Body Language

by Michael Craft

  “Let’s pick up the pace,” I suggested. “It’ll keep us warmer.” And I broke into a running stride, pulling ahead.

  Neil easily caught up with me, running at my side. “Remember that run we took, three Christmases ago on a mountainside in Phoenix?” He turned his head to look at me, grinning.

  “Our first run,” I reminisced. “We ran without shirts. It got hot.”

  “I’ll say. And when we got back to my place…” he reminded me.

  He didn’t need to finish. It was the first time we had sex—the first time, in fact, I had sex with a man. I was hooked. We both were. Within a week, Neil decided to uproot his career and move halfway across the country to be with me. And now, it seemed, I was forcing him to chase me again.

  “Hey!” It was Thad’s voice. “Wait up!”

  Neil and I stopped and turned, running in place. Thad was a half block behind, hindered by bad shoes and atrocious form. Though he was far younger and considerably leaner than either Neil or me, we had the advantage of being much better trained, and he found it impossible to keep up with us. I hadn’t meant to lord our performance over him, and I suddenly wondered if we had wounded his pride. On the contrary, though, I found that he was impressed.

  “For a couple of… old guys,” he panted, “you’re not bad.”

  I wondered if the words in his mind were really “couple of fairies,” then chided myself for ascribing these prejudices to him—there was nothing in his tone of voice to suggest that his comment was laced with anything darker than good-natured razzing. “Come on,” I told him. “No one’s trying to win any medals today.” And we fell into a less strenuous run together, Neil and I pacing ourselves so as not to outdistance Thad, who trotted between us.

  “Try not to move your arms so much,” I suggested to Thad. “Keep your forearms parallel to the ground, just above your waist, letting them swing naturally with your gait—no need to pump them like a power-walker.” He did so, and his form improved dramatically.

  Neil added, “Even though it’s cold, don’t clench your fists inside your mittens. Focus all your energy on your legs—relax everything else.” Thad’s stride immediately lengthened.

  “The difference between walking and running,” I told him between breaths, “is that when you walk, one foot is always on the ground, sometimes both. But when you run, both feet are never on the ground, sometimes neither—there’s a moment when you’re actually aloft. Take those thousands of moments aloft, splice them together, and you’ve spent quite a bit of time in midair. This may sound a little Zen, but running is a lot like flying.”

  “Cool,” he said, and he meant it. Chances are, he had never thought of running as anything other than school-enforced drudgery—of course it was awful. But when he let himself slip into the primal grace of the act, he saw it in an entirely different context, one of almost hedonistic pleasure. He didn’t explain this to me. There was no need to verbalize it. I could recall the exact moment in my life (I was not much older than he was) when these same revelations astounded me and forever changed my attitude toward the simple, innate drive to place one foot in front of the other, fast.

  The impact of this discovery was heightened for Thad as our course led us into the park—the timing was perfect. The crunch of our feet on the frozen trail signaled that we had left the minor urban agonies of the town behind us and had entered a tranquil domain of tamed nature, placed there, it seemed, for no purpose other than to please us. Even the sting of cold air in our lungs took on a different quality, a dash of pine that insinuated mint more than sap.

  Ahead, around a turn of the lagoon, lay the pavilion where I had taken refuge against the dark a few days earlier with Parker, where he mussed my hair, igniting the same erotic charge that had confused me as a boy when my older cousin, Mark Quatrain, touched me. “Up there,” I told Thad and Neil. “Let’s rest.” Let’s talk, I meant, but did not say it.

  We soon settled onto the same bench where I’d sat with Parker, in the roofless alcove facing the lagoon. Instinctively, Thad took the middle spot, between Neil and me, as he had done while we were running. We squeezed tight to each other, not only because it was so cold, but also because the bench was only so wide, making looser accommodations impossible. For a long minute, we said nothing, watching the vapor of our collective breath dissipate into the glacial scenery.

  “Thad,” I said at last, turning to look at him, “we really need to talk about your future.” He nodded but said nothing, so I continued. “I know you’re not happy that your mother appointed me as your guardian. And I doubt if you’re any happier that Miriam Westerman wants the courts to put you in her custody. I have to be honest with you—I felt totally unprepared to take on these responsibilities, and let’s face it, you and I didn’t hit it off very well at first. So I’ve had mixed feelings about fighting Miriam. But Neil and I have talked it over, and we truly think that you’d be better off with us than with her, and we’re willing to go to bat for you. But that would be pointless if, in fact, you want us out of your life. So we need some direction, Thad. Should we save the courts some trouble and just let Miriam have her way?”

  Thad’s head fell to his hands. “No!” he yelled into his mittens, then began to sob. “God, no—please!”

  Neil put his arm around him. “If you don’t end up with Miriam, you’re stuck with us. So we all need to be blunt about a certain issue and come to an understanding. Please, Thad, look at me. This is important.”

  Thad looked up. Tears had already made frosty trails on his cheeks.

  With the fingers of his glove, Neil brushed the flecks of ice from Thad’s face, telling him, “Mark and I are gay, Thad. You’re well aware of that, of course. And I think you understand that we’re lovers. Maybe you’ve never known any openly gay people, and your friends may have led you to believe that we’re—what?—perverted scum. In the short time you’ve known us, have you come to understand why we could never tolerate such an attitude—in you or in anyone else? If we’re to stand any chance of living together, happily, as a family, you can think whatever you like, but you’ll no longer have the freedom to say things that Mark and I find hateful.”

  Thad broke into tears again and swiped them with his mittens—green wool fibers stuck to his icy lashes. “Neil,” he promised, “I’ll never say those things again.” He turned to me. “I won’t think them, either, Mark. I don’t think them. At least I don’t think I think them. At least I’ll try.”

  It was my turn to put my arm around him, and I pulled him close, resting his head on my shoulder. “I know this won’t be easy for you—at school, with friends.”

  “They’ll just have to get used to it,” he told me with the startling insight of common sense.

  Neil interjected, “First things first, guys. We’ve still got Miriam Westerman to tangle with, and from everything I’ve seen, she can be pretty fierce.”

  The prospects of life with Miriam dropped Thad into a state of numb panic. I reminded both of them, “We’ve got Roxanne Exner on our side, and she can be pretty fierce, too. The important thing is: Now we know where we stand, the three of us. Neil and I think we can handle the responsibilities of sudden parenthood, and Thad thinks he can handle the practical dilemma of having two dads. Right?”

  Thad and Neil looked at each other, then at me. “Right,” they said, decisively, in unison.

  I smiled, standing. “Let’s head back to the house,” I started to tell them, but I rephrased my suggestion: “Let’s go home.”

  They got up, and we all stretched a bit, limbering our chilled joints for the return run. We were about to take off when Thad stopped us. “Hey, guys, just a minute.” And he held out his arms, wanting a hug. Cold as it was, Neil and I could have melted as we stepped to either side of him and shared a happy embrace.

  So we started on our way, running three abreast, returning to the house that Thad now wanted to call his home. If we prevailed in court and Thad were to end up living there with Neil and me, it wou
ld not be the first time that the house on Prairie Street was the setting for an unconventional living arrangement.

  I remembered the day three years ago when Elliot Coop and I showed the house to the Tawkins. Elliot told me that the upstairs apartment had been built for my uncle Edwin’s original business partner, while he and his young family lived on the lower two floors. “An odd setup,” Elliot described the arrangement, “but it seemed to work.” At least for a while.

  Was the “setup” we were now contemplating—Thad, Neil, and I—any less odd? Would it prove more successful? I assured myself that all three of us seemed determined to build a semblance of a family. Besides, within two or three years, Thad would most likely move away to college and begin building an adult life of his own. Neil and I would be back where we started, just the two of us. For now, though, Thad needed us. And though my commitment to his mother was little more than an empty promise made on the spur of the moment ten years ago, it was a commitment nonetheless. Thad, Neil, and I were doing the right thing, I decided, headed in the right direction.

  “Where are you headed?” Neil called to me with a laugh.

  We had left the park and were now running through our neighborhood, only a few blocks from the house. Immersed in my thoughts, I didn’t notice Prairie Street and failed to turn. Neil and Thad stood at the corner, several paces behind me. Chagrined, I returned to the corner, suggesting, “Let’s walk the rest of the way.”

  Our walk was more of a scamper, as the weather was not conducive to strolling. Neil and I discussed dinner plans—we still had a houseful of guests to entertain. Thad walked between us, but did not take part in the conversation, seemingly occupied with thoughts of his own.

  Then, suddenly animated, he said, “Mark, I was wondering. Once everything is settled—I mean with Miriam Westerman, the court stuff—maybe I could just move into an apartment with some friends. There’s enough money, isn’t there?”

  “It’s not a question of money,” Neil answered for me, explaining to Thad that he was too young to live on his own. Thad didn’t give up the idea easily, though, forcing Neil to persist in his opposition.

  This brought to mind the argument I’d overheard between Thad and Hazel regarding the boy’s confrontation of his mother with the same proposal. Now, taken aback that Thad would raise this issue so soon after our heart-to-heart and hug-fest, I had to wonder if he had warmed up to me on the hunch that I’d be a pushover for his plan. Was that it—did he really think of me as a weak-willed sissy pushover? Was he merely using me as part of a scheme to achieve his own independence? Was he obsessed with his independence? And how far might he go to achieve it?

  As we walked up the sidewalk toward the front porch of the house, Neil told him, “Besides, there’s no point in discussing this now. Wait until after tomorrow. We’ll all have clearer heads.”

  “Why?” he asked. “What’s tomorrow?”

  “Thad”—Neil stopped in his tracks—“it’s your mother’s funeral.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  Because New Year’s fell on a Saturday, Monday was a holiday, and most of Dumont showed up for the funeral of Suzanne Quatrain, chairman and principal stockholder of Quatro Press, the town’s largest employer. Saint Cecille Church was filled to capacity—beyond, in fact, with the crowd spilling out to the street.

  Thad, Joey, and Hazel were seated in the front pew. Attorney Elliot Coop joined Neil and me directly behind them with Roxanne and Carl. Parker sat nearby with Glee Savage, publisher Barret Logan, and some other people from the Register. Across the nave, on the other side of Suzanne’s white-draped casket, the front pews were occupied by Quatro executives, city and county officials, and a pinch-lipped Miriam Westerman, who had caused a scene with an usher to get a decent seat.

  The service was lavish if not heartfelt, the music heartfelt if not profuse, the flowers profuse if not beautiful. The whole show was a far cry from the Requiem Masses I’d known as a boy, when I donned cassock and surplice, memorized the Latin, and assisted at such rites. They may have been grim, but those black-trimmed Tridentine funerals at least made it clear that someone had died. This memorial struck me as little more than a confused mishmash of feel-good theology, happy bromides, and sappy folk songs. If it weren’t for the coffin in the aisle, you’d have thought someone was getting married, not buried.

  Father Nicholas Winter, pastor of Saint Cecille’s, moved from the altar to the lectern to read the Gospel. At its conclusion, the people sat, awaiting his eulogy.

  Having known the priest’s name but not having met him, I’d expected him to look something like Santa Claus. The image conjured by the name, however, was quickly dispelled by the man’s physical reality. Shrunken, beardless, and dark-haired, vested not in red but in gold, he spoke with an affected accent that seemed more Episcopalian than jolly.

  “An allegiant child of the church,” he began, “has been brutally taken from our midst. Yet in leaving this life, departing on her journey to the next, she has come home to Holy Mother Church.”

  Right. I half expected thuds of protest to sound from Suzanne’s coffin, but of course she couldn’t hear the priest’s words—not in this life, nor from “the next.” The priest surely knew that Suzanne would have laughed at his tribute. She had broken from the church thirty years ago (long before I myself would bolt), and while I could not say with certainty, I presumed that she had not set foot in Saint Cecille’s since. Now, they had to lug her here in a box—“allegiant child,” indeed.

  Perhaps the priest had taken this tack in order to promote the Big Lie, rewriting the facts of Suzanne’s life in hopes that her death might lend credence to his own faith. Did he really believe the nonsense he preached? Or was he merely toying with us? Perhaps his words were chosen to gall Miriam Westerman, to rub her face in the victory he enjoyed, having won the right to preside at this public spectacle. I’d hold it to the man’s credit if, in fact, his rhetoric was inspired by petty pride instead of piety.

  Whatever his motivation, Miriam reacted predictably. She fidgeted and fumed across the aisle, and at several junctures in the sermon, she appeared ready to stand and dispute the priest’s words. I weighed this prospect with mixed emotions. The outburst would lend a nifty twist to the tiresome blathering, but it would only upset those who had genuinely come to grieve. In any event, Miriam summoned the self-restraint to stew privately.

  The emotions of others in the church ran the gamut, exemplified by those who sat in front of me—Hazel sobbed openly, Joey sniffled, and Thad listened dully with dry-eyed stoicism. Most of the congregation sat as I did, quietly respectful, but lacking any display of sentiment. It was impossible, of course, to read the minds of the hundreds who filled the pews that morning. The people of Dumont felt the loss of Suzanne in differing contexts. To a few, she was family; to others, a friend; to most, an influential business figure. To some degree, her death was mourned by all—all, I speculated, save one. Chances were, there was a killer in the church, miming grief. But who?

  I was tempted to take out my pen and make a few notes, but the priest’s words distracted me, and I thought it ill-mannered to flaunt my disbelief.

  “Let us pray, then,” concluded Father Winter, “that our dearly departed sister”—he filled in the blank—“Suzanne—will look down upon us with favor from her heavenly home, where she enjoys eternal happiness with all the saints, with the Blessed Virgin Mary, with our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”

  Amid a smatter of amens, the priest returned to the altar and prepared to utter the long formula that would turn bread, he claimed, into God.

  The rest of the service was familiar and uneventful, save for the awkward logistics of distributing Communion to the throngs who snaked forward, squeezing past Suzanne’s casket. When at last it was over, the organ thundered a recessional, and Father Winter led the casket back to the doors of the church, altar boys churning clouds of incense in its wake. Those seated in the front pews followed him, so I was among those first to leave.r />
  Coughing back tears, caused not by grief but by the pungent smoke that engulfed us, I slowly made my way along the center aisle toward the open doors, eager to breathe the clean, cold air. Everyone turned as we passed, and it felt as if the hundreds of unknown faces were looking at me, but of course it was Suzanne’s remains that were the focus of their attention.

  The organ continued its somber march, overlaid by horn sounds that mimicked the trumpets of doomsday. While the organist’s performance was reasonably skilled, the trumpeter’s was not, sounding eerily dissonant above the stately melody, more like a car alarm than music. As we drew nearer the door and under the choir loft, the offensive horn noise grew louder, and I realized that it was a car alarm. In the next instant, I recognized that it was my car alarm.

  Good God. Fishing in my pocket for the key fob, I rushed ahead of the procession and out the door, preparing to silence the damn thing.

  Out in the parking lot, across the street from where the hearse and limousines idled at the curb, I saw a couple of squad cars and a group of sheriff’s deputies near my car, presumably trying to quell the disturbance. Jogging toward them, I pushed the fob button, and as soon as I was in range, the honking ceased. Spotting Doug Pierce near the back of my car, I approached him, mortified, ready to offer profuse apologies.

  But then I noticed that the cops wouldn’t care that I had silenced the blaring alarm, for, in fact, they had tripped it. My trunk gaped open, its lock picked by a police locksmith. Pierce held something in his arms, bundled in a blanket. Suddenly apprehensive, I asked, “What’s going on, Doug?”

  Before answering, he turned to mumble instructions to his deputies. While I waited, the congregation poured out of the church and, attracted by the commotion in the parking lot, herded past the hearse and crowded toward us. Pierce turned back to me and unfurled the blanket. There in his arms was the missing artichoke finial, the bloodstained king-thing that had killed Suzanne Quatrain. He told me, “Just before the funeral, we got an anonymous tip from a man, traced to a phone booth. He told us the weapon was in your trunk.”