Body Language

by Michael Craft

  “What’s it worth?” asked Neil, never one to dance around delicate subjects. I had mentioned the house before, and he was intrigued by it, but we would not be moving into it. We were both city mice finding scant allure to the prospect of life in central Wisconsin. Of course it would be sold.

  “Plenty,” I told him. “Hundreds of thousands—maybe three, maybe five, depending on the market up there.”

  Roxanne asked, “Going up to see the place?”

  “Probably. The lawyer’s letter says they’ve already got a prospective buyer. They’ll let me know when they need me. God, talk about a nostalgia trip.”

  And a nostalgia trip it was. A few weeks later, I was summoned to Dumont by Elliot Coop, the Quatrains’ longtime family lawyer who was handling the estate. He’d found a buyer for the house, the architecture buff from Madison who planned on moving up to Dumont to live in it. We would be meeting him at the house with his wife—she held the purse strings and still needed a bit of convincing.

  Driving north in a slick new Bavarian V-8, I was thrilled by the satisfaction of having finally bought the car I’d always wanted. Neil had accused me of counting chickens before they hatched, but it turned out that my estimate of the house’s worth was well on the low side, so the car would barely make a dent in the windfall that would come of that afternoon’s transaction. Besides, I told myself, Uncle Edwin would surely approve—I could still smell the leather in the magnificent imported sedan he drove when I first visited Dumont as a boy.

  As I turned onto Prairie Street, the house filled my view, and the sight was no less imposing than when I first saw it thirty years before. An agent’s spec sheet, which was sent to me, described the house as “vintage Prairie School, Taliesin-designed.” It was, in fact, the work of one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s students at Spring Green, Wisconsin. An expansive Palladian window across the third-floor facade was not at all typical of the style, a design eccentricity that made the house even more appealing to the man from Madison, a professor of architectural history. The spec sheet further confirmed that the house was every bit as big as I remembered it—six thousand square feet, two thousand on each floor. Plus basement. My most enduring memories of the place focused on the third floor of the house, where there was a beautiful and (in my child’s mind) mysterious loft space. The spec sheet described this attic great room as “a fabulous mother-in-law apartment/retreat.”

  Parked at the curb that day were two cars, the lawyer’s and the buyers’. I hesitated for a moment, then pulled into the driveway—it and the house were, after all, mine, if only for the day. As I got out of the car, the lawyer hobbled toward me, extending his hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Manning. Elliot Coop. Thank you for driving all this way. Let me introduce you to Professor and Mrs. Tawkin.”

  The wife cooed, “Introductions are hardly necessary. It’s an honor, Mr. Manning.” We all shook hands, then followed the lawyer in through the front door.

  It took less than an hour to tour the house and convince the wife. In the attic great room she told us, “I was skeptical, I admit, but I’m totally won over. Shall we sign some papers?”

  Mission accomplished. We trundled down the stairs, out the door, and back to our cars, with the lawyer giving directions to his office. Once the Tawkins were in their car, Elliot walked with me toward mine, telling me, “Before your uncle died, while he was reviewing his will, he gave me a letter and asked me to deliver it into your hand.” He produced the envelope. “There, Mr. Manning. Done.”

  “Are you still there, Mr. Manning?” Elliot Coop’s voice buzzed through the phone at my desk in the newsroom.

  “Sorry, Elliot,” I told him, snapping back to the moment. “You were saying something about Professor Tawkin?”

  “Indeed,” he replied in a breathless tone, giddy with some pent-up gossip. “They’re divorcing! It’s uncontested, and they’ve retained me for arbitration.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to react to this news—or why Elliot thought I’d be interested.

  He bubbled onward. “I don’t need to remind you that she controls the finances. She hates life in Dumont, and—guess what—she’s pulling the plug on the mortgage. So they’ve instructed me to sell the house, at a substantial loss if necessary. ‘Just dump it,’ she told me. So I was wondering, Mr. Manning, if you might have any interest in reacquiring it. It’s a magnificent home, as you know, and with your family roots in Dumont, I thought—”

  “Thanks, Elliot,” I interrupted him, “but Dumont is a bit out of the way for me.” Even as I spoke, though, another thought occurred to me. The local paper up there, the Dumont Daily Register, had long been known as a fine small-town daily. I recalled picking up a few copies during my brief visit three years ago when I sold the house, and the Register measured up handsomely to its reputation. What’s more, its venerable founding publisher was due for retirement. So my phone conversation with the lawyer took a different turn. “Excuse me, Elliot, but is the Dumont Daily Register still being run by its founder?”

  “My, yes,” he assured me. “Barret Logan has manned the helm for nearly fifty years. With Bonnie gone now, it’s his whole life.”

  “Do you think he’ll ever retire?”

  “Depends.” Elliot chuckled. “In the market for a newspaper, Mr. Manning?”

  “Depends.” I thought a moment. “Do you have his phone number handy?”

  The lawyer recited it. “That’s his direct line. He answers his own phone, and he’s usually at his desk till noon.”

  “Thanks, Elliot. I appreciate the information.”

  He asked, “What about the house?”

  “Depends.” I laughed at his persistence. “I’ll have to get back to you.”

  Within a minute, I had dialed the number he gave me and a man answered, “Good morning. Barret Logan.”

  “Hello, Mr. Logan. This is Mark Manning, a reporter for the Chicago Journal. My mother was originally from Dumont; she was Edwin Quatrain’s sister.”

  Logan laughed gustily. “I know who you are, Mr. Manning—who doesn’t? And to what might I owe the unexpected pleasure of your call?”

  An hour later—it was well past noon by then—he said, “I’m late for a lunch appointment, Mark, so I really must go. Let’s both have our people review these numbers; then let’s talk again. Soon. I’m so very glad you called.”

  With my mind spinning, I said, “I am, too, Barret. I think we’ve laid the groundwork for a promising transaction. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do, and I know that you do, too. But we will talk again. Soon.”

  That evening, I waited at the loft for Neil to return from work. I considered having cocktails ready for his arrival, but reconsidered, knowing that this conversation would require a clear head. When he walked through the door, we exchanged a kiss and some small talk. I suggested, “Let’s take a walk along the lake. There’s a bit of daylight left, and I want to discuss something with you.”

  “Uh-oh.” A wary glance. “How about a run together? It’s been a while.”

  “Maybe later, Neil. But now, let’s just walk, okay? An opportunity presented itself at the office today, and I need to know what you think of it.”

  So, still dressed for the office, minus jackets, we headed out. It would be a week till the ritual of setting back the clocks, and shafts of orange twilight angled between the buildings toward the shore. An easterly breeze striped the surface of Lake Michigan with whitecapped waves. Colliding with the cement embankment, they disappeared in rosy mist. Out near the horizon, a few hardy sailors leaned their masts toward harbor, conceding at last that summer was gone.

  “What’s up?” asked Neil after we had crossed through the traffic on the Outer Drive and settled into an easy saunter along a stretch of beach.

  “Remember the house I inherited from my uncle Edwin in Dumont?”

  “I never saw it, but sure, I remember it. It paid for our work on the loft.”

  “Right. Well, today I learned from a lawyer up there t
hat the house is on the market again, and I could get it back cheap.”

  Neil shrugged an I-don’t-get-it. “Why would you want it?”

  Obliquely, I answered, “I also learned that the local paper up there, the Dumont Daily Register, might be available to the right person. I talked to the publisher, Barret Logan. He thinks I’m the right person, and he’s ready to retire. I think I could swing it. I’d have to go heavily into debt, and I’d probably have to take on some investors, but it sounds doable—if you go along with it.”

  Neil’s pace slowed, stopped. He eyed me askance. With an uncertain inflection, he said, “Dumont is—what?—three hours’ drive from here?”

  I confessed, “Closer to four.”

  “That’s a hefty commute.” There was no humor in his understatement. Nor in his afterthought: “And I doubt if there’s much need for high-powered architectural talent in central Wisconsin.” Eyeing me, he asked, “Where would that leave ‘us’?”

  I strolled him toward a park bench anchored in the sand, telling him, “I’ve struggled with this all afternoon. I do want the Register, but I want you more, and I won’t push for anything that would jeopardize ‘us.’”

  We both sat down, legs touching. Neil gazed out at the water. I peered at him, saying, “So I’d like to propose an arrangement.”

  He grinned. “Yes?”

  “I would buy back the house on Prairie Street, but I’d also keep the loft here in Chicago. I’d take over the Register and work up there, and you’d stay here at your job. But—and here’s the crucial part—we’d spend every weekend together, alternating locales. We’d try this for a solid year. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be a commitment to buy some time. After a year, we’d reevaluate the arrangement. By then it should be obvious what we need to do. Maybe circumstances would allow us both to settle happily in either Dumont or Chicago. Maybe we’d extend the arrangement. Maybe we’d explore other options we haven’t thought of yet.”

  I stopped talking, as there was nothing else to add. All that mattered now was Neil’s reaction. I waited.

  He turned to me and rested an arm across my shoulder. “Some ‘arrangement.’ You don’t ask much, do you?”

  “Neil, I could flop big-time up there, but I have to find out if…”

  “Shhh,” he stopped me, pressing a finger to my lips. “I know you need to do this. You’re working your way through some sort of midlife guy-thing, and the last thing I want is for our relationship to be a casualty of this crisis. I don’t much like the ‘arrangement,’ but I’m willing to go along with it. Like you said, we’re buying time. I can deal with inconvenience for a year. What I can’t deal with is the thought of not spending my life with you.”

  How could I react other than to pull him into my arms? I nuzzled his neck and told the back of his head, “I love you so much. I really don’t deserve you.”

  “No, you don’t,” he agreed. “You’re the luckiest man in the world.”

  News spread fast that I was leaving the Journal for—of all places—Dumont, Wisconsin. Roxanne Exner was first to get wind of it, hearing it directly from Neil, and she wanted more details. So she suggested that we meet for dinner at Bistro Zaza, a loud, trendy, but good Near North restaurant that had of late become our favorite haunt.

  Parking at the door, giving my car keys to the valet, I entered Zaza’s with Neil, asking him, “Will Carl be here, too?”

  I was asking about Carl Creighton, a recently appointed Illinois deputy attorney general, formerly a senior partner at Roxanne’s law firm. When Carl entered political life, he left the firm and promoted Roxanne. As of that Saturday evening last October, they had been romantically involved for about a year. Neil and I often wondered aloud whether they would take the plunge into “the m-word.” Roxanne had never struck either of us as the marrying type, so we rarely breathed the actual word, referring to it in code.

  Neil answered me, “Rox didn’t mention Carl, but I assume he’ll be here tonight. It seems they’re always together now.”

  The man at the host’s podium, black-garbed and sunken-cheeked, greeted us like old friends. (I couldn’t recall having ever met him, but then, I was forever confused by the help at Zaza’s, who all looked like cloned models from some depraved perfume ad.) He escorted us through the noisy metal-raftered room toward the booth where Roxanne and Carl awaited us. We leaned to kiss Roxanne; Carl rose to shake our hands. We all got situated around the table, ordering drinks from the man in black.

  “You look fabulous tonight, Rox,” said Neil. And indeed she did. At thirty-seven, she was successful, smart, stylish—and sober. She’d sworn off drinking nearly three years ago, not long after introducing Neil and me. The new challenges she had recently undertaken at Kendall Yoshihara Exner obviously agreed with her, and she sat there radiating a confident smile that, worn by anyone else, might appear smug.

  She nodded a wordless thank-you for Neil’s compliment, then returned it. “Again, it seems, I’ve stumbled into the good fortune of being surrounded by three devastatingly attractive men.”

  Her statement had the ring of hyperbole, but I realized as she said it that she was sincere—we did look good that night. At thirty-four, Neil was the youngest of us, and the advantage of his years was augmented by his designer’s eye; he always seemed to dress with an instinctive appropriateness to the occasion, as evidenced by the combination of the casual but expensive slacks and sweater he wore that night. The eldest at the table was Carl, forty-nine, whose prematurely white hair was countered by his lanky frame and the aggressive energy that flashed from his eyes; his breeding and bearing were Brooks Brothers all the way, a correct but laid-back dressiness perfectly attuned to his role in the world. And between them sat I, forty-two, wearing my favorite gabardine suit, a nattier wool version of the khakis and blazer that I habitually wore to the office.

  Carl got to the point. “There must be something in the air to account for this epidemic of career-tweaking—my move into politics, Roxanne’s name on the door at the firm, and now word of your rather stunning intentions, Mark.” He laughed, slapping my shoulder. “Is it true? Are you really folding your tent at the Journal and heading north to… Wisconsin?” He, Roxanne, and Neil leaned toward me, waiting to hear it from my lips.

  Our drinks arrived—bourbon for Carl, the usual vodka for Neil and me, mineral water for Roxanne. We exchanged a quick toast; then the group fell instantly silent, still waiting to hear my story.

  I confirmed the whole plan, detailing the arrangement that Neil had agreed to. “So, probably sometime after the first of the year, I’ll take over as publisher of the Dumont Daily Register—assuming I can pull the finances together.”

  “A desk job?” scoffed Roxanne. “That doesn’t sound like you, Mark.”

  “I’ll be the boss,” I reminded her, “so I can take on any duties that suit me. As publisher, I’ll be responsible not only for the business of the paper, but also for its thrust, direction, and stature—that’s the whole point of this move. I confess I don’t know much about the day-to-day logistics of running a paper, so I’ll need a good number two. Barret Logan’s managing editor is nearing retirement age, so I’m sure they’ll leave together, and that’s just fine. I’ll need to build my own team anyway, so I’ll start with the managing editor.”

  “But what about investigative reporting?” asked Neil. “That’s what you’ve always done, what you’ve always loved. Won’t you miss it?”

  “The paper has a reporting staff,” I assured him, “and it’s known to be a good one. If a particularly juicy story should come along, though, I can always don my old hat and do a bit of sleuthing.”

  “In sleepy little Dumont?” asked Roxanne, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Somehow, Sherlock, I think your whodunit days are over.”

  We all laughed. “You’re probably right,” I conceded.

  Little could I imagine how wrong we were. Though I have never placed the least credence in superstition, I can only conclude that our fl
ippant humor that night must have nettled some fractious gremlin of fate.

  By the next week, word of my intentions had spread further, and I began to receive queries, by letter and phone, regarding the managing editor’s position in Dumont. I was surprised—both pleased and humbled—to discover that so many of my journalism colleagues, some of whom I had never met, had such unswerving faith in my new undertaking that they were willing to uproot their own lives and follow me to a smallish town they had never seen.

  At first I just stuffed the résumés into my briefcase, but the collection thickened to the point where I had to dump it on the kitchen counter at home one evening. Neil and I had no plans that night, so we spent a couple of hours together sorting through the applications, commenting on likely candidates while sipping a cocktail or two.

  “Wow,” he said. “Guess who wants to move to Dumont with you.”

  I looked up from the cover letter I was reading. “Who?”

  He passed the papers across the kitchen island. “Lucille Haring.”

  Sure enough, the letter, the resume, the supporting documents—all crisply laser printed on heavy white Strathmore—were hers. Lucille Haring worked upstairs at the Journal in the publisher’s office, a computer specialist with a military background and a stiff, efficient manner to match. While I was immersed in my investigation of the festival conspiracy last summer, she provided me with key information that helped crack the story. I also learned that she was a lesbian, a guarded aspect of her private life that she had kept well removed from the job.

  “Lucy?” I mused aloud. “Gordon says he finds her indispensable, which surprises me—he’s such an affable sort of backslapper, and she, well… isn’t. But I have to admit that she’s smart, dedicated, and no-nonsense. If she feels she could handle the Dumont job, she’d probably make a hell of an editor.” I fell silent.

  Neil prompted me, “But…”