Name Games

by Michael Craft

  Grace waved her arms at the drugstore paraphernalia that surrounded us, telling Glee, “I finally decided it was time to confront all this and quit my grieving. My grandpa’s pharmacy has been closed for nearly as long as it was open. What’s done is done, and there’s nothing I can do to bring it back. Except”—her eyes actually twinkled in the dim light of the garage—“this backlog of family tradition makes excellent raw material for a roombox project.”

  “Oh?” Glee’s brows arched with interest. She fished a notepad from her purse.

  Grace continued, “I’ve never really tried my hand at model-making—I’ve approached the shop all these years simply as a business—but I’ve had these unresolved feelings about the drugstore. Then, last year, I hit upon an idea that seemed both obvious and challenging. I’ve been toiling for months now on a miniature reproduction of Lord’s Rexall. I’ve still got a bit of work to do on it, but my little store should be ready to unveil when the roombox competition opens next weekend.” She planted her hands on her hips, a pose of easy self-satisfaction, signaling that she had very nearly vanquished the emotional baggage represented by a garageful of junk.

  Glee returned her smile. “Good luck in the contest, Grace.”

  I added, “Hope you take first prize.”

  She flapped her hands, dismissing the notion. “It’s probably not good enough to win—this is my first crack at a roombox, and most of the other entrants have been at this for years. Plus, as host of the show, I feel I should remove myself from the running. It wouldn’t seem right to make Carrol Cantrell feel he was under any obligation to me when he judges the entries. So I’ll enter my roombox for exhibition only.”

  “I’d love to see it,” I told Grace. Glee nodded her enthusiasm as well.

  “And I’d love to show it to you”—Grace moved toward the garage door, snapping out the lights—“but there’s no time to dally, not now. Carrol should be arriving soon, and I’ve got to get into some decent clothes.”

  We followed her out of the garage into the bright, late morning, Glee asking, “How’s Mr. Cantrell getting here?”

  Grace led the way toward the back porch of the house, explaining, “He’s flying into Green Bay. One of his colleagues arrived in Dumont yesterday, and he offered to pick Carrol up at the airport.”

  A gracious offer, I thought, as the drive to Green Bay would take an hour.

  Glee flipped through the pages of her notebook as we climbed the porch stairs. She told Grace, “I didn’t realize the onslaught had already begun. Who’s the early arrival?”

  Reaching to open the screen door, Grace turned and answered, “Bruno Hérisson.” She spoke the last name with a French accent: air-ee-soh(n).

  “Oh?” Glee seemed impressed, reading from her notes, “He’s ‘one of the world’s most renowned craftsmen of miniature period furniture.’” To me, she added, “He’s worth a separate feature of his own, Mark.”

  Lowering her voice, Grace told us in a confidential tone, “I think Bruno was a little miffed that I didn’t offer him the coach house, but I’d already promised it to Carrol. Bruno came all the way from Paris yesterday, arriving in Milwaukee. He rented a car and found his way here on his own—it’s nearly a three-hour drive. I’d have gladly picked him up, but I wasn’t expecting him so early. Good thing he’s here, though. I needed all the help I could get this morning. And I guess it worked out pretty well for Bruno too. He said he needed to discuss something in the car with Carrol.” She checked her watch. “God, they should be here by now. If you folks want to get comfortable in the kitchen, help yourselves to lemonade—there’s a fresh pitcher in the fridge—while I dash upstairs to change.”

  Grace opened the door wide for us and began stepping over the threshold, but it was too late. The whir of an engine, the crunch of tires on gravel, signaled that the king of miniatures was being delivered at that very moment. “Oh, Lord…,” Grace muttered, stepping to the edge of the porch. The door closed behind her, slapped shut by its brittle spring. Reflexively, her hands fluttered to her head, trying to do something with her hair, which looked just fine. She brushed her denim work clothes with her palms while stepping down to the driveway. Glee and I followed.

  Bruno Hérisson’s rented car, a no-frills compact, hurtled up the drive, swerving perilously near the house, barely missing my own car—I cringed at the thought of the damage that, by mere chance, was avoided. The car’s windows were open, and its two occupants were yelling at each other. Their words were unintelligible, so I couldn’t tell if the passenger was merely upset with the driver’s questionable skills or if it was some ongoing argument that suddenly ended as the car lurched to a standstill within inches of where we stood.

  “Jee-sus Christ!” barked the passenger as he swung his door open and bounded to his feet, escaping the vehicle as if he feared it would explode. “Insane Frenchman—” Then, seeing us, his tone changed and he forced a laugh, a piercing, well-practiced look-at-me laugh.

  This was apparently Carrol Cantrell. In that morning’s interview in the Register, Grace had called him “a very big man in a very small world,” a description that proved to be literal as well as figurative. King Carrol stood bigger than life, at least six feet four, and I wondered how he’d endured an hour’s ride in that tiny car. Though I knew his age to be fifty, his features were skillfully frozen at thirty-nine. Everything about the man—his too white teeth, his streaked-blond hairdo, his exaggerated movements and flamboyant manner—gave the monarch of miniatures an air that was decidedly queenly.

  Then the driver’s door opened. With considerable difficulty, Bruno Hérisson, a beast of a man, extricated himself from behind the wheel with a sputtering of oaths that, to my uncertain ear, sounded more aggressively Teutonic than charmingly Gallic. Heaving himself from the car, he told the heavens, “Ah, Cantrell! I am so blessed—the honor of hauling his precious majesty to and fro. I am but your humble handmaiden, Cantrell!” and he dipped on one knee in an absurd curtsy. His accent was thick with throaty r’s and aspirate h’s spoken through a French pucker, but his command of English was otherwise solid, and his meaning was clear: he and Carrol Cantrell didn’t get along.

  With a smirk, Cantrell dismissed the antics of his colleague and whisked past him to introduce himself to us, insisting that all of us simply call him Carrol. He was especially deferential to Grace Lord, his hostess, and studiously polite to Glee and me, “the press.” Engaged in conversation with us (his vivacious patter was likable enough, if phony), he ignored Bruno, who unloaded Carrol’s luggage from both the backseat and the trunk of the car, muttering at the task.

  An odder couple could not have blown into Dumont that morning. Carrol was almost freakishly tall and lanky, affectedly glib, obviously gay, stylishly dressed for travel in a sleek Armani suit, its jacket worn over a T-shirt—very California. By contrast, Bruno was a burly man, an unlikely figure in the tiny, fragile world of miniature furniture—the proverbial bull in a china shop. His clothes were wrinkled, and the sleeves of his corduroy jacket rode halfway up his forearms as he grunted and struggled with Carrol’s luggage, heaping it into a mound next to the car. Bruno’s sole affectation (or was it just that he was French?) was the richly patterned silk scarf knotted around his neck, its ends fluttering from the open collar of his shirt. He was sweating now, but Carrol looked cool and utterly unruffled by their argument in the car.

  “I can’t begin to tell you,” Grace was telling Carrol, still primping, “how honored we are that you’ve consented to judge the room-box competition. The Midwest Miniatures Society is abuzz!”

  “The honor is mine, of course,” he assured her, patting her head. His stature was gigantic compared to her tiny frame.

  “It’s not just the fact that you own the Hall of Miniatures,” Grace bubbled onward, “but the fact that you represent all of the world’s major artisans—including, of course, the esteemed Mr. Hérisson.”

  Bruno mumbled something in French. The words were unintelligible, but his to
ne carried unmistakable sarcasm.

  Glee entered the conversation, telling Carrol, “Grace has been working on a roombox of her own.”

  Grace quickly added a good-natured rebuff: “But it’s not finished—you’ll all see it in due time.”

  I told Carrol, “Don’t feel slighted—she wouldn’t show us either.” It was the first time I’d addressed him since being introduced.

  He spun to look at me. “Oh, really?” He smiled while eyeing me—those teeth really were too white—bleached, capped, who knows? His gaze gave me a quick once-over, sizing me up. I wore my usual workday “uniform”—khaki slacks, navy blazer, button-down shirt, striped tie—nothing fashion-forward, by any stretch. Perhaps he found me refreshingly wholesome, because his inquisitive look mutated into an eat-me leer. “What would it take to persuade her?” he asked me, his voice subdued to a purr.

  “I think she just needs a little more time.” Our small talk had grown meaningless, as my mind was absorbed by his come-on. Not that I was interested. I was happily attached to Neil, and more to the point, I wasn’t at all attracted to Carrol. Still, it felt good to be cruised by another gay man—a rare commodity in Dumont.

  “Mark, has anyone ever told you, you have the most arrestingly green eyes?”

  Bruno interrupted this exchange. “If you gentlemen have finished with your chitchat”—he pronounced it more like shit-shot—“perhaps we could all assist his majesty in conveying his matériel up to the royal quarters.” He flipped the tail of his gold-toned cravat over one shoulder. “Then I must leave.”

  Glee and I stole a glimpse of each other and, though tempted, suppressed the urge to snicker. What, I wondered, was the background of this sparring between Bruno and Carrol—professional rivalry, or something more personal?

  We all exchanged a shrug of resignation, then set about the task of hauling Carrol’s things toward the coach-house stairs. By my calculation, the king of miniatures would be staying in Dumont no more than ten days, but from the look of his luggage, you’d have thought he was staying for good. Indeed, I was amazed that Bruno had managed to get all of it into his car. There was a matched set of suitcases, Vuitton, of course. Added to this were an array of garment bags, duffels, leather briefcase, computer case—even a hatbox.

  As Carrol leaned to lift a couple of his bags from the ground, the sleeves of his jacket rode up his arms, and I noticed that he wore jewelry on both hands—too much, in my opinion, even for a gay man. There were several rings, bracelets, and a diamond-studded watch, all of it the highly refined craft of top designers, with a single exception. Conspicuously, one of his baubles was not polished gold, but scuffed nickel—a utilitarian chain around his wrist held a medallion with a worn enamel symbol on it. Though I couldn’t read it from where I stood, it appeared to be a Medic Alert bracelet.

  Also inconsistent with Carrol’s fastidious attire was a fat pen of inelegant design that was clipped to his inside breast pocket. I have always had an affection for fountain pens—my own pet pen, an antique Montblanc, is a civilized luxury in an age of throwaway ballpoints and felt-tips. So while I admired the man for taking a stand against the pervasive Bic culture, I was dismayed by his particular choice of writing instrument, which was, in a word, butt ugly (okay, two words).

  “Hey!” a voice interrupted us as we began our ungainly procession up the stairs to the coach house. “Let me help!” Trotting up the driveway alongside the house was Douglas Pierce, sheriff of Dumont County. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, he explained, “I saw your car, Mark, and wondered what was up.”

  Carrol now took note of the Bavarian V-8 and told me as an aside, winking, “Tasty wheels, Mark.”

  Pierce’s arrival necessitated introductions to both Carrol and Bruno, so we all took a moment to set down our loads while performing these courtesies. It wasn’t easy conveying to Bruno the nature of Pierce’s job, none of us knowing if there was a French counterpart to an American sheriff. Avoiding allusions to Hollywood or the Wild West, I explained, “The city of Dumont is part of Dumont County, and the county maintains our police force. Doug is chief of the county police.”

  Bruno nodded, but still seemed muddled. Tentatively, he asked Pierce, “This is how you…dress?”

  Pierce laughed. “I’m an elected administrator. I don’t wear a uniform.”

  Bruno’s confusion was understandable. I’d first met Doug Pierce during the week I moved to Dumont. Arriving from the big bad city, I harbored the jaded view that the local constabulary would be straight out of Mayberry, but Pierce didn’t fit that stereotype at all. To begin with, he did not wear a uniform—no badge, no six-shooter, no cop trappings. In fact, he was a natty dresser, far nattier than I, and I never saw him wear the same thing two days running. There was some trouble back then, and Pierce proved himself a dedicated professional, a new friend, and an important news source in my work at the Register. I’m truly glad to know him.

  But I wish I knew him better. Though I see him nearly every day—he often stops by the paper to visit, and he frequently joins us at the house for breakfast after his morning workout—there’s a sector of his private life that’s strictly off-limits. At forty-five, he has never married, claiming to be wed to his career. Perhaps it’s just my mind-set, but naturally I suspect he’s gay, and he has never said anything to dissuade me from this notion. Someday, I keep telling myself, when the time is right, I’ll simply ask him about this, point-blank.

  “My,” cooed Carrol Cantrell, “you’re certainly an accommodating public servant, Sheriff.” He was giving Pierce the same onceover he had given me only minutes before.

  Pierce obligingly swept up several of Carrol’s bags, including the hatbox. “I need to foster all the goodwill I can—I’m up for reelection this November.” Pierce laughed again, and I suddenly got the impression that he was actually enjoying Carrol’s come-on.

  As we all began plodding up the stairs together, Carrol paused to finger the lapel of Pierce’s sport coat. “Beautiful jacket, Sheriff. Ralph Lauren?”

  Puh-leez.

  Pierce answered, “Nah. Brooks Brothers.” He may have blushed.

  Watching this exchange, I realized that in the year I’d known him, I’d come to take Pierce’s good looks for granted. For a middle-aged man, he was perfectly fit and ruggedly handsome, an image that was complemented by his knack for dressing well. Carrol was right: Pierce was wearing a beautiful jacket, rusty tweed, exactly right for the in-between weather of that autumn morning. His gray flannel slacks, double-pleated with razor-sharp creases, found a dead match in the darker tones of the tweed jacket. He deserved Carrol’s compliments.

  Continuing up the stairs, Carrol chattered vacuously about something as we, his retinue, prepared to ensconce him in Grace Lord’s coach house.

  To the fanfare of his own ringing laughter, the king, indeed, had arrived.

  Friday, September 15

  DOMESTICITY HAD NEVER PLAYED much of a role in my life. During my younger years, as a bachelor reporter, building a career at the Chicago Journal, I had little time for nest-feathering and not much interest in it either. But two events—turning points, really—would effect a profound change in my indifference to house and home.

  First, I met Neil. I had never been truly in love before, and then, at thirty-nine, I found it—with a man (egads) who happened to be an architect. This resolved a particular identity crisis that had long gnawed at me (I could no longer brush aside the suspicion that I might be gay), and just as certainly, it imbued in me a new appreciation for the great indoors. I had bought a condominium loft in Chicago’s trendy Near North neighborhood, but it was Neil who moved from Phoenix to live with me, setting his talents to designing and rebuilding the space. When we’d finished the project, we had carved out a magazine-perfect showplace; we’d also built a “home.”

  Then, less than a year ago, within a week of my move north to Dumont, Thad Quatrain’s life merged with mine. It was an inauspicious melding, to say the least. My nephew (te
chnically, a second cousin) was an absolute snot toward Neil and me, with all the charm and lovability of a juvenile homophobic bigot, which in fact he was on the day when he met us. Imagine his dismay when, that very afternoon, his mother died young and I was named in her will to look after him. Imagine his dismay? Imagine mine.

  Having grown comfortable in the role of a “gay urban professional,” I had never given a moment’s thought to the possibility of rearing a child, but there I was, suddenly faced with that unlikely task. Adapting to the day-to-day weirdness of life with a teenager would be challenging enough; far more daunting was the forced change of mind-set, the identity crisis. How was I to think of my self? Did my vocabulary even possess the words that might name this new me? Gay dad, Uncle Mark, Neil’s lover, Thad’s father…

  But we managed to pull together—Thad and I, and Neil too. While Neil taught me how to become half of a couple, Thad has taught me to be part of a family. Domesticity now plays a large role in my life. As a result, the focus of my days has changed.

  There was a time, not so long ago, when the evening cocktail hour embodied my notion of the day’s ultimate reward—a brief, civilized period of repose, refreshment, and conversation, replete with its own comforting rituals—the polishing of crystal to perfect cleanliness, the clink of ice, the skoal, the first shared sip. Neil and I declared an ingenuous concoction to be “our” drink on the night we met, and every evening since (every evening, that is, when we have been together), we have poured Japanese vodka over ice, garnishing it with orange peel while leaving the day’s travails behind.

  Now this routine has been interrupted and refocused. The interruption was my own doing, the result of moving north to Wisconsin to try my hand as a publisher. Neil’s architectural practice would keep him anchored to Chicago, so he agreed to a plan of alternating weekend visits with me, taking turns at the four-hour drive. Our “arrangement” had barely begun when that unexpected death in the Quatrain family left me executor of a huge estate that includes Quatro Press, Dumont’s largest industry. Because I now serve on Quatro’s board of directors, I had no trouble securing for Neil a contract to design a major expansion of the printing plant. The project has kept him in Dumont full-time for several months, and we feel like a couple again, sharing the same bed nightly. Once again, our evenings are a time when we can regularly, predictably share the simple adult pleasure of cocktails at home.