Bitch Slap

by Michael Craft

  Engaged in pleasant conversation, we lingered at the table for well over an hour, closer to two, before Neil rose, saying, “I’ll go put dessert together.”

  “Oh, don’t fuss,” said Todd.

  “Trust me, it’s no big deal.” Neil lifted a few plates from the table.

  “I’ll take care of cleanup,” I told him, grabbing more dishes.

  “I’ll help. I insist.” And Todd joined the effort.

  Moving to the kitchen, Todd stood with me at the sink, loading the dishwasher, while Neil concocted his standby, no-fuss dessert—ice cream, berries, and a drizzle of booze.

  “That looks terribly elegant,” said Todd, looking over his shoulder.

  Neil primped. “I’m nothin’ if not elegant.” He stuck his thumb in a bottle of Cointreau and tipped it, letting the liqueur drip over the berries.

  Working in tandem at the sink, Todd and I made quick work of the mess. Taking things from me as I rinsed, he leaned and bent to stow them in the dishwasher, brushing his hip against mine—more than once. It didn’t quite feel like a come-on, and I’m not sure how I would have reacted if I’d suspected these little “accidents” were anything other than the happy result of the proximity of friends. Besides, this was all taking place under Neil’s nose, and I’d noted the night before, when Todd arrived, that his flirtatious manner seemed no more than an innocent manifestation of his friendly nature. So I made no effort to increase the distance between us at the sink.

  Before long, we were back in the dining room with coffee and ice cream. No cognac tonight—the bit of Cointreau would suffice as a bracing, but less lethal, finish. The spirit of camaraderie around the table was deep and genuine. Todd had all the makings of a good friend, and I was grateful that Neil had invited him to stay with us. Already I regretted that Todd’s time in Dumont would be so brief.

  Perhaps that curtain project in the den would require several return visits …

  When the ice cream was finished, we continued to sit and talk, nursing our coffee. Todd sat back with a satisfied smile, telling Neil, “What a great meal.”

  “Thanks,” said Neil, “but you helped.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did. We all pitched in. You know, we work well together. I mean, we really sort of click, the three of us. Don’t you think?”

  Hmmm …

  “Absolutely.” Neil turned to me. “See, Mark, I told you you’d like Todd.”

  Roxanne had made the same prediction. Mulling this, I said nothing.

  With a laugh, Neil prompted, “You do like Todd, don’t you, Mark?”

  Through a crooked smile, Todd echoed, “Don’t you, Mark?”

  Something stirred in my pants, and it wasn’t my cell phone. What’s more, my brain was spinning. “Well, uh, sure,” I answered clumsily.

  “Hey, guys,” said Todd, leaning forward, arms on the table, “this is sort of awkward, but we’re friends here. There’s something I want to ask you about.”

  “Of course, Todd.” Neil mirrored his position, leaning into the table. “What’s on your mind?”

  I leaned forward as well, closing our circle.

  Todd cleared his throat. “Like I said, sort of awkward. This goes back to Geoff, in a way.”

  “Awww.” Neil gave a sympathetic cluck. “All this talk tonight of Gillian and unexpected death, it got you thinking about—”

  “No, Neil.” Todd wagged a hand. “That’s not it at all. I’m talking about something we broached last night. You asked me about getting back in the dating game, and I said that I’ve been looking. I’m more than ready. So here’s the deal:

  “I have no idea what sort of ground rules you guys have in your relationship, and the last thing I’d want is to cause trouble, but I figure it can’t hurt to ask. I’ve been coming out of a long dry spell lately, and for all I know, it may be slim pickin’s for you guys up here. I mean, Dumont is a charming little town, and you’re obviously very comfortable, but sometimes, you may need other gay companionship—or more—and I imagine it’s hard to find here.”

  With an uncertain laugh, he continued, “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m here. You guys are great together, and I can tell you’re happy, but I thought maybe, occasionally, you might enjoy … spicing things up. If so—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—I would welcome any sort of intimacy that may interest you.” He stopped for a moment, looking back and forth to Neil and me. “Oh, God,” he groaned, “I can tell from your stunned silence that I’ve just embarrassed myself.”

  I struggled to speak, but didn’t know what to say. I knew what I wanted to say (Let’s help Todd out of his dry spell), but I thought I’d better let Neil take the lead.

  “Well,” he finally said with a warm smile, “I’m a little surprised, but certainly not stunned—and there’s no reason at all to feel embarrassed.”

  “None at all,” I seconded.

  “But … ?” wondered Todd.

  “But I think maybe you’ve misread our friendship.”

  Drat, I thought. Under the table, I was raring to go.

  Neil continued, “Truly, Todd, if Mark and I were looking for someone, we’d jump at the chance to be with you. Right, Mark?”

  “Uh, right,” I croaked. “Absolutely.”

  “But we’ve never experimented with our relationship that way, and I don’t think we’ve even considered it.” Neil looked at me, expecting some backup.

  I gave a weak, stupid smile.

  “Guys”—Todd stood (looking downright edible, to be perfectly honest)—“say no more. I’m really, really sorry. Will you forgive me?”

  “Of course,” I gushed.

  “Todd,” said Neil, standing, “there’s no need to apologize. Your modest proposal—or im-modest proposal—is a profound compliment.”

  “Hmmm,” said Todd with a cagey grin, “it sounds like I still have a chance.”

  Neil returned the grin. “Only time will tell, I guess.”

  What did he mean by that? Was he simply buying time, waiting to discuss this unexpected option with me in private?

  “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. It was a rough day—emotionally—so I think I’ll run along to bed.”

  Now I had to get up from the table, a move I’d been delaying because of the bump in my lap. I waited for Neil to step to Todd, offering a good-night hug; then I rose, hiding my condition behind him.

  Todd took more than a hug, kissing Neil on the lips, telling him, “Thanks for everything—your friendship, the job here, opening your home to me …”

  Neil readily accepted the kiss, telling Todd, “Our pleasure. Have a good night’s sleep.”

  When Neil stepped away, Todd offered his arms to me. I clapped my arms around him, saying something inane, waiting for the kiss, and bang, there it was. It wasn’t quite passionate, but it was no peck, lingering a few seconds, perfectly enjoyable. “Night, Todd,” I said when he finally broke away and headed out to the hall and up the stairs.

  Neil and I watched him leave, then cleared the dessert things from the table. From the side of his mouth, Neil said, “Cocktails … wine with dinner … must’ve been those last few drops of Cointreau.”

  Meaning, Todd was drunk.

  Meaning, he wouldn’t have otherwise made such a suggestion.

  But to my eye, Todd hadn’t looked drunk at all.

  PART THREE

  Due Diligence

  FATAL FALL

  Paper-mill executive found dead

  at her new Dumont home

  by CHARLES OAKLAND

  Staff Reporter, Dumont Daily Register

  OCT. 23, DUMONT, WI—Gillian Reece, chairman and CEO of Ashton Mills, was found dead of an apparent fall from a ladder on Wednesday. The fatal incident took place in the new home that she and husband Esmond Reece had just finished building in rural Dumont County, east of the city. She was 52.

  A Wisconsin native, Gillian Reece studied business and accounting at college in Madison, then began her caree
r in Milwaukee. She would later join the financial team at Ashton Mills, then headquartered near Harper. Her stellar rise at the paper manufacturer culminated in the top executive positions just over a year ago.

  In anticipation of a friendly merger with Quatro Press, Mrs. Reece moved the corporate headquarters of Ashton Mills, as well as her home, to Dumont.

  The merger with Quatro, which was to be finalized at a ceremonial signing today, is in jeopardy. Perry Schield, CEO of Quatro Press, told the Register, “Serious issues have recently been raised regarding the wisdom of merging with Ashton. The agreement could be validated by my signature alone, but I’m no longer willing to proceed. As far as I’m concerned, the deal is off.”

  The timing of Mrs. Reece’s death vis-à-vis the failure of the merger appears coincidental. The body was discovered around noon yesterday, and Dumont County coroner Dr. Vernon Formhals made an initial estimate of 11:00 A.M. as the time of death.

  Sheriff Douglas Pierce, noting no apparent signs of foul play, told a reporter at the scene, “For now, I’m working on the theory that this death was an accident.”

  An autopsy is being conducted, results of which are still pending.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Neil and I had trouble falling asleep that night. The day’s events at the Reece house had been exhausting, leaving us emotionally drained, but they also kept the mind active, reliving the episodes we had witnessed, pondering those we had not. What’s more, the evening had ended on such an unexpected note—Todd Draper’s explicit suggestion of a three-way—it was impossible simply to kiss good night, roll over, and drift off to peaceful slumber.

  It was equally impossible, at least for me, to discuss what had happened, despite my nagging desire to explore with Neil the possibility Todd had raised. When Todd had made his overture, it would have taken only the slightest nudge from Neil, a wink of approval, to lure me into an untried adventure. But with the passing of time—a mere hour, perhaps—Todd’s proposal had lost not only its immediacy, but its heat.

  Had Neil been quicker than I to grasp the risks of welcoming Todd to our bed? Or was he, as I had then speculated, buying time, keeping Todd’s pitch on the back burner long enough to weigh with me the ins and outs of experimenting with the bounds of our relationship? If the latter, there was no better time than right then for Neil to roll onto his side, facing me, and to ask, Say, Mark? What’d you make of Todd’s come-on tonight? Think he was serious? Have you ever considered … ?

  But Neil asked none of that. In fact, although he was restless, he said nothing at all. I found this silence not awkward, but oddly comforting, as it demonstrated he was struggling with Todd’s proposition as much as I was. Not that I hoped he would reconsider and give in to this lusty temptation (by now I wasn’t sure what I wanted—after all, I was the guy who was such a stickler for the rules). Still, I was heartened to know we were on the same page, neither prudish nor prurient, neither condemning nor condoning. Somewhere in the middle, we were searching for our comfort zone, our reality, our truth.

  Lying there in the dark, I greeted Neil’s tossing as a sign that I could relax. And finally, secure in his sleeplessness, I slept.

  Later, I was visited by dreams. From these evanescent shadow plays, most of them the mere nonsense of my sleeping mind, two dreams were sufficiently congealed to moor in the crags of my memory upon waking. One was a juiced-up replay of what had happened at our dining-room table that night.

  Neil and I are sitting across from Todd when he leans forward, elbows on the table, and begins to explain how we could help him out of his dry spell. He further explains how he could spice up our quiet life in central Wisconsin. Neil and I turn to each other, shrug a why-not, and rise from our chairs. Circling the table in opposite directions, we meet behind Todd’s chair and lift him to his feet. With a loving smile, he stands perfectly still as we undress him. Then the real fun begins, right there, down on the floor.

  This dream was decidedly pleasurable. The other was not.

  In it, I am watching television, an old rerun of a Dynasty episode in which Joan Collins as Alexis is gearing up for a catfight with Linda Evans as Krystle. But as the confrontation heats up, Joan Collins is transformed into Joan Crawford, as portrayed by Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest, with Dumont’s own Glee Savage done up in spit curls as the cowering daughter Christina. Then Faye morphs into none other than Gillian Reece, and the fireworks begin. Gillian and Glee exchange a sizzling round of bitch slaps, which I find hilarious, so I start to laugh. Hearing me, Gillian hisses and looks out from the screen, which instantly disappears, and all three of us are transported to her two-story living room. “Tina,” says Gillian with a snarl, “bring me the ax.” Glee pulls an ax from a tangle of wire hangers and hands it to Gillian, who comes after me. Sensing mortal danger, I stop laughing and try to run, only to be tripped by the same wire hangers, which skitter and spin about the limestone floor. As Gillian takes aim, I fall, hitting my head on the floor. Upon impact, I awake.

  We had gone to bed on the early side, so in spite of the restlessness that preceded sleep and the dreams that interrupted it, I awoke uncommonly refreshed, ready to take on the uncertainties of the day. Neil was also up and at it early. We showered and dressed, then went downstairs together, finding Todd waiting for us in the kitchen. He had started the coffee and now sat at the table reading my front-page report of Gillian’s death.

  Since the story wasn’t news to him, he looked up at us with a cheery smile, unaffected by the grim emotions that had gripped all of us the previous evening while discussing the tragedy. “Hi, guys! Sleep tight?” No doubt about it—he was one handsome man.

  “Not so bad,” said Neil. “How about you?” Stepping to the counter to pour coffee, he paused to give Todd’s shoulder a squeeze.

  “Like a baby,” he replied. “A big, fat, happy, drunk baby.”

  “You’re anything but fat,” I told him, sitting in the chair next to his, “and I don’t think you were drunk last night.”

  “You’re right, Mark,” he said, looking me in the eye with a steady gaze. “I was sober as a proverbial judge.”

  “Oh, really?” asked Neil, bringing three mugs of coffee to the table. “I’ve rarely heard a judge discuss group sex over dessert.” His breezy tone suggested not the least discomfort with the topic, nor did he seem to be scolding Todd for anything inappropriate.

  Good God, it didn’t take much—already I felt the prod of arousal. Just where, I wondered, did Neil stand on all this?

  Todd told him, “It seems you’ve been hanging out with the wrong judges.”

  “Perhaps I have,” agreed Neil, mussing Todd’s hair as he joined us at the table.

  I was tempted to do the same, to run my hand through Todd’s sandy hair (which looked so much like Neil’s), to give a physical sign that his touch was welcome in return. But this was breakfast, the start of a busy day, hardly the time to be flirting with the emotional whirlwind of a possible threesome. Besides, there was no plausibly innocent manner in which I could feel Todd’s hair as Neil had just done. Coming from me—an observer of their patter, not a participant in it—such a gesture would be transparently suggestive, flirtatious, and needy. Or was I overanalyzing the situation? Fusty, fussy, prissy me. If Neil could tousle Todd’s hair, why couldn’t I? Because, it occurred to me, I had simply waited too long. The moment had passed.

  I blinked, realizing Todd was staring at me.

  “Wow,” he said. “Must be the morning light, Mark. I didn’t notice before, but you have the most striking—and gorgeous—green eyes.”

  Neil laughed. “He hears that all the time.”

  “Now and then,” I allowed. “Thanks, Todd.”

  “Hey,” he said, “do you want eggs or something? I’d be happy to cook.”

  “Nah, don’t bother,” said Neil, sounding a bit distracted. “Doug should be here soon. He usually brings pastry on his way from the gym.”

  “Doug?”

  “Sheriff Douglas
Pierce,” I reminded him. “He’s a close friend.”

  “Let me get this straight. The sheriff, a gym hound, delivers your breakfast every morning. What’s up with that?” quipped Todd. “Is he gay?”

  “Matter of fact, he is. But he’s not stopping by today. I think he had an early dentist’s appointment. I’m meeting him downtown at the coroner’s office.”

  Todd mused, “There’s nothing quite like a visit to the morgue to get one’s day going, is there?”

  “That’s appetizing,” said Neil. “Still up for eggs?”

  “No, thanks. Never touch ’em.”

  “They’re an excellent source of protein,” I noted, not intending to sound suggestive.

  “Wouldn’t want to run low on that.” Todd gave us a wink.

  Even so, there were no takers for eggs, so we settled on toast and day-old kringle.

  Then Neil and Todd headed over to the Reece house.

  And I went downtown to meet Doug.

  Dumont’s public-safety building housed not only the sheriff’s department and jail, but also various department offices, including that of the coroner. The facility was open at all hours, but as I walked into the dispatch area that morning, there was the unmistakable bustle of beginning a new day, as if someone had just unlocked the front door for business. A shift was changing, coffee was perking, and a scratchy radio gave the local weather forecast—sunny skies again, still cool.

  I paused to ask a dispatcher at the window, “Is the sheriff in yet?”

  “Yes, Mr. Manning”—they all seemed to know me—“he just arrived. Said you could find him with Dr. Formhals.”

  “Thanks. I know the way.” As I headed down the hallway that led to his office, terrazzo flooring clicked underfoot, fluorescent lighting hummed overhead.

  The coroner’s door was marked with an inelegant plastic sign, and I knew from previous experience that there was no need to knock. Walking in, I heard conversation on the other side of a partition that separated a small waiting room from the doctor’s office space.