walks me out through the poolroom so none of the local guys hassle me. Kunckle and Al are long gone but Texas is sitting at the bar leading a chorus of “Home on the Range,” accompanied by a half-dozen guys in cowboy boots.

  Chapter Seventy-two

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON I HELP BERNARD IN THE KITCHEN until he shoos me off to prepare myself for Ray’s arrival. When I return fifteen minutes later he’s busy blanching asparagus for the frittata.

  “Is that what you’re wearing tonight?” Bernard looks at my jeans and orange Chester Cheetah T-shirt with abject horror, and momentarily allows the water to boil over the edge of the pot.

  “Of course,” I say. “What did you think I was going to wear? It’s not as if I own a dress or a skirt.”

  “I suppose the smoke-blue chiffon tea gown trimmed with chinchilla that Edith Head designed for Olivia de Havilland in To Each His Own is out of the question?”

  Digging back into my past I give him the teenage eye roll combined with one hand placed on jutting hip.

  “Don’t you ever wear sandals?” he says while glaring down at my grass-stained sneakers.

  “And get all my toes chopped off by the lawn mower?” I ask. “No thanks.”

  “Do the words casual sportswear mean nothing to young ladies these days? How is a gentleman caller supposed to compliment your appearance if you don’t put any effort into dressing and applying your maquillage?” Pointing toward the stairs with the asparagus tongs like he’s a drill sergeant at West Point, Bernard orders, “Go upstairs and get a short-sleeved blended cotton-silk sweater from Mother’s wardrobe right now! And put some concealer over that clown nose.”

  Do I cave in to the fashion police? Bernard has managed to get his boyfriend back. And Olivia has Ottavio madly in love with her. Probability theory tells me that they might know more than I do about this sort of thing. I capitulate and bound up the stairs.

  “You’d think I was forcing you to wear a corset!” he calls after me.

  Exactly three minutes after five o’clock Ray’s car pulls into the driveway. I hurry out front and hop into the passenger seat, wearing a pale yellow ribbed sweater with a scoop neck. My white knight has finally arrived, driving a brand-new white Thunderbird.

  Ray gives me a sexy kiss on the mouth and as it starts getting good he taps the gas pedal to rev the engine. I’ve promised Gwen that we’ll meet her down at the pizza parlor, though I’m not really feeling completely ready to go public with Ray. Everyone will gossip and ask a hundred questions, the way people do about strangers when you live in a small town. However, Gwen insists that not only does she want to check out Ray, but there’s something deathly urgent that she has to ask me in person, which most likely involves what style of shoes most freshmen wear to college orientation.

  “We have to stop in the pizza parlor for a few minutes,” I say. “It’s only a mile from here.”

  “Sounds fine with me. I could go for an iced tea.” Ray places his right hand on my thigh and drives with his left hand. The inside of his car is immaculate, except for the ashtray, which is overflowing with cigarette butts. “That’s a nice top,” he says while parking the car.

  We enter the pizza parlor together and Ray looks cool in his black cotton shirt with shiny black buttons, black leather blazer, and gray slacks. At school one of the things I thought was really nice about Ray was that every night he’d iron his shirt for the following day and ask everyone else if they had anything that needed ironing.

  However the first person I see isn’t Gwen, but Cappy, which is sort of odd since the pizza parlor, with its cheap eats and video games, is more of a hangout for teenagers.

  “Hey, Hallie!” calls Cappy.

  “Cappy! What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “A working man has to eat,” he says, and nods down toward an empty paper plate with the telltale tinfoil triangle on top. “It’s not as if I keep a plate of steak tartare in the glove compartment, ya know.” Despite Cappy always having at least one girlfriend around, between the long fingernails and spiky high heels they never appear to be the types who are much interested in cooking.

  “How’s tricks?” asks Cappy. As always, he doesn’t ask where a person has been or what they’ve been up to, since this is the kind of information that can land a guy in the witness box when you do business with the characters like the ones in Cappy’s Rolodex.

  “Same old, same old,” I say, and pat my front jeans pocket with my left hand. “Still guarding the launch codes.”

  “Well, if it isn’t Ray Ray!” says Cappy, looking over my shoulder. “I didn’t recognize you at first with your hair cut short. What are you doing way out here in The Sticks?”

  Only I can tell that Cappy is really surprised to run into Ray. Like any good gambler, Cappy isn’t known for tipping his hand with facial expressions, but after being around him for so many years I can tell when his eyes narrow slightly, as if strong sunlight has flashed upon his face, that he’s been caught off guard. As Cappy approaches Ray he appears to be calculating his next move, like a blackjack player who should really double down but just ran out of chips.

  “Hey, Walter,” says Ray and gives Cappy a firm and friendly handshake.

  Walter? Oh my gosh, Cappy’s real name is Walter! I have to bite my lip hard to prevent myse
lf from laughing.

  “How’s your old man?” asks Cappy.

  “Great. You should stop by sometime. I know he’d love to see you.”

  “I’ll do that,” says Cappy. “I’m keeping busy following the nags these days—Florida in winter, Michigan in the spring, and then Ohio in the summertime.” Cappy backs away as he speaks, as if he’s suddenly remembered that a ball game is about to begin, which is also odd, since Cappy doesn’t back away from anything. In fact, he’s often told me that the only time he ever turned the other cheek was when he was in the process of delivering a left hook. But those were in the old days, at least according to Cappy, back when he was in the debt collection end of some other guy’s bookmaking business.

  The counterman has come over to see if we want anything. Ray asks Cappy, “How about a beer?”

  Cappy looks at his watch and says, “Sorry, but I gotta make tracks. You know what they say—it’s always post time somewhere.”

  While Ray orders two iced teas, Cappy leans in close so that we can’t be overheard. “Listen, I need to talk to you. Can you stop by my office tomorrow?”

  “What if we meet here?” I’d rather not run into Auggie.

  “I really need to be at the pool hall. That idiot granola grandson of mine ran off to Russia after some piece of tail.”

  “He did?”

  Cappy gives a dismissive wave. “It’s just as well since he couldn’t add any higher than his shoe size. And no concentration whatsoever, brain jumping from one thing to the next like a June bug in heat tap-dancing on a sizzling hot stove.”

  I know that Cappy’s not overly concerned about Auggie’s lack of computation skills. Just the opposite. Cappy loves to read in the newspaper that Americans are getting worse in math every year, since it means big money for his gambling business through making losing customers into what he terms a “renewable resource.”

  “I honestly don’t think I’m getting back into the business, Cappy,” I say. “School starts in two weeks.”

  Ray comes over with our drinks and Cappy waves good-bye. “Okay. Great to see you, Ray Ray. Send my regards to your family.” He quickly heads away from us and toward the door.

  “How do you know Cappy?” I ask. “Or rather, Walter.” I finally release my stifled giggle. Just goes to show you, at some point every mother with a newborn babe on her lap is confident that she can beat the odds.

  “Old friend of my dad’s,” says Ray, and removes his jacket. “But I think the question is more like, how do you know Walter?” He says this in a tone indicating that Cappy is not exactly the type of person you’d want as your child’s guidance counselor.

  “We used to hang out together at the track,” I say.

  Ray appears surprised that I would freely choose to associate with Cappy, as if I’m not living up to his expectations to be a member in good standing of polite society.

  Just then, Gwen and Jane come bursting in with another friend from high school, Megan. They giggle as they introduce themselves and make no secret of the fact that they’re checking out Ray and find his dark good looks appealing. Gwen indicates her approval by nudging me with her elbow, and Jane says loud enough so that everyone can hear, “You didn’t tell us he has muscles.” She openly stares at his fitted shirt. “Nautilus?” asks Jane the Jock.

  “Naw.” Ray makes it sound as if exercise machines are for badminton players. “Free weights.”

  Jane’s lips part as if she’s just been told he’s the best kisser in the State of Ohio.

  While those two talk weights and repetitions, Gwen says to me under her breath, “You didn’t tell me what a sexy mouth he has.”

  “I guess I never really noticed.” I study Ray’s mouth as he en-thralls Jane with a detailed explanation of his workout routine. Yeah, I suppose it’s sexy, with full lips and sort of pouty at the corners. He proceeds to tell a funny story about the gym where he lifts weights. Ray is definitely easy to like. He’s entertaining and able to make conversation with anyone. But I guess the real question tonight is, do I love him? And that’s something for which I’m having a harder time devising a formula.

  The girls are full of questions and gossip, and talk over and under each other a mile a minute. Fortunately Jane seems to have more or less recovered from the shock of her father moving out. When I look up at the clock above the counter it’s a little after six and I realize that Bernard is going to kill me if we’re late and his ham ends up drying out.

  As we walk out the door Gwen comes chasing after me. “Hey, Hallie, I almost forgot. Megan wants me to ask you if it’s okay if she goes out with Craig.” Only it sounds more like Megan is already going out with Craig and simply wants to know if I mind.

  “But isn’t she leaving for Wellesley soon?” I ask.

  Gwen gives me a look that says, What has that got to do with anything? And Ray gives me a stare that says, Who is this guy and what does he have to do with you?

  “Sure. I mean, why would I mind?” I try to sound casual. Only what I really want to know is, if Craig doesn’t want a long-distance relationship, which is what we’d both said, then why is he going out with her right before they both leave for colleges at least a thousand miles apart?

  “Be sure to call me tomorrow.” Gwen tosses me a playful smile.

  As we walk toward the car, Craig’s black Audi pulls into the parking space right in front of ours. I suppose I shouldn’t care that he’s here to meet Megan. I mean, Ray is really good-looking and doesn’t have any weird tattoos or strange mannerisms that would embarrass me. However, for some reason I wish they hadn’t run into each other, at least not tonight.

  “Hey, Hallie,” Craig calls out, and comes over.

  “This is Ray.” I introduce him to Craig. “A friend from school.”

  The guys shake hands and Craig says, “Aren’t you staying at the pizza parlor? Gwen’s organized a party since lots of people are leaving for college soon.”

  “Uh, no, we’re having dinner back at the house,” I say.

  Ray obviously recognizes the name Craig from Gwen’s recent conversation and puts his arm around me in a proprietary way.

  “Okay, then I guess I’ll see you around,” says Craig. He looks at Ray’s brand-new white Thunderbird with the tinted windows, raised back end, and chrome hubcaps and says, “Nice ride,” which obviously pleases its owner. But I know that Craig considers the car impractical and flashy and doesn’t really mean this as a compliment. It looks chopped and channeled, which is what we used to say about the juiced-up muscle cars of the cigarettes-dangling-from-their-lips, drag-racing motorheads who parked in the back of the high school lot.

  However, Ray accepts the remark as praise and returns the tribute, the same way women do about each other’s outfits, by asking Craig about the suspension on his Audi.

  And although the exchange appears friendly enough, when Ray and I get into the car he asks, “Who is that dopey guy? Is he the one your friend was just asking about?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Just an old boyfriend.”

  “Then how come you didn’t introduce me as your new boyfriend?” Ray acts slightly miffed.

  “I don’t know,” I say, though that’s not entirely true. “I mean, are you my boyfriend?”

  “Yes,” he says, and to prove it he gives me a very serious kiss. Then he adds, “I drove all the way out here to see you, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and feel as if I should be awarding him mileage points the way the airlines do.

  Chapter Seventy-three

  DINNER TURNS OUT TO BE PERFECT IN EVERY WAY. RAY EVEN HAS a third helping of the ham with pineapple and maraschino cherries. “It’s just like my grandmother makes,” he tells Bernard, who beams with satisfaction.

  “Hallie did all the cooking, really,” Bernard lies. “I just supervised, you know, adding a pinch of sage here and there.”

  When the chocolate torte is served, Ray says, “It looks really great, but I’m too full. Maybe I’ll have some later.”r />
  Bernard appears momentarily horrified. “Oh, no! You must try it. We made it from scratch. I’ll cut you a tiny sliver.” He doesn’t give Ray a chance to protest and within seconds there’s an enormous slice of chocolate torte on a Haviland dessert plate. Ray easily devours it.

  All throughout the meal I’m afraid to look any of them in the eye for fear that I’ll either start laughing, wondering if Ray is actually falling under the romantic spell of Bernard’s menu, or else go into a full panic about what lies ahead.

  After helping to clear the table, Ray and I head back toward the summerhouse. Off to the west the sun is settling onto the horizon, splashing the sky with orange. And the air is fragrant with the aroma of late summer, the sweet scent of new-mown grass and thickly laden trees.

  Only I’m much too distracted to enjoy the results of all my hard work in making the yard look nice. Instead I’m discovering what is meant by The Gallows Walk. Maybe this is a mistake. It feels as if I’m approaching the edge of something, about to take a plunge or make a permanent departure.

  “Cool pond,” says Ray, oblivious to my anguish.

  “Yeah,” I agree. The water is illuminated by dozens of soft blue lights hidden under the various ledges. Even on a dark night it’s possible to catch glimpses of the fish gliding among the water lilies and see the way the water mirrors the overhanging fern trees and the gentle sway of the colorful Japanese irises growing along the banks. A few bullfrogs have already moved in and their ribbits add a much-needed bass section to the usual chorus of crickets.

  I’m tempted to grab one of the irises and perform a quick round of “He loves me, he loves me not.” It’s not too late to change my mind. No. I have to get this over with. I can’t go through another semester worrying about sex all the time. Though if I am a sex maniac, perhaps forging ahead will only make matters worse . . . I hadn’t considered that. However, I decide instead to concentrate on Cappy’s advice to the faint of heart when shooting craps: He who is afraid to throw the dice will never make seven or eleven on the first roll.