Opening it, I found the requested list of people who had access to the church sacristy, along with a yellow Post-it note bearing Lillie’s writing: Sorry this is late!
The first thing that struck me about the list was its length—nearly two pages, single-spaced. The next thing that struck me was that the list contained no surprises. At the top of the list were the names of Mother Hibbard herself, the executive committee of the parish vestry, Lillie, a custodian, and “David Lovell, choirmaster (deceased).” That was followed by a list of “Acolytes”—the altar boys and several girls—which ran at least twenty names, none of them known to me. Next was a list titled “Adult Choir,” with perhaps another twenty names, all unknown, and another titled “Children’s Choir,” about a dozen names, including Hailey Olson and Thomas Simms, Jr. And finally, there was a list titled “Deacons and Lay Ministers.” This one was shorter, with seven names, including one I knew: “Clem Carter, thurifer.”
I had to look that one up. A thurifer is “one who carries a thurible, or censer, in an ecclesiastical rite.” Okay, got it. Three days earlier, that little tidbit would have proved revelatory, but after seeing Clem’s flashy performance at David’s funeral on Thursday, it was old news—though no less significant. Clem had a habit of horsing around with burning incense.
Grrring.
We were ready. The kitchen was under control. The table was set smartly but simply—without the romantic overtones of flowers. We had mentioned to Curtis Hibbard and Yevgeny Krymov that our evening would be “nothing dressy, just the four of us,” so Marson and I had taken it down a notch since the previous dinner; Marson now wore a blazer without a tie, and I had chosen a gray cashmere polo with gabardine slacks. Together, we answered the door.
“Marson, old chum, nice of you to ask us over,” said Curtis, stepping inside. He wore his usual pinstripes, including the matching vest, with his usual starched white shirt and a proper Hermès necktie cinched tightly under his Adam’s apple in a proper Windsor knot. He turned to me, handing me a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon. “And a good evening as well to this charming young fellow. Ho-ho.”
“Thank you, Curtis.”
Yevgeny followed Curtis into the room, and unlike Curtis, he had conformed to our suggested dress code, wearing a silky red shirt with tight black pants, both of which highlighted the contours of a legendary body that had routinely fetched standing ovations and tossed bouquets. He greeted me first. “Brody! They have not changed! You still have such dah-link green eyes.” With a little growl, he playfully hugged my waist, bumping his hip against mine—which had the intended effect. Last time he had been here, he had also come on to me, but then ditched me for David. Tonight, David was gone. I wavered between feeling like sloppy seconds—or the luckiest guy in the world. While Yevgeny greeted my husband, I reminded myself that nothing could come of this.
Moments later, we were gathered in the kitchen, with Marson offering drinks. “Bar’s open,” he said. “What can I get you? Or if you’d prefer, we could open the champagne.”
“Champagne might be nice,” said Curtis, “unless the others want something else.” Since Curtis had brought the bottle, no one objected to opening it.
When the four flutes were filled, we toasted first to friendship, then to David Lovell’s memory, and finally, as something of an afterthought, Curtis added, “And how about that Chad Percy fellow? Talk about a hideous ending.” We sipped once again, which left me wondering how news of Percy’s death out here in the sticks had managed to penetrate Curtis’s aloof New York veneer. Then Marson said to our guests, “If you’d like to get comfortable in the living room, we’ll join you with the appetizers.”
Marson and I fussed with arranging a tray—Nancy’s mushroom tartlets and cheese crisps—as Curtis and Yevgeny strolled to the conversation area at the front of the loft, where two loveseats faced each other over the stone surface of a square low table. I watched as they sat at a diagonal across the table from each other, occupying both of the small sofas. Which meant I would end up sitting next to one of them. I had absolutely no desire to be within pawing distance of Curtis; on the other hand, I didn’t quite trust myself flank to flank with Yevgeny. Good champagne can lead to trouble. For that matter, so can the cheap stuff.
Marson carried the tray from the kitchen, and I followed with small plates and our drinks. As we set everything on the table, Marson said, “I think you’ll like these. Please, help yourselves.” Considering where to sit, he said to me, “Tell you what. Curt and I have some catching up to do, so why don’t you keep Yevgeny company?”
“Sure,” I agreed with a shrug—couldn’t care less—anything to please.
Yevgeny’s gray Muscovy eyes twinkled as I approached the loveseat where he waited. The springs of the sofa creaked as I sat. With the additional weight, the cushion sagged in the middle, drawing us closer. Settling in, he lifted an arm to the top of the sofa and stretched it in my direction, fingertips grazing my shoulder; with his other hand, he dangled his champagne flute. Bubbles drifted to the surface like lazy fireworks, exploding between his fingers and thundering in my ears. Or so it seemed.
“Ho-ho,” Curtis was saying to Marson, “Felber had it coming. I was surprised they didn’t boot him out of the dorm months before that little incident.”
Marson laughed along with his old college friend. “I guess it’s true what they say—never trust an ag major.” They roared.
Yevgeny turned to ask me, “Where did you attend university, Brody?”
“California. I grew up there.”
“Ahhh,” he said, reaching to twiddle a lock of hair behind my ear. “The land of fruits and nuts.”
I laughed quietly while crossing my legs to mask my arousal—gabardine doesn’t hide much.
“Did you also have hijinks like Marson and Curtis?”
“A few,” I admitted with a stupid giggle.
He leaned to whisper, “But they are so old. At university, they studied by gaslight.”
I smirked. “I’m no kid. I started college twenty years ago.”
“Those were good days—back in school—for all of us, yes?”
“Yes. They were.”
“I miss it. I think I go back. To keep me young.” He playfully cuffed my chin.
I gave him a skeptical look. “Um, you’re joking, right?”
He cleared his throat loudly. “Yoo-hoo? Curtis? Forgive me interrupt your memory lane with Marson. Brody thinks I joke about going back to school.”
Curtis looked over to assure me, “No joke. Yevgeny might move to Appleton.”
Marson and I asked in unison, “What?”
Curtis asked Yevgeny, “Shall I explain?”
With a Cheshire grin, the storied dancer glanced from face to face to face, telling Curtis, “Yes, please explain.”
Curtis leaned forward, elbows to knees. “This goes back a bit. Since Yevgeny retired from the stage last year, he’s been thinking about what to do with the next chapter of his life, and some sort of teaching gig seemed to make sense.”
“Bravo,” said Marson. “There’s a whole new generation of dancers who could profit from his experience.”
“Of course,” agreed Curtis. “So I’ve been poking around for him. Safe to say, any dance school in the country—in the world—would kill to have Yevgeny on their faculty. So it was a matter of weighing all the variables and, most important, finding the right fit for Yevgeny’s goals at this stage of his life.”
It started to click for me. I said to Curtis, “Joyce was telling me that you planned to visit someone on the dance faculty at the conservatory in Appleton. I assumed that was a courtesy call.”
“Ho-ho. It was more than that.”
Yevgeny added, “That is why I visit, but I could say nothing.”
Curtis added, “And there was so much speculation about what Yevgeny was doing here, the dean of the conservatory decided it was too risky for Yevgeny to be seen on campus, where he’d be instantly recognized. If a deal wasn
’t struck, they’d have egg on their face.”
“What?” asked Yevgeny.
“It’s an expression,” said Curtis. “So the dean came to Dumont. He met me at St. Alban’s, and I escorted him over to the Manor House for talks with Yevgeny.”
“Twice,” I said, recalling the sightings from the window at First Avenue Bistro.
“Actually,” said Curtis, “there were three or four meetings. Most productive. No announcement yet, nothing signed, but here’s the deal: Yevgeny will be appointed as an artist-in-residence for one year, beginning this fall, after which, if both he and the school are satisfied with the arrangement, he’ll join the permanent faculty, fully tenured, in a newly instituted program bearing his name.”
Yevgeny crossed his arms and turned to ask me, “Not bad, yes?”
“Yes. Not bad at all. Congratulations, Yevgeny.” I patted his knee.
“Brody,” he said, patting my hand, “you call me Zhenya.”
I felt honored—but I would never remember that.
Curtis said, “Congratulations are indeed in order. It’s a shame New York will be losing him, but at least he’ll be out of the clutches of that horrid old organ-pumper, Fletcher Zaan.”
Yevgeny wagged a finger. “Maybe Fletcher come to visit. Meantime, so many adoring students—beautiful young dancers in their prime.”
“Ho-ho,” said Curtis, returning the finger-wag. “Look but don’t touch … Zhenya.”
Moving on to the dinner table, I had to wonder: How could the great Yevgeny Krymov—trained in Russia, mentored by Nureyev, hailed with rapturous applause in all the far-flung cultural capitals of the world—how could he possibly find contentment in central Wisconsin? Perhaps the dean of the conservatory wondered this as well. Perhaps that skepticism had motivated the offer of an initial appointment as artist-in-residence, a trial period that would serve as an escape clause, allowing both the school and the dancer to save face if Yevgeny’s new realities fell short of expectations.
For all my doubts, however, Yevgeny seemed happily convinced that he faced a promising future here. As we began dinner, he was saying to Curtis, “Tomorrow will be hectic. Back to New York. Renée Fleming same night. But Monday morning? Time to start planning my move. Much to decide!”
Curtis reminded him, “Not till we get that contract signed.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” He turned his attention to Marson and me, seated across the table from Curtis and him. “Gentlemen,” he said, raising a huge balloon wineglass and swirling the velvety Bordeaux within, “my compliments to the chefs. Extraordinaire.”
As we all touched glasses, I told him, “All the credit goes to Marson. He’s great in the kitchen.”
Yevgeny winked. “But you inspire him, I am sure.”
Did I just feel—yes, I did—it was Yevgeny playing footsie under the table with me. My reflexive instinct was to retract my shoe, but … what the hell. I didn’t budge.
Yevgeny was right about the meal. It was extraordinary. Marson had outdone himself with the tenderloin, such a simple main course, perfectly prepared and presented with a glistening béarnaise. Not thinking clearly, I cut a good-sized chunk from the middle, where it was rarest, and set it aside on my plate, away from the sauce, saving it as a treat for Mister Puss, but then I realized that he had moved back to Mary’s. Having no idea when I might have an opportunity to feed him the meat, I ate it.
Marson said to Yevgeny, “When the story finally breaks about Appleton, Glee Savage will want another interview. It’ll be big news out here.”
Curtis interjected, “It’ll be big news in New York.”
Marson laughed. “You’ve been here two weeks, Curt. How the devil have you managed without the Times?”
“I read it online.” He dabbed his lips with his napkin, then sipped from his wine.
“Soon enough,” said Marson, “I suppose that’ll be the only way to read a paper, if there are any left. At least we won’t be getting ink on our fingers.”
I reminded Curtis, “Marson can be a bit fussy.”
“Ho-ho. Don’t I know it. I guess nothing’s changed in the forty years since college.”
Without a hint of umbrage, Marson agreed, “Probably not.”
I asked Curtis, “When you knew him in school, did he have a habit of ‘cleaning’ the morning paper?”
“Yes,” said Curtis with a loud laugh. “Threw out the sports and the ads first. Rearranged the sections. Then worked out every fold and wrinkle. I half expected him to iron the damn thing.”
“Still the same,” I said, elbowing my husband.
Yevgeny looked confused. “Why throw away the sports section?”
Marson also looked confused. “Why would I read it?”
Curtis told Yevgeny, “Marson has no interest in sports.”
“None,” confirmed Marson. “Zero. I find the whole concept unsavory. Tribal.”
I explained, “He’s talking about team sports.”
“Largely, I suppose, yes.”
“Marson, old chum,” said Curtis, “at a gut level, I’m inclined to agree with you. I mean, here at this table, four gay men, safe to say we all grew up feeling like fish out of water. Safe to say, from time to time, each one of us was taunted as a sissy, or worse.”
“Nezhenka,” said Yevgeny, nodding.
We all turned to him.
“Russian sissy is nezhenka.”
“The point is,” Curtis continued, “growing up as we did, it was natural to equate the ethos of sports with an aspect of masculinity we just didn’t get.”
“Toxic masculinity,” I said. “And I still don’t get it. Marson picked the right word—it’s tribal.”
I thought of fist pumps. I thought of aggrieved male privilege. I thought of the jock mentality that had assaulted Nancy Sanderson. I thought of red baseball caps and tiki torches and normalized hate. I thought I might be sick.
Curtis said, “Without dwelling on the heterosexual overtones, there’s no need to read the sports section.” Glibly, he added, “Just browse through the pictures to see if there’s anything worth ogling before trashing it.”
“Well,” I had to admit, “there’s that.”
With a haughty sniff, Marson called us “Philistines…”
I laughed. Then, striking a more serious tone, I noted, “In spite of growing up as ‘outsiders,’ both of you—Marson and Curtis—you eventually married women, like any normal, red-blooded American male.”
Marson turned to me with a warm smile. “That was eons ago, kiddo, when things were different. I married Prucilla because I hadn’t found you. And once I did find you, everything changed.” He leaned over and kissed me.
Curtis coughed, tugging at his necktie, as if it were a noose. “Eons later, as you’ve surely noticed, I’m still a married man. Joyce and I went into this with our eyes wide open. I suppose some people might call it a marriage of convenience…”
No kiddin’.
“…but it works for us, in spite of the fact that I sometimes think of it as a marriage of in-convenience. We give each other plenty of space. Talk about ‘separate beds’—we generally don’t even dine together anymore. I came here tonight, for instance, without a syllable of explanation. Odd as it may seem, though, we do love each other.”
I thought of the unholy trinity I had described to Sheriff Simms: Joyce Hibbard, her husband, and her husband’s former lover.
As our Saturday evening grew late, Marson and I served the four honey-almond Bundt cakes—finished with powdered sugar, shaved almonds, and a dollop of ice cream, as Nancy had suggested—drawing gasps and groans from our sated guests.
“Good God, I couldn’t possibly,” said Curtis as he forked into it with abandon.
“Amazing,” said Yevgeny. “You have saved the best for last. How sad that our friend David could not enjoy this.”
I asked, “You mean, because he’s no longer with us?”
“No, Brody. I mean, because of his allergy. The nuts. That night, he told
me.”
Which I found strange.
And a few minutes later, we were on our feet, saying good-bye, wishing our guests a safe trip tomorrow and a magical evening with Renée Fleming and Beethoven and a few thousand of their closest friends at Carnegie Hall.
And they were offering hugs, thanking us for such splendid hospitality, asking us to walk them out to their car.
And we were out on the sidewalk, in the dark of a warm midnight, standing next to the rented white Lincoln parked at the curb, gabbing farewells, exchanging stiff handshakes with Curtis Hibbard and waiting for good-night smooches from the drop-dead Yevgeny Krymov.
And Marson got his.
And then it was my turn. And we held each other for a few moments, smiling. We enjoyed a lingering kiss. I whispered, “Thank you, Yevgeny.”
“Uh-uh-uh,” he said. “To you, Brody, I am Zhenya.”
With a breathy laugh, I was lolling my head back, thinking I would never be able to remember his pet name, glancing over his shoulder.
When I froze. “What the hell?”
Everyone turned to follow my gaze.
In the cold, slanted beam of a street light, on the weathered brick of our front wall, we saw scrawled in orange spray paint: RU2 NEXT? GET! OUT! NOW!
“Jesus—Shocking—Horrid—Shit,” we chimed.
Catching his breath, Curtis planted his hands on his hips, telling us, “William Maxwell, legendary fiction editor of The New Yorker, once decreed, ‘Every writer has a lifetime ration of three exclamation points.’”
“Well,” said Marson, wagging a disapproving finger at the graffiti, “this hack just blew his limit.”
They forced a feeble laugh in a lame attempt to defuse the grotesque development.
But I found no humor in it. Not one bit.
PART THREE
Mother Hibbard’s Grand Bargain
Sunday morning, Mary Questman slept later than usual.
She had arrived in Dumont from Chicago with Berta late Friday, retrieving Mister Puss from Brody and Marson before returning to the stately old Questman house on Prairie Street. Berta helped Mary and the cat get situated that night, unloading their things from Mary’s spiffed-up but unpretentious Buick. The housekeeper agreed to return Sunday morning at eleven to do laundry and the last of the unpacking.
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