Heart's Desire (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

AS WE DRIVE OVER TO THE CHURCH WITH THE CAR WINDOWS down it’s possible to hear the almost continuous gasping of sprinklers that make the lawns glitter as if they’re encrusted with tiny diamonds. The air is sweet with the breath of blossoming apple trees and in the distance a large tract of farmland slopes away from us into a horizon misted in pink and purple.

A clutch of tall, thin poplar trees stands near the front entrance to the church, their branches just grazing the slate-shingled roof. As we pull into the back parking lot I see three men in suits talking to each other while heading toward their cars. About twenty feet behind them, walking by himself, is a lean man with a long stride. He’s tall to begin with, but made even taller by an Elvis-like pompadour of thick silver hair.

“Drive around the back,” I instruct Bernard. “It’s Edwin Carbuncle the Turd. I can’t stand him.”

“I believe you mean Edwin Kunckle the Third.”

“I
know
that,” I say.

“So what’s wrong with him?” asks Bernard. “Why are you constantly casting nasturtiums on this pillar of our community?”

“He’s a hairdo.”

“Despite an affinity for extra lift in his already full-bodied coiffure, I’ll have you know that Edwin Kunckle is filthy rich. And his wife, Patricia, happens to have a lovely collection of hand-painted Royal Copenhagen china and Lalique crystal that she’s constantly adding to.” Bernard says this dreamily, as if just envisioning a beautifully set table raises his spirits. “Patricia is one of my best customers and she also has marvelous taste in silver platters. When I was fourteen and Father still worked downtown he took me to an open house at their place one New Year’s Day. I’d never seen such stunning interiors! And an expensive art collection, I might add. Though I think Mrs. Kunckle found it slightly unusual that I inquired about her sunflower clock from the Gold Anchor period and remarked that it was a masterpiece of British Rococo design.”

“Please. You should see him at church,” I say. “He wears a powder blue silk hanky around his neck.”

“That happens to be an
ascot,
silly. He’s very stylish. Look, that’s a Burberry raincoat and a calfskin briefcase.”

“Yeah, and what about the cane? Is that by blueberry, too? Do you use it to hit the bushes so the berries drop into your fancy briefcase?” I point to where Edwin the Turd is about to climb into his navy Lincoln Continental, which is so highly polished you can probably bake a blueberry tart directly on the hood in the summertime. “Or is the cane in case he suddenly has to perform a soft-shoe number like Gene Kelly in
Singin’ In the Rain
?”

“It’s a
walking stick.
And I’m not sure that
you
should be critiquing anyone’s personal style.” Bernard widens his eyes in mock horror at my aqua bowling shirt with REGGIE stitched in black thread above the front pocket and CARMODY CAR WASH stenciled on the back.

Bernard stops the car and before I can ask what in the heck he’s doing, he rolls down the window and shouts hello at the Turd. However, I know exactly what he’s up to. Bernard is never one to miss a selling opportunity, not even a drive-by.

“Mr. Kunckle, it’s so lovely to see you,” Bernard calls out the window.

The other men, who’d been walking slightly ahead of Kunckle, quicken their pace and climb into their cars. And who can blame them for not wanting to be seen with the guy? My dad says that if you want to get in on the ground floor of anything that happens in this town, then Kunckle is the one you have to cozy up to. When Dad was on the board at church, Kunckle offered him a chance to own stock in some real estate consortium that bought up local farmland and resold it to developers from Cleveland. And even though Mom wanted to do it, probably with thoughts of a big new clothes dryer spinning in her head, Dad turned him down, saying the price was too high, only he wasn’t talking about the cost of the stock. I took it to mean that Dad didn’t want to be forced to run for Town Council or get on the zoning board in order to act as another one of Kunckle’s flunkies.

With his path-clearing gait, the Turd approaches the car and greets Bernard in a friendly but reserved manner. At least until he spies me in the passenger’s seat and scowls. Kunckle was on the school board when I dropped out of high school, and he happened to be the only member
against
allowing me to have a tutor and graduate early. Not only that, I’m positive he was the one who wrote that anonymous editorial published in the newspaper last year about wasting taxpayer money on social problems. The “social problem” in that case just so happened to be
me.

“Mr. Kunckle, I believe it’s your anniversary at the end of the month. There’s a silver-gilt tea urn in the eighteenth-century Regency style down at the shop that Patricia has her ever-so-tasteful eye on.” Bernard is at his most charming and using what sounds to me like a British accent. “It would be splendid for entertaining, which we all know Patricia does so brilliantly.”

As phony as all this comes across to me, Bernard’s amiability is quickly rewarded. Kunckle taps his sorcerer’s stick twice on the ground and says, “Excellent! Call my secretary and have her take care of it.” Then he nods his big poufy head, raises his pointy chin imperiously, and turns away—or rather, dismisses us.

“That’s disgusting!” I say as soon as the window is rolled up.

“That’s five hundred dollars!” crows Bernard.

“Would it be worth another five hundred dollars to talk in that fake accent at the poker game?” I tease him. “Since when did you become a subject of the British Crown?”

“Since I drank English breakfast tea this morning,” says Bernard. “It has that effect on me. Just like watching the Queen open a new session of Parliament every fall puts me in the mood for Welsh rarebit.”

We park the car in back and hurry inside the church and down to the basement. Bernard rubs his hands together as if he’s about to rake in another easy five hundred dollars.

Chapter Twenty-three

AT THE BOTTOM OF THE DIMLY LIT STAIRCASE THE USUAL SUSPECTS are gathering around two card tables pushed together. The room is already filled with the aroma of potato chips and will soon reek of cigarette smoke from Al’s Marlboros. His wife won’t let him smoke at home and since they’ve banned it from government buildings, including the water authority where he works, Al makes up for lost puffs during the game. Pastor Costello is busy handing out runny deli sandwiches while Herb Rowland, the owner of the local pharmacy, is high-speed-shuffling the cards, anxious to get started.

“Well, look who’s here—Hallie Capone!” says Herb. “Did you get an early release for good behavior?”

“Nah,” I quickly retort. “Spending the evening with you counts toward my community service.”

Bernard and I carefully thread our way around boxes and rolled-up carpets stacked atop old wooden pews. There’d been a flood in the sanctuary right before Easter.

“Welcome home, Hallie,” says the mild-mannered Pastor Costello. “And good evening, Bernard. We haven’t had the pleasure of your company in a few weeks. I was going to stop by and make sure that everything is all right.” Leave it to Pastor Costello to consider a pastoral visit for missing the poker game. Perhaps he smells a convert.

“Everything’s fine and dandy,” Bernard assures him, attempting a jaunty air.

I’m relieved, because if he’s going to break down again this would be the moment, right when the father is doing his direct eye-contact greeting with the overly long handshake. That’s when people are genetically programmed to lose it.

“It’s been very busy down at the shop,” explains Bernard. “A chain of old-fashioned diners has opened in the southeast and they’re purchasing a large variety of décor items. Heaven knows you can’t depend on street traffic in this town anymore.”

“Tell me about it,” grumbles Herb. “My drugstore is out of business if Valueland doesn’t put their prices up. There’s no way they can continue to sell below cost like this.”

“They’re probably only planning to take a loss until they drive you under,” theorizes Bernard. “That’s what the new supermarket did to the mom-and-pop video store. The supermarket rented new releases for ninety-nine cents. But as soon as Couch Potato closed, they suddenly wanted two ninety-nine—a dollar
more
than the video store had been charging.”

When Officer Rich’s earthquake footsteps are heard coming down the stairs, Bernard tenses, apparently embarrassed by the other night’s drama. However, Officer Rich acts as if it’s the first time he’s seen us in months. You can always count on him not to mix business and a breakdown. And to keep people’s private lives as exactly that, private. Officer Rich rarely comments on anything that happens while he’s on duty, and when he does, he never mentions names.

Al Santora is the last to arrive and doesn’t waste any time in lining up his ashtray, cigarette pack, and lighter. He also doesn’t waste any time getting his digs in. “Look who’s back from the big city! And were you
gamefully
employed all year? Have your professors taken out second mortgages?”

“I
wish.
I haven’t sat in on a game of poker in months. All that I can find anyone playing at college is dumb old hearts.”

“And Lord knows you don’t have one of those,” quips Herb. “Sorry, Father,” he automatically apologizes for the out-of-context Lord reference. It isn’t really a bad one, but we’re all just in the habit, especially on church grounds.

Even though the stakes aren’t high, the poker game is notoriously competitive. Herb gives the deck another shuffle, sets it in front of Al for him to cut, and then begins to deal. When I raise on the opening hand Al says, “Trying to clean us out the first fifteen minutes with a Broadway, huh?”

He is referring to the fact that with an ace and a king showing, I’m probably angling for an ace-high straight. And with the jack and ten in my hand, he’s exactly right. “You have no idea how much tuition costs,” I complain.

“Oh yes I do,” Al shoots right back.

I’d forgotten that Al’s son just finished his freshman year at Marquette University in Wisconsin.

Bernard has a queen and a four showing and Herb deals him another queen faceup. So much for my straight, since that’s the exact card I’m missing.

“Another queen,” says Herb. But then he apparently remembers that Bernard is gay. “I mean, a pair of ladies.”

However, we all burst out laughing, including Bernard. Everyone looks to make sure that Bernard isn’t just being polite, but it seems he’s truly amused.

“It’s okay to be straight, Herb,” Bernard tells him with a twinkle in his eyes. “Just so long as you act gay in public.” This cracks everyone up even more and I’m starting to believe that coming to the game was a good idea after all. Finally Bernard seems to be concentrating on something other than the breakup.

When Herb deals Pastor Costello an ace of spades it reminds me of playing hearts at school. It hadn’t taken me long to determine that it was best to try and shoot the moon if you had more than a fifty-five percent probability of succeeding. The only exception is if you’re playing with someone who’s a shoot-the-moon addict. There are people in life who will always swing for the fence, no matter what the odds are. So when it comes to winning at hearts, it’s necessary to hold something back in case you need to gum up your opponents’ plans later on. And this is best done by insuring your hand with a high heart. In other words, if you decide to pass a couple hearts at the beginning, or play one early, make sure to keep a higher one in reserve, in case you need to cover a heart later on.

Holding back. It’s the same strategy I’ve been using in my love life. Only I’m beginning to wonder if just because it’s smart in cards means it’s also the best strategy in life, when it’s your real heart on the line. And your heart’s desire may actually be an as-yetundealt card. Though the way my luck is going right now, instead of the king of hearts, my next card will probably turn out to be a joker.

“C’mon, Hallie, pay attention!” urges the ever-jittery Al. “It’s your bet.”

He yanks me out of daydreamland. “Sorry.” I toss in a blue chip worth ten bucks.

“Overbidding another low pair,” Herb correctly guesses my strategy.

“Up the slope with the antelope,” Al raises with one of his poker expressions that makes us all groan.

This raise scares off everyone except Pastor Costello, who stays in the game and manages to beat Al’s three tens with an ace-low straight.

“Nice going, Father!” says Herb, who would rather see Pastor Costello win than the rest of us.

“Way to clean up!” adds Officer Rich, even though it’s a relatively modest pot, but Pastor Costello never does anything but break even, so we all tend to cheer him on.

“Jolly good show!” says Bernard, and I briefly fear that surrounded by all these kings and queens he’s going to slip back into British.

“I see they finally started work on the new entrance hall,” Al says to Pastor Costello as he gathers up the cards. “Did the contractor lower the price?” Al works for the town and knows all about construction. Which is one reason his wife believes that he’s at a Building and Grounds Committee meeting that’s actually a build-abetter-poker-hand gathering.

“You kidding?” asks Herb. “Contractors around here lower their prices? When hell freezes over!” He turns to Pastor Costello and automatically says, “Sorry, Father” before continuing, “That would be the new
Kunckle
entrance hall—excuse me,
vestibule
— you’ll be walking through.” As a small businessman Herb is in charge of advising the church on finances, which is why his wife thinks he’s also at a Building and Grounds Committee meeting tonight.

“Is the plaque going to be bigger than the vestibule?” asks Officer Rich, making reference to the stained-glass rendition of
The Last
Supper
donated at Christmastime by the Kunckle family, where the plaque really was as big as the artwork itself, if not slightly larger.

“Attendance isn’t what it used to be. I have to accept donations wherever I find them,” says a resigned Pastor Costello. Though it’s not a very well-kept secret that even he becomes tired of the Turd grandstanding at the opening of so many church functions and Edwin’s twenty-one-year-old daughter, Edwinna, always getting solos, even though her voice could make an angel use its wings to cover its ears. “If I were a better poker player perhaps I wouldn’t have to go around with my hat in my hand so often,” jokes Pastor Costello. It’s been two hours and Pastor Costello has the same thirty dollars in front of him that he started with.

“A gay waiter!” announces Bernard as he excitedly lays out his hand.

We all glance toward the stairs to see if one of his friends has just arrived. But the stairwell is empty and so we look back at him with puzzled expressions.

“Queens with trays.” He points at the full house of three queens and two threes now displayed faceup on the table.

“I think you’ve been seeing too much poker slang on the Internet,” I say, while the rest of the guys chuckle.

We finish the night with Bernard ahead twenty dollars, though this doesn’t seem to thrill him the way it normally would. And I’m down forty-two dollars, which is unusual, but not a surprise, at least to me, since I can’t seem to concentrate on anything these days.

“Looks like all that fancy book learning has drained away your natural instincts,” Herb is quick to lay into me. “Be sure to come back next week.” He happily pockets his sixty-something dollars in winnings, and for a second I don’t feel so bad about his store not making any money.