Body Language

by Michael Craft

  I set the newspaper on the table and folded it. “Well, I ran cross-country and track. And I worked on the yearbook and the school paper.”

  Thad nodded, thinking. Then, turning again to Neil, he said, “There’s going to be a play at school. But first you need to know about acting and stuff, right?”

  “No,” Neil and I said in unison, leaning toward the boy.

  Neil told him, “You have to start somewhere, and that’s what school is for.”

  I added, “It’s worth a try. When are auditions?”

  Neil asked, “What’s the play?”

  Thad’s head wagged between us as we questioned him. With a half-laugh, he told us, “I’m not sure. But I’ll ask around.”

  I suggested, “Your English teacher should know all about it.”

  “I’ll ask,” he repeated, signaling that we shouldn’t push further, not today. He got up from the table, crossed to the refrigerator, and poured himself another glass of milk. Before returning, he offered, “More coffee?”

  “Sure,” we answered. “Thanks.”

  As Thad poured Neil’s coffee, he looked over Neil’s shoulder at the “Trends” section, which displayed another feature by Glee Savage. Headlined THE KING HAS ARRIVED, it detailed our visit to Grace Lord the previous morning, when Glee and I had met Carrol Cantrell, the king of miniatures. Skimming the story, Thad nearly spilled the coffee. “Oops. Sorry.” He set the pot on the table. “These people sound a little weird.”

  Though I agreed with his assessment, I explained diplomatically, “Let’s just say they have a somewhat eccentric obsession.” I grinned, reaching for the coffee.

  “Not at all,” said Neil, putting down the paper. His reproachful tone conveyed surprise at my attitude. “The art of model-making has an illustrious history that’s long been intertwined with my own field. Miniatures have always played a role in the design of big architectural projects. I’ve built a few models myself and have nothing but respect for the true masters of the craft.”

  Neil stood to continue—he was on a roll now. “Consider the Thorne Rooms at the Art Institute of Chicago. Commissioned by Mrs. James Ward Thorne and built by the master miniaturist Eugene Kupjack, mostly in the 1930s, that series of sixty-eight shadow boxes traces four centuries of European and American interior design—all in the space of a darkened hallway. They’re magnificent.”

  “They are,” I agreed. I’d forgotten about the Thorne Rooms, but as soon as Neil mentioned them, I recalled being awed by them as a child. I told Thad, “Sometime soon, let’s spend a weekend down at our loft in the city. We’ll take you to the Art Institute, and you can see the Thorne Rooms for yourself—they’re really worth the visit.”

  “Cool.” His tone was flat, not quite enthusiastic, but at least he didn’t react with that dreaded adolescent smirk. He was making a genuine effort to show some interest in our shared lives. While I assumed he had little interest in the Thorne Rooms, I knew that he’d enjoy a trip to the city on any pretext.

  I reminded Neil, “That display represents the height of the craft. Somehow, I doubt if Grace Lord’s roombox competition will be in the same league.”

  He laughed while crossing to the sink with his cup and a plate of crumbs. “Don’t be so sure. With both Carrol Cantrell and Bruno Hérisson here, the stakes have been raised considerably.”

  I noticed that Neil had pronounced Hérisson flawlessly. “You’ve heard of these guys?”

  “They’re…‘names’ to me.” He sloshed the remainder of his coffee down the sink and opened the dishwasher, depositing the cup and the plate. Thad brought his own dishes over and added them to the load.

  Checking my watch, I downed my coffee. “Looks like Doug isn’t joining us.”

  Thad wondered, “Where is Sheriff Pierce? He hasn’t missed breakfast all week.” Then he grabbed his pile of books from the counter. “I’ve gotta go—need to review an assignment before class.” He gave each of us a shoulder hug. “Bye, guys. See you tonight.”

  We wished him a good day at school and watched as he bounded out the back door. I was about to mention to Neil that I was beginning to feel content in our new, offbeat role as parents when the thought was interrupted by Thad’s voice. “Morning, Sheriff,” he said from the driveway. “They’re waiting for you.”

  And moments later, Doug Pierce rapped on the screen door. “Any coffee left?” he asked while walking in. Responding to our curious grins, he said with a shrug, “Just running late today. Didn’t even have time to work out.”

  As he approached the kitchen table, I noticed that he hadn’t even had time to shave that morning, leaving him with an ungroomed look that was not his style at all. What’s more, he wore the same rusty tweed jacket I’d seen the day before, and the pleats of his gray flannel slacks had lost their sharp creases. It was enough to make me think he hadn’t gone home overnight. Clearly, though, nothing was wrong—there was an uncharacteristic bounce to his step as he pulled out a chair and sat next to me. He grabbed the empty cup that had been set for him across the table and repeated the question, “Any coffee left?” Big smile.

  I wanted to ask, Where were you last night? You and Carrol Cantrell…? But I didn’t feel I should confront him, and besides, it was none of my business. “You’re in luck,” I told him, hefting the pot and pouring. “We were about to toss it.”

  Neil circled back to the table, reading my mind. Prepared for a delicious story, he perched on his chair and leaned forward on his elbows, waiting.

  If Pierce knew what we were thinking, he didn’t let on. “Thad was chipper this morning,” he told us. “He seems to be adjusting to…everything. ”

  By “everything,” Pierce was referring not only to Thad’s loss of his mother, but to his new life with two gay dads. I told Pierce, “We’re all learning to deal with it. Even though Thad resented my very existence at first, he quickly concluded that life with Uncle Mark and Uncle Neil would be vastly preferable to life with that addled ‘feminazi.’” I laughed in spite of the bitter encounters I’d had with Miriam Westerman—that harridan, that shrew, that burned-out hippie—founder of the local (and only) chapter of the Feminist Society for the New Age of Cosmological Holism, or FSNACH, known as Fem-Snach among its detractors, which certainly included the three of us in the kitchen that morning.

  “Miriam never stood a chance,” Pierce assured me. With one hand, he lifted his coffee and slurped; with the other, he dismissed Miriam’s failed efforts to convince the courts to grant her custody of Thad.

  In the early days of the Society, Thad’s unmarried mother, Suzanne Quatrain, had been a sympathizer with Miriam’s militant feminist movement. When Suzanne gave birth, Miriam claimed the baby as a communal child of the Society, naming him Ariel. That was all too much for Suzanne, and she broke from the movement, raising Thad on her own—there was certainly no financial burden, as she became principal heir to the huge printing company Quatro Press. Then, when Suzanne died last year, Miriam renewed her efforts to get control of Thad, claiming I was unfit to raise him. But sanity reigned.

  “Watch your step,” Neil warned me, joking. “Ms. Fem-Snach is still pissed.”

  “So am I,” I reminded him. Rising from the table, I asked Pierce, “Can I get you a doughnut or something?” He nodded, so I crossed to the counter and searched a cupboard or two for some pastry that Neil had put away.

  “Fortunately,” said Pierce, picking up the conversation, “Miriam has her hands full right now with the opening of her new school—I’m amazed she ever got it off the ground. She’s way too busy to dwell on past battles, let alone lost ones.”

  “Don’t forget”—I turned to him—“she hasn’t been too busy to dwell on her old antiporn battle. She just might throw a wrench into your reelection.”

  Before Pierce could respond, Neil asked, “What’s up with that?” His tone was vexed. “Most feminists are liberal to the core. What’s her beef?”

  Pierce drummed his fingers, grinning. “Miriam contends that
pornography is ‘violence against women.’ End of argument.”

  “Unfortunately,” I added, “she managed to recruit Harley Kaiser, our esteemed district attorney, in her efforts to bully the county board into passing a so-called ‘obscenity ordinance’ a while back. Now she wants stricter enforcement of it, hoping to shut down a few adult bookstores—porn shops—on the edge of town.”

  Neil blinked. “But I’ve always sort of… enjoyed pornography, an occasional video,” he said innocently.

  “Too bad,” I told him. “Miriam is pro-choice to the hilt, but not when it comes to your viewing or reading habits.” Then, setting a plate of Danish on the table in front of Pierce, I asked him, “Didn’t you go to school with these folks?”

  “Yup. Miriam and Harley and I all grew up together; we’re the same age, forty-five. Miriam’s always been an ideologue, never happy unless she’s in the heat of a crusade, so her antismut mission is predictable. That’s just Miriam. But Harley Kaiser is altogether different. He’s practical, intelligent, a politician. Though he’s a family man, he’s never struck me as a family-values type. He simply sniffed political pay dirt in Miriam’s obscenity campaign, so he hopped on the bandwagon. They’re an odd alliance.”

  “Strange bedfellows.” Sitting at the table again, I laughed at the image conjured by my metaphor.

  Neil said to Pierce, “I assume you have no taste for this censorship campaign.”

  “None whatever”—Pierce shook his head decisively—“but as the county’s chief law-enforcement officer, my leeway is limited. If the DA wants deputies to collect ‘evidence’—adult videos—it falls to my department to do it. Harley’s brought a few cases to trial already, but he hasn’t had much luck convincing juries as to exactly what’s ‘obscene.’”

  “Ah,” I interjected, “the plebeian wisdom of the common man.”

  “Exactly. But now Harley is preparing to bring another obscenity case to trial. He’s really done his homework this time, and he’s planning to bring in a busload of expert witnesses. From his perspective, it’s a must-win situation. Funding is about to expire for the assistant prosecutor hired to staff these cases, and the county board is losing patience. Without a win, they’ll pull the plug—and Kaiser will lose staff, budget, and political luster.”

  “According to Rox, he’s a hot dog.” Neil was speaking of Roxanne Exner, a Chicago attorney who had come up to Dumont to help me with Thad’s custody matters. She was also the friend who, three years earlier, had introduced Neil and me.

  “She’s right,” Pierce agreed, adding, “but you didn’t hear it from me. I’m up for reelection in less than eight weeks, and Miriam already feels betrayed by my foot-dragging on Harley’s porn raids. If I antagonize him too, then I am in trouble.”

  I nodded. “Enter Deputy Dan.”

  “Who?” asked Neil.

  Pierce explained, “Dan Kerr, one of my deputies, decided he needs a promotion, so he’s running for my job. There really aren’t any significant issues to argue, so he’s been making noise about stricter enforcement of the county’s obscenity laws. Needless to say, Miriam is behind him all the way—for whatever that’s worth. But I think the DA is in Kerr’s camp as well. If Harley were to openly endorse him, I’d be in for a tough fight.”

  I reached to give Pierce a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I have no idea whether Harley Kaiser will be offering any endorsements, but I’m certain that the Dumont Daily Register will. And I’ll say this: Deputy Dan lacks credibility.”

  “Agreed.” Pierce nodded. Then he looked me in the eye. “But Dr. Tenelli has heaps of it.”

  Now it was my turn to ask, “Who?”

  “Dr. Benjamin Tenelli, chairman of the County Plan Commission, is preparing to announce his panel’s assessment of the obscenity issue in terms of its economic impact on Dumont.”

  “That’s a new angle,” I admitted, “but who is he?”

  “A retired obstetrician, he delivered nearly every baby in town for some forty years. To call Dr. Tenelli a beloved and respected figure is an understatement. Now nearly seventy, he devotes much of his time to public service.”

  While Pierce extolled the good doctor’s impeccable reputation and civic altruism, I reached into the inside pocket of my blazer, which hung on the back of my chair. Names—it seemed I was awash with names that morning, and their unfamiliarity served to remind me that I was still an outsider in Dumont. Though now performing the duties of a newspaper publisher, I could never shake my roots as a reporter, and I still kept always within reach two essential tools. Extracting the notepad and pen from my jacket, I uncapped the Montblanc and scrawled a few pertinent facts regarding Dr. Tenelli.

  Pierce concluded, “He’s one of the few men I know without an enemy in the world. If he decides that it’s good for Dumont County to crack down on porn—on moral grounds, economic grounds, or any other—you can bet that the public will elect as sheriff the candidate who’s taken a tough stand on smut. On a gray Wednesday morning in November, Dan Kerr could plant his ass behind my desk.”

  He swirled the last of the coffee in his mug, paused, checked his watch. “Speaking of my desk, I’d better get moving—I’m late already.” He rose.

  Rising with him, I quipped, “Shouldn’t you shave first?”

  He scratched his chin, allowing, “I keep a razor down at the department.”

  Neil stood. “Want some coffee ‘to go’?”

  “Nah.” Pierce walked to the door. “Thanks, guys. See you later.”

  “Bye, Doug,” we told him. And he was gone.

  Neil gathered some last few things from the table, carried them to the sink, and loaded the dishwasher. “I need to get going myself. Busy day today.”

  I walked up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “We have the house to ourselves for once. No kids, no cops—”

  “No sale,” he interrupted, turning to me with a laugh. “There’s just no time. Besides, we’re both washed and dressed for the day.”

  “You’re so practical,” I observed dryly.

  “I thought that’s why you found me attractive.”

  “It’s an asset. But there’s a great deal more.” And I kissed him.

  It was a leisurely kiss, longer than a casual peck, but not long enough to qualify as foreplay. Sometimes I think that these are my happiest moments with him, when we share the simple intimacy of a kiss. I love everything about it, everything about him—the plumpness of his lips, the slick feel of his teeth on my tongue, even the smell of coffee on his breath.

  It doesn’t make sense. There’s nothing rational about it.

  It must be pheromonal.

  By midmorning, the buzz of activity in the Register’s second-floor newsroom had risen to its weekly high. The daily deadline wouldn’t pass till evening, but Fridays were hectic all day, with weekend features and Sunday sections being put to bed in advance. In days gone by, the hubbub would have been overlaid by the tatter of typewriters and the pounding of Teletype machines, but now, of course, words destined for print are processed by the silent whir of electronics. Some things haven’t changed though: phones still jangle, editors still shout from desk to desk, writers still dash to their stories.

  Glee Savage dashed past the glass wall of my outer office, catching my eye as I glanced up from my desk. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, but didn’t carry one of her outlandish carpetbag purses, so I knew she wasn’t leaving the building. A minute or two later she returned—with none other than Bruno Hérisson in tow. A big, beefy man, he panted from the exertion of climbing the stairs from the first-floor lobby.

  “Look who’s here, Mark,” Glee called from the doorway to my office.

  I strode from my desk to greet Bruno in the outer office. The space was meant for a secretary, but unlike the previous publisher, Barret Logan, I simply depended on the receptionist at the main switchboard, so the extra room served as an impromptu conference area. The decorating was tasteful if quotidian, and I wondered once
more what these quarters might look like if I were to turn Neil loose with his talents—but he had other priorities just then, as did I. Shifting my attention to Bruno, curious about the purpose of his visit, I invited him and Glee to be seated. Closing the door to the newsroom, I joined them.

  As we settled into the upholstered chairs around a low table, I said, “This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Hérisson,” mangling his last name, which came out like “Harrison” with a misplaced accent. Graciously, he invited both Glee and me to use his first name, a familiarity rarely extended by the French, which suggested that he had already spent considerable time in America. We of course reciprocated.

  “Bruno phoned earlier,” Glee told me, “saying he needed to ‘talk.’ Needless to say, my antenna shot up.” Indeed, she already had a steno pad at the ready, folded open atop a stack of papers and magazines she had carried into the room. Turning to the Frenchman, she clicked her pen. “If you don’t mind, let’s run through some background details first. The name is Hérisson, acute accent on the e, correct?”

  “Accent aigu”—he jotted the mark in the air with his finger. “Correct.”

  “And your permanent residence is in France?”

  “Yes, in Paris.”

  “May I ask your age?”

  He squirmed a bit, knotting the tip of his gold silk scarf around an index finger. He acknowledged, “I have forty-eight years.”

  Glee looked up from her pad, slid her reading glasses down her nose, and stared over them at him. “My God, Bruno, you could pass for thirty-eight. This’ll be our little secret.” She winked at him confidentially—what a pro.

  In response to her flattery, the man positively beamed. “You are too kind.”

  “Not at all.” Without missing a beat, she asked, “Married?”

  Bruno cleared his throat. “Divorced.” Speaking slowly, he added, “My work, said my wife, has consumed all my love. We were together twenty years, but she wanted a new life. I could not refuse her, no? We have no children.” He fell silent.