Chapter Five
WHEN WE ARRIVE BACK AT 48 NUTHATCH LANE IT’S ALREADY lunchtime. In the afternoon light the old Victorian-style house appears bright and fresh, the coat of white paint I applied last year having held up well throughout the rough winter. Same with the shiny black shutters. And the gutters don’t seem to have broken out with rust patches. The silvery-white birch trees lining the driveway stand tall, their papery-thin bark appearing almost too delicate to withstand so much as a spring breeze. The gravel driveway is sprinkled with fallen pink blossoms from the gnarly old cherry tree, making it look as if a bucketful of confetti has been tossed down from one of the upstairs windows.
The only visible problems out front are that a recent storm has pulled up the weather vane atop the cupola so that the arrow is now stuck into a shingle, and the grass is so overgrown that I can’t help but wonder if anyone has mowed the lawn since last summer.
Inside the house Olivia and her live-in Italian lover, Ottavio, are sitting next to each other at the dining room table enjoying hearty servings of fettuccini.
“Hallie!” Olivia leaps up and with a spirited tilt of the head pulls me to her. “Thank goodness you’ve returned!” Her soft musical laugh rises and descends like a flute playing a scale.
“Yes, Mother, Hallie has agreed to care for the yard this summer.” Bernard seems a bit frosty with her and quickly turns to leave the room.
“Hey, where are you going?” I call after him.
“Bertie’s been a slave to unpredictable bowels since the breakup,” says Olivia.
Bernard stops in the archway and informs us, “It’s not a breakup.” However, he doesn’t dispute the bowel accusation and makes a dash for the stairs.
Ottavio bounds over and gives me one of his enthusiastic Italian greetings, complete with a bone-crushing hug, cheek pinches, and a big kiss on the nose. If this is what I’m entitled to after only five months of being away, I’d be slightly afraid to suddenly show up after ten or twenty years. He’d probably do a full running tackle before trying to feed me all the meals that I’d missed. And though with his slightly rounded body and thinning hair he’s not nearly as handsome as was Olivia’s husband, who passed away last winter, Ottavio is effervescent, passionate, and loving, and certainly not afraid to be caught demonstrating these capacities.
Olivia has soft fan lines of wrinkles around her eyes but they don’t make her appear old. Her blue eyes are not gentle, but silvery clear, and they flash like sapphires with vitality and anticipation. As always, she has the power of suggesting things even more lovely than herself, as the perfume of a single apple blossom can call up the entire sweetness of spring.
“It’s a stroke of good fortune that you’ve returned,” Olivia says to me. “Brandt is very sweet but his head is in the clouds with periodic tables and perpetual motion. In fact, Ottavio has nicknamed him Galileo.”
Ottavio smiles at the mention of Brandt’s nickname and then hurries off to get another bowl from the kitchen. If Bernard is away at an estate sale or busy down at his antiques shop, Ottavio dives into the kitchen and makes all sorts of northern Italian dishes containing pasta, vegetables, and shellfish. The men appreciate each other’s cooking and often exchange notes and ideas, though I’ve rarely seen them occupy the kitchen at the same time.
Rocky the chimpanzee comes gamboling in from the sunporch and jumps up and down while exuberantly waving his arms as if he’s playing charades. Then he lopes over, gives me a big hug with his gangly arms, and plants a loud smack of a kiss on my cheek. A dog barks outside and Rocky quickly turns and scampers toward the front door.
“He’s taken a shine to Lulu, the Great Dane from next door,” explains Olivia. “A nice older couple with the last name of Shultze moved in last month.”
Rocky began as one of Olivia’s humanitarian projects, eventually segued to household pet, and is now a full-fledged member of the family. When Olivia first adopted him, Rocky was about to be put to sleep because he’d been specially trained to work with diabetic paraplegics and his patient of many years passed away. Reassignment wasn’t an option because it happened that his mistress was an alcoholic and the two of them had been enjoying Singapore slings all day long, Rocky acting as bartender and eventually becoming an alcoholic himself. Apparently there isn’t any chimp rehab, and so Olivia stepped in and placed him on a moderation program, since which he’s been doing fine, aside from a few setbacks near the beginning.
Bernard reappears in the archway. “I’m tired of having to hide all the leftovers because Rocky’s constantly sneaking that hound treats from the refrigerator,” he says, and frowns after the excited chimp. “Now Hallie, I thought you could sleep on the sunporch and we’d move Rocky into the den. But Mother feels you’d prefer the summerhouse, so I replaced one of the couches with a daybed and added a space heater, in case it gets cold at night.”
“And if all that light bothers you, we can install some blinds,” adds Olivia.
“Oh no, I like to be able to see outside,” I say. “And light doesn’t bother me.” At college everyone keeps a different schedule and if you can’t sleep with lights on and music playing then you aren’t going to sleep at all. I’d become a prime example of how evolutionary theory works on a college campus. Adapt or die.
“I’ll go ahead and move your personal effects out there,” Bernard announces as if he’s a professional bellhop. His lips are tense as wire and he seems anxious to make another escape.
“Why don’t you have some lunch first, Bertie?” suggests Olivia.
Bernard haughtily waves her off as if he’s dismissing an invisible royal court and then disappears again. Meantime, Ottavio lays another place for me and sets down a bowl of delicious-looking fettuccini with fresh vegetables covered in marinara sauce, along with a salad of tomatoes, mozzarella, and artichoke hearts.
As soon as we hear the front door close, Olivia places her fingers to her temples as if staving off a migraine and the usual gaiety drains from her voice. “You have no idea what it’s been like around here, Hallie. I mean, of course we all miss Gil terribly, but Bernard has completely lost his grip, and I’m very worried.”
“Pazzo in testa,” Ottavio circles a finger around his ear to correlate with his Italian for “crazy in the head.”
“I know my son has always had a tendency toward the melodramatic, but he’s now fallen solidly into the operatic,” confirms Olivia.
At the word operatic, Ottavio places the back of one hand up to his forehead and moans, “Pagliacci,” and then rolls his eyes toward the ceiling.
“Who’s Pagliacci?” I ask. Has Gil run off with another man? An Italian?
“Pagliacci is an opera by Ruggiero Leoncavallo,” explains Olivia. “It contains some of the saddest music ever written, especially Act Fifteen.” She turns to Ottavio. “Don’t worry, darling, I hid the CD while he was off at Hallie’s school.”
Ottavio appears relieved and offers me more salad as Olivia continues, “Whereas others wear their heart on their sleeves, I’m afraid that Bertie buys airtime. Seriously, Hallie, I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but my son really needs to see a counselor. He’s miserable beyond belief, doesn’t shop or cook, and hardly sleeps a wink—just watches old movies in his room all night long.” Her mouth draws tight and she looks down. “I’m afraid . . . that . . . well . . . he might do something. . . .”
“No!” I’m aghast. Because I know how those operas that Bernard listens to can end. And it’s terrible to think of the normally bright and cheerful Bernard suddenly identifying with the tragic suicides that accompany all of his favorite arias—Aida wanting to share in her lover’s suffocation; Selika inhaling the deadly perfume of the manchineel tree; and his all-time favorite, Tosca leaping to her death after her lover has been shot by a firing squad.
Olivia places her hand on mine. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but I am concerned. I’ve been reading to him from A. E. Housman. ‘And now the fancy passes by, And nothing will remain
, And miles around they’ll say that I, Am quite myself again.’ ”
As always, Olivia can produce a verse to suit every occasion.
“What can I do to help?” I ask. But what I really mean is, Are we truly on a suicide watch?
“Just be yourself and don’t leave any Hart Crane poems lying around the house. Bernard so enjoys your company. Though I do wish he’d give up this notion of winning Gil back, and start moving on with his life—perhaps even get out and meet people. But he’ll have to arrive at that in his own good time. Bernard must learn to embrace the shadows, because they indicate there is light nearby. And the deepest shadows result from the greatest illumination.”
I don’t mention the shadow cast by his recent meeting with my professor, and the resultant round of sobbing, rather than flirting.
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.”
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