Reaching behind me into the open credenza, I removed the envelope that was kept there next to the box of dossiers, then held it in front of Pierce. “Would you like to read it?” I asked him.
He paused. He didn’t answer, didn’t nod. He carefully took the envelope from my fingers, handling it as if it were thinnest glass, as if it might shatter at his touch. It was addressed, simply, “Mr. Mark Manning, Jr., Chicago.” He slipped out the letter, unfolded its pages, and began to read the words that I’d pondered so often during countless bouts of introspection:
Dearest Mark,
I don’t like secrets. They put walls between people. They are lies of omission. But sometimes our best judgment is tempered by our worst frailties, and the laws of conventionality are allowed to rule.
In the name of convention, in the name of “what’s expected,” a secret has been kept from you. It involves me, and I feel shame—not for my past actions, but for my silence. Perhaps you have already figured this out, but you deserve to hear it, plainly, from me.
It was your father who used to live upstairs on Prairie Street. He and I were more than friends. For years, we were partners—in building the business, in building the house, and yes, most certainly in bed. We loved each other. And I never stopped loving him, not after he moved away, not after he died.
You can be proud to know that your father was openly homosexual—as open as anyone dared to be back in that dark age, that black-and-white era. I worshiped the man, but never had his strength, so I followed convention and married Peggy, naming our first son after him. My sister Edie (your mother-to-be) knew the whole story, but because she loved Mark (your father-to-be) as much as I did, she was happy to be his “armpiece.” Though she did not live with us on Prairie Street, she rounded out our daring foursome in public.
Even in a house that was custom designed to fit this extraordinary arrangement, day-to-day life was touchy. But we all determined to make it work, so there were unspoken, inviolable rules regarding the where-and-when of your father and me. Late one night, however, after an urgently needed transgression, all hell broke loose when Peggy caught me sneaking down from the third floor wearing little more than my still-obvious state of arousal. The subsequent uproar utterly shredded our delicate web of contrivance. Under those circumstances, in those times, your father simply had to leave. So he married my sister and moved with her to Illinois, selling out his share of the business to me. But he never sought reimbursement for his share of the house.
So you see, Mark, all along, the house has rightfully belonged more to you than to any one of my own children. More important, you are its spiritual heir. I used to tell you that you were “special” and “not like the others.” I assume you have deciphered my meaning, and I hope you have forgiven my presumption.
How did I know? We have a sense about these things, don’t we? What’s more, you showed me that little story about your infatuation with “Marshall.” Though cleverly constructed (for the work of a nine-year-old), it could not withstand the scrutiny of a discerning old closet queen. I hope the passion and honesty of your youthful confusion has long since affirmed itself in a happy and proud self-awareness. Take advantage of these more enlightened times. Simply be who you truly are, without compromise—even if by some miracle, God forbid, you’ve turned out straight!
Dearest Mark, I doubt that you will want to live in Dumont. You’d suffocate here. It’s a closet—a closet with streets. So, what will you do with the house? If I were you, I’d sell it. Buy a new car. Buy a new house—hell, buy a houseboy! And have yourself a ball.
Love,
Uncle Edwin
Sheriff Pierce looked up from the letter. He folded it, returning it neatly to its envelope. I was not sure how I expected him to react, what I expected him to say. When he paused in thought, I felt compelled to comment, “There’s been a lot of research lately about a ‘gay gene,’ and there’s convincing evidence that it’s passed along through the mother’s side of the family. I’ve long intuited a half-baked theory about gay uncles—so many of us seem to have them—and Edwin’s letter places me in those ranks. On top of which, my own father…”
Pierce interrupted my genetics lecture with a halting gesture of both hands. “You’ve done your uncle proud, Mark,” he told me. Then he grinned. “I’ve seen the car. So, where’s the houseboy?”
That afternoon, I blustered into the Register building, chilled marrow-deep by the short walk from the curb to the door. Greeting Connie behind the receptionist’s window, I asked whether Elliot Coop had arrived. Hearing that he was waiting for me, I loped up the stairs to the editorial offices.
The old lawyer had already spread Barret Logan’s desk with the last set of documents that would make next week’s change of ownership official. I had phoned ahead, asking Glee Savage to be on hand with a photographer, and they were all assembled inside Logan’s glass-walled office, ready to witness the moment of transition. Logan was dressed, I noted, in a black three-piece suit—especially austere, even for him—and I couldn’t help wondering if his mood was funereal.
Removing my overcoat while crossing the newsroom, I spotted Parker Trent conferring with an editor, and I waved him over, inviting him to join us. “The venerable old Register is about to usher in a new era,” I told him, “and I want you to be a part of it.”
Parker said, “The staff seems psyched for the change now. The rumor mill must have been thrown into high gear when word got out that Logan was selling, but it’s been an orderly transition, and everyone seems eager to move onward.”
Under my breath, I asked, “Even with two new bosses who are gay?”
“If that bothers people,” Parker assured me, “they haven’t said boo.”
We entered Barret Logan’s office to the greetings of all present. Draping my coat over a chair, I wondered where Logan routinely hung his own coat—it was not apparent. Did he have a closet somewhere? Maybe a private bath? Within a few days, this office would be mine, and I had never taken a close look at it.
Elliot Coop told me, “I believe you’ll find everything in order, Mr. Manning. The financial instruments have been duly executed, and with merely a few pen strokes, the assets will be transferred.” He cleared his throat with a prim cough.
Logan laughed. “Mark, what Elliot means is: out of your pocket, into mine.” If I had feared that the retiring publisher might react to this ceremony with morose sentimentality, I was wrong. He seemed positively giddy.
“Now then, Barret,” Elliot clucked, “don’t forget: It’s a fair exchange. Both you and Mr. Manning profit from this agreement.”
“Yes, Elliot, yes,” said Logan with good-natured impatience. “Let’s sign.”
And with that, he drew a pen from the holder on his desk; I removed the Montblanc from my jacket and uncapped it. Elliot pointed to a series of Xs marked on the documents, and Logan and I began the ritual of signing them. With Elliot, Glee, and Parker watching, the photographer recorded the big moment with repeated bursts of his strobe. Other staffers gathered beyond the glass wall, guessing the purpose of the event.
Glee had her steno pad poised. When the signing was complete and we all took a deep breath, she asked, “Well, Mr. Logan, how do you feel?”
“Rich!” he answered without hesitation. He added, “And you can quote me.”
After a round of handshakes and mutual congratulations, Logan told me, “If you care to move some things in on Sunday, I’ll try to finish clearing out on Saturday.” With those words, the change of power was no longer an abstraction, but real, almost tangible. A hush fell over the room.
“Take all the time you need,” I told Logan with a smile. As an afterthought, I said, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay on for a while on a consulting basis?”
His shook his head—his mind was made up. “No, Mark. You and I both know that I’d just be in the way. You’ll be far better off learning to run things without anyone looking over your shoulder. And I have every confide
nce that you’re the right man for the job.”
It was a humbling moment. All I could say was, “Thank you, Barret.”
Minutes later, Logan was due at an editorial meeting—one of the last of many thousands he had chaired during his career—and Parker left with him, to take notes on the routine that I would soon be assuming. Left alone in Logan’s office with Elliot and Glee, I retrieved my coat from the chair where I’d left it.
“Why don’t you stick around, boss?” asked Glee. “I thought I might show you the art department’s layout for Sunday’s front-page feature.”
“I’d like to see it,” I told her, “but maybe tomorrow. Right now, I have to run out for groceries—Joey and Thad are coming over for dinner tonight. I’ve got Hazel busy with a cleaning project, so I volunteered to shop.” I was tempted to explain to Glee that the evening also held the distinct possibility of Joey’s arrest, but I thought it best not to broach this matter in front of Elliot Coop. As the Quatrains’ longtime family attorney, he might feel compelled to take preemptive action on Joey’s behalf. Whatever was to transpire that night, I wanted it kept low-key, without the involvement of lawyers.
Elliot said to me, “As long as you’re leaving, Mr. Manning, I’ll walk you to the car. I have a rather amusing story to relate, regarding Joey.”
With my curiosity piqued (this “amusing story” was offered by the same man who had handed me my uncle’s coming-out letter three years earlier), I slipped my coat on, helped Elliot with his, and we started out the office door together.
But Glee leaned into the hall with more on her mind. “By the way, Mark, I’m looking forward to Monday. It’ll be fun.”
I stopped, turning back to her, confused. “It’ll be interesting,” I conceded, “but I doubt if my first day on the job will be ‘fun.’”
“No”—she laughed—“Monday night. Parker invited me out to the dinner celebrating the takeover.”
“That does sound like fun,” I said, “but I’m afraid I know nothing about it.”
“Oops.” She blushed. “Gosh, I’m sorry, Mark. I just assumed you’d be part of the party. Maybe it’s a surprise—and I spoiled it.”
“Maybe it’s just the two of you,” I suggested.
She gave a low chortle. “I should be so lucky.”
She could fantasize all she wanted about the prospects of a cozy dinner with Parker, but her wishful thinking didn’t much interest me. Besides, I was already feeling warm, standing there in my heavy winter coat. I told her, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow about that layout,” then headed through the newsroom, toward the stairs, with Elliot.
The old lawyer tittered, “It really was most amusing, Mr. Manning.”
I smiled, prepared to be amused. “What happened, Elliot? Since Suzanne’s funeral, Joey’s behavior has been a bit peculiar—I mean, peculiar even for Joey. He hasn’t been to work in a week.”
As we started down the stairs, Elliot agreed, “My yes, indeed. You see, Mr. Manning, he’s been off on another of his—how shall I put it?—tangents. As you know, Joey previously entertained unrealistic notions about purchasing both your house and this newspaper.” He made a broad gesture, encompassing the building that surrounded us. We now stood in the lobby near the door to the street.
“Well,” Elliot continued, “in a similar vein, just yesterday he visited me at my office, wanting to establish an extravagant endowment fund for the benefit of some African orphanage he’d heard about in church last Sunday from Father Winter. He was genuinely distraught by the story of these starving babies in some war-torn banana republic. He said that these poor children needed his money more than he did.” Elliot paused, choking back a wave of emotion.
I thought aloud, “He truly is a kindhearted soul. What a shame he’s not able to function more realistically.”
“Well put,” Elliot told me, touching my arm with his gloved fingers. “Moved by his generous spirit, I was at a loss for words, at least temporarily. In the end, of course, I explained to him—once again—that while his own life will always be comfortable, he simply has no discretionary funds. It was sad, but I think he finally grasped the idea that while he was born to wealth, he has no money.”
We both shook our heads in silent sympathy for the confusion and frustration that had marred Joey’s entire adult life. I swung the door open for Elliot, and we trudged out into the raw afternoon. Already, the sun had slunk behind the barren branches of old trees, inching toward the horizon, anxious for night.
Night fell cold, hard, and fast.
Hazel had spent most of the day cleaning, and by the time I returned home around four-thirty with groceries, the first boxloads of junk were being hauled away by a Goodwill truck, little more than junk itself. Its brittle gears gnashed as the van lurched from the curb and trundled down the street, pausing to belch exhaust at the foot of a hill.
Parker came home from the Register shortly after five, offering to help Hazel in the kitchen. It was a simple supper, the main dish being pot roast, which required a lot of cooking but little attention. Joey and Thad arrived sometime after six, keeping me company in the dining room as I set the table. Hazel had agreed to join us, totaling five. I deliberately miscounted, setting a sixth place for Sheriff Pierce, unsure of when he would arrive. When Thad pointed out the extra setting, I shrugged, telling him, “Let’s just leave it. The table looks more balanced with an even number.”
With the pot roast tucked in the oven, Parker entered the dining room and offered to build a fire. We all agreed that it was a fine suggestion for the cold night, and he set about loading the fireplace with logs and kindling. Propped next to the set of fire tools was one of the king-things, an artichoke finial from the third-floor banister, brought downstairs by Roxanne the previous week, after my arrest. She had studied this duplicate of the makeshift bludgeon while preparing notes for my defense—a precaution that proved unnecessary, once she convinced the district attorney that I’d been framed. Parker now lifted the wooden finial from where she had left it, near the fire, and laid it along the mantel.
Hazel began delivering serving dishes from the kitchen, and I asked everyone, “Shall I open some wine?” Thad’s vote, which didn’t count, was enthusiastically positive, but both Hazel and Joey declined, having felt no craving for wine since New Year’s. Parker and I weren’t inclined to commit to a whole bottle that evening, so we opted instead for cocktails, which he offered to fetch from the bar cart in the living room.
At a few minutes past seven, we all sat down to dinner. The meal was excellent, in its homey way, and the conversation pleasant enough, in light of our recent tribulations. All told, it would have been a thoroughly enjoyable evening, had it not been for my knowledge that Dumont County’s chief law enforcer would soon be paying an official visit.
I tried to keep this thought at bay as Thad described life with Miriam Westerman. He hated his new custody situation, of course, but made an effort to lighten the topic with tales of Miriam’s at-home foibles. Our snickering at these insights erupted into full-blown laughter when we learned that the charismatic founder of Fem-Snach flushed her toilet but once a day—a practice based on ecological grounds.
Engrossed in this discussion, we sailed through our main course, and Hazel was ready to clear the table for dessert. But Sheriff Pierce had not yet arrived, and I worried that we might finish too early, that he would miss his opportunity to question Joey. “It’s only seven-thirty,” I told the others. “What’s the rush? Let’s just enjoy each other’s company for a while. Dessert can wait.”
Everyone agreed that there was no hurry, but in verbalizing this observation, we seemed to kill the easy spontaneity of our patter. Even the Fem-Snach jokes lost their punch. Finally, silence reigned, save for the idle scraping of Joey’s fork on his empty plate. In search of something to say, Hazel raised the one topic we had all been trying to avoid.
“Poor Suzie was always so quick with the banter. She was never at a loss for words. Oh, Thad”—Hazel was get
ting weepy—“how we miss your loving mother.”
“I know, Hazel,” he told her quietly. “I know.”
Joey scraped his plate a bit louder. He pretended not to listen, but his blanched fingers gripped the fork with mounting impatience.
Hazel persisted, “There’s no justice. Suzie’s gone, killed, and no one seems to care. Nothing’s been done.”
Parker told her gently, “That’s not true, Hazel. Everyone in town cares deeply about what happened to Suzanne. The investigation is bound to identify the culprit soon. We’ve all been working on…”
Parker’s words were interrupted by the slam of Joey’s fork on his plate. “That’s enough,” Joey blurted. “I’ve told you before. I’m getting sick and tired of all the fuss and worry over Suzie. She’s dead. Stop talking about her.”
Dingdong—saved by the bell. “Now, who could that be?” I wondered aloud, checking my watch. Excusing myself from the table, I left the room and rushed to the door.
It was Pierce. “I was worried you weren’t coming,” I told him as I let him in and took his coat, tossing it on the nearest chair. “Joey was starting to get dicey.”
I led Pierce back toward the dining room, and as we walked through the portal, I told everyone, “Look who’s here.” Turning to Pierce, I suggested, “There’s an extra place at the table, Doug. Why don’t you join us for dessert?”
“Great. Thanks,” he said, sitting. “Just coffee, though.”
I also sat. Hazel rose, starting to clear dishes. Noticing that the fire was dying, Parker got up, ready to tend it. Crossing from the table, he said to Pierce, “We were just assuring Hazel that your department has spared no effort in trying to solve Suzanne’s murder. Are you getting close, Sheriff?”
“Very close,” Pierce answered flatly, looking from Parker, to me, to Joey. Then he told Hazel, “You can set your mind at ease, Mrs. Healy. Suzanne’s killer should soon be brought to justice.”
“Thank the Lord,” she said, hands aflutter. “I haven’t slept decent in nearly three weeks.” Loading her arms with dishes, she left for the kitchen.
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