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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