The total effect was urban and trendy and—mixed with Dahr’s sultry presence—achingly romantic.
Marson broke the lull. “Lucky me,” he said. “I’ve got the best view in the house. You two look great together.”
Perhaps we did. Perhaps we had a yin-and-yang thing happening—Dahr’s dark hair and clothes, contrasted with my sandy hair and Anglo features. Perhaps Marson truly did enjoy the view. But it made me uneasy that he had linked me with Dahr in a context that had such steamy overtones—at least to me, it did. Or had my imagination shifted into overdrive?
“That’s kind of you, Marson,” said Dahr, “but I’ve got the best view in the house. You guys are the best.”
Okay, I thought, that’s better, that’s the right comeback, that gets us all on track—if only he hadn’t winked at me. Again.
Attempting to divert my thoughts from Dahr’s hotness, I said, “Sarah mentioned to us that you’re Iranian, but I’m guessing you’ve been here a long time.”
He nodded. “I was born there, yes. But I came here as an infant, and I’ve been a citizen since I was a kid. I have no memories of Iran. This is home.”
Marson said, “Most Americans, we’re all immigrants—at least by descent. But you actually made the journey. You left somewhere to be here.”
“My parents did.” Dahr shrugged. “I happened to be with them.”
I said, “Do you mind my asking—why did they bring you here?”
“It was in the early eighties, after the revolution. I was a baby, and my parents were both university students, in medicine. Like many others at the time, they opposed Khomeini and the new theocracy, so they left in the wave of emigration that followed. They were both accepted at Madison, came here on student visas, and were granted permanent resident status. Naturalization came later.”
Marson asked, “Where are they now?”
“Dad died a few years ago, too young, but Mom is still going strong. She’s a doctor of philosophy in nursing, teaching in Milwaukee. Just a few years now till she retires. All said,” he summarized, “my family found a good life here.”
“Plus,” I noted, “you’re gay.”
“And as we all know,” said Dahr with a tone of heavy understatement, “that might have been a serious wrinkle, a deadly wrinkle, in the ‘old country.’” He picked up his cocktail and took a goodly sip.
“Obviously,” noted Marson, “you drink alcohol. I apologize for my ignorance of these things, but … are you a Muslim?”
Dahr set down his glass and waggled his hand in a mezzo-mezzo gesture. “I was born Muslim, certainly. And at some level, I still think of myself as a ‘cultural Muslim,’ in that I came from those traditions and hold a certain respect for them, up to a point. My parents were skeptics all along, intellectuals—I guess you’d say freethinkers. Once we were here, they found the freedom to let go of their heritage and never forced it on me. Bottom line: I have no religion. I don’t pray. I don’t even believe.”
Freethinking. For me it was a concept so self-evident, so taken for granted, that I had never seriously questioned why anyone would object to it, let alone find it offensive. Or punishable. But for Dahr’s parents—who had seen their country taken over by fundamentalists, coming from a place where they could die for not believing—the concept of freethinking had been evasive enough and powerful enough to justify the uprooting of everything they had known, then starting over, a world away.
Marson chuckled. “Sorry if I seem to be making light of a heavy topic, but I just happened to think of Mister Puss.”
Dahr chuckled, too. “Are you talking about Mary Questman’s cat? Francis told me about their, uh, special relationship.”
“Exactly,” said Marson. “According to Mary, she had an epiphany last spring, shortly after Mister Puss arrived, when he told her, and I quote: ‘God is a myth.’”
I added, “She hasn’t gone to church since.”
“I think she’d already been tapering off for a while,” said Marson. “Funny, though—it makes you marvel at her ability to embrace new ideas that she might’ve once thought unimaginable.”
I didn’t consider it quite the right time to inform Marson that Mary had taken to another new idea, as well—toking up with the help.
Marson continued, “Anyway, Dahr, thanks for sharing the story of your family’s exodus. And more to the point: we’re glad you’re here.”
Dahr responded not to Marson, but to me, “So am I.”
And again the wink. Or was it maybe just a tic?
My mother raised me as a heathen. Her word.
I grew up in California, and a few days after I started going to school, I came home one day and asked Inez, “What am I?”
She hunkered down, smiling, to ask me in return, “What do you mean, Brody?”
“Some of the kids at school say they’re this-or-that. Like”—I struggled with the words—“like Catholic or Methodist, so what are we?”
With a grin, she tapped my nose, explaining, “We’re heathens, dear. It’s nobody’s business, but if anyone asks, just tell them you’re a heathen. And be proud of it.”
Inez was like that, a true iconoclast: feminist lesbian, political activist, single mother, and yes, freethinker. By the age of six, I understood that we were different, and following her advice, I was proud of it. Still am.
Marson’s upbringing, here in Dumont, was far more conventional. He was raised in one of those mainstream Protestant congregations—sociable, colorless, fungible—that instilled in him its traditions and its fables, but no religious fervor or commitment to doctrine. He told me that he’d “lost God in college,” meaning, he’d simply stopped thinking about it. The belief was gone, and that was that.
His career has now brought him a good measure of later-life fame as a designer of magnificent public buildings, and one night over dinner, I asked if he had ever designed a church—or would even consider such a commission.
He sat back at the table to gather his thoughts, then answered, “Le Corbusier was an avowed atheist, but he designed the chapel at Ronchamp and managed to inspire generations of believers. No, I’ve never designed a church, but I have designed theaters, and if you think about it, churches and theaters share an uncanny similarity of purpose, scale, and effect. To answer your question, then—of course I’d consider such a commission.” With a laugh, he added, “Not that I’m expecting one.”
Tonight, at that same table, Marson said to our guest, Dahr Ahmadi, “I hope you’ll enjoy the tenderloin.” We had finished our gabby cocktail hour and moved to the loft’s dining area for the main event. Marson continued, “Out here in the sticks, we’re not much known for ‘cuisine,’ but the beef is reliable.”
“It’s perfect,” said Dahr. “My compliments. And wow, this Bordeaux.” Raising his glass, he added, “To my gracious hosts—and new friends.” He winked at me. I think.
“I’ll drink to that,” said Marson as we all touched glasses.
Marson and I sat across from each other, similar to our earlier configuration for cocktails, with Dahr between us, looking out toward the front of the loft. The table was big enough for six, which left ample room for a lavish grouping of candles. Though their flames were fake, the mood was plenty real. Candlelight danced through the deep red lenses formed by the wine in our glasses.
While Dahr quizzed Marson on the particulars of preparing the tenderloin—seared under the broiler before roasting with the baby potatoes—I made a mental note to put aside a slab of the meat for Mister Puss, who would be entrusted to my care on Monday afternoon. I recalled the rapture with which he had gobbled Berta’s bloody-rare tenderloin appetizers.
Earlier that evening, Dahr had enlightened us with details of his family background. Just now, he and Marson had covered the requisite chitchat about food. So the time had come to address my underlying purpose in bringing us together that night.
“Dahr,” I said, perhaps sounding a shade too solemn, “since you arrived, there’s something we hav
en’t even mentioned yet.”
He heaved a sigh while setting down his fork. “Jason’s death.”
“Of course. I’m sorry to put a damper on things.”
“Don’t apologize, Brody—I completely understand. In fact, Francis told me I could expect to hear from you, so I assumed tonight would not be just a friendly visit.”
Marson interjected, “But it’s definitely that as well.”
“Absolutely,” I said. But I was thinking of the afternoon meeting in Sheriff Simms’s conference room, where Dr. Francis Frumpkin had assured us that Dahr was incapable of murder, which I wanted to believe—then, and now. I asked him, “What do you think happened last Sunday?”
Marson caught my eye and gave me a subtle but approving nod, as if to say, Good move. Don’t lead. Just get him talking about it.
Dahr said, “I’m not sure what happened, although there’s talk that the gas lines might’ve been switched, which would at least explain the ‘mechanics’ of how Jason died. As to why it happened—accident or murder, and if so, who did it—I have no idea. It’s baffling. But something else happened that afternoon, which is no mystery at all.” He paused.
I decided to follow Marson’s muse, decided not to lead, not to question. Instead, I waited.
And Dahr resumed, unprompted. “Jason died that day, yes, but so did the dreams that Francis wanted to pursue in his retirement. I’m not sure, but his reputation may have died that day, too. At the very least, his professional stature was dealt a serious setback. So Jason is dead, and FlabberGas is dead. The question remains: Will this also kill the existing practice? No secret, Francis has done very well, so he could just call it quits, but that’s not the way he’d want it to end. And what about Sarah? She’s not wealthy, and she’s lost her husband. If the practice closed, how would she pick up the pieces? And me? I have even fewer options. Everyone who works there—we’re scared. And that’s what happened that day.” Dahr stopped speaking, glanced to the ceiling, then reached for a sip of wine.
Marson shot me another silent signal, seeming to ask, Well, what do you think?
Off the top of my head, I thought that Dahr had just made a highly reasonable argument for dismissing everyone connected with Dr. Frumpkin’s practice as possible suspects in the death and likely murder of Jason Ward.
Taking those thoughts a step deeper, though, one niggling detail had raised a flag. Dahr had just said that if the practice were to close, he would have “even fewer options” than Sarah for financial security. But he’d neglected to consider, or at least to say, that he still had the option of Dr. Frumpkin’s affections as the ultimate lifeline. Dahr could do a lot worse than hitching his wagon to a successful, retiring doctor who seemed crazy for him. Dahr may not have found that lifeline attractive or ethical, but it was, in fact, an option. Had he merely overlooked it in the woe-is-me spirit of a heartfelt narrative? Or had he consciously brushed that detail aside, unmentioned, while hoping it would go unnoticed?
Although I had tried to refrain from questioning Dahr, there was one matter that had to be addressed. I asked him, “What did you think of Jason Ward?”
“I think he was a skilled and compassionate physician. I think he was a loving husband and a doting father. I think he was completely dedicated to the practice and was looking forward to taking over the family business with his wife. And most important, Brody, I think Jason Ward did not deserve to die.”
Marson closed his eyes, as if he understood what I needed to say next.
I asked Dahr, “But did you like Jason? He seemed to have some issues … with you.”
“Ah. Well. That.” Dahr leaned on his elbows to tell me, “Early on, for those first few years after I was hired, Jason and I were great together. We respected each other professionally, and we enjoyed each other as friends. But later, when Francis began to be more open about his ‘interest’ in me, things started to change. Jason was fine with me when I was just another underling, when I was just the hired help. But as soon as there was even a hint that Francis wanted to bring me into the family—and by extension, into the family business—Jason got cold, even combative. He started putting me down, dissing me, first in front of staff, then in front of patients. It felt like a campaign to run me out.”
I said, “But Francis would have no part of that, I assume.”
“Not at all. He made it clear that, one way or the other, I would always be part of the picture. Which made Jason’s resentment all the worse. It was pretty childish—as if he felt that Francis was taking sides.” Considering this for a moment, Dahr added, “In a sense, I guess he was.”
Marson gave me a look that asked, May I jump in?
I responded in kind, Be my guest.
He said to Dahr, “This is terribly personal, but do you mind if I ask: What is the nature of your relationship with Francis Frumpkin?”
Good God, I thought, I would never have gone there. But I was glad Marson did.
Dahr was disarmingly candid as he lolled back in his chair, swirling his wine. With a soft laugh, he said to Marson, “The nature of our relationship? That’s a good question. As far as Francis is concerned, it’s the real deal—courtship intended to lead to marriage. And it’s way more than sweet talk. We do have sex—as recently as last Saturday, a week ago tonight, but there’s been a dry spell since Jason’s death. Naturally.”
I reached to fill his glass and keep him talking. I asked, “Do you love him?”
“Yes,” said Dahr, “I do. Maybe not in a gung-ho, passionate kinda way, though the sex is fine. For me, the relationship is more of an emotional thing. I love Francis for the love he’s shown me. I’ve learned to love him. He fulfills a certain need in my life—and I don’t mean, for lack of a better word, money.”
Interesting, I thought. Dahr and I were about the same age, and so were Marson and Dr. Frumpkin, which seemed to suggest a parallel. However, I interpreted the subtext of Dahr’s words to mean that he loved Frumpkin as something of a father figure, which was not at all the basis of my commitment to Marson. We were equal partners in love and in our shared life. We were drawn to each other not as father and son, not as mentor and pupil, not because of our age difference, but in spite of it.
Marson said to Dahr, “It sounds as if you and Francis have a lot to offer each other. And I know that Francis truly wants to build a life with you; he said so. But you’re just not interested?”
Dahr weighed his words before replying, “Let’s say I have reservations. For one thing, with Francis, it’s all business, all the time. I realize he’s an entrepreneur and a promoter—as well as a doctor—which has brought him great success. But he can never let go of it, never turn it off. Last Saturday night: an intimate dinner for two at his place, getting cozy afterward, getting in the mood, then Sarah calls, and he can’t send it to voice mail, and suddenly he’s in a dither because Mary Questman won’t be the guinea pig the next day, and he doesn’t know how to explain to the crowd why Jason is stepping in. And on and on. After he hung up, it took a full hour to hit ‘reset’ and get us back on track—if you know what I mean.”
Marson laughed. “Oh, I know what you mean.”
I rolled my eyes.
“But our main issue,” Dahr continued, “is children.”
Marson nodded. “You want kids. He doesn’t.”
“Right. He’s already been there, paid his dues, and likes being a granddad, with zero interest in the day-to-day messiness of raising a family. But I’ve never had that. And I crave that. I mean, kids are so great. Look at little Olivia …”
Little Olivia, I thought, would not have been my choice as an example of the rewards of child-rearing.
“Olivia,” he continued, “sure, she’s been a challenge lately. And now, with the sudden death of her dad, I expected her to have a complete meltdown. But know what? She’s taking it pretty well, much better than you’d think. And then there’s Sarah—my God, she’s just a total mess, no surprise. It’s almost as if Olivia has stepped in and
gathered the strength her mother has lost. Kids can be remarkably resilient.”
From the moment when I had first heard mention of Dahr—the night at the restaurant when I met Dr. Frumpkin and his daughter and heard their plans for FlabberGas—I’d been intrigued by this exotic-sounding creature, Dariush, who now sat in my home, within easy reach if I were so inclined. Soon after, upon meeting him at Mary’s and then again at the clinic, I’d found him not only attractive and seductive, but also a source of continuous surprise. Tonight’s conversations had included an array of unexpected tidbits, from his Muslim apostasy to his frank appraisal of sex with Dr. Frumpkin. But the greatest revelation was the depth of his affection for kids and his empathy for the ordeals of childhood. I must admit, his concern for Olivia’s troubling situation—and his willingness to understand her problems on her terms—made me ashamed of the harsh judgment I had rushed to impose on the girl, which was based on little more than one unfortunate outburst. That, and a tacky princess dress. Was I really that shallow?
Our dinner conversation at the loft moseyed on in this vein, returning to Jason’s death now and then, but with no persuasive insights regarding who bore the guilt. From the outset, I had been willing to abide by the strictures set down by Lady Justice and presume Dahr’s innocence. I had also wanted to believe Dr. Frumpkin’s contention that Dahr would never harm a fly, let alone murder a colleague, and I was relieved to have heard nothing at dinner that would dissuade me from that conclusion.
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