Heart's Desire (7 page)

“Over the winter Cappy called me about setting up a shop to offer rebates on bets,” I explain. “But I’ll catch up with him when he gets back.”

“Okay,” says Auggie. “He’s coming home tomorrow night. But maybe you want to leave me some digits in the meantime.”

Digits? As in a finger or two? Certainly Cappy hasn’t gone into
that
end of the business? And besides,
I
certainly don’t owe him any money.

Auggie quickly notices my confusion. “You know, a phone number.”

“Oh right,
digits
!” I can’t tell if I’ve been away from the pool hall too long, or more likely, that Auggie doesn’t sound very convincing slinging his grandfather’s slang.

“Cappy’s got my
digits,
” I say. “Tell him that I’m back staying with the Addams Family.” At least that’s how Cappy refers to the crazy assemblage at the Stockton place.

Auggie moves a step closer and says, “Uh, well maybe I could have ’em, too.” He flashes that stellar and completely paid-for grin and his brown eyes sparkle. “I’d love to take you to dinner some night.”

“Oh! Sure then, okay.” I write the Stocktons’ number down on his scratch pad and head back out through the poolroom a little lighter on my feet. A man in a cowboy hat practices alone at a table near the door and it’s pleasant to hear the solid crack of a good break followed by the low thunk of balls dropping into pockets.

And why not go out with Auggie? Ray and I never said anything about not seeing other people. In fact, I’m pretty sure that Ray
does
date other women. He always made it clear that some Saturday nights he had “business” to attend to and wasn’t interested in being asked to elaborate on what exactly that might entail. And since I hadn’t yet decided to sleep with him I didn’t exactly feel that I had a right to request monogamy.

Besides, Auggie is cute. And he can’t be stupid if he’s reading those books. Not everyone is good at math. Yet he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be threatened by a woman figuring out the gratuity in a restaurant. Macho Ray can never work out the correct tip without a calculator and so he just leaves way too much, in cash. Of course, this also serves to make him look like a big shot, which I think he rather enjoys.

Chapter Twelve

I TAKE OFF FOR CLEVELAND TO VISIT GIL JUST AS DUSK IS falling. The mellow sunlight casts a honeyed glow over the houses in the neighborhood and the breeze sinks to stillness. A few days of hot weather has hurried the tulips, violets, marigolds, and cherry blossoms into bloom, and under the pink tissue-paper sky it appears as if rainbows quiver on the front lawns.

Gil throws open the door like he’s been waiting for my knock. “It’s great to see you!” He puts his arms around me before I’m even inside the door. Though he’s careful not to clunk me with what appears to be a fresh white plaster cast on his right wrist.

“It’s terrific to see you too,” I say, and hug him back.

“Come on in!” He waves toward the tiny entry hall. “Of course, I haven’t finished settling in yet.”

Aside from the busted-up wrist Gil looks pretty much the same. Though in his mid-thirties, of medium height and weight, and now slightly disabled, he still moves with the ease and grace of an athlete. Otherwise the only difference seems to be that his hairline has receded perhaps just a bit farther back than I remember it, as if it’s currently at low tide.

We move into the cramped hallway and I’m careful to wipe my feet on the mat. The new apartment is shaped like a railroad car, with a long corridor down the middle and four small square rooms going off to the sides. There are still boxes lining the walls and I can only hope the nubby yellow couch and director’s chairs of blond wood and maroon canvas came with the rental.

Gil stares at me for a moment and says, “You look so . . . so grown up!” However, he seems slightly preoccupied and doesn’t bother to ask how I’m doing, same as everyone else these days. A year and a half ago all people did was chase after me asking, “What’s wrong?” A few even managed to make it into a full-time job. And to think I actually resented them for it. Now
nobody
asks. Not Mom, Dad, Louise, not even Bernard. It makes me suddenly realize that even though I’m only three months shy of eighteen, they must all figure that I’ve
had
my crisis. One per customer.

So this is what it’s like to be an adult—if you look okay and don’t have a bag of stolen money in your hand then people automatically assume everything is hunky-dory. Of course, there’s plenty to ask Gil, since he’s the one who has moved into a new place and also the one whose arm is in a cast. I find myself hoping the injury didn’t have anything to do with Bernard. Especially since it would be just like him to leave out a minor detail such as a recent brawl.

“Looks as if I’m just in time to sign your cast,” I say.

Gil glances down at the wrist as if he’d forgotten all about it. “Oh that. I was demonstrating a trust exercise at a training seminar and they didn’t catch me.”

“That’s not very nice,” I say.

“They thought
demonstration
meant that they weren’t supposed to do anything. I guess I didn’t explain it very clearly.”

Gil organizes seminars that are supposed to help employees work together in teams and be more productive. At least that’s what the companies claim. Gil says that in actuality it’s supposed to make them feel better about doing more work for less pay. It’s no secret to me that he hates his job, but it pays the bills and they like him, so he must be pretty good at it.

We navigate our way around towers of unpacked boxes and he offers me a glass of milk or water. “Sorry, I meant to stop and pick up some Yoo-hoo. Maybe you’d like wine or a beer.”

“Coffee is great if you have any. I’ve become a caffeine fiend at college.” Also, my power nap wore off about four hours ago. And a holiday from alcohol may not be a bad idea for the summer. Getting drunk at keg parties almost every weekend obviously hadn’t achieved the desired effect of making me irresistible to Mr. Right.

Gil rinses out two mugs and heats up water in the microwave for instant coffee. Then he takes a bag of Milano cookies off the countertop and places it on the table between us. Bernard would die if he knew about the instant coffee and store-bought cookies. Which reminds me of the box I’ve set down in the front hall. “There’s a casserole and some other stuff in that box I brought up.”

“Oh Hallie, that was very sweet of you. But I’m doing just fine as a bachelor.” He toasts me with a mug of watery coffee.

“Actually, it was Bernard’s idea.”

From the pinched look on Gil’s face I gather that he now has mixed feelings about the offering. “I see,” he says.

We make small talk about work and school but the conversation feels forced, like talking to your parents from your college dorm room while just two feet away some kids are getting stoned. It’s as if neither of us wants to mention
it.

He finally breaks the ice. “So how
is
Bernard?”

Bernard has of course coached me for at least an hour on exactly how to answer this question. And though I hadn’t promised to stick to the script, which is basically to say how fabulous he is, I really do feel a loyalty to Bernard, at least in so far as omitting how upset he’s been.

“Oh, fine. You know, listening to opera, buying Egyptian cotton sheets. And the antiques business is going gangbusters now that the economy has picked up again. He’s selling old-fashioned Coke signs and soda-fountain stools to some retro diner chain.”

Gil doesn’t appear disappointed but he doesn’t look thrilled, either. Like he would have been happier if I’d worked in at least one negative.

“And what about you?” I ask. “I was sort of surprised . . . you know . . . kind of sad that the two of you . . .”

“Yes, I meant to phone you.” He stares down at the tangerine-colored Formica tabletop, which I will
not
be telling Bernard about. “But it was hard to find the right words. And I guess . . . I guess you sort of belong over there, with them. I—I didn’t know if you’d want to see me. . . .”

“Of course I want to see you! We’ll get together and do stuff.” Only it sounds like a lame plan made by friends moving to opposite coasts.

“Yes, of course we will.”

It suddenly dawns on me that I’m not even exactly sure
why
they broke up. “I didn’t ask Bernard, but, I mean, I’m not sure exactly why . . .”

“Oh!” Gil looks surprised. “I thought he explained.”

“No, not really.” I don’t want to say how Bernard implied that Gil had a nervous breakdown or a midlife crisis.

“My brother died very suddenly last month. A heart attack.”

“Yeah, Bernard told me that. I’m sorry I didn’t hear sooner. I’d have called or something. I mean, actually I didn’t remember that you had a brother. . . .”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’re aware that my family disowned me when I came out of the closet. I hadn’t spoken with Clifton in years. I wouldn’t have even known about the funeral if Aunt Theodora hadn’t called. Anyway, I saw the family. My dad’s grown so old. And my sister, Kathleen, and her husband don’t have any children. I went back to the house afterward. It was nice to be with them again. And I felt sorry that I hadn’t seen my mother before she died, and didn’t go to her funeral.”

Gil looks morose and stares at the bank calendar tacked onto the wall with a pushpin. “We’re all getting older,” he continues. “I just started to think about changing my lifestyle.”

“Do you mean that you’re tired of living in a small town, with people scrutinizing your every move?” I ask. “Or with your job?” I nod toward his broken wrist. It’s a known fact that Gil would like to be a full-time director, or at least do something that involves theater.

“No . . . I think I’d like to get married.”

“You mean, to a
woman
?”

“Well, yes, when you put it that way.”

Damn Bernard! He
knew
this and he didn’t tell me.

“I see. I mean, I didn’t know. Because I just thought . . .” But I don’t know what I thought, unless it was that once you declared yourself gay it’s illegal to switch sides. All I can think to say is, “Do you . . . do you have someone in mind?”

“As a matter of fact, I ran into an old high school friend at Clifton’s funeral. Her name is Doris. She’s divorced, no children. We’ve sort of started dating.” Only he says this more as a question than a statement of fact and doesn’t smile or look well pleased by this turn of events.

Oh gosh, it suddenly flashes into my mind what Bernard might say if he’d just heard that last line, and as a result I accidentally laugh out loud. But I quickly cough to cover it up.

“What’s wrong?” Gil asks, not sure if I’m laughing at him or truly hacking.

Obviously I have only a split second to convince him of the latter. “Coffee went down the wrong way.” For additional emphasis I stand and pound my chest while coughing some more.

Gil appears relieved. Only I can’t control my laughter at the “What’s wrong with this picture?” absurdity of it all—Gil dating a woman! So the scene becomes a bit like the funeral of Bernard’s father, when we couldn’t stop laughing because Bernard made me check to see if there was really a body in the casket, after Olivia had secretly donated it to science, and the lid slammed down on my head.

Every time I stop laughing I imagine Bernard sitting here while Gil, with the same incredibly bewildered look on his face, announces that he has a girlfriend. And the second I do, I burst into giggles again and have to immediately fake more coughing. Because there’s no doubt in my mind that Bernard would correct him and say that “having a girlfriend” is another one of Gil’s management euphemisms, and what he’s really trying to describe is a
hostage situation.

Chapter Thirteen

ON THE DRIVE BACK FROM CLEVELAND A LIGHT RAIN FALLS, making the night cool and filling the air with the blended sweetness of flowers, trees, and damp earth. Despite the fresh scent of spring rushing in through the car window my mind is stuffy, like an overly warm house in wintertime, and my body is anxious, straining forward in the driver’s seat. I try to relax and breathe more slowly but every nerve is quivering with restlessness. Ray and his ultimatum, Louise going berserk, the cash crunch, Bernard stalking Gil, Gil dating a woman—what will happen next? Watch, it will turn out that my father is a cross-dresser. Actually, that’s impossible. His knees are so bad from playing football when he was younger that he can barely walk in loafers. High heels would be suicide.

I do the HALT self-therapy that Debbie learned in her group for children of bipolar parents. It supposedly enables you to focus on exactly what’s bothering you rather than succumbing to a general nervousness or rage. In H-A-L-T, H stand for hungry, A equals angry, L means lonely, and T is for tired. I race through the list and decide that I qualify for all but hungry. Every time there was an uneasy pause in my conversation with Gil I ate another cookie and now feel as if I should be heading to some sort of Pepperidge Farm detox facility.

In an attempt to take my mind off the letters A, L, and T, I consider the design competition, which is for a dishwashing detergent. If I could just be certain that I’d win the full-year scholarship, there’d be no reason to offer to freelance for Cappy in his bookmaking business. And the guidelines sound simple enough. Contestants need to create a state-of-the-art, computer-generated storyboard for a sixty-second television ad. But in my current state of mindless-ness all I can think of are those stupid commercials where a well-meaning neighbor comes to your home for a party, discovers spots on the glasses, and rushes you into the kitchen for a
serious
chat.

When I finally pull into the driveway it’s almost midnight and all the downstairs lights are still on. Bernard has obviously been waiting by the window, because the front door swings open the second I turn off the engine.

“Tell me about his appearance,” Bernard demands before I’ve even closed the car door behind me.

“His wrist is broken,” I say angrily.

“Oh horrors!” But Bernard appears almost giddy. “I should have sent vichyssoise. Surely he needs someone to come help keep up with the cooking and cleaning.”

“I can’t believe you set me up like this!” I burst out. “You lied to me!”

“What?” He is a study in wide-eyed innocence.

I storm right past Bernard and on into the house. “Women! He said he wants to date women!” Even if Gil didn’t seem altogether convincing on the subject, this appears to be his intention.

“That’s absolutely ludicrous!” insists Bernard. “Anyway, I told you he had a crisis after his brother died.”

“Bernard, the man wants to get married and have children. You call that a crisis?”

“All right then, it’s a phase.”

“You’d better tell that to Doris.”

“Doris?” His jaw goes slack and he looks stunned, as if he’s just taken a blow to the head. “
Who
is
Doris
?”

“His
girlfriend.
” I don’t say this in a mean way, but more like
Hello!

Bernard crumples into the chair in the hallway as if he would have fallen directly onto the floor without it.

But by now I’m so exhausted I could cry. Ignoring Bernard’s latest scene I head for the kitchen and pour a glass of water to take with me out to the summerhouse.

“Wait! Come back here!” He leaps up and chases after me.

“What?” Now I’m feeling cranky and a little bit mean, too, after being deceived and made to look like a complete idiot in front of Gil. “I’m going to bed!”

“Oh Hallie, this is terrible! What am I going to
do
?” Bernard isn’t being melodramatic now. I can see the fear and loss in his eyes.

Only I’m too worn out to be properly sympathetic. Not to mention that I’m currently the
last person on earth
who should be giving relationship advice. “You want my honest opinion? I think you’re going to have to get over him and find a new boyfriend.”

Bernard props himself up against the kitchen counter, still looking shell-shocked. “Doris?” he hisses, as if the very name is an evil incantation.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. I promise.” But I feel guilty leaving him in such a state. “In fact, we’ll do an Internet search on her and find out about any bad debts or if she’s done time in jail.” My roommate Robin had succeeded in ruining the life of a stepfather she despised by discovering that he was wanted for child support and back taxes in Maryland.

Bernard doesn’t rise to the bait, though. He stumbles into a chair at the kitchen table and lets his head fall onto his arms.

“Gil served Pepperidge Farm cookies and instant coffee,” I say, trying to cheer him up. “And the tabletop is tangerine-colored Formica.”

“Do me a favor and get the aspirin from the bathroom.” Bernard mumbles something about getting a tension headache worse than Bette Davis had in the movie
Dark Victory.

I retrieve a bottle of Bayer out of the medicine cabinet and hand him the last two capsules. The Stocktons aren’t exactly pill poppers, and so a bottle of anything lasts a long time around here, at least since Olivia’s husband, who everyone simply called
the Judge,
passed away. I fill a glass with water, leave it in on the table, and then kiss Bernard good night on the cheek. His face resembles a great empty fireplace, where all the warmth and light has died out.

For so long I’ve wanted to be in love. The kind of love that Olivia’s poets write about, involving melodious lutes, sunsets that streak the horizon with red flame, and the watery brilliance of the moon. Only now I’m not so sure it’s possible in real life. Though I have certainly become clear on one point. The saddest thing in the world must be to fall out of love.