Body Language

by Michael Craft

  “My dear,” Suzanne cooed at Roxanne, “you must feel utterly out of your element, up here in the provinces.”

  “Actually,” she replied, “it feels a bit like a homecoming. I’ve always liked Wisconsin—I went to law school at Marquette.”

  “Really?” I butted in. “I didn’t know that.”

  “First in her class,” Carl bragged, hugging her waist.

  Suzanne and Joey still had their coats on, and I offered to take them. Referring to the presents Joey and Thad carried, I said, “We have some things for you, too, but let’s save them till after dinner. You can put them under the tree for now.”

  Joey managed to get his coat off without dropping the gifts, then eagerly got busy arranging things under the tree. Thad stood smirking, refusing to move. Suzanne prompted, “Thad, darling. Put your uncle Mark’s present under the tree.”

  He pitched the small box underhand across the floor to where Joey squatted at the base of the tree.

  “Thad!” his mother yelped. “That was a Tiffany clock.”

  He shrugged, looking proud of himself. I wanted to slap him.

  Roxanne broke the tension with a confused little laugh. “Just a moment,” she said. “I don’t think that Mark is Thad’s uncle.” She put her fingers to her lips, thinking. “No. Mark and Suzanne are cousins, and Thad is Suzanne’s son, so unless I’m mistaken, that makes Mark and Thad cousins once removed, sometimes called second cousins.”

  Carl Creighton laughed. “That’s my Roxy—always the stickler for detail.”

  “That’s way over my head,” I told the group.

  Suzanne ushered Thad to my side and studied the two of us together. “I just don’t see them as cousins,” she told Roxanne, “‘removed’ or otherwise. For simplicity’s sake, let’s stick with ‘uncle.’”

  “And ‘nephew,’” I agreed, resting my hand on Thad’s shoulder.

  His head snapped toward me, and for the first time he looked me in the eye. Jerking his shoulder out from under my hand, he skulked out of the hall and wandered back toward the kitchen. I heard him greet Hazel there, and his tone was warm and amiable, as if the scene in the hall had never happened.

  His mother apologized to the group. “Thad’s going through a rebellious phase. He even refused to wear his coat today. I hope to God he grows out of it—and fast.”

  We all did our best to assure Suzanne that Thad’s behavior was typical, ignoring the minor detail that not one of us had ever raised a child. I made a mental note to take her aside later and attempt to beg out of my guardianship.

  Joey kept interrupting our discussion, pestering us about wanting to see the rest of the house.

  “Joey, love,” Suzanne said to her brother as if addressing a child, “you spent most of your life here. What could you possibly want to see?”

  He stood quietly for a moment in our midst, then explained, “Things look different. There’s been other people living here,” which made me feel like an intruder, an invader of ancestral ground.

  Suzanne looked about, gesturing toward the various rooms visible from the hall. “But, Joey. Everything’s been beautifully restored. Professor and Mrs. Tawkin were very careful about that. If you ask me, the place looks even better than when we grew up here.”

  Joey stamped a foot. “But it’s not the same!” At forty-three, a year older than I, he still exhibited the petulant behavior that had marred my boyhood visit, when he threw tantrums at the slightest provocation.

  Worse still, I vividly remembered that he had frequently threatened, “I’ll hold my breath till I turn blue and die!” Sometimes he attempted to do this, which threw the whole household into a panic, and, on one occasion, he actually blacked out. Mark, his older brother who was home for Christmas from his first semester of college, had just returned to the house from swimming at the local Y. Ten-year-old Joey was lying unconscious in the upstairs hallway with everyone circling him and yelling. Mark bounded up the stairs, dropping his gym bag as he fell to his knees and gave his younger brother mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I stood there mesmerized by the whole procedure, watching as my older cousin seemed to swallow Joey’s mouth. I was too young to identify the emotion that welled within me, but it was base jealousy—I wished that I had been the one there on the floor, straddled by those khaki pants, my lips being gulped by Mark Quatrain.

  Joey now stamped his foot again. “I want to see my room!”

  I said to the others, “We could tour the house—why not?” Joey’s mood immediately brightened, and I suggested to him, “Let’s start down here, in the kitchen. Wouldn’t you like to see Hazel?”

  “Sure!”

  I told Suzanne, “I’d like you to meet someone, my new managing editor from Milwaukee. He seems like a great guy. Last time I saw him, he was helping Hazel.”

  “Lead the way, Mark,” Suzanne told me. “You’re lord of the manor now.”

  So the six of us (Suzanne and Joey, Roxanne and Carl, Neil and me) piled into the kitchen, where Hazel had taken a break from her basting in order to feed Thad a sample of her mincemeat pie. The kid must have liked Hazel more than the pie, for he made a polite effort to swallow a few of the ugly brown gobs that he pushed around the plate with his fork.

  “Suzie! Joey!” said Hazel as we entered. “Merry Christmas, my darlings.” Joey rushed to hug her, and Suzanne leaned through their embrace to give Hazel a kiss as the woman wiped a nostalgic tear from her cheek, a tribute to Christmases past.

  Everyone talked about the delicious smells, gabbed about the menu, offered to help. Suzanne noticed that the Tawkins had updated the kitchen appliances, and Hazel conceded that the changes were a distinct improvement. Roxanne told us, “Historic preservation is a laudable goal, but in my book, it ends at the kitchen door.” We all laughed our agreement.

  I glanced about, looking for Parker, whom I intended to introduce to Suzanne, but he was no longer in the room. Then I thought of something else.

  “I just remembered,” I told Suzanne. “When I bought the house back from the Tawkins, they mentioned having found some things in storage here that may be of sentimental interest to the family—some old toys, the three Quatrain children’s baby books, that sort of thing. I’m barely settled yet, and I haven’t run across any of it, but when I do, I’ll send it all over to you.”

  “Thank you, Mark. That would be most kind,” said Suzanne while helping herself to a glass of wine that Carl had just decanted for dinner. I poured a glass for myself, as did Carl and Neil. Joey joined Thad, having some milk. Hazel and Roxanne drank nothing.

  Hazel said, “When things calm down some next week, I’ll do a thorough cleaning and keep an eye out for the toys and such.” Wistfully, she added, “If you don’t mind, Suzie, I’d love to take a look through those baby books.”

  “Of course, Hazel,” Suzanne answered, then noticed that Thad was looking at her with dumb curiosity. She said to him, “You know what a baby book is, don’t you, Thad? It’s sort of a scrapbook that parents fill with hospital footprints, locks of hair, first words, report cards. I still keep yours up to date, honey.”

  Predictably, Suzanne’s doting only annoyed the kid, who grunted while grinding more pie with his fork.

  Joey finished his milk. “Come on,” he urged us. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  We all looked at each other and shrugged—there was no point in putting off the tour any longer. Joey was already in the doorway and ready to go exploring. Hazel said, “That’s a fine idea, Joey. If you’ll all be on your way, I can get some work done.” She turned her back to us and began mashing potatoes. The rest of us filed out of the kitchen like chastened schoolchildren, following Joey into the hall.

  Suzanne leaned to tell me quietly, “Hazel is a treasure, really. You’ll grow to love her, just as we all do.”

  Unconvinced, I summoned an I-hope-so smile.

  Our little crowd made its way through the hallway past the dining room, living room, and den. In the entry hall, we gawked at the tree for a
moment, then started up the stairs. As I did this, I noticed the back hall doorway open. Parker stepped indoors with two bags of groceries, apparently last-minute supplies for Hazel.

  “Parker!” I called. “Come meet the Quatrains.”

  As I herded the group back down to the Christmas tree, Parker hesitated at the back door, hefting the bags as if to say that he was needed in the kitchen. “Come on, Parker”—I laughed—“this’ll only take a moment.” And I led Suzanne a few steps down the hall to meet him.

  Parker looked about for somewhere to put the groceries, placing them on the floor near the kitchen doorway; then he stepped toward us, still bundled up for the cold weather, complete with muffler and knit cap. His beard was frosty, his sunglasses fogged.

  As he removed his cap and shook his wavy hair, I told Suzanne, “This is Parker Trent, whom I’ve hired as my new managing editor at the Register.” As he unwound the scarf from his neck, I told him, “And this is my cousin, Suzanne Quatrain, chairman of Quatro Press.”

  She extended her hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Trent. Welcome to Dumont.”

  He shook her hand and removed his sunglasses, telling her, “It’s an honor, Miss Quatrain. After Mark offered me the job here, I did a little research on Quatro. I discovered that Dumont’s largest industry has enjoyed a boom period under your recent leadership.” He smiled. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” she said, sounding a little flustered—I wasn’t sure if she was responding to Parker’s flattering words or his physical charm. “But, please,” she added, “do call me Suzanne.”

  “And I, Suzanne, am simply Parker.”

  She paused in thought. “So,” she said, “you’re a researcher.”

  “A highly skilled one,” I answered for Parker. “He’s been responsible for some first-rate journalism, and I’m eager to put him to work here in Dumont.”

  He granted, “Research has always interested me, and I guess it is, in fact, one of my strong points.”

  She nodded. “After you settle into the job, perhaps we could talk. I’ve been involved in a little research project of my own lately, and I could use some advice.”

  Unzipping his coat, he said, “Glad to help, if I can. What’s the focus of your project?”

  “It’s of a scientific nature. Specifically, DNA.”

  “Sounds interesting. Maybe we could—”

  “I’m bored,” Joey interrupted. “Can we please go upstairs now?”

  The rest of us laughed. Joey had been sidelined long enough, so we all headed upstairs. Parker ran back to deliver the groceries to Hazel, then joined our group, draping his heavy ski jacket over the banister at the foot of the stairs. Arriving in the upstairs corridor, we toured the rooms on either side of the hall—six bedrooms.

  The two most lavish of these were originally occupied by my uncle and aunt, Edwin and Peggy Quatrain. While separate bedrooms for a married couple now strike me as a civilized notion, it was highly unusual back in the sixties when I first visited the house, and, even as a boy, I was curious as to why Mr. and Mrs. Quatrain didn’t sleep together. Now, Neil and I had claimed my uncle’s room as our own, where we did indeed sleep together. We decided to use my aunt’s beautiful room as our principal guest room, and it was occupied that weekend by Roxanne and Carl.

  Of the four remaining bedrooms, three were originally for each of the Quatrain children, and the last was the guest room where I slept as a boy. (Hazel’s little suite was still in its original location, downstairs off the kitchen, except that now she lived there alone, as she had since the death of her husband, Hank the handyman.) Now these four smaller bedrooms were mostly in disarray, except for the room that had been my cousin Mark’s, which Parker Trent had spruced up as his temporary quarters until able to lease an apartment of his own.

  As we passed through the hall, Suzanne paused to look inside her room. It still had the pink floral wallpaper and frilly tieback curtains she had known as a girl, and I expected her to linger in the doorway, sharing with us some fond memory of awaking there with the giddy excitement of a long-ago Christmas morning. But she said nothing. She simply stepped back from the room, and it was impossible to read any thoughts whatever from the blank expression on her face.

  Joey was eager to see his old room, and he raced ahead of the crowd to open its door. We followed and watched as he wandered to the center of the room, little more than a clearing amid the piles of boxes and other miscellany that had been stored there. I expected him to react with indignation at the discovery that his childhood sanctuary was now used as a junk room, but, to the contrary, his face lit up with fascination, and I remembered that even as a boy, he defied Hazel’s best efforts to bring some order to his constant mess.

  “Hey!” he said. “Look at this, Thad.” We all craned into the room as Thad joined his uncle, helping him extract something from the bottom of a box. As they worked together, I realized that Thad—who had thus far comported himself as an absolute snot—was actually capable of displaying a spark of interest in someone else’s life. It was also clear from his manner that Thad liked his uncle Joey, sympathetic to his disability.

  “It’s my typewriter,” said Joey as they lifted it out of the carton. “I wondered where it went.” And sure enough, there was the old Smith-Corona portable that Joey had lent to me during my visit. He carried it to his bed and flumped down with it, setting it on the same plaid bedspread that had remained there for years. He blew some dust off the machine, rolled a piece of paper into its carriage, and started awkwardly but patiently pecking at the keys—his technique had improved some in the thirty-three years since I last saw him attempt this. Thad tapped his uncle on the shoulder, then placed the typewriter on a child-size desk at the bedside, as if to tell Joey that he could work more easily there. Joey smiled at his nephew, sat on the little chair, and continued to peck away. Moments later, he yanked the paper from the machine and rushed over to present it to me. It read, “Merry Christmas, everybody. Have a happy New Year, Mark,” printed half red, half black. I was surprised to see that Joey had spelled and punctuated his message correctly. While I still harbored some serious philosophical quibbles with the Catholic education that both Joey and I had been subjected to, I was forever grateful to those nuns for their unrelenting focus on grammar.

  “Excellent,” I told Joey. “I didn’t realize our family was riddled with writers.” He grinned proudly and showed his brief missive to the others in the hall, who wished him a merry Christmas in return.

  Continuing down the hallway, we stopped at the door to Parker’s bedroom. Joey rambled to the others, “…and this was my brother Mark’s room, but he’s dead now.”

  “Yes, Joey,” his sister Suzanne told him, “we all know that.”

  But Neil, Roxanne, Carl, and Parker all flashed me a quizzical glance—this was a detail of family history that I found difficult to discuss, that I had simply never mentioned. So I mumbled, “Vietnam,” a single, sufficient word of explanation that prompted the others to nod their understanding.

  In that quiet moment, standing there looking through Mark Quatrain’s doorway, I wondered what he would look like if he were still alive that day, if he were there with us to celebrate my move to Dumont. Would he still wear those khaki slacks that triggered my own lifelong fetish? Would he muss my hair again? Would I feel the same erotic charge from the touch of his hand?

  “Hey,” said Joey, popping up behind me. I froze, exactly as I had done on the afternoon when Joey caught me looking through this same doorway, staring at his older brother’s ass. “Hey!” he repeated, just as before. “Wanna see the upstairs?”

  “What is upstairs?” chimed Roxanne, who had not yet wandered up there.

  “I was wondering about that myself,” said Carl.

  “There’s one way to find out,” Suzanne suggested, gesturing toward the front staircase, which continued up to the third floor. “Follow me,” she said. “I’ll be happy to show it to you.” Then she stopped herself, adding, “That
is, of course, if Mark doesn’t mind.” She had forgotten that, while this was her childhood home, the house had a new owner.

  “Of course I don’t mind,” I told her. “Do lead the way.”

  And she did, escorting the eight of us up the front stairs.

  But in my own mind, not far below the surface of consciousness, I was still staring into Mark Quatrain’s bedroom. Joey still asked, “Wanna see the upstairs?” He grabbed my elbow and started tugging me toward the steep back stairway.

  Barely above a whisper, I asked, “Are you sure it’s all right? Your parents acted so weird about it.”

  “Sure,” said Joey, “it’s not as if it’s locked or anything.”

  Even so, there was something sneaky about the way we climbed those back stairs. As he reached to open the door, I expected to feel a rush of cold air from the unused top floor, but it was plenty warm up there.

  To my surprise, the door led to a kitchen, which looked a lot like the one downstairs, but with a much higher ceiling. There was no food around, but there was a toaster and such on the counter, and you could see gold-edged dishes through the glass doors of the cupboards. Everything was neat, nothing was dusty, but you could tell that no one lived there. “C’mon,” said Joey, heading through a doorway toward the front of the house.

  I followed. A hall—with a bedroom on one side, an office on the other—led to the main room and its arched window across the front wall. I stood gaping at the vast space. The ceilings were slanted, like an attic’s, only much, much higher.

  The furniture and paintings and rugs all looked like they came out of Mom’s decorating magazines. At the back end of the room, chairs faced a brick fireplace that was tall enough to walk into. It had shiny brass things like big chessmen that kept the logs in place, and there was a metal rack that held a bunch of long fireplace tools. Along the side walls, there were rows and rows of built-in bookcases with cabinets beneath them. There must have been tons of books, but now and then there were gaps on the shelves, and these were filled with old things like candlesticks and framed pictures and marble statues of guys’ heads. At the front end of the room, everything faced the wide half-circle window. Through it, you could see the bare branches of the treetops and, beyond them, most of the town and, farther still, fields. Near the window, there was an unusual railing that looked like the banister of the front staircase down in the entry hall, but it didn’t go anywhere. Every few feet along the top of the railing there was a fancy piece of carved light-colored wood that looked like some kind of plant.