Heart's Desire (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

BLARING SIRENS AWAKEN ME IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. MY first thought is that there’s a fire. I hurry outside and around to the front door of the main house to find Olivia on the porch exchanging hurried talk with paramedics, though there isn’t a stretcher being hauled out of the back of their emergency vehicle, and no fire trucks have arrived on the scene.

Inside the house Ottavio is pacing the front hall drinking coffee, and a distressed Rocky is hopping from room to room with his hands covering his ears. Through the archway I can see Bernard sitting at the kitchen table exactly where I left him, arguing with a tired-looking Officer Rich.

Because Officer Rich is one of a few African Americans in an otherwise mostly white town, people might think it’s hard for him to command the necessary respect to succeed in law enforcement. The truth is just the opposite, however. Perhaps it’s in part because he’s so tall and large, though in a pillowy sort of way. But I believe it’s mostly due to the fact that Officer Rich’s reassuring presence combined with his easygoing manner serves to make a person feel that everything is going to be okay. And also, you want your police to stand out a bit, like an orange cone in the middle of the highway, reminding folks to be careful and not go too fast.

A woman wearing a yellow vest and carrying a walkie-talkie prevents me from entering the kitchen, but when Bernard hears my voice he shouts for me to come through. “Hallie, thank goodness. Now, will you
please
tell Officer Rich exactly how many aspirin I consumed.”

I learned a long time ago never to answer any questions without first assessing the lay of the land, so you don’t accidentally incriminate anyone, particularly yourself. Thus I take a quick look around before replying. An empty bottle of bourbon that wasn’t there when I left sits on the table, along with a cocktail glass.

Officer Rich becomes suspicious when I hesitate. “It’s okay, Hallie,” he says. “Just tell the truth. Rocky found Bernard passed out here at the table and Olivia believes he may have tried to overdose. She wants us to drive him over to Dalewood for a psychiatric evaluation. Olivia claims that lately he’s been . . . well—”

“Stop talking as if I’m not here,” interjects Bernard. “Hallie, please tell him that all you gave me was aspirin—
two
aspirin. That’s
all
that were left in the bottle.” His voice is hoarse and hollow with despair.

When I nod my head in agreement, Officer Rich studies us both to see if there’s a conspiracy a foot.

“Okay,” confesses Bernard, “I probably shouldn’t have had a bottle of Wild Turkey as a chaser, but I did
not
attempt to
kill
myself !”

They both turn toward me as if I’m the tiebreaker on whether Bernard was trying to off himself. “There were only two aspirin left,” I say. “He had a headache.” I don’t think it’s necessary to include the fact that as I left I could hear Bernard singing, “Make It Another Old-Fashioned, Please,” the torch song lament Ethel Merman sang after losing the love of her life in the musical
Panama
Hattie.

“Thank you!” barks an irritated Bernard. “Now please tell that to Mother and have her show the bandage brigade to the door.”

When I go into the living room Brandt has by this time joined the nocturnal throng, wearing a
Star Trek
T-shirt and boxer shorts. He’s sitting on the couch next to Rocky, using his hands to communicate. Rocky is enthusiastically responding and occasionally jumping up and down on the cushions, which I assume is his version of an exclamation point.

I take Olivia aside and tell her about Doris.

“Oh,”
she says, and then whispers back, “The name
Doris
is from the Greek language and means ‘a sacrificial knife.’ ”

Meanwhile, Ottavio goes around the room offering coffee to everyone. Only I’m sick of coffee and return to the kitchen for a chocolate Yoo-hoo, since I’d noticed that Bernard had put in a good supply as part of my sign-on bonus.

Unfortunately the scene I come across now is exactly like the one with Professor Harris at college. Bernard is giving the unabridged version of the breakup to Officer Rich, who is nodding his head sympathetically. Only, with his large hands and bowling-pin body, Officer Rich appears uncomfortable in the role of confidant for a failed romance, especially one that involves two men.

“Uh, Officer Rich,” I say, “Olivia wants to see you in the living room.”

Officer Rich knows that I’m lying but he appears relieved. Normally when he has to pay an official visit to the Stockton house it’s because Olivia has been causing some sort of public disturbance as a result of her many protests. And on those occasions, Bernard is the one who undertakes the role of the voice of reason, usually employing checkbook diplomacy to keep his mother out of the hoosegow.

“I did
not
attempt to take the swim that needs no towel,” a depressed Bernard says with all the indignation he can muster.

“Whether you did or didn’t,” I say, “you’d better pull yourself together, because Olivia is threatening to rent you a rubber room over at Dalewood so you can write recipes on the walls with a purple marker between your toes!”

“What difference does it make?” he says with enough doom to qualify as one of Shakespeare’s tragic heroes in his final scene.

“It makes a
big
difference,” I answer. “The yard looks like a hurricane swept through it. When was the last time anyone pulled a weed around here? The flower beds haven’t been turned, there are mulch piles of last year’s leaves everywhere, and no one has placed an order at the garden center.”

“I’ve been preoccupied,” he says.

“Yeah, well I got preoccupied with a few guys at school and yet I somehow managed to pass all my classes.”

“
Please,
Hallie.” He doesn’t mean for his voice to be unkind, I know, but that’s how it sounds. “Gil and I were together for twelve years. This wasn’t some
little college fling.
”

“What does
that
mean?” I say angrily. “That I don’t have a heart or feelings? That I don’t fall in love and wonder and worry whether he’s the person I want to spend the rest of my life with?”

“I simply meant that you have no idea—”

“Bertie,” Olivia calls as she enters the kitchen. She’s never been one to eavesdrop on other people’s arguments and always gives warning before entering a room of raised voices. “They’ve gone.”

“I don’t know why you had to call them in the first place!” he snarls, still fuming at her.

“Because Rocky woke me up and I found you slumped over the kitchen table next to an empty pill bottle!”

“I was
resting,
” insists Bernard. “And it was
aspirin.
”

“Can you blame me for worrying that you’ve not been drawing a clear distinction between
letting go
and
giving up.
” Olivia turns to me. “Hallie, it’s not even five o’clock. Everyone else has gone back to bed. Why don’t you do the same and I’ll sit up with Bertie.” She goes over to the stove and turns on the gas for the teakettle.

I’m surprised Bernard doesn’t stop her from touching the stove, because she’s always forgetting to fill the kettle with water or else leaving the house without remembering to switch off the gas. But he just slouches in his chair, wearing the ravaged expression of an earthquake survivor. I add some water to the kettle just to be safe.

“I don’t
need
anyone to
sit
with me, Mother,” says Bernard.

“Well
I
do,” replies Olivia with the sweetest of smiles.

Bernard puts on his theatrical declamation voice, lifts his chin, and quotes Bette Davis. “What we had can’t be destroyed. That’s our victory—our victory over the dark. It is a victory because we’re not afraid.”

Olivia interrupts him by declaring, “
Dark Victory
goes back to the video store the minute it opens, and I’m canceling the subscription to cable TV! You’re self-prescribed
cinema therapy
sessions have officially come to an end, as of this minute.”

Chapter Fifteen

SO MUCH FOR GETTING AN EARLY START ON THE GARDENS. WHEN my eyes open, the sun is high above the treetops and it must be close to eleven o’clock. I stumble into the yard wearing the shorts and tank top I slept in. The air looks warm, but isn’t yet, though it’s hectic with birdsong and the soil is full of sunlight. Thick white clouds laze about in the distance and a scrim of pollen drifts through the air.

It feels good not to wake up to tests and overdue projects. Now I can finally concentrate on my two remaining problems, starting with the one that doesn’t involve making money. Only for that I need Olivia.

When I enter the main house the scent of flowers is overwhelming, almost annihilating. Further inspection reveals that great big vases of white calla lilies have been placed all throughout the house. If it were a frame out of a “Batman & Robin” comic, the bold-faced zigzag letters overhead would shout,
Kabloom
!

From the living room I can see Olivia in her den, quietly checking over something she’s written. When at peace she looks like a dove with its wings folded.

The aroma from the flowers is so pungent and perfumy that it makes me start to cough, or more accurately, gag.

“Oh, good morning, Hallie.” Olivia’s voice is light and confidential. “I know. These flowers have to go. But with Bernard working his last nerve I thought we’d just leave them until tomorrow. Perhaps we can open all the windows, switch on the overhead fan, and provide complimentary fragrance for the entire neighborhood.” She goes over to the window and raises it the rest of the way.

“But where did they all
come from
?” I ask. I’ve never seen so many flowers in one place outside of a florist, not even at a funeral home.

“Bernard must have been standing outside the flower wholesaler in Timpany when they opened this morning and then proceeded to purchase every white calla lily in stock. They were all here when I came down at nine and he was already gone.”

“But why are they all the same?”

Olivia sets down her papers and invites me to sit down next to her on the love seat. “Flowers are very symbolic. For instance, orchids tend to be viewed as a symbol of lust. Its botanical name is the Latin
orchis,
from the Greek
orkhis,
meaning “testicle,” which is what the slope of its root resembles. It’s also said that orchids go to extreme measures to propagate themselves. And then you have zempasuchil, the yellow marigold, which was the flower of death to the Aztecs.”

“Oh,” I say. “So what do white calla lilies mean?”

“To tell you the truth, I have no idea.”

A nearby urn of the enormous snowy flowers catches my eye in addition to my nostrils. Arcs of bright orange pollen practically erupt from their centers like fireworks.

“Though I could take a guess,” she says. The soft lines around her eyes crinkle slightly with mischief. “The white calla lily happens to be the flower they put in Mr. Doolittle’s hand as he was carried out of the chapel.”

“
My Fair Lady
?” I ask. Because there aren’t any Mr. Doolittles in town, at least that I know of.

She nods, then shrugs her shoulders and raises her hands, as if to indicate that it’s not for us to determine how others should grieve.

It’s then that I notice Olivia is wearing a WWJD bracelet on the wrist of her right hand—white beads with black lettering followed by a question mark, connected by bright pink and blue silk thread. Last time I was in a church pew, which, admittedly, was a while ago, these things meant “What would Jesus do?” Yet it seems hard to believe that Olivia, the devout Unitarian, of all people, would be sporting such a message.

“Isn’t it sweet?” says Olivia when she sees my interest in her bracelet. “Ottavio bought it for me at a craft fair. He loves to give me little presents.” She smiles adoringly at this token of her lover’s affection.

“But . . . you
do
know what it means?”

“Oh, I’ve changed it to
What would Je ferson do?
You know, Thomas Jefferson. He was a Unitarian.”

I’d almost forgotten how the Stockton house is like living in Alice’s Wonderland. Things oftentimes don’t mean what you always thought they were supposed to mean. And absolutely anything can happen at any moment. Usually the last thing you expect.

“I’m sorry you ended up being the bearer of the bad news last night,” says Olivia and gently touches my shoulder. “Bernard really should have explained Gil’s reasons for breaking up. It was only a matter of time before he found someone.”

“Just because he’s dating a woman doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s going to marry her,” I say.

“When people deeply desire something they can move very swiftly,” she philosophizes. “Almost as swiftly as when they’re fleeing from something.”

“That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.” I gather up my courage because I can no longer keep this matter to myself. I’d even recently read the name for my disease in
People
magazine. Rather than look at Olivia I flop down on the love seat and stare up at the bookcases with carved beveled tops and etched glass doors.

I finally blurt out the words as if they’re sparks erupting from some banked fire. “I—I’m a sex addict.”