Body Language (13 page)

Telling him the background of that early visit to Dumont, I slipped back to my childhood and relived the events with absolute clarity:

One afternoon when I was in fourth grade, I came home from school and was surprised to find my mother waiting for me. She had taken over my father’s modest printing business when he died—a gutsy decision for a woman in those days—and didn’t normally get home till well past five. We lived a comfortable life. She enjoyed running the business, which boomed under her reins, and I enjoyed my few hours of independence after school. Late afternoons were a quiet time, and I had begun to appreciate the solitude that allowed me to indulge in some youthful experimentation as a writer.

She met me at the kitchen door that day and leaned to kiss my forehead. “This morning I got a call from your aunt Edna in California,” she told me, blowing cigarette smoke sideways so that it wouldn’t hit me full in the face. “Her cancer’s spreading. I have to go see her.”

“But, Mom,” I said, putting my books on the counter, unzipping my heavy coat, “Christmas is coming.”

“I’m sorry, dear, but I have to go, and the holidays are a good time for me to be away from the plant. You’ll be off from school, but you wouldn’t enjoy this trip. So I phoned my brother, your uncle Edwin, and he says you’re more than welcome to spend Christmas with them in Wisconsin.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but she continued. “Everything’ll be fine, honey. It’s time you met Edwin and Peggy anyway, and you’ll have a grand time with your cousins—Mark, Suzanne, and Joey. In fact, Joey’s not much older than you. And just wait till you see that house! They even have a maid.”

This might not be too bad, I decided, pouting just enough to assure Mom that I would miss her when she took off alone for California, but not enough to convince her to change plans and drag me along to visit her sick sister. So I spent a whole day on a bus to Dumont, and on the evening I arrived, I met the Quatrain family, including my cousins, except Mark, of course.

“He had died, right?” Parker’s question interrupted my story, and my mind snapped back to the present. “In Vietnam?”

“No no no,” I explained. “At the time of my visit, Mark Quatrain was a freshman in college. When I arrived at the house, he was still at school. I met him the next day, when he came home for semester break. I’m sure he finished college, so it would have been at least four years later when he went to Vietnam, but I’ve never known the details.” I paused to calculate the years. “Yes, that would have been right in the thick of it.”

Parker nodded his understanding of this chronology, saying, “I’ve met Joey and—briefly—Suzanne. What was Mark like?”

“I never really got to know him. He was nine years older than I, twice my age, so we simply didn’t interact much during my visit. But”—long pause—“he was easily the most handsome young man I’d ever seen. He stirred feelings in me that I couldn’t possibly fathom at that age. Looking back, I understand that meeting my older cousin signaled the onset of my own sexual awakening.”

“Whew. Heavy.” Parker got out of his chair and stepped to the hearth. The fire was low, and he dropped to one knee, poking the embers.

“Years later, when Suzanne told me on the phone that her brother was dead, I felt as if someone had robbed me of something. But I’ll never lose the memory of him—more of a fantasy, actually.”

I was about to amplify on this—to explain my early fixation on Mark Quatrain’s khaki pants, to attempt a humorous confession of the fetish that followed me into adulthood—when I found myself transfixed by the movement of Parker’s own fabulous khaki ass as he knelt there stirring the fire. To my chagrin, I realized that I was now firmly aroused by these thoughts and sights.

This was nuts. The purpose of this quiet talk with Parker was simply to question him about the odd vow he had made to me at the murder scene, and here I was, practically drooling at the sight of his butt. My childhood tale was finished. It was time to confront this. “Uh, Parker…?”

There was something in my tone of voice that caused him to turn from the fire, facing me with puzzled apprehension. “Yes, Mark?”

“I need to talk to you about something important.” I gestured that he should sit again, which he did. I continued. “I want to follow up on what you said this afternoon in the great room, right after Suzanne was killed.”

“Mark,” he stopped me, smiling, “I’m glad you brought this up. I was waiting for an opportunity to explain, but, well, it’s awkward.”

I laughed. “Why?”

Though his glass was now empty, he picked it up and rubbed a finger around its rim. “What I said upstairs must have seemed absurdly out of the blue. Sorry.”

That was all? I waited for more.

He dithered with his thoughts before speaking, and when he did, his tone was oddly academic. “It may seem that I overstated my determination to help you, Mark, but you’re not fully aware of the context from which I spoke those words.”

Did I really want to hear this? “What ‘context,’ Parker?”

He leaned toward me, though the movement was barely perceptible, a nudge of the base of his spine. He said softly, “The context of love. Though you’ve never known it, Mark, I’ve loved you—from a distance. And now I’m here with you. I’m here
for
you.”

I’d had a mounting, uneasy sense of where his words were headed, but that didn’t soften their impact. While I found the man unquestionably attractive, my feelings for him could never advance beyond physical allure to that heady emotional state commonly labeled “love”—or so I assumed.

Mustering a semblance of composure, I told him calmly but bluntly, “I’m flattered, Parker. But surely you realize that I’m committed to Neil. Nothing is possible between you and me other than our working relationship—and, of course, our friendship,
casual
friendship. I have to warn you, though: harboring any notions of… carnal involvement will work against you, against us, and against my ‘marriage’ with Neil. You and I need to work closely at the
Register,
long hours, too, and any nonprofessional overtones will simply be bad for business. Plus the fact, you’re living here with me at the house for a while. This is middle America, and we need to be above reproach. I have a lot at stake here.”

There. I’d laid it out. Had I overstated my position? Would Parker suddenly see me less as a gay journalistic trailblazer and more as a relic of my square, closeted past? My struggle with all this must have shown in my face. He leaned further from his chair to pat my knee, and I was relieved to sense that this physical gesture carried no hint of a come-on.

“I understand,” he assured me. “Listen, Mark. This discussion, please forget it. I’ve been grappling with these feelings all day, trying to decide whether to open up to you. Then, sitting here, you
asked
me to do just that. And I blurted out something that should have remained unsaid. It would now be dishonest of me to
retract
what I told you—because it was true—but I promise that these feelings will be kept well below the surface. I’ll do nothing that could lead you to question your decision to hire me. Fair enough?”

He had said precisely what I wanted to hear. “Fair enough,” I told him, signaling with a smile that a potential crisis had passed. Relaxing in my chair, I was curious about something. Confident that we were now on the same wavelength, I felt comfortable enough to ask, “How did this get started? I mean, you said you’ve ‘loved me from a distance.’ What does
that
mean?”

“Mark,” he explained, equally relaxed now, “I told you when you first interviewed me in Chicago that you’re the best in the business, that your coming out and your open relationship with Neil has set an enviable model for the entire gay community. I don’t mean to embarrass you, but please understand that as a struggling gay journalist—struggling with my career as well as with my gay identity—I’ve practically
idolized
you. I’ve read everything you’ve written, and everything that’s been written about you, since you first came out a few years ago.”

Such flattery was unexpected, and I felt guilty for having fished for it. Wagging a finger, I told him, “We’ll have no more hero worship,” trying to inject a lighter note into our discussion.

Parker hesitated, then said, almost shyly, “It’s not just hero worship, Mark. You’re a very attractive man, and I’d be lying if I tried to tell you that I don’t find you desirable. It certainly doesn’t hurt that you’re—what?—nine or ten years younger than me.”

I grunted. “I’m no spring chicken.”

“Everything’s relative.”

I was tempted to console him on the age issue, to return his compliment and let him know that both Neil and I found him highly attractive. I even considered confiding in him that his khaki pants—

But no. That would simply reopen a door that I meant to close. It was time to conclude. I heaved a thoughtful sigh, then told him, “Now that we’re here, past glories or failures—or fantasies—are irrelevant. We’ve got a job to do at the
Register.
”

He nodded with purpose. “That sounds great. To repeat what I told you that first night in Chicago: This is all I’ve ever wanted. Thanks, Mark, for your confidence in my ability to do the job. I’ll be the best managing editor you could possibly have hired.”

“I’m sure you will be, Parker.” And with that, I rose. Our conversation had ended on exactly the right note, and I was tired. I switched off a table lamp.

Then Parker reminded me, “You’ll never find anyone more loyal to you. After all, I lied for you—to Sheriff Pierce—about hearing Suzanne’s dying word.”

Sunday, the day after Christmas, dawned colder than before, and most of the household slept late. I had no way of knowing whether the others were simply indulging in a long winter’s nap, or if they, as I, had found it difficult to fall asleep the night before, bedded under the great room where Suzanne had just been murdered.

Hazel was up, busy in the kitchen, trashing the last of the detritus generated by our failed holiday feast. Pastries, along with coffee, were set out in the dining room, and I could tell by their arrangement that I was the first to pick at them. Deciding against the kringle—a large horseshoe-shaped Danish, something of a specialty in the area—I poured a cup of black coffee and took it to the den.

I had dressed warmly for the day, but the room felt cold, so I built another fire atop yesterday’s ashes. Settling down with my coffee, I realized that something was missing—the
Dumont Daily Register.
I wanted it not only because I have
always
read the morning paper while having my coffee, and not only because I was soon to take over as its publisher, but especially that morning because I was curious about the treatment of Suzanne’s story. Surely, this was big news.

Stepping to the window nearest the front door, I looked through the curtains, trying to see if the paper had been delivered yet. What caught my attention, though, was the traffic outside the house. Prairie Street was one of Dumont’s quieter boulevards, and the Sunday following Christmas should have been quieter still, but a steady stream of cars paraded slowly by, faces pressed to foggy windows to glimpse the site of a great civic tragedy.

As I watched, a woman walking on the street turned onto my sidewalk and approached the house, her pace brisk against the wind. As she drew nearer, I judged her to be older than I, perhaps fifty or so, a lady of striking bearing and somewhat eccentric appearance. In spite of the cold, her legs were bare below the knees—attractive legs, I noted, shown to best advantage atop a pair of spiked heels that pecked the cement. Her manner of dress was conspicuously fashionable by Dumont standards, and she carried an enormous purse, sort of a flat leopard-spot carpetbag. She climbed the several stairs from the sidewalk and stepped across the porch toward the door.

Realizing that she was about to ring the bell, I rushed out of the den to the entry hall, hoping I could beat her finger to the punch, not wanting the chimes to disturb those who were still asleep. I opened the door in time to catch her squatting at the mat, picking up the rolled bundle of the Sunday
Register.
Presenting it to me, she said, “Your paper, Mr. Manning—glee savage features.” Big smile. Big red lips.

“I beg your pardon?”

She laughed, extending her hand. “My name is Glee Savage. I’m features editor of the
Register.
”

“Oh …” I echoed her laugh, shook her hand. “Do come in—is it
Miss
Savage?”

“Yes,” she answered, stepping through the doorway, “but do call me Glee.”

“And I hope you’ll call me Mark,” I told her.

She eyed me askance. “Mr. Logan would never permit that.” With a grin, she bumped the door closed behind her.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Barret Logan and I are the products of different generations. I’m a first-name kind of guy.”

“And you’re soon to be my new boss,” she mused. “I didn’t get a chance to meet you last month when you drove up to discuss the buyout with Mr. Logan.” Looking me up and down, she said, “I approve.” Then she added, “Your eyes—they’re so uncommonly green—and arrestingly handsome.”

“Thank you.” I may have blushed. “May I take your coat?” She removed her coat and gloves, passing them to me, keeping her hat and purse. I ushered her into the den and hung her things, asking with feigned formality, “May I inquire as to the nature of this visit?”

“Well, my condolences, of course.” She gently grasped my forearm with both of her hands. “What a terrible tragedy. Such a grisly welcome to our fair city. I’m so sorry, Mr. Manning—Mark.”

I thanked her for the sentiments, explaining, “The truth is, I barely knew Suzanne. I think her loss will be felt much more deeply by the town as a whole.” As I spoke, I unrolled the
Register
on my desk. Its headline trumpeted:
SUZANNE QUATRAIN KILLED
! There was a photo of her bagged body being carted out the front door of the house, with an italic subhead:
Quatro Heiress Bludgeoned in Childhood Home.
I tapped the newsprint, telling Glee, “That explains all the traffic this morning—I was wondering.”

She made no response to my comment, but fidgeted with the top edge of her purse (it really was the biggest I’d ever seen, nearly two feet square). Then she said, “There’s another reason I decided to come over this morning—and I do apologize, by the way, for this early intrusion. There’s a matter of some delicacy I want to discuss with you, and I didn’t want it to wait till next week.”