Heart's Desire (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-six

THE MINUTE DINNER IS FINISHED ON THURSDAY NIGHT I HEAD to Gwen’s house for my makeover. Or perhaps “suburban renewal project” more accurately depicts the enormity of her task. After ringing the bell, I enter the house and attempt to dart up the stairs past Gwen’s mom, who is at her usual surveillance spot in the living room, in front of the big picture window.

As always, Gwen’s mother stops me before I can reach the second stair. Mrs. Thompson is very much the leopard-print enthusiast and today she’s sporting a wraparound leopard-patterned skirt with a matching headband, making her hard to miss against the sage green sofa. This is the part of the evening where Gwen’s mom updates her records.

“I was surprised when Gwen said you were at last permitting her to give you a makeover,” says Mrs. Thompson. “You’re the final holdout. Even her father had to submit to a facial last month. And the dog now has a wardrobe for every season.”

“Well, you know, she likes the practice,” I lie. But I’m positive Mrs. Thompson knows just from looking at me that I’ve agreed to the makeover because I’m planning to have sex with my boyfriend. And it’s for sure that Gwen didn’t tell her. On the other hand, it’s obvious where Gwen gets her highly tuned radar.

“Are you still seeing that boy who went to high school with you girls?” asks Mrs. Thompson. “I think his name was Craig Larkin, wasn’t it?”

As if
she’s ever forgotten a name, car model, or license plate. “No, we’re just friends. We both thought it’d be best to concentrate on our schoolwork for the first year of college.”

She smiles as if I get credit for saying the correct thing but also as if she doesn’t believe a word of it.

“Mom!” Gwen hollers from upstairs. “
I heard
the doorbell ring. Stop giving Hallie the third degree. Just ask if you can read her diary.”

“I do
not
read your diary!” shouts back Mrs. Thompson.

Once I’m safely upstairs I ask Gwen, “Does she really read your diary?”

“Yeah, but it’s a fake. I write stuff about what movie stars I have a crush on and log in good test scores. The
real
diary is hidden inside Grandma’s old hatbox down in the basement.”

Forget fashion, Gwen and her mom should open a mother-daughter detective agency. “It sounds like Bernard’s bookkeeping system for his antiques shop,” I say.

Gwen’s room is a jumble of patterns, sketches, bolts of fabric, and half-finished outfits. There are three full-sized mannequins in various states of undress, and brightly colored silk scarves dangle from lamps, bedposts, and off the edges of mirrors like flags on a windless day. Gwen instructs me to go and wash my hair in her flowery-smelling bathroom, handing me a gallon jug of conditioner to rub into it that’s actually for horses! Following that I’m supposed to run a comb through and let it sit for ten minutes before rinsing. “I’d better not wake up craving hay and oats tomorrow morning,” I tease her.

By the time I’m finished with all that nonsense, she’s cleared off a chair in the front of her 1,000-watt Hollywood-style vanity mirror. And Jane has arrived in her usual uniform of shorts, the polychromatic jersey of some Ecuadorian soccer team, and a Cleveland Indians baseball cap. She sprawls on top of Gwen’s bed, and just barely misses redesigning her sweat socks with a pair of pinking shears tucked into the folds of the comforter. Glancing at Gwen’s sketches of a fall clothing collection, which are taped above the headboard, Jane is her usual snide self when it comes to fashion. “I don’t know how a person could even bend over wearing any of that stuff.”

“They’re clothes for going to
work,
silly,” says Gwen. “Not playing sports.”

“Then remind me not to get a job where I have to prance around in panty hose, over-the-calf boots, and a hat that doesn’t have a visor,” says Jane.

“Get the glue stick,” I chime in. “I’m ready to apply that.”

Gwen looks at us both as if it’s difficult to comprehend how her two best friends from kindergarten turned out to be such total fashion failures.

I congratulate Jane on being accepted to Bucknell and she says, “Tell me it’s true that they don’t take attendance in college.”

“One professor did in a freshman writing seminar. The rest didn’t, but in design and computer classes they move through stuff so fast that if you miss just a few sessions you’re sort of screwed,” I explain. “Why? Is Just Call Me Dick the Attendance Nazi making your life miserable?”

“Let’s just say that life was a lot easier when you kept him busy twenty-four/seven,” replies Jane, who is in the habit of skipping first period on a game day in order to enjoy a big breakfast at the diner with some of her teammates.

“It’s
Doctor
Dick now,” chimes in Gwen. “How about showing a little respect.”

“You’re kidding!” I roll my eyes up so hard that my head follows them in a single whiplash motion. “He got a Ph.D. in
attendance
?”

As I’m imagining graduate courses on how to create the perfect seating chart and a thesis about advanced alphabetizing, Jane picks at the little tufts on Gwen’s chenille comforter and says, “I guess Gwen told you about my parents.”

There’s no point in trying to pretend that Gwen didn’t because we both know she can’t keep a secret unless it means not telling grown-ups. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” I say. “What happened?”

Meantime, Gwen has drawn a pattern for new and improved eyebrows over my old ones and starts plucking as I wince and occasionally yell out like I’m at a revival meeting.

“I don’t know.” Jane sighs and in a voice tinged with sadness continues, “All they’ll say is that
‘it’s mutual.’
My father can hardly bring himself to speak to any of us and my mother goes around crying all the time. They used to be so in love. Where did the love
go
?”

“To become the title of a Top 40 ballad.” I attempt to cheer Jane up. Only she looks as if she’s going to cry.

Gwen deftly changes the subject. “Speaking of breakups, Hallie, what happened with Bernard and Gil? My mom says that Gil is living in Cleveland!” At least Gwen comes by her tracking skills honestly. It’s apparently in her DNA.

“I’m not sure, exactly,” I admit. “Although it would seem that Gil wants to date women. And I can tell you that it definitely
isn’t
mutual.
Bernard still really loves him.”

“How can you still love someone after they tell you they don’t love
you
anymore?” asks Jane, still preoccupied with finding the secret hiding place of love after it’s been given a pink slip.

“I have no idea,” I say. “That’s graduate-level romance you’re talking about. I’m only a freshman. You’d have to ask Olivia.”

“Why would
she
know?” Gwen likes to be aware of any competitors on the information-gathering front, especially when it pertains to matchmaking.

“Olivia’s a poet,” I say. “She also writes pornography, because it pays a lot more than poems and she likes to have her own income.”

“So call and ask her,” says Gwen, always eager for dating tips. She tosses me her phone.

I dial the number for the Stockton house. “Hi, Olivia, I’m at Gwen’s.”

Olivia immediately wants to know if anything is wrong. She can do that—suddenly fall victim to a latent maternal gene. I tell her that everything is okay. “We—I mean my friends and I—we’re just wondering, uh, how people fall out of love.”

“Put her on speakerphone,” says Gwen, and points toward the red button on the base of the phone.

“Wait, is it okay if I put you on speakerphone,” I ask. She doesn’t mind and so I do.

Then we can all hear Olivia’s light, airy voice coming out of the phone on the dresser like an electronic oracle. “Falling
out
of love, you say?”

“We’re wondering how couples that love each other suddenly stop, or at least one person does,” I more or less repeat the question.

“Hmmm.” She takes a moment to collect her thoughts. I doubt she was expecting to be ambushed right before bed by a bunch of teenagers doing their hair and searching for the meaning of life. “I’d say that people expect the passion of love to fulfill every need, whereas nature only intended that it should meet one of many demands.”

“Oh,” I say. “So it’s a good idea to have some other stuff in common.”

“I would say so,” she heartily concurs.

We all three nod in silent agreement, not unlike the day Gwen’s older sister told us where babies come from.

“Anyone have anything else?” I ask before signing off.

Jane moves up to the phone. “Why do people waste so much time on love in the first place if it just ends up making everyone miserable?”

“Good one,” Gwen cheers Jane on, as if it’s a game show.

“I’m afraid that human relationships are the tragic necessity of life, and yet they can never be entirely satisfactory because at the end of the day we’re still just individuals,” comes the voice. “Don’t ever count on someone else for all your happiness, dear, whether it be a parent, friend, lover, or child.”

“Deep,” muses Jane.

“I’m going to put that in my diary,” proclaims Gwen. “We should light some incense.”

“I told you she’d know,” I boast a bit. “Thanks, Olivia.”

“Drive home safely,” she says.

After we hang up the phone Jane says, “I know what we should have asked.”

“What?” demands Gwen. “How to catch and keep the man of your dreams?” Gwen is always cutting those kinds of stories out of
Cosmo.

“No, whether to spit or to swallow,” says Jane, and then laughs dementedly.

“Swallowing is disgusting!” Gwen is adamant. “You can get a disease. And why bother when you can just fake it?”

“Because the testosterone might make me a better athlete.”

“Where did you hear
that
?” I ask. “It’s not the same as taking steroids. But we can look it up on the Internet if you want.”

“Hold still so I don’t poke your eye out,” warns Gwen as she finishes my brows.

“And what about you?” Jane asks me.

“I gag. It isn’t pretty.” The fact that I’m not destined to be a great lover is quickly becoming obvious. Not only do I lack the patience and tolerance for the pain that beauty requires, but when I’m not chickening out on going all the way with my date, I’m choking to death.

Gwen starts combing through my wet hair, but at least with the conditioner there isn’t the usual thicket of tangles.

“Next topic,” I announce. “What
is
the story with my sister Louise’s friends?”

“Oh,” intones Gwen in a way that usually precedes unpleasant news. “That’s a
bad
group. They’re a lot worse than the burnouts in our class. For one thing, they all have cars. Eddie, the guy with the bronze Camaro, has a real mustache, and looks as if he’s about nineteen. I don’t know if he was officially held back or just doesn’t go often enough to realize when a new school year starts.”

“Your sister’s definitely not part of the cheerleading mainstream,” says Jane, who’s knowledgeable about what goes on in the athletics wing of the building. “Most rah-rahs keep up their grades and plan on going to college. I mean, they can definitely be silly about guys and wear too much makeup, and I can’t for the life of me understand why you’d spend your time
cheering
for a team as opposed to
playing
on one, but you know, overall they’re okay. Only this year there are about four who are outliers, sort of rogue cheerleaders.”

“Rogue cheerleaders?” I ask. “Sounds like the title of an educational after-school special, or better yet, a horror film—they make a pyramid at halftime and then release poisonous gas from their pompoms.”

“For the most part the cheerleaders stick together—sitting in the same section of the cafeteria, pilgrimages to the mall on weekends,” explains Jane. “You know, so they can get discounts on bras that make your breasts look perky.” She grabs her boobs and pushes them together and upward to demonstrate. “Sorry Hallie, but I think the squad would be happy to get rid of those four girls, including Louise. In off hours they hang with the rats. And one of them has a brother who’s in a fraternity at the U of Akron and they seem to have gotten involved with that crowd.”

“Drugs?” I ask.

“Who knows.” Jane shrugs her shoulders and picks up a well-thumbed copy of
Vogue
off Gwen’s dresser.

“Come on, you can tell me,” I say.

“
Honest,
I don’t know. The Palmer women must just have some sort of mutinous streak.”

Gwen switches on her industrial-strength blow-dryer and we can’t talk above the high-powered shriek. After she finishes the hair and forces me at tweezer point to put on mascara, even I have to admit the change in my appearance is of epic proportions.

“I wish you’d bring Ray to the graduation party I’m having here on Saturday,” Gwen urges me.

“Yeah,” Jane says sarcastically. “I’m sure Hallie would much rather be playing volleyball and drinking grape Hi-C in your barn than getting it on with some hot college guy.”

However, come Saturday, drinking Hi-C and playing volleyball is exactly what I end up doing.

Chapter Twenty-seven

I’M SITTING AT THE KITCHEN TABLE REVIEWING MY FINANCIAL quagmire the next morning when the phone rings. Assuming it’s Ray calling to firm up our plans for tonight, I pounce on the receiver.

“Hey, Hallie.” Ray has the best phone voice, deep and soft, like running water.

“Hi back,” I say. “So, what time are you coming?”

“My dad needs an extra on the golf course early Saturday morning to complete some big deal, so I’m afraid I can’t make it,” he says matter-of-factly. “And then I leave for New York.”

“Oh.” Apparently when your dad is paying for your brand-new car, college tuition, vacations in Acapulco, and summer at Parsons School of Design in Manhattan, it’s kind of hard to blow him off.

“But you should come to Manhattan the first chance you get,” he adds.

“Sure, Ray.” I don’t bother to mention that not everyone’s parents give their kid a credit card and a travel allowance. And he doesn’t exactly invite me in a way that indicates we’re still a couple, either. I’d say it’s safe to assume you’re single when conversations end with “See you around, then,” as opposed to “I love you” or “I miss you.”

I’m devastated. But in a weird way I’m also relieved. When Bernard enters the kitchen I’m still standing next to the phone looking slightly deranged from this sudden simultaneous blast of yin and yang.

“As I live and breathe—conditioned and styled hair, designer eyebrows, and smooth, radiant skin! Let me guess, you’ve been placed in the Federal Witness Protection Program and altering your appearance was part of a court order,” guesses the man with a headwaiter’s eye for detail.

“Gwen needed a guinea pig,” I lie slightly.

“And it’s the night of your big date, if I recall correctly—what a marvelous coincidence!” crows Bernard.

“Ray’s not coming,” I say, and nod toward the phone.

“Oh, sorry about that.” Bernard gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

“Bernard, how do you tell when a guy is lying about why he breaks a date with you?” It wouldn’t be the first time Ray has changed our plans at the last minute, presumably to accept a better offer.

“Simple,” replies Bernard. “You follow him around and find out, bringing along a pair of those night-vision goggles and some snacks. I’ve always liked chicken potpie for a stakeout. It’s hearty yet easily transportable and stays warm for hours. But a shish kebab can work nicely if you don’t mind eating it at room temperature.”

“I’m not going to trail Ray all over Cleveland!” I say.

“Then when life gives you the lemons, take a lesbian to lunch,” says a cheerful Bernard.

“
What
is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“I’m not sure, but I
adore
the alliteration.” He places several bags of groceries on the counter. “What about that nice boy from the pool hall you told me about? The one who writes short stories
noir
and counts using his fingers?”

“He never called,” I say.

“So, we’ll call him!”

“I thought
you
wanted me to get back together with Craig.”

“I can’t get ahold of him,” says Bernard.

“Me neither,” I say. “Hey, wait a minute! What are you doing trying to get in touch with Craig?”

“I merely want to ask him a question relating to horticulture, Miss Nosy Parker.”

I’m the nosy one? Yeah, that’ll be the day. Olivia is always saying that Bernard’s autobiography should be called
Too Nosy to Die.
And I don’t entirely trust him on the “horticulture question,” either. It’s certainly possible, but I think it’s more likely that Bernard
did
talk to Craig, and found out that he’s seeing someone else.

Bernard hands me the phone and begins singing,
“What good is
sitting alone in your room? Come hear the music play. Life is a Cabaret,
old chum, come to the Cabaret!”

“It looks too desperate. I mean,
he’s
the one who asked if he could call
me,
” I say. “And the number one rule in poker is never to chase the pot.”

“Poker shmoker!” declares Bernard. “This is where my extensive knowledge of the theatrical arts comes into play. Now dial up this wagering parlor and trust Auntie Bernard to take care of the rest.”

Why not? Nothing I do seems to be working out these days. I call Cappy’s betting hotline at the back of Bob’s place and when I hear Auggie’s voice on the other end I quickly hand the phone over to Bernard.

“Hello,” Bernard says into the receiver. “Yes, this is Bernard Stockton and I’d like to place a thirty-dollar wager on an athletic competition.” After a pause he says, “An account? Well, I’m sure Hallie does and so I’ll put her on the line.”

I back away and wave my arms at him.

Bernard shoves the phone into my ear.

“Hey, Auggie, it’s me, Hallie Palmer.”

Auggie sounds thrilled to hear from me and I have to wonder if maybe he did attempt to phone but in his excitement got confused by all the numbers. A few of them were awfully high—the nines, for instance.

“I was just about to call and see if you wanted to go out tonight!” he says. “Isn’t this incredible karma?”

I cover the mouthpiece and whisper to Bernard, “He was just going to call me.”

“Tonight is fine,” I reply to Auggie. “What did you have in mind?” I figure it’s the usual teenage date—miniature golf or a movie. The league bowlers basically take over the lanes on the weekends.

“There’s a poetry slam at a café over in Timpany,” he says. “I went once before and it’s lots of fun.”

I agree to go and am about to hang up when he asks what Bernard wants to bet on. Whoops, I’d forgotten about that.

Turning back to Bernard, I ask, “What did you want to bet on?”

He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind and shrugs his shoulders, body language for,
You think of something!

“Okay,” I say to Auggie, “he wants the number one horse in the first race at Belmont tomorrow.” I figure I’ll keep the numbers low and simple for him. “Thirty dollars to place.”

“Place it on the one horse,” confirms Auggie.

“Yes. I mean, no.
Place
is how you say to finish second. You know—
win, place,
and
show
are the names for first place, second place, and third place.” Oh boy, Cappy would have had a stroke if he’d overheard this goof. And the local racetrack opens tomorrow!

Auggie reads it back and I say, “Right—thirty on the first horse to come in second.”

“Who’s on first?” chimes in Bernard, implying that we’re on the brink of reviving Abbott and Costello’s famous routine.

Finally Auggie asks for my address so he can pick me up and I promise to give him the money to cover Bernard’s bet when he arrives.

When I hang up the phone Bernard looks pleased with himself and in his martyr voice says, “I seem to be one of those rare individuals destined to assist others in finding romance, but unable to help myself.”

“Wow, I can’t believe I have an actual date for tonight!”

“Now,” says Bernard, “I’ve changed my mind about not accompanying you to the nursery. It’s time to get these gardens going. And the birdfeeders haven’t been filled since the Ashcan School painters organized their first group exhibition.”

Before we head over to the nursery Bernard and I spend an hour deciding on the number of flowers and plants we need for the yard.

“I’m thinking Chu Hing-wah,” says Bernard.

“I’m thinking
Bless you,
” I say as if he just sneezed.

“Very funny,” comments Bernard. “Chu Hing-wah is a Chinese watercolorist who mixes modern and traditional techniques. He illustrates the Chinese preference for displaying plants in pots, instead of mixing them in a flower bed. So in addition to the regular gardens, I thought we could place long lines of planters of varying heights down the walkways.”

“Lots of pots,” I say, and make a note on my growing list of things to purchase at the nursery.

“For the plants I’m envisioning Odilon Redon, godfather of the surrealists.” Bernard gestures toward the mesh rack that holds the kitchen implements as if it’s been transformed into a painting. “A phantasmagoria of color, shape, size, and texture—flowers burning with an inner fire that makes them seem like an emanation of the life force itself.”

“An inner fire like the emanation of the life force itself.” I pretend to add this to our list.

Bernard sails onward like Auntie Mame planning one of her outrageous parties, heading out to the car while still calling out names for me to jot down. “Dinner Plate dahlias, tiny tot gladiolus mix, Japanese toad lily, and lots of vine, vine, vine—particularly Serotina honeysuckle and blue wisteria.”

The workers at the nursery always jockey with one another to assist Bernard, not just because he’s so knowledgeable, but he’s always funny and enthusiastic. Joanne, the manager, insists that he must be in show business.

Bernard gives her his “Who me? Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” And then he proceeds to imitate Bea Lillie trilling her signature song:
“There are fairies at the bottom of our garden, not, not so very very far
away. You pass the garden shed and you just keep straight ahead. Oh, I do
so hope they’ve really come to stay!”

As usual, this impromptu performance sends everyone, including innocent bystanders, into fits of laughter. All except for the greenhouse bulldog, Wilbur, who starts whining and trots out the door as fast as his slow-moving legs can carry him.

Bernard also receives plenty of attention because he pays in cash and doesn’t skimp on anything. By the time we’ve finished our shopping the order is so big that it has to be delivered. As the flats of plants, pots, and bags of soil are being loaded onto a large dolly, Bernard says with an air of satisfaction, “Yes, I believe this will turn their heads.”

Their?
It’s at this instant I realize Bernard has a dual agenda with regard to his sudden interest in the garden. While we’re waiting to pay he confesses that an employee from the adoption agency in Cleveland could show up at the house at any moment for a spot inspection. Apparently they don’t make appointments because they’re afraid people will spruce things up, hide undesirable relations, and create a false picture of how the home operates on a “normal day.” I can’t help but wonder how long it will take the agency to discover that
normal
is one of the few words that will never be used in association with the Stockton household.

After finishing at the nursery we decide to head over to Sears for a new hedge trimmer and a patio umbrella.

“Olivia seems pretty open-minded about the adoption,” I say as I climb behind the wheel.

“Mother is so open-minded that it’s a miracle all of her brains haven’t fallen out,” says Bernard.