Heart's Desire (4 page)

Chapter Six

WHEN THE FRONT DOOR OPENS I ASSUME IT’S BERNARD AGAIN, but a young man appears carrying a glass aquarium along with some gravel, plastic greenery, and a water-filled plastic bag containing a half-dozen pollywogs. Come to think of it . . . he looks like an older and more handsome version of Brandt.

“B-Brandt?” I stammer with surprise.

“Hey, Hallie! You’re home!” He places what is no doubt a science project on the sideboard and comes over and gives me a hug and a kiss. It’s only on the cheek, thank heavens. Back when we were in high school together Brandt had the longest-running crush in history on me. He was nice enough, but what a geek, from the safety goggles on his head all the way down to the reflective stripes on his sneakers!

I must admit, however, that like Pinocchio before him, Brandt’s turned into a real boy. Almost a man, actually. He’s left behind the vague shape of adolescence, with its gangly appendages interrupted by pointy outcroppings, and appears to have developed honest-to-goodness shoulders, and arm muscles, too. There’s also a slight shadow above his lip that indicates shaving has become part of his daily regimen. Even the trombone voice, though not particularly deep, has finally steadied and settled into a more or less appropriate octave.

“I was afraid that you were going to take that internship in Buffalo, and I’d be stuck with the yard again,” says Brandt. “I can’t figure out how to keep the mower from stalling out and I’ve got an incredible research job at the community college working with a professor on a physiology paper.” He nods toward his tank. “I’ve been accepted at Massachusetts Institute of Technology for fall.”

“Congratulations!” I say. Though more out of goodwill than surprise. I mean, if MIT had turned Brandt down they would have had a lot to answer for when he eventually picked up his science prize in Norway.

“Brandt received a full academic scholarship,” Olivia adds proudly.

“Yeah, but I can easily work off my rent and books as an assistant in the lab,” he quickly adds.

I think how nice it would be if I could work off some of my tuition in a lab. But the only way that is going to happen is if they need a human guinea pig. There
must
be a way to make some real money this summer. At least there was the weekly poker game. At school no one is much interested in poker, unless it’s strip poker. Though I’d managed to win a couple hundred bucks playing hearts. Of course, there’s always the racetrack. Even though I’m still not old enough to place a bet, they never ask for ID, unlike the sticklers at OTB. And if worse comes to worst, I can call my old friend Cappy the bookie, who’s always been impressed with my talent for probability theory and happens to be interested in setting up a rebate shop. These are betting parlors on Indian reservations and offshore locations reached via Internet, where high-rollers receive a small percentage back whether they win or lose. For a brief moment I imagine myself working from a bamboo hut overlooking a gorgeous white sand beach and sipping chocolate Yoo-hoo from a bottle with a brightly colored paper umbrella sticking out of the top.

“Okay!” Bernard appears in the archway and smacks his hands together as if he’s leading a motivation workshop and it’s time to break into discussion groups. “Old home week is over.”

Rocky has returned from outside and enters the dining room frantically waving his arms at Brandt just the way he had done with me. Only Brandt motions back to him, as if they’re playing Simon Says. “Rocky says that he’s happy you’re home,” Brandt translates.

“Oh really?” I’m aware that Rocky is glad to see me but I’m skeptical of the word-for-word translation.

“It transpires that Brandt discovered Rocky knows some sign language,” explains Olivia. “So he contacted Rocky’s former trainer and asked for a copy of his operating manual. In addition to being an accomplished bartender, Rocky apparently learned over fifty signals and can practically communicate like a person.”

But it’s obvious that at the present time Bernard has no patience for stupid chimp tricks. “Rocky speaks!” he says sarcastically, referring to the hullabaloo made when his beloved Greta Garbo made her first talking film. Bernard has an antique “Garbo Speaks!” movie poster behind the register down at the shop that is clearly marked NOT FOR SALE.

“It’s really amazing,” says Brandt. “He knows at least forty nouns and enough verbs to express his emotions pretty well.”

“Yes,” says Bernard. “And if they ever launch Mensa for chimpanzee saloonkeepers, I’m sure Rocky will be the first one admitted. Now, Hallie and I have lots and lots to do!” He takes me by the arm and steers me out of the room.

I know that
I
have to unpack and that
I
have to get started on the yard, but I’m not sure exactly what
we
have to do together.

“Yeah, I’d better get to work,” I say. “But be sure to let me know if anyone has a suggestion as to how I can make twenty thousand dollars over the next ten weeks.”

“It’s such a shame about money,” opines Olivia, and then launches into one of her impromptu but frequent history lessons. “Though certainly not a new dilemma. The French political philosopher Rousseau supported himself by copying music. He had beautiful handwriting. I suppose copy machines do that sort of thing nowadays. A lack of funds meant the British landscape painter Constable couldn’t marry the woman he passionately loved until he was forty, and then she died a mere ten years later. And Seneca, the great Roman dramatist and philosopher, supported himself by lending money and trading tax futures. Had he not possessed some solid business sense we might not have
Thyestes
nor
Phaedra,
works that influenced Elizabethan drama and the French playwrights Corneille and Racine.”

“Sounds like Mr. Seneca figured it out,” I say.

“Hardly,” scoffs a Bernard anxious to get a move on. “He committed suicide in the bathtub after his student Nero turned against him.”

Olivia and I exchange a wide-eyed look at the S word.

“Let us not confuse history with histrionics,” chides Olivia.

Chapter Seven

THE SUMMERHOUSE IS SPARKLING CLEAN, WITH NEW CUSHIONS on the chairs and the aroma of citrus-scented furniture polish rising from every side table. The couches that I used to sleep on have been re-covered in attractive pink-and-green-striped damask, with matching pillows. And there’s a new daybed against the far wall, with a pretty white lace coverlet spread across the top.

It’s obvious that Bernard assumed I’d be coming home, or else he’s been preparing to kidnap me. There are a few more small bronze statues and decorative orange-and-blue Limoges plates in gold stands on the already jam-packed tabletops than I remember, but Bernard is always finding antiques that he loves so much he can’t bear to put them up for sale at the shop.

The view from the summerhouse certainly isn’t what it was a year ago. I hope that gardening isn’t a required course at MIT because the yard is truly a natural disaster, unless Brandt has been using the area to test chemical weapons. A brown tangle of last year’s plants and half-disintegrated leaves is spread across the ground like industrial-strength algae. The hedges are growing heads, arms, legs, and even tentacles, like undersea monsters. The lawn is high enough to ripple in the breeze like ocean waves. In fact, it’s poised to leap up over the house. And there are tall dark squares of crabgrass scattered throughout like so many corduroy patches. Meantime, the greenhouse we built is completely
empty
except for the plastic planters and potting soil left over from last year.

However, Bernard, who normally loves to have perfect gardens, seems surprisingly unconcerned by this mess and lack of preparation. “Now let me explain my plan to win Gil back,” he immediately begins. “People always want what they can’t have, right? So—”

“Wait a second,” I say, “I thought the two of you just broke up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Bernard and dismisses this suggestion with a sweep of his arm. “For two people to break up they must both
agree
to break up. And I certainly haven’t agreed to any such thing. As far as I’m concerned we’re still together.” His voice is croaky and his eyes are glassy, as if he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in a long while.

It’s quickly becoming apparent why Olivia is thinking along the lines of professional help. I’d taken psychology last fall and the first stage of coming to terms with any great loss is denial. Only it’s supposed to be followed by anger and then bargaining, until you’re finally traveling along the healthy road to acceptance.

On the other hand, Bernard’s attitude sounds a lot like mine when this really hot sophomore named Josh was my boyfriend for two weeks during the fall term. The only problem was that Josh never knew anything about the relationship. This certainly made the breakup a lot easier, at least for him.

“I understand that what you’re going through is really tough,” I attempt to reason with him.

“I’ve grown accustomed to his face,” insists Bernard. “He almost makes my day begin.”

Okay, not only is Bernard speaking about Gil in the present tense, but I’m pretty sure he’s quoting from
My Fair Lady.
“Yes, I understand it’s very difficult right now. But each day will get a little easier, believe me.”

However, Bernard isn’t hearing a word of my constructive sympathy. “Gil has taken an apartment in downtown Cleveland. I’ve driven past the place several times. The brick building itself certainly isn’t anything to look at. There’s a dentist’s office on the ground floor. Or maybe it’s a periodontist. Anyway, I keep trying to get him to invite me over, because, you know, I could help him decorate and arrange things. But he insists that it’s not a good idea right now.”

“And does he say
why
it’s not a good idea?”

“Well, actually, he won’t take my calls anymore. So I’m presuming he wants to settle in first.”

Great. Bernard is openly admitting to stalking his ex. Next he’s probably going to confess that he’s tapped Gil’s phone.

“So I want you to call him and see if he’ll let
you
visit.” Bernard hands me the cordless phone. “I’ve blocked our number so it won’t show up on his caller ID. And afterward you can report back to me with the necessary information.”

“What do you mean,
information
?”

“You know—what he’s doing, his appearance, how the rooms are arranged.”

“Why don’t you just hire a detective?” I ask in a tone that’s meant to be sarcastic. Although when Bernard seems to be actually considering the idea, I’m obliged to say, “I was only kidding.”

But in his sorrow Bernard has lost the ability to laugh easily. Instead, he continues to divulge his strategy. “You and only
you
can get inside to see if he’s unpacked everything and plans on staying . . . if he’s installed a pole lamp and hung pictures, or if it’s all just rather makeshift and temporary-looking.”

“I’m not going to
spy
on Gil.” I would do practically anything for Bernard, but here I have to draw the line. “It’s wrong!”

“So I’ll go to confession and say five Our Miss Brooks and two Hello Dollys!”

Bernard lets out a walrus-sized sigh, as if I’m single-handedly destroying all of his carefully thought-out plans. “I’m not asking you to
spy
on him. Simply go visit him and then come back here and tell me about it,” he implores.

“Of course I’ll go and see him at some point.”

“Fine, then.” Bernard takes the phone out of my hands and starts pressing the buttons.

He’s memorized Gil’s new number?

“Ask if you can go over there tonight,” he instructs, and hands back the phone.

I click the off button and disconnect the call. “But I just drove all the way from Cleveland after being up all night. I haven’t unpacked yet. Or stopped at my house. Or looked in the shed. I’m exhausted from exams and final projects.” And from relationships, I would add, if Bernard could go off-mission for a second and listen to me. Not a chance.

“Hallie, this is
urgent
! I’m in
desperate circumstances.
” Sounding all too much like Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire, he retrieves the phone and clutches it to his heart.

“Can’t it at least wait until tomorrow?” I plead.

“Who kept you out of reform school last year?” insists Bernard. “
Who
became your legal guardian and arranged it so Mother could tutor you here at the house, thus enabling you to graduate from high school?”

“Point taken,” I shoot back. “You’ve graduated from mentor to
tormentor
in the short space of a year.”

Bernard’s arms are now flailing above his head like Tippi Hedren in the movie
The Birds.

“Have I ever asked
anything
of you, other than to read those articles I send you on how to care for your combination skin?” Once again he punches in the number and shoves the handset up to my ear.

I walk outside the summerhouse to talk in private. He follows me. Real close.

“How am I supposed to get Gil back if I don’t know whether or not he’s seeing anyone?” complains Bernard.

So
that’s
what this is about. I’m not supposed to hunt for pole lamps and a captain’s wheel coffee table, but for evidence of another
person.
Gil picks up, and following some friendly chitchat, I arrange to go and visit him after dinner. At least this way I can grab a few hours of shut-eye this afternoon.

As soon as I hang up, Bernard hysterically begins making plans. “We’ll eat early and then leave at half past six. I’ll make a casserole for you to give him since I can’t imagine he’s been eating properly. Then I’ll wait at the diner around the corner while you go in and visit.”

“I’m not taking you with me! What if he
sees
you?” By now I’m picturing the mug shot.

“I’ll wear a disguise.” Bernard says this as if it solves absolutely everything.

Looking directly at the largest vase in the room, I ask, “Are any of these in my price range in case I accidentally drop one on your head?”

“He won’t even know I’m there,” insists Bernard.

“Do you want the short answer or the long answer?” I ask.

“Short,” he says. There’s a crazed note of hope in his voice.

“No!” I bang my hand on the bed since just about everything else in the vicinity is an antique and there’s no point breaking a thousand-dollar lamp just for emphasis.

“Wait! What’s the long answer?”

“No F-ing way!”
I say, and give the bed one more hard hit. “Furthermore, I’m not taking sides. Or going on some fact-finding mission. This is getting really weird. It feels as if my parents got divorced while I was in college. It happened to, like, half the freshmen—out of the blue they got calls in early October saying their folks were splitsville, that they’d been waiting the past few years, until the kids left home.”

“That’s exactly why we must get Gil back! So you’re not permanently damaged by living in a broken home.”

“Stop saying
we
!”

Bernard studies the dark circles under my eyes and the uncombed hair. “I think you’re just tired,” he says, as if this explains why I’m not agreeing with him.

“I’m exhausted!” I hurl myself prostrate on the new daybed. “This is a really nice bed, by the way.”

“I thought sateen sheets would be a bit much, so I got Egyptian cotton with a very high thread count, a silk blend comforter, and goose down pillows.”

“Mmmm,” I kick off my sneakers and let my head sink into the luxurious pillow.

“Okay, get some rest while I run down to the shop. It’s been incredibly busy ever since this chain of diners and soda bars started buying from me. I send them pictures of 1940s and ’50s kitsch and they send money.” Bernard bounds out the door, apparently cheered that I’m willing to take on his case, at least within reason.

It feels so good to lie there and listen to the fresh green leaves rustle and the sparrows chirp. The buds on the purple lilac bushes outside my window still look tentative, as if waiting for just one more sign that spring has come to stay for good. My thoughts drift as I head toward sleep.
Working in the yard I can make fifteen an hour and
if I work fifty hours a week for ten weeks that’s $7,500 . . . not nearly
enough . . . have to win that contest and get the one-year scholarship and
then use the $7,500 for living expenses . . . can’t eat another Ramen noodle as long as I live . . . what about the transformation in Brandt . . . hard
not to wonder if he didn’t participate in some sort of scientific experiment
that made him go from gawky boy to normal guy . . . he’s still kind of
skinny . . . but it’s nothing that a few milkshakes couldn’t cure . . . oh
dear, I must really be overtired and becoming delusional . . . though I
wonder if he still carries that Klingon key chain . . . because maybe if
that’s definitely gone . . .

When I hear a female voice calling my name I leap up and look around for a clock, terrified that I’m sleeping through an exam. It’s not one of my roommates, however.