Heart's Desire (11 page)

Chapter Twenty

OFFICER RICH JERKS FORWARD AND GRABS FOR HIS GUN BELT AS if he’s about to mow down the entire Youngstown Mafia. But upon seeing that it’s only me he sets the belt back down on the desk and glances at the clock on the far wall. “Hallie! Hey there. Come on in so I can get a closer look for the sketch artist,” he jokes. “I’m not accustomed to seeing you during daylight hours.”

Though I don’t know how much of anything he can actually see in this cave. The windowless room is poorly lit and the desk calendar hasn’t been changed since January second. The wall calendar is also still turned to January, and I’ve often noticed the one on his car dashboard is the same. Officer Rich seems to live in perpetual January. But that’s not uncommon around here. It wasn’t so long ago that Cosgrove County was an agrarian community, and thus most older people still measure time by the seasons, not the days or hours, and especially not by sheets of paper tacked to the wall.

“I hope you’re not turning yourself in,” he continues lightheartedly, referring to the old days when I was the town perp, “because Carol went home sick and I don’t know where any of the forms are kept.”

“Don’t worry. I shot the only witness, so there’d be no point in a trial anyway.”

“Good, good.” Officer Rich grins as if it’s a relief not to have to act interested while hearing about a fender bender in a parking lot or kids spray-painting the library. He notices that I’m checking out all the family photos on his desk and selects one of an attractive young black couple to show me. “It’s my thirtieth wedding anniversary today.”

“Oh my gosh!” I say while studying the photograph.

Officer Rich chuckles, assuming that I can’t believe he’s been married so long, but what I’m really thinking is that there’s no
way
Officer Rich was ever that skinny. His wife is still just as pretty as ever and has kept her figure, more or less. The only difference is that she has gray hair now. And glasses. It’s always been obvious that he’s devoted to her. In fact, people like to say that Officer Rich runs the town so well because Felice runs him so well. He’s heard the familiar line as well. Only he just laughs and nods as if it’s essentially the truth.

Officer Rich leans back in his chair the way old people do before they start to reminisce, even though at age forty-nine he’s not
that
much older than my parents.

Taking the photo back he smiles at it and then gives the glass a dusting with his shirtsleeve. “Probably got married a little too young. But back then there wasn’t all this nonsense about enjoying your life, and regular folk didn’t take jobs in far-off cities. You just looked around at a church social, picked a nice girl, met the parents, courted her a bit, and then tied the knot.”

Of course this gets me to thinking about my own disastrous love life. So I decide Officer Rich might be a good person to interview in order to gather more data for my romance file. “But how did you
know
that Felice was the right one?” I ask.

“Ha!” He carefully places the now polished-up photo back down where he can easily see it. “
Everyone
thought Felice was the right one, for
himself.
She was the minister’s daughter and the most beautiful girl in the choir. I had to court her hard and run off some fierce competition.” He grins at the recollection.

“Then how did she know that
you
were the right one?” I continue my love interrogation.

“You’ll have to ask her that. Though when I think back on it, I doubt either one of us really knew much of anything. We were both babies—nineteen, not much older than you are now. Whew. Ha ha.” Again he thrusts backward in his chair, only this time for a second it appears that it’s going to tip over from the sudden and sizable weight shift. Fortunately Officer Rich uses the nearby metal file cabinet to steady himself just in time. “But the Good Lord provided and everything took care of itself.”

Well, I wanted another view and now I have one—leave my love life up to fate, or God, or the Magic 8-ball.

Officer Rich leans forward and thumps a sheaf of papers on his desk as the chair groans from another sudden redistribution of weight, and once again I briefly fear that he’s going to drop through the floor. “You know what everyone is complaining about nowadays?” Officer Rich lifts the stack and gives it a wave in my direction. “Potholes! These old farm roads weren’t made for all this traffic, especially the trucks. Everyone is losing hubcaps and ruining their suspension and the tractors are run right off into the ditches.” He plunks the papers back down. “But surely you didn’t come to hear about potholes. What can I do you for? Is it about Bernard? Poor fellow . . . I felt so darn bad for him last night.”

“Yeah. I mean, no. It’s about my sister.” Then I remember that I have four sisters and possibly another one on the way and so I really need to be more specific. “My sister Louise, she’s fifteen, dark hair, really pretty—”

“Sure, I know Louise Palmer,” he says, though not in a way that indicates it’s because she recently received any awards for outstanding citizenship. Even though the town has been growing, most adults in any type of public position make it their business to know all the future voters.

“Well, she’s—she’s been giving my parents some trouble.”

Officer Rich folds his hands behind his neck and appears to be weighing his next sentence. “I shouldn’t say anything, because technically she wasn’t breaking the law. . . .”

“But . . . ,” I say, since he seems to need a little encouragement.

“Last month I picked up a local boy for a DUI and your sister was in the backseat of the car. Best I can figure it, they’d just come from buying cheap beer with fake IDs out at Valueland, that big new variety store a couple miles to the south.”

“Was
she
drinking?”

“Police history tells us that when the teenager driving a black Trans Am loaded with kids has been drinking, usually it’s true for the rest of ’em,” he says. “But that’s just conjecture. I didn’t ask for a Breathalyzer from the passengers. And of course they poured out all the beer as soon as they saw my squad car coming.”

“So what should I do?” I ask. “I mean, my mother is going crazy worrying that Louise is ruining her life. Do you have any sort of scared-straight programs or tours of the jail?”

“Kids don’t buy that stuff anymore. If she’ll listen to anyone, it would be you, since you’re closest in age. Teenagers think people from my generation are out of it, living on another planet. And I guess they’re right. Parents and teachers don’t cuff the kids anymore. It’s not even punishment to send them to their rooms, what with video games and the Internet. Just pray and hope they come through it is about all that’s left. Come day, go day, God send Sunday.”

“Isn’t there
anything
I can do?”

“Sports can be good for girls. Does Louise play something?”

“She’s a cheerleader,” I say.

“Okay, then. They’re nice girls, a little boy crazy sometimes, but it’s good exercise and keeps them busy with practice and games.”

“Oh, she’s busy all right.”

Officer Rich laughs, though it quickly becomes apparent that it’s not at my lame joke, or even at Louise’s expense. More like my own.

“Life was easier last year, back when you knew everything, huh?” he says.

“Yeah, it definitely was.”

“And how are
you
getting on, college lady?” he asks, and looks me up and down in that cop way, as if checking for any telltale scratches or bloodstains.

Oh my gosh, someone has finally asked me how
I’m
doing!

“My life is no jeans ad, that’s for sure. But I haven’t resorted to smash-and-grab robberies, at least not yet. Otherwise, I guess it’s okay, especially when compared with some people’s problems.”

“Good,” he says. “I’m a little worried about our friend Herb. The new Valueland discount superstore is putting his drugstore here in town out of business. The Rowland family has been on Main Street since 1910. They started as a dry goods and feed store. Herb’s grandfather gave people credit during the Depression and Herb and his father have done the same during a lot of tough times since then. It’d be a shame for the place to close. Not to mention it will take more shoppers away from town and out to the malls and factory outlets. Rents will plummet, buildings will be abandoned, and that’s when the trouble starts, especially with the young folks. I’d hate to have to sober up old Marty long enough to deputize him.” Officer Rich ends with a little joke, the way he almost always does when talking about serious matters, to make people feel comfortable.

“Oh,” I say. “Is there anything we can do to help?” Maybe Officer Rich is able to deny Valueland a parking-lot permit or get them on a zoning technicality.

“Not much, I guess,” he replies sadly. “The Kunckle family owns Valueland and Edwin gives lots of money to the church and the hospital, at least he does so long as it’s used to attach the family name to a wing, archway, pew, or painting.” Then Officer Rich adds in his whisper that is not really a whisper at all, but one notch below his normal booming bass, “However, I’m encouraging people to shop at Herb’s store rather than go out to Valueland. It’s not as if the Kunckles need another nickel.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be sure to tell the Stocktons and my parents.”

Officer Rich gives me a thumbs-up, and I head toward the door.

“So is the poker game on for tomorrow night?” I call back from outside his office.

“Lord willin’ and if the creeks don’t rise!” comes Officer Rich’s reply.

Driving away I pass the neat rows of red and yellow tulips along the well-cared-for median that divides this section of Main Street. Soon the Garden Society will replace them with bright zinnias for summer and then in September pumpkins and gourds will be arranged on the back of an old hay wagon, with scarecrows at either end. I think how terrible it would be if all the familiar stores went out of business and downtown became a drag strip for marauding youth, like Officer Rich had said.

This of course makes me think of Louise and her fast friends driving their fast cars. She’s undoubtedly headed for Big Trouble, and it doesn’t appear that there’s much to be done about it. Meantime, I don’t seem to be any further along with my quest to know Mr. Right when I find him. If I really wanted to be with Ray next weekend, then why do I find myself hoping that Auggie will call?

Passing the old haunts is a painful reminder that Craig, my first real boyfriend, is now nothing more than a friend. And this doesn’t seem fair, because if we hadn’t both gone off to college I very much doubt that we would have broken up.

But most of all, driving back through town makes me feel as if everything I once knew to be true is suddenly on the point of vanishing.

Chapter Twenty-one

THE FOLLOWING MORNING I FINALLY GET AN EARLY START working in the yard and take only a short break for lunch. By late afternoon I’m aching all over, and except for a turned flower bed, the place looks exactly the same as it did seven hours ago.

Olivia and Ottavio wander into the yard dressed to go out somewhere nice. Olivia moves with the soft delicacy of a reed in the breeze and Ottavio stumbles along by her side because he’s so busy gazing up adoringly at her. They’re holding hands like teenagers and it’s very sweet. I think my parents might actually try and hold hands if they could get close enough to each other, only they’re usually balancing a howling baby and a restless toddler between them. However, my parents are sappy in the same way as Olivia and Ottavio and kiss whenever they’ve been away from each other for even an hour.

Olivia gazes up at the horizon and says, “My goodness, with all those gauzy streaks of light blue, pale rose, and mother-of-pearl, the sky resembles a painting by Giovanni Tiepolo.”

“Venezia!”
Ottavio says proudly. He likes to ensure we don’t forget that so many great artists were his countrymen.

“We’re off to a potluck supper at the church,” says Olivia. “There’s a guest lecturer talking about slavery in the Sudan. Apparently it’s very complicated. Community groups and schoolchildren raise money in order to buy these people their freedom, yet this only serves to fuel the continuation of the situation—much like providing guns and ammunition to Latin American rebels.”

Ottavio looks around at the garden and shakes his head as if he’s gazing on the equivalent of an ancient ruin. “Ottavio will assistance you
domani,
” he kindly offers.

“Grazie.”
I’m not about to turn down any assistance.

Ottavio drops Olivia’s hand and goes over to feed the rabbits, Alessandro and Manzoni. It’s a good thing, too, because I doubt Olivia ever remembers to do it, and certainly Bernard doesn’t, at least not in his current state of bereavement. He can barely remember to feed himself.

“Now, Hallie, I don’t mean to impose upon you,” says Olivia. “I’m aware that you’ve just arrived home and surely want to visit with all of your friends. But would you mind keeping an eye on Bernard until we get back? After what happened the other night, I think he’s still registering at a half bubble off plumb.” She rolls her eyes skyward to convey the internationally recognizable signal for lunatic-at-large.

“Sure, no problem. I haven’t made any definite plans.” Although this isn’t entirely true. The church poker game is tonight and a little walking-around money would be nice, not to mention the start of a tuition stake. Especially since I haven’t yet come up with any great ideas for the design competition.

“Wonderful,” says an appreciative Olivia. “Ottavio left some spinach tortellini in the refrigerator. There’s plenty of greens to make a salad, and fresh bread from the bakery on the table.” Bernard’s bread machine sits abandoned on the kitchen counter, like a cold metal memorial to glory days gone by.

Olivia casts an eye at the skeleton of a rosebush that I’ve uprooted and thrown on the pile of dead plants to be bagged up. “Bertie has to come to terms with the fact that nothing stays forever,” she says wistfully. “The flower fades to make fruit and the fruit rots to make earth. The roses of memory and the roses of song, they’re the only ones that last, like the
Roses of Picardy.
How I miss Gil playing that on the piano. He has such a lovely voice.”

After they leave I realize that I’m too exhausted to turn one more spadeful of dirt. If extreme gardening becomes an Olympic sport anytime soon, I’m certain that I’ll make the team. Lying back in the cool earth I stare up at the canopy of trees overhead and watch the Easter-colored sky turn deep blue with approaching dusk. It’s a perfect velvety spring evening—soft, warm, and serene. Yet my flesh burns with restlessness, as if a flame has been lit somewhere deep inside of me.

Gravel crunches in the driveway and Bernard’s silver Alfa Romeo comes rolling up to the garage, a cloud of dust chasing after it. In the old days he would have been carrying armloads of groceries and singing his favorite line from
Funny Girl
,
When a girl’s incidentals are no bigger than two lentils, then to me it doesn’t spell success
. . .

But tonight he has only his leather account book tucked under one arm and glumly wanders over to where I’m sprawled in the dirt. Glancing around at the devastation Bernard remarks, “It would make a rather good setting for a Franz Kafka short story. I wasn’t really aware the situation had become this dire.”

“Don’t worry,” I say cheerfully and rise to a sitting position. “I’ll have it back to the way it was in no time. Why don’t you come with me to the nursery tomorrow and we’ll pick out some plants and flowers.” Planning the gardens always puts Bernard in high spirits.

“Oh, you go and buy whatever you think is best,” he says offhandedly. “Besides, with this new client transacting everything by computer and phone, I need to straighten up my bookkeeping.”

It’s a well-known fact around the Stockton house that where most small retail stores have two sets of books, Bernard has at least six.

“Heaven forbid I show a profit to the government,” he adds. But it’s a lame joke, and unaccompanied by his usual good cheer.

I stand up and yank off my mud-soaked gardening gloves. “Your mom and Ottavio went off to some Unitarian thing.”

“Most likely the Pagan Pride Parade.”

“Actually, I think it was a potluck supper followed by a lecture,” I correct him.

“What a sight to behold those are,” says Bernard. “They serve Heathen Helper and Gorp made by hippies in rural Maine and then hear from some benevolent anarchist wearing a batik jersey with hemp gauchos. Poor Ottavio is actually proud of the fact that Mother is a regular churchgoer, operating under the misconception that the Unitarians are the American version of Roman Catholicism—you know,
United
States,
Uni
tarian. It’s doubtful that his English is advanced enough to understand that he’s in with a bunch of liberal firebrands, confessional poets, and amateur clog dancers.”

“Yeah, just this morning your mom showed me a
Christian Science Monitor
article labeling the Unitarians as a cult. Only she was
thrilled
by it, quoting Oscar Wilde—‘There’s only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that’s not being talked about.’ ”

“She’s stealing my lines,” mutters Bernard.

“Ottavio left some tortellini in the fridge,” I say. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’m sick of pasta.”

“I suppose we could scramble some eggs.” He offers his heartwrenchingly fatal Greta Garbo in
Camille
sigh.

I momentarily collapse back onto the ground from surprise. Bernard is suggesting
scrambled eggs
for dinner? He’s finally convinced me that he really
does
need psychiatric help. “I saw a new Thai takeout place next to the hardware store when I was in town today and picked up a menu. How about something from there?”

“Sounds fine to me,” he says and exhales heavily, like a tired horse. Bernard turns and walks toward the house without so much as suggesting
The King and I
for a theme to our dinner and singing a few bars of “Shall We Dance?” His stride is slack and indifferent, so unlike the step he normally uses.

I decide instead to pick up his favorite sweet-and-sour shrimp from the Chinese Palace. Maybe that will cheer him up.

When I return with the cardboard containers of food, the only culinary flourish Bernard suggests is that we use his ceramic chop-sticks so as not to get splinters from the cheap wooden ones that come with the meal.

“Do you mind changing the music?” I politely ask. Judy Garland has been singing “The Man That Got Away” so much over the past two days that the first stanza stuck in my head the entire time I was working in the garden. Not even putting on my Discman with a Dido CD could delete it. All the melodies just started to sound like Judy singing:
The wind blows colder, And suddenly you’re older, And all
because of the man that got away.

Bernard goes to the stereo and switches to “Stormy Weather,” only it’s still Judy.

“I meant something
without
Judy Garland,” I clarify. “You know, just for a change.”

“But I thought you
liked
Judy singing ‘Melancholy Baby,’ ” complains Bernard.

“I do. I
do.
But we’ve heard it ten times in the past forty-eight hours,” I argue. Not only that, but I’ve watched Judy Garland in the movie
A Star Is Born
with Bernard and happen to know that it ends with James Mason committing suicide by walking into the ocean.

“Then you go and pick something,” says Bernard. “It’s too depressing for me to see the gaps where Gil’s albums and CDs used to be.”

If I wanted to be mischievous I could put on the Ethel Merman disco album that Gil and I had given Bernard as a joke for his last birthday. It was recorded in 1979, five years before Merman’s death, and it’s, well, rather vibrato-laden. Bernard says that Ethel’s “disco debacle” will stand up through the ages as the second-best example of why one should always exit while on top and leave your public wanting more. First prize, according to Bernard, goes to the final footage of aging film actress Mary Pickford, where she appears to have turned into a marionette.

Bernard seems neither pleased nor dissatisfied with his sweet-and-sour shrimp and side order of spring rolls. It certainly isn’t like the old days when he made a big fuss about food. I playfully toss him a fortune cookie that he opens and silently reads the piece of paper inside.

“Come on, read it out loud,” I say.

“Try something new and you will be surprised,” he reads.

“You have to add
in bed
at the end,” I say.

“What?” he asks.

“That’s how we do it at school.” I open my fortune cookie and read it aloud. “Others will benefit from your creativity,” and then I add,
“in bed.”

Bernard laughs for the first time since I’ve been back. “I—I want to . . . well, to . . . ,” he begins haltingly, “to apologize for being insensitive to your personal life the other night. I was distracted and just . . . out of sorts.”

I take this to mean drunk and miserable. “Forget it.”

“College guys really put the pressure on, huh?” he says.

“Sure, but it’s not really that so much as I wonder how important it is to be in love with the first one, and how, you know . . .”

“What’s the rush?” he asks. “Why be bothered with entanglements and the inevitable heartbreak? You’re young, you should be having fun.”

“Yeah, well some people consider having a boyfriend to be
fun
.”

“For a while. They love you and then they leave you, if they ever loved you at all. It’s like embracing the perfect antique Coalport vase—hold it either too loose or too tight and it breaks.”

Bernard doesn’t seem to be in exactly the right frame of mind for discussing romance tonight. Though I’m impressed by how he’s managed to draw a parallel between a shattered love affair and collectibles.

Reaching across the pile of duck sauce and plastic utensils I pull out the last fortune cookie. I pretend to read the little piece of paper but instead make it up. “If Bernard and Hallie leave right now they can get to the poker game on time.” Looking up hopefully at Bernard I ask, “In or out?”

“You’ve gotta be in it to win it,” he perks up slightly, parroting one of my old poker expressions. We stuff the empty food cartons in the garbage and head out the door.

“You drive,” I say. “My arms are too tired to hold a steering wheel.” And it’s true. It feels as if they dropped off two days ago and no one bothered to tell me.

“But you hate it when I drive,” he says.

“That’s only in broad daylight, because you brake in front of every pile of trash, as if there could be a three-thousand-dollar lamp buried inside of it,” I say. My only other complaint is that after the garbage has been collected and there’s no longer anything roadside to capture his interest, Bernard tends to be an avid consumer of red lights.

Tonight is no exception. Every time we approach a light that’s been yellow as long as we’ve been able to see it, Bernard hits the accelerator, throws his right arm across my chest so I don’t crash through the windshield, and shouts, “Pink light ahead!”

Covering my face with my hands and peering out between my fingers I say, “I don’t think this is what Kay Thompson had in mind when she sang the song ‘Think Pink’ in the movie
Funny Face.
”