Body Language

by Michael Craft

  “Let me do that,” Neil volunteered, rising from the table, crossing to the counter, taking the knife from my clean hand. He set to work buttering the toast, stacking the slices with architectural precision on a bread plate. Since neither of us was rushing to work that morning, we hadn’t dressed yet. Standing there at the counter, we both wore bathrobes, flannel for fall. I was barefoot, but Neil wore bulky gray boot socks—he’d had the foresight to realize the tile floor would be cold.

  “You’re right, of course,” he told me, still buttering (there was a lot of toast, enough for Thad and Sheriff Pierce, should they join us). “Any attempt to define ‘acceptable’ reading—or viewing—is censorship, pure and simple.”

  Washing my hands under the faucet, wiping them with a towel, I razzed him, “Don’t take it too personally.”

  He paused. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” I reminded him, “that you’ve always had a taste for smut.”

  “I resent that.” His indignation wasn’t genuine. “I’ve always had a rarefied taste for smut.” Though his words sounded oxymoronic, they were a precise statement of fact. Long before I met Neil, he began amassing a sizable collection of videos—specifically, gay porn videos. Curiously, though, his interest in this material had always been more academic than prurient, and his favorite tapes could be described as cerebral, as opposed to down and dirty. His collection was stored back at the loft in Chicago; we both agreed that we’d be playing with fire if any of these videos were kept in Dumont, where an inquisitive sixteen-year-old might get ahold of them.

  Returning to the topic of the election, I told Neil, “I just hope that the committee’s report doesn’t stir up enough public sentiment to hurt Doug’s chances. This Tenelli character apparently has plenty of pull.” The coffeemaker had finished brewing, and I carried the pot to the table.

  Neil followed with his artful arrangement of toast, perfectly buttered to a golden sheen. “I doubt that Doug has anything to worry about—the Register’s endorsement ought to lock it up for him.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” I sat. “Endorsements can backfire, especially in small towns, where everyone seems only too eager to trash the ‘local rag.’”

  Neil sat next to me. “Are you being cynical?” He smiled. “Or just insecure?”

  “A bit of both,” I admitted, returning his smile, telling myself to relax. It was Saturday, after all, and far too early in the day to get worked up over “issues.” Another cool autumn morning, it was a perfect opportunity to enjoy each other’s company. We’d had precious few of these quiet times during the past year.

  So I paused, rested my hand on Neil’s, and stated the obvious: “I’m really glad you’re here—I mean working in Dumont on the Quatro project. It feels like we’re living together again.”

  “We are—at least for a few months. Then it’s back to the old ‘arrangement.’” He was referring to the routine of alternating weekends between Dumont and Chicago, requiring long hours on the road. This future separation was not a happy thought, so Neil brought his discourse back to the present. “I really need to set up a workroom here. I’ve been spending my weekdays working out of a spare office at Quatro, which is fine, but I feel like a squatter. I need a ‘base’ outside the plant.”

  “Take one of the spare bedrooms,” I suggested. There was plenty of extra room in the house. “Or rent an office somewhere.” There were plenty of vacant storefronts downtown; retailing in Dumont, as everywhere, had followed the population growth to the farther reaches of town.

  “An office?” He seemed surprised that I suggested it, and I could tell that it had sparked some interest. Then he frowned, dismissing the idea. “Too permanent. I just need some space for a desk, a drafting table, and my computer.”

  I shrugged. “I’m sure you could find a short-term lease somewhere.” I was scheming, of course. If we were to set him up in an office, he might begin to entertain the notion of moving his practice to Dumont. He could leave the Chicago firm and set out on his own here. But that would mean leaving the recognition and satisfying pace of his big-city career, which he would be reluctant to consider. What’s more, building his practice here would be slow going at first. Still, there was no risk—I could easily support him and provide the capital for his venture. I dared not breathe any of this, however. My motives were unabashedly selfish, and I knew he would find any offers of financial assistance demeaning. From the start, we had lived our relationship as equal partners. Though my own fortunes had outpaced his, though eight years his senior, I could never assume the position of boss and provider. And I would never want to.

  “Maybe one of the bedrooms would work,” he thought aloud, adding, “though it doesn’t seem very professional.”

  “No need to fret over it now,” I told him, pouring coffee for both of us. “Let’s just ease into the weekend and enjoy it.”

  He smirked. “Easy for you to say. I need to gird for battle at the supermarket. We’re out of peanut butter, remember.”

  “Thad goes through that stuff awfully fast,” I remarked innocently.

  Neil eyed me askance. “You’ve been putting away quite a bit of it yourself.”

  I couldn’t argue the point, as peanut butter had been a weakness since childhood. Shifting the topic, I joked, “Maybe Miriam Westerman was right—we’re terrible parents, making the kid fend for himself at breakfast. We ought to be whipping up eggs and things.”

  Neil laughed. “He thinks they’re gross—thank God.”

  In fact, in our early days under the same roof with Thad, we’d been through all this, attempting to “cook” breakfast for him, but he just wasn’t interested, preferring whatever milk or juice, toast or cereal, was handy. During a weekend visit last winter, Neil had surveyed the assortment of boxes and bottles that provided our morning meal, quipping that we served the finest continental breakfast in town. Thad thought that was cool, and months later I happened upon a conversation he was having with a friend one day in our kitchen after school. The other kid was bragging about his mother’s cooking, claiming that her eggs Benedict were as good as Egg McMuffins. Without blinking, Thad told him, “We much prefer a continental breakfast.”

  Neil looked over his shoulder at the wall clock—it was well after eight. “Speaking of the tyke, no signs of life yet?”

  “He’s at that age—he’ll sleep till noon if you let him.”

  “So let him.” Neil wiped butter from his lips with his napkin.

  I poured more coffee for him. “Did Thad say anything about the school play?”

  Neil shook his head before sipping from the mug. “We never really talked last night. You were late at the paper, he was on his way out to meet friends, and dinner was catch-as-catch-can. I assume he spoke to his teacher—no details yet.” Then Neil slid his chair a few inches from the table, leaning back. He pushed the still-heaping plate of toast to the far side of the table. “It doesn’t surprise me that Thad’s sleeping in, but I was sure we’d see Doug this morning, especially on the heels of your endorsement.”

  “Guess he hasn’t seen it yet.” But Neil was right—of course I’d expected Pierce to bound up the porch stairs early that morning to thank me. He’d had no clue that the editorial would appear so soon, and I knew from our many past breakfasts that it was his habit to check the paper first thing upon rising. So where was he?

  Neil’s face brightened with a thought. He rose from his chair and stepped behind me, taking hold of my shoulders to massage my neck with his thumbs. “As long as it’s ‘just us,’ why don’t we go for a run? It’s perfect weather, and we haven’t been out for a while.”

  “Great idea,” I told him, twisting my head to look up at him. We shared a smile acknowledging the erotic history that running had played in our relationship. Some three years earlier, on a Christmas morning in Phoenix, Neil and I had run together along a mountain road just prior to first making love. Ever since, our runs had taken on the magic of a private ritual th
at frequently served as a prelude to sex—all in the guise of aerobics. Ah, the joys of healthy living.

  Sitting now with Neil standing at my side, I reached inside his robe and stroked his leg. Feeling the taut muscles of his calf, I worked my way up to his thigh. I don’t know whether Neil was responding to my touch or to the stimulus of some mutual memory, but he began to breathe heavily as the first stages of an erection plumped the flannel of his robe near my shoulder. I leaned my head to feel his heat against my ear. Then he leaned over my face, upside down, to kiss me deeply. With my free hand, I uncinched my robe to tend to my own erection. Through the slits of my eyes I saw the unshaven stubble on his throat; in my mind’s eye I saw the indelible vision of sweat darkening the crack of his faded gray cotton running shorts as he led me up that mountain. I heard the treaded soles of our shoes slapping the earth in unison, pounding the pavement.

  Pounding the door. “Any coffee left?” The spring creaked as the screen opened.

  Good God. Douglas Pierce—sheriff of all the land—was walking into the kitchen. Had he been half a minute later, he’d likely have witnessed two grown men in the throes of something torrid (which he might have enjoyed). As it was, Neil and I barely had time to disentangle ourselves, clumsily concealing our arousal in the folds of our bathrobes.

  “Hey, guys. Beautiful day,” said Pierce as he approached the table with jaunty steps, delivering a bag of muffins, apparently fetched on his way to the house. If Neil and I projected the guilty look of being caught in the act, Pierce didn’t notice, oblivious to everything but the pleasant autumn weather. His cheery manner—his “glow,” for lack of a better word—was the result, I assumed, of my unexpected endorsement in that morning’s paper.

  We greeted him, grinning, amused by his bright attitude, enjoying his company in spite of the untimely arrival. Neil got an extra mug from a cupboard, then joined Pierce and me at the table, pouring coffee for all of us. The muffins were fresh and smelled wonderful, with gobs of wet blueberries erupting from the dough, so Neil and I each took one—toast be damned.

  Rearranging the table to accommodate our guest, Neil made sure everything was within easy reach of Pierce, including the folded newspaper, which he placed squarely above the sheriff’s plate. We expected him to comment on the endorsement displayed there, but he seemed not to notice it, and I was certain he was being coy.

  Beaming, I finally asked, “Well…?”

  He looked at me, then at Neil, then back to me, asking, “Well, what?” His blank expression told me that he was not being coy—he was clueless.

  “Doug,” I said, tapping the editorial in front of him, “didn’t you see my column?”

  “No”—he laughed—“I didn’t”—he stopped short, reading the headline. Picking up the paper, he broke into a broad smile as he flumped back into his chair to peruse my endorsement of him.

  Watching as he read, I wondered how he could possibly have missed the editorial page earlier that morning—public officials invariably flip to it first, breath bated, wondering if anything has been said about them. Clearly, Pierce had not yet seen the paper that day. Then I noticed his clothes. Though it was Saturday, he wore a sport coat, dress slacks, and button-down shirt, as he would for the office, but without a tie. Though the collar of his shirt was open, little wrinkles radiating from the top button signaled that it had been worn before, with a tie, presumably yesterday. Focusing on his collar, I also saw that he was overdue, once again, for his daily shave. His chipper mood, his day-old clothes, his unread endorsement—it all added up. I was afraid to guess where he’d been overnight, but it was obvious that he hadn’t woken up at home that morning.

  “Mark,” he said, putting down the paper, “how can I thank you?”

  “By beating Deputy Dan and getting reelected.” I raised my coffee and clinked it to his, Neil joining the skoal—a silly gesture, perhaps, but it seemed appropriate.

  Pierce’s expression grew pensive. “I assume this endorsement was prompted by the report of the County Plan Commission?”

  I nodded. “That’s why I ran it when I did, but you needn’t doubt for a minute that the Register would back you, whatever the timing.”

  Neil was crumbling his muffin on a plate, picking out berries, popping them into his mouth; his fingertips were stained inky blue. He asked Pierce, “Do you suppose this Dr. Tenelli has a political agenda at work? I know you said he’s a revered old guy who’s dedicated his retirement to public service, but isn’t it a little fishy to call for a crackdown on porn in the name of ‘tourism’?” Neil had read details of the Commission’s report in the morning paper, and we’d both had a laugh over it.

  “A political agenda…” Pierce mulled Neil’s notion. “I can’t imagine what it would be. To the best of my knowledge, Dr. Tenelli has no connection to my opponent or to anyone in Dan Kerr’s family. And I’m sure he has no taste for Miriam Westerman’s campaign on moralistic grounds. Tenelli is a highly principled, ethical man—not a book burner.”

  “Hm.” I traced a finger around the rim of my cup. “Maybe it’s time we met.”

  “Maybe it is,” Pierce agreed. “I think you’ll like him, in spite of this obscenity business. So if you’ve got a slow day sometime next week, give me a call, and I’ll take you over to his place and introduce you.”

  “Thanks. He sounds like an interesting character.”

  Neil interjected, “The interesting character I’d like to meet is the Frenchman, Bruno Hérisson.” To Pierce, he explained, “Mark said he visited the Register yesterday. Trouble’s brewing in the refined little world of miniatures.”

  I was glad Neil had steered the conversation in this direction, as it might lead Pierce to drop some clue regarding his involvement, if any, with Carrol Cantrell.

  Pierce seemed confused by Neil’s comment, asking, “Trouble’s brewing? What do you mean?”

  Neil explained, “Bruno claims to have signed agreements with an elite group of artisans to become their exclusive distributor in America.”

  I added, “Glee Savage sniffed a juicy story there, and I think she’s right. We’ll try to see Cantrell this weekend and get his side of it.”

  “But Carrol said”—Pierce stopped himself, rewording—“Cantrell said that he alone acts as distributor to all the big-name artisans, including Bruno.”

  Uh-huh. I asked, “When was that, Doug?”

  “Just last”—again Pierce stopped to reword—“the other day, I guess. Sure, it was Thursday, Thursday morning right after he arrived. He mentioned it to me on the stairs while we were all helping him move into the coach house.”

  I had been there, of course, and recalled no such conversation. They had discussed this some other time, on their own.

  So. I knew. I was sure: Dumont’s chief law-enforcement officer, Sheriff Douglas Pierce, whom I had just publicly endorsed for reelection, had been buggering the king of miniatures.

  Or vice versa.

  Either way, the mind reeled.

  Driving away from the house later than morning, I planned to spend an hour or two at the Register checking the wire services, meeting with Lucille Haring about the makeup of Sunday’s page one, and generally catching up at my desk. Turning off Prairie Street and heading toward First Avenue along Park Street, I passed the park itself and a succession of side streets—Durkee, La Salle, Trevor. Not quite conscious of my surroundings, I was immersed in thoughts about the obscenity issue. Was I blowing it out of proportion? Was my obsession with the First Amendment merely academic, out of touch with the real-world concerns of a great many citizens? Should I keep the paper out of the debate, merely reporting the issues as argued by others, or should I commit the Register to an aggressive editorial stance in defense of civil liberties?

  These thoughts were broken as I approached the intersection of Tyner Avenue, the street where Grace Lord’s miniatures shop was located. Slowing the car, I glanced down the street and noticed activity there, with cars parked in both directions. My reporter’s
instincts kicked in, and I turned from my intended route to check out the action.

  The congestion (if that term can apply to traffic anywhere in Dumont) was thickest in front of Grace’s shop, The Nook. The miniatures show would open a week from that morning, but a mob of exhibitors had already arrived to set up for the meeting and to claim prime spaces for their booths. Cars and vans jockeyed to park near a service drive; I spotted license plates from Illinois, Minnesota, and Iowa, as well as Wisconsin. The people themselves—most middle-aged, most wearing windbreakers—ant-tracked their wares from the vehicles to the building.

  The Nook, which looked something like a dollhouse in both its cutesy decorating and its diminutive scale, was far too small to accommodate this invasion, and the transformation of the adjacent space of the long-vacant Rexall store was by now in full swing. A crew of volunteers was unsoaping the plate-glass windows, revealing a buzz of activity within. Outside, more workers attempted to hang a banner across the space once occupied by the Rexall sign, but they were having a difficult time of it, thwarted by a brisk autumn breeze. Though this operation had a farcical quality, I quelled the urge to laugh, fearing that someone might fall from a ladder.

  Cruising past this commotion, I assumed that Grace Lord was there in the thick of it, but I couldn’t spot her low-set figure in the crowd. It would have been easy to pick out Carrol Cantrell’s lanky frame, but I didn’t see him either. With my curiosity satisfied, I decided there was no need to stop, so I drove a bit farther toward the Lord house, intending to turn around in the driveway and head back to the Register.

  Approaching the drive, I noticed another car parking there at the curb, well removed from the crush near the shop. It was one of those drab sedans assigned to city and county officials, conspicuous in its anonymity, like an unmarked squad car—yes, it was tagged with “Official” plates. I thought at first it might be Doug Pierce, but his sedan was a lighter shade of beige. A man was driving, and he had a passenger, but I couldn’t discern their features through the sun’s glare on the windshield. So I pulled over to the opposite curb, cut my engine, and busied myself with a few notes, waiting to see who’d emerge from the other car.