Body Language (25 page)

Astonished by this outburst, Hazel told him, “Joey dear, we’re all upset, and I know how hard it is to think of life without your sister. But if we don’t talk about it, we’ll never figure out who killed her.” Another tear. “Ahhh, poor Suzie.”

“That’s
enough,
” said Joey, stamping a foot under the table. “If we don’t stop talking about Suzie, I’ll… I’ll…”

Thad jumped to his feet, scooted around the table to his uncle, and started tickling him from behind. Joey immediately burst into laughter as the rest of the table sat watching, incredulous. Thad asked everyone, “Isn’t it time for dessert?”

With the tension dispelled, we all agreed that it was time for something frothy. Neil and Parker helped clear the table of the main course, Hazel’s protests notwithstanding. In truth, she was a bit shaky on her feet by then, needing any help that was offered. The creme fraîche that Neil had toted from Chicago was put to good use atop cups of fresh fruit, drizzled with Triple Sec—elegant, summery flavors that stood in sharp contrast to the polar night. Savoring this mélange, we ate quietly, offering occasional coos of approval, except Joey, who complained, “This whipping cream isn’t sweet enough.” Although sorely tempted, we managed not to snigger at his comment, and Neil passed him the sugar.

A few minutes before midnight, Hazel asked, “Shall I serve coffee?”

“Let’s have it in the living room,” I said. “It’s almost time to turn the calendar.” So we helped Hazel clear, and the party moved back across the hall.

I twirled a couple of champagne bottles in ice while Glee took charge of chilling the stemware. Joey wanted another old-fashioned, and Parker told Thad how to mix it while he himself refreshed the fire. Neil changed the classical music to a livelier album of swing tunes, dated but fittingly nostalgic, played low. And Hazel distributed cups of coffee, stopping to remember, “My gosh, the cookies.” She scampered off to the kitchen.

She returned with a plate heaped with biscotti. Checking my watch, I waved for her to join our circle, glasses raised—it was very nearly twelve. I told the others, “When Neil and I made the decision to let our lives follow a new direction, we had no idea that these first few days in Dumont would be marred by such tragedy. At the same time, we could never have guessed that we would spend tonight surrounded by so many new friends—friends for life, I’m sure. With friends, the future always holds bright promise. Happy New Year, everyone.”

We clanged our glasses in a group skoal, chorused the greeting, and drank. As I swallowed, I knew that in the next few moments, we would begin exchanging the traditional midnight round of one-on-one toasts, hugs, and kisses. And I felt sudden apprehension that Parker might use the occasion as an excuse to get overly affectionate with me. After all, the man had professed his love for me. Would he now be tempted to get physical, assuming that it would go unnoticed in the context of sloppy sentiment. Surely, Neil would notice. How would I explain Parker’s behavior to him?

So the coupling began. First, of course, I set down my glass and took Neil in a full embrace, telling him quietly, “Thanks for everything, kiddo.”

He laughed. “What’s to thank me for? Hooking up the stereo?”

“No”—I kissed him—“for being here for me, and for understanding why I needed to make this move, and for going along with the whole crazy plan, and for never once doubting that I love you in spite of my own insecurities, and for loving me in spite of…”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ve got the idea.” And we kissed again, seriously.

Involved as I was with Neil, I didn’t much notice who else was doing what with whom, but the room was swept into the schmaltz, accompanied by gentle laughter, tings of crystal, and the syncopated measures of something Cole Porter.

Then I noticed Parker standing beside us, as if waiting with a dance card to cut in. Uh-oh. I braced myself and turned to him with an uncertain smile, letting him make the first move.

“Mark,” he said, thrusting forth his hand, “happy New Year. And thanks a million for the opportunity to work with you at the
Register.
I’ve told you before: this is all I’ve ever wanted.” He gave my hand a hearty shake.

And that was it. I reciprocated with similar sentiments; then he turned to Neil. They exchanged greetings, a handshake, and a hug—Neil got a
hug
, and I found myself feeling slighted, even while recognizing the irony of my reaction. Maybe Parker had been attuned to my reluctance to get chummier that night, and I decided that I should give him credit for his discretion.

Everyone took turns greeting each other, even Thad, who surprised me with his ability to be sociable, almost charming. Perhaps it was the effect of good champagne, which he appeared to enjoy, but did not guzzle. I lifted my own glass and touched it to his. “Happy New Year, Thad. I know these are really rough times for you, and I know I can’t begin to console you on the loss of your mother, but the worst is behind you now. Things are bound to improve.” I touched his shoulder.

He gave me a wan smile and a tepid nod, as if to say he appreciated my words, however predictable. But he didn’t want to talk about the murder. He said, “Thanks for the champagne, Mark. And for borrowing me your car.”

“
Lending
me your car,” I reproved gently.

“Yeah. Lending.” He looked me in the eye. “You’ve been decent.”

Quite a compliment, considering how far we’d come in a week. He seemed to be getting used to the idea of Neil-and-me, so I suggested, “Why don’t we go for a run sometime this weekend—with Neil—the three of us?”

He looked at me as if I were nuts. “It’s cold!” he said through a laugh. Then he added, “I’m not much of a runner.”

“One way to learn,” I told him.

“Maybe.” He smiled again, this time with a measure of warmth. “We’ll see.”

Turning to greet Glee Savage, I saw that Parker had beat me to her. This ought to be good, I told myself, wondering if Parker was prepared to fend off the amorous advances that Glee was surely entertaining. Glee told him, “Happy New…”

“Don’t speak,” he said to her, his voice a low, melodramatic purr. Then, to my rank astonishment, he swept her into a theatrical embrace and planted a big sloppy kiss squarely on her lips.

She was no less surprised than I was. Regaining her equilibrium, she spoke over Parker’s shoulder to me: “If this guy’s gay, I’m confused—not complaining, mind you, just confused.”

Before I could comment, Parker told her, intending for me to hear as well, “It’s a simple matter of ‘transference,’ Glee. You have no way of knowing whose mouth, in the skewed depths of my imagination, was really pressed to mine.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped a greasy red smear from his lips.

She laughed at this, as did Neil, who had caught it all. I managed a chortle myself, but was left with an uncomfortable inkling regarding the object of Parker’s ‘transference.’ Thad had also witnessed this exchange, and he appeared quietly disturbed by it. I presumed he was previously unaware of Parker’s sexual status. Was he now troubled by the notion of spending the weekend under the same roof with
three
gay men?

After the big moment of midnight had passed and we had finished our ritual of toasts and warm wishes, we eventually settled into chairs and sofas near the fire, engaged in quiet conversation, shifting topics at will, finishing the coffee, pouring more champagne. Hazel rose unsteadily, saying, “I’ll just clear the coffee service—less to do later.”

“Nonsense,” I told her, rising to escort her back to the heavily upholstered wing chair she had occupied. “We’ll all pitch in later. We’d rather have you here with us.” Others echoed these sentiments, and she resumed her seat. Firelight glinted from the lenses of her glasses as her eyes followed my hands, reaching to pour more champagne for her.

The party was winding down. The music ended, and Neil didn’t bother to play something else. Sated by the meal and warmed by the fire, we all just shared each other’s company, talking. We spoke of the severe weather setting in. We spoke of my plans for the
Register.
We spoke of the long-distance relationship that Neil and I would have to adjust to. And, of course, our discussion kept veering back to the murder. But the mention of Suzanne seemed to agitate Joey, so we tried to avoid that topic.

Safe ground, I assumed, was the more distant past, and since New Year’s Eve (now early New Year’s morning) makes a fitting occasion for reminiscences, I invited all present to share their memories. I volunteered none of my own. Since arriving in Dumont before Christmas, I’d been constantly absorbed in boyhood recollections of the house and the family that had lived there. So the others took turns airing the past.

Neil told a bit about his early career in architecture, but he insisted, “Life did not begin for me until the night I met Mark,” when we were introduced by our lawyer friend, Roxanne Exner. He moved his career from Phoenix to Chicago in order to be with me, and he would gladly endure the inconvenience of our new arrangement if it would ensure my future happiness. This was a story I knew well.

Parker didn’t want to say much, and I realized I knew little more about his past than the employment history that was listed on his résumé. He grew up in Wisconsin, came of age during Vietnam, and came out before Stonewall. “Those were ugly times, for society as a whole and for gays in particular,” he told us. He didn’t really get his life in order till he got serious about his journalism career. He worked a lot of jobs, “searching for something, finally finding it here in Dumont.”

Glee’s experience was entirely different, though she grew up when Parker did. As a woman, Glee had known no personal threat from the atrocity of Vietnam, and as a heterosexual, she wouldn’t know the significance of Stonewall till she read about it years later. As for her career, it was focused from the start. She had worked at only one paper, the
Register.
“That may strike some as a lack of ambition,” she told us, “but all these years I have shared a single passion with Barret Logan—we’ve understood that the
Register
is not just another small-town rag, and we’ve
lived
to put that paper on a par with any other in the state.”

Hazel said she’d never had ambitions for a career, and she offered no apologies. “In my day, there was pride in making a house a home.” It was more than enough to keep a woman busy, and the satisfaction of raising a family well was ample reward for the effort. Her only regret was that she and her husband Hank had never had children. “We tried,” she told us, her candor induced by the champagne, “but it just never happened.” The Quatrain kids had filled that gap, though, and she always thought of them as her family.

Joey told her that she was part of all his best memories. Then he turned to me. “Hazel’s always been around, but one of the best times was when you came to visit us, Mark. We were good friends, weren’t we? And I showed you the upstairs, and I let you use my typewriter. You were nice then, and you still are. Those were nice times, when I was little. People didn’t treat me funny, like they do now. They’d at least listen to me.” He got up with his empty champagne glass and ambled toward the cocktail cart.

Thad told him, “I listen to you, Uncle Joey. And you’re one of the few people who always take
me
seriously, too. Grandpa Edwin always listened, but he’s been dead three years now, and I miss him. Otherwise, I don’t
have
any old stories. I’m only sixteen—there’s not that much to remember. I never even met my dad, so I sure don’t remember him.” Thad turned to me. “What did you say his name was? Like, Austin
Reece?
”

I nodded.

“Then I’m not a Quatrain, am I? I mean, not really.”

Unprepared for such a question, I stammered, “Well, sure you are, Thad. Half your blood is Quatrain, only it’s on your mother’s side instead of your father’s. We’re alike that way—my mother was a Quatrain. But you actually carry the family name. It’s on your driver’s license, right?”

“Yeah.” He laughed, feeling better about it. He pulled a ratty nylon kid’s wallet out of his hip pocket and checked, just to make sure.

Hazel assured him, “You’re every inch a Quatrain in my book, and it’s a good thing, too. The family was never very large. It needed new blood. You’re the last of the line, Thad.”

He looked up at her from his driver’s license, mystified. “What does that mean, ‘last of the line’?”

She explained, “Later, someday, if you have children of your own, they’ll be Quatrains and carry on the family name. But if you don’t have children, you’ll be the last—the end of the line—at least in these parts.”

He still didn’t grasp it. “Why?”

Patiently, Hazel told him, “Your grandpa Edwin had two sisters, but no brothers, so he was once the last of the Quatrains. But then he had three children—your mother, your uncle Joey, and your older uncle Mark, who died long before you were born. Your uncles never had babies, but Suzanne had you, and she gave you the family name. So now you’re the last of the Quatrains, Thad, because you were Suzie’s only baby.”

Tucking away his wallet, Thad nodded, impressed with his new-learned status.

The rest of us grinned or chuckled—the innocence of youth.

But Joey stumbled toward us from the cocktail cart, wagging the empty glass. “Wait a minute,” he said. “What about Suzie’s
other
baby,
first
one, when she took the trip?”

Bombshell. “
Joey!
” yelled Hazel, starting to rise from her chair. Then she sat back. Though flustered, she told him calmly, “I think you’re confused.”

“
No, I’m not
,” he told her, trying to stand straight and defiant, but finding it difficult to stand at all. To the rest of us, he said, “See what I mean? People treat me funny. They don’t listen to me.”

“Joey dear,” said Hazel, leaning toward him, “we’re listening to you. But please, don’t say anything more.”

“Why not? It happened, didn’t it? In high school. Suzie was having a baby. But then she went away. And when she came back, the baby was gone, and I wasn’t supposed to talk about it. And you’re
still
trying to tell me not to talk about it. Why, Hazel?”