Heart's Desire (23 page)

Chapter Forty-six

CRAIG ARRIVES LOOKING BUSINESSLIKE IN A BLUE BUTTON-DOWN shirt tucked into neatly pressed khaki pants and carrying a leather satchel under his arm. He gives me a smile instead of a kiss, as if there was never anything special between us. And I guess maybe there wasn’t.

It’s only been six months since I’ve last seen Craig, and yet he looks somehow different. At first I can’t figure out what exactly has changed, but it soon becomes apparent that he’s managed to grow another inch and shed some of his football muscle, especially around the neck and shoulders. However, the rest of Craig seems exactly the same. His eyes are the color of sea mist and it’s easy to see why his yellowy hair reminds people of sunlight. Bernard of course doesn’t miss noticing how handsome Craig looks and gives me a glance that clearly states,
Now, aren’t you sorry you didn’t change and put on lipstick?

“So, Craig, tell us all about school,” says Olivia.

Craig discusses his roommate who snores, favorite classes, a few professors, and how a student named Charlotte told him about a program where you work as an assistant Forest Ranger for a semester, which he thinks sounds interesting. I listen carefully to try and determine if this Charlotte woman might be the thing he’s particularly interested in. But like most college students being quizzed by grown-ups, Craig sticks to the party line about academics and sports, careful not to allude to sex and parties. Adults paying thirty thousand dollars a year in tuition aren’t interested in hearing about the Halloween bash where everyone got drunk and installed a giant pumpkin on the spire of the bell tower, even though a substantial amount of engineering knowledge was required to accomplish the task.

Everyone exclaims over the lovely presentation of the meal. Bernard has reused the crab shells to hold individual servings of tartar sauce, and the entrée is garnished with paprika and green onions. Only he doesn’t seem to take pleasure from the compliments the way he normally does. Instead Bernard clears his throat and finally announces, “I have something to tell you. My adoption application has been rejected.”

We all appear stunned, while Bernard stares down at his plate, reflexively picks up his fork, and then puts it back down again.

“Oh, Bertie darling, what a shame!” Olivia is the first to respond.

“Attsa no good!” says Ottavio, who tends to catalogue all life’s twists and turns as either “attsa good” or “attsa no good.”

“But you were already approved!” I complain.

I’ve been watching Craig, who is seated next to Bernard and directly across from me. It’s unlikely he even knew about the adoption plans to begin with, but his expression changes from shock to extreme sympathy in less than a minute. At the Stocktons’, such surprises are around every corner. If Rocky isn’t carefully mixing a Singapore sling in the living room then Olivia is out front being carted off by the police. Besides, Craig always told me that the thing he loves best about being here is that you never know
what
is going to happen next.

“Apparently they have a problem with that fact that I’m gay,” Bernard finally lays it on the line.

“I’m sorry, but adoption by same-sex singles
and
couples is perfectly legal within the state of Ohio!” Olivia slams down her fork as if it’s a gavel and tosses her napkin onto the table as if she’s going to sue somebody right then and there. “We’ll simply go down to the agency and straighten them out!” And the way she rises up from her chair, I get the feeling that I should bring the car around right this minute.

“Sit down, Mother,” says Bernard. “It’s not that simple.”

“But she’s right,” chimes in Craig. “This is a classic case of discrimination.”

Craig’s an only child and his father is a lawyer, so he’s had to listen to adults talk his entire life and as a result knows all sorts of legal ins and outs, such as how to take someone to small claims court or fight a parking ticket.

Sensing that a grave injustice has been done, Ottavio immediately jumps to conclusions.
“La Cosa Nostra!”

“There’s no Mafia around here, Ottavio,” Bernard corrects him. “You have to go to Youngstown or Cleveland for that.”

Craig gives me a look that indicates he’s heard otherwise from his father’s dealings down at the courthouse, but remains silent on the matter.

“It’s probably why we don’t have any good Italian restaurants,” says Bernard. Only it’s obvious from the pained expression on his face that this joke is meant to hide his disappointment.

“We’ll organize a protest,” declares Olivia. She seems almost pleased to have a mission and continues with increasing gusto, “I’ll make up petitions and placards and go to their main office and—”

Bernard takes such a deep breath that I sense the chandelier may have briefly swayed in his direction. “Mother, of course it’s
illegal,
but that’s not what they’re going to say in the official letter. It will simply state something to the effect that we failed the home inspection or didn’t meet all the financial guidelines. That’s why Mrs. Farley came in person. Apparently . . . apparently a very large contributor to the adoption agency lives right here in town—Edwin Kunckle. And he put the kibosh on it.”

As Bernard utters my least favorite name he looks over at me, fully expecting the look that says:
I
told
you he’s a jerk.
Only I’m too distracted wondering if this happens to be revenge for my beating Kunckle at poker.

“Oh dear,” cries Olivia and her hands fly up to her face.

“I believe he’s a member of your church, Hallie,” says Bernard.

“Not
my
church,” I fire back. “It just happens to be where the poker game is held. And it’s not my fault that my parents belong there.”

“Anyway, it’s easy to make the connection,” continues Bernard. “If gays adopt babies, then
he
stops making donations to the agency.”

“You really could sue for this!” A furious Craig lands a fist on the table and the silverware and crystal clank and jump.

Craig’s indignation is sweet, but in my estimation he’s a bit too optimistic about the way businesses and agencies really operate. My dad works for the state and is always telling stories about insider dealings and mutual back-scratching. Furthermore, it seems to me that Bernard, with all his experience buying and selling antiques, has the most heightened sense of awareness with regard to human nature and how the world actually works, much like my bookie pal, Cappy. And according to both of them, favorable transactions are more often the result of kickbacks and pulling strings rather than anything written in law books.

“I’ll pen a scathing editorial that will rally sympathizers to our cause,” declares Olivia.

“I appreciate your good intentions, Mother,” Bernard says graciously, “but I don’t want a spectacle to be made of the way I live, with protests and stories in the newspaper and on television. Heaven knows, we’ve had enough of that around here.” He’s obviously referring to Olivia’s continuous stream of activism, which ranges from buying all the toads from the pet store to marching in support of the gay Boy Scout troop leader who was dismissed a year ago.

“But the best test of truth for any idea is to have a public debate on the matter,” argues Olivia. “That’s one of the main tenets that the English poet and scholar John Milton championed in his pamphlet ‘Areopagitica.’ ”

“Yes. And after the restoration of Charles II your beloved Milton was arrested, if I recall correctly. So let’s just drop the matter,” Bernard says with an air of finality and lifts his head high. He has an appetite for good food and fine wine as much as he does for martyrdom.

“We’ll drown our collective sorrow in the world premiere of Bernard’s Bona Fide Bread Pudding in Bourbon Sauce.”

With great ceremony Bernard places a large chafing dish in the middle of the dining room table and majestically removes the vaulted silver lid so that a delicious cinnamon smell explodes into the air and causes us all to exclaim and lean forward with anticipation.

By the time we finish dessert Bernard is conversing and joking around as if the adoption rejection had never occurred. He once told me that he’s able to channel Ethel Merman performing “There’s No Business Like Show Business” in order to make it through almost any difficult three-hour period without succumbing to his emotional distress.

Chapter Forty-seven

WHEN THE TABLE IS FINALLY CLEARED BERNARD SPREADS OUT his sketches for the new pond and enthusiastically reviews them with Craig. “But of course I want you to be happy with the plan as well, so feel free to make changes and suggestions. Though I do believe the first thing Edith would ask is, ‘What are we trying to evoke?’ ”

“Who?” asks Craig.

“Edith Wharton,” I fill in the blank.

Bernard has been poring over her books for days. He removes a well-worn copy of
Italian Gardens
off the highboy and passes it to Craig.

“It should bring to mind the concept of liberty,” says Olivia.

Bernard rolls his eyes. “We have flags for that, Mother, thank you.”

“La famiglia,”
offers the ever-helpful Ottavio.

“Actually,” says Craig, “I’ve been thinking of what’s known as a wild pond.”

“Wonderful!” Olivia claps her hands together approvingly.

“That sounds perfect,” says Bernard. “I’ve never cared for anything that smacks of being overly staged, thereby giving the impression that we’re trying too hard. Therein lies the key to aesthetics— making the results appear natural and of course effortless.”

From his leather satchel Craig removes a notebook and several catalogues with a variety of colored Post-it notes marking several of the pages. “Then let’s start with the greenery, because it’s essential for maintaining the ecological balance—you know, algae levels, filtration, and things like that. And plants provide fish with places to hide, which reduces their stress level.”

“Pesce!”
says Ottavio excitedly. Though he’s obviously picturing something prepared in a white wine sauce with a side of linguini.

“No, it’s not a pond for fishing,” explains Olivia. “A place of beauty—
posto pittoresco.
”

Craig places some photographs on the table and begins to describe them one by one. “First we’ll choose the floating plants. There’s lotus, floating heart, parrot’s feather—this isn’t a good picture, but it has feathery light green leaves that drift on the surface. Then there’s pennywort—that’s the one with the emerald-green cupped leaves that creep across the border or float on the water, and tiny white flowers rise above it.”

Bernard studies each image carefully.

“I adore the sound of
lotus
and
floating heart,
” Olivia says dreamily.

“Mother, you can’t just choose these things based on whether or not you like the name.”

“They’d all work in this environment.” Craig passes around three more photos. “We might try one of these as well—there’s water four-leaf clover, water hawthorn, and water hyacinth.”

Without even glancing at the photos, Olivia says, “Definitely hyacinth. In Greek mythology Hyacinthus was a beautiful youth with whom Apollo, the god of prophecy, medicine, music, and poetry, fell in love. However, Zephyrus, the West Wind, also fell in love with the boy and became very jealous of Apollo. One day as Apollo was instructing the boy in discus throwing, Zephyrus seized the missile in midair and hurled it against Hyacinthus’s head. The boy was killed, but where his blood fell there sprang up the hyacinth flower.”

Bernard snorts.

However, before they can start arguing Craig moves on. “Fish are a good idea since they help reduce pond waste. And of course they’re attractive and interesting. Most people stock with goldfish.”

“Well, we certainly don’t want what
most
people have,” says Bernard.

Olivia nods in agreement. Although mother and son constantly bicker with each other, they almost always present a united front against ordinariness.

“Personally I like Japanese koi,” says Craig. He flips to a page showing a gorgeous fish that’s a kaleidoscope of bright orange, gold, black, and pearl gray. “Then there are two breeds of goldfish that are European imports and not as common, Green Thech and Golden Orfe.” Craig points to the opposite page.

“Not too much gold,” cautions Olivia. “That’s my only complaint about Willa Cather, she tended to overuse gold.”

“Willa Cather didn’t have a famous garden,” Bernard states with authority.

“I meant in her descriptive writing—golden sunsets, golden fields, golden leaves, golden steeples.”

“Hmm,” says Bernard, studying the pictures and ignoring his mother. “Edith doesn’t say anything about fish.” He places his hand on the cover of Wharton’s book as if trying to channel her opinion on the matter.

“We don’t have to decide about the fish right now,” says Craig. “Actually, they come last. First we need marginal plants, border plants, and most important, oxygenating plants—possibly some duckweed, eel grass, Sagittaria or Anacharis.”

“Definitely get that last one for Mother,” insists Bernard. “It sounds like
anarchy.
”