Boy Toy

by Michael Craft

  “Not yet, Daddy,” she told him, watching me instead of her father. “There’s so much left for you to accomplish.” She didn’t mean a word of it, making no attempt to disguise her insincerity.

  “May I ask you a few questions, Mr. Thrush?” said Pierce, readying a fresh page of his notebook.

  That was my cue—I extracted my own notepad from a jacket pocket and uncapped my Montblanc, hungry for a few facts. I soon learned that Jason’s father was Burton Thrush, age fifty-six. He claimed a history of ill health, which explained why he appeared far older than his years, forcing me to wonder if his son’s unexpected death would simply be too much for him. His wife had died some years ago; Jason and Mica were their only children. He confirmed that Jason was seventeen, Mica twenty-one.

  While Pierce conversed with Thrush, I watched Mica saunter through the room. She brushed within a hair’s breadth of Coroner Formhals, pausing to trace her sharp, black fingernail over his strong, black chin and down his throat. She smiled faintly as his eyes widened. He stepped back, giving her a clear path to the bed.

  She stood there, beading baby brother with a stare, as if he were holding his breath and they were playing a game. When he didn’t move, she began to appear impatient. With hands on hips, she leaned over the bed. As her hair fell forward, her bare back and most of her ass were exposed squarely to Formhals, who gaped in astonishment for a moment before turning away to fidget with something in his medical bag.

  Mica leaned closer over her brother, then smiled. She tried blowing in his ear. Getting no response, she proceeded to tickle him, first his neck, then his armpits, then down his sides, groping under his hips.

  Burton Thrush, engrossed in grief, didn’t even notice.

  Pierce had a busy night ahead of him and would not be returning to the theater, so he asked a deputy to drive me back.

  Walking through the quiet lobby, I peeked through the doors into the auditorium. I’d been gone for about an hour, and Thad was now onstage with Tommy Morales, playing Ryan and Dawson. Having attended the dress rehearsal, I recognized the scene from act two—I’d missed most of the performance. I recalled that there would be a brief scene shift near the end of the show, when I could slip in without disturbing anyone.

  Waiting with the door cracked open, I listened to the dialogue. Thad and Tommy were acting up a storm, not dropping a cue, with the packed audience dead quiet, hanging on every word. The scene soon ended with a momentary blackout. As the audience responded with a polite round of applause (nothing effusive yet, as the play’s climax still lay ahead), the houselights came on dimly, signaling a pause while the stage was reset. Opening the door, I returned to my seat.

  Neil, Barb, and Glee turned toward me, leaning in their seats, a silent plea for information. But the houselights had already begun to fade, so I replied with an apologetic shrug, raising a finger to my lips. My news would have to wait, which came as something of a relief. For the moment, I was glad to shoo from my mind the recent encounter with Jason’s corpse—and his dysfunctional family—replacing that disturbing reality with a few minutes of theatrical distraction.

  Unfortunately, I was soon reminded that the last scene of Teen Play bore a striking resemblance to the scenario that had just been played out at the Thrush residence. The action resumed onstage:

  The rivalry that has been developing between the two main characters, Ryan and Dawson, now climaxes in murder. It is the night when the play within the play is scheduled to open, and Dawson kills Ryan, stepping into the leading role.

  Thad and Tommy gave a chilling, realistic performance of the dramatic ending, and the audience reacted as intended, momentarily horrified by the ruthless bludgeoning they witnessed. But I was all the more stunned—not that the staged gore bore any physical similarity to Jason Thrush’s demise, but the circumstances were staggeringly alike. Surely, I feared, as soon as the news broke that Jason had died that night, everyone who had seen the play would make the same connection, wondering if art had imitated life—or vice versa.

  Suddenly the room was dark, and the audience burst into applause. I wasn’t even conscious of the play’s final moments, but it had ended, and the crowd loved it. I felt Neil hug my shoulder; Barb leaned over him to give me a thumbs-up; Glee scribbled notes with a wide, happy grin. Thad, it seemed, was a triumph. During curtain call, when it was finally his turn to walk downstage for a bow, cheers rang from the crowd, and within moments, we were all on our feet. Thad dutifully waved Denny Diggins to the stage to share the applause, and I had to admit that our pompous fledgling playwright had delivered on his promise. Joining the others, I clapped all the louder.

  After several curtain calls, my arms ached and my palms stung. At last the applause faded, and the actors left the stage as the houselights came on.

  “Mark,” Glee told me, stretching to shake my hand, “it was mah-velous, wasn’t it?” We all laughed our agreement. “I’ll scamper right over to the office to write my review—there’s just enough time to make the morning edition.”

  I then realized that I myself had a deadline to meet. As the only newsman on the scene when Jason’s body was discovered, I’d need to “switch hats” tonight, stepping out of my publisher’s role and back into that of reporter. Duty called. It was a page-one story—and to think that only yesterday I’d been bemoaning the lack of local news.

  “Actually,” I told Glee, “I need to take care of something back at the paper as well. I’ll give you a ride.” The Register’s offices were only a few blocks away, and I assumed Glee had walked to the theater, as her apartment was also downtown.

  “Hold on,” Neil interrupted. “We’ve got to see Thad first. He’ll be expecting us backstage. Look”—he pointed to a side door near the front of the theater—“others are herding back there already.”

  He was right. We had to congratulate Thad—I felt bad enough that I’d missed most of the performance. Glee and I could spare a few minutes before rushing to our computers. Besides, if we needed more time, I was in a position to fudge our deadline. After all, presses now rolled at my command. “Thanks for the reminder,” I told Neil, giving him a hug. “First things first.”

  While most of the audience was now jostling toward the lobby, a smaller pack of well-wishers bucked the tide, moving toward the stage. Our party of four, Thad’s cheering section, joined this latter group, filing through a narrow door that led to the wings. Amidst the happy chatter that surrounded us, Neil asked me, “What happened? You’re obviously itching to write a story. And where’s Doug?”

  I leaned to whisper a few words to him.

  “Oh, no.” He looked at me with dismay, fingers to lips.

  I wasn’t sure if he was simply upset by the news of Jason’s untimely demise or if he already grasped its implications. In any event, I’d dashed his high spirits—but he’d asked a direct question, and there was no point in dodging it. Saying nothing more, I found his hand at my side and gave his wrist a squeeze of reassurance as we moved closer to the commotion backstage.

  Parents and friends were caught up with the young cast in a giddy, congratulatory swirl. Denny Diggins darted about, accepting the adulation of any who would offer it. Moms tittered, dads blustered, kids yapped and laughed. And through the crowd I spotted Thad’s head bobbing, looking for us. “There,” I told our group, pointing to him. I waved. Barb whistled.

  His head snapped in our direction. Beaming, he worked his way toward us through the friendly mayhem. “Hey!” he called. “What’d you think?” He didn’t need to ask—he knew very well that he’d led the cast to a smash opening—but he needed to hear it from us, and we gladly obliged.

  Neil met him first. Big hug. “What a night! You did it, Thad.”

  Barb’s turn. “Thataboy, hot stuff!” She gave him a kiss, then playfully boxed his ears. “I hope that Leonardo wimp has some backup plans—‘career alternatives,’ as they say.” She laughed wildly.

  “Thanks, Barb!” Then Thad noticed Glee. “Hi, Miss Savage.” A
ware of her mission that night, he sheepishly asked, “Well?”

  Big, obvious wink. “You’ll have to wait till morning, I’m afraid.” Leaning close, she gripped his upper arm, the sleeve smeared with makeup and stage blood. “But I have a hunch you’ll get a rave notice.”

  “He’d better,” I told her with a laugh. As I spread my arms, Thad stepped into my embrace and I told him, “You have no idea how proud you’ve made us.” I patted his sweaty back, mussed his already tangled hair.

  “Thanks, Mark.” Then he backed off a few inches. “But did you like it?” He smiled, waiting for my routine compliments. “The play, I mean.”

  After an awkward hesitation (the few seconds felt like minutes of agony), I confessed, “I’m really sorry, Thad, but I missed most of the show. Sheriff Pierce and I were called away. But I promise, I’ll be here start-to-finish tomorrow night, no matter what.”

  To my profound relief, he didn’t seem to mind. “That’s okay”—he cuffed my shoulder—“you and the sheriff, you’re busy, important guys.” As an afterthought, he asked with idle curiosity, “Where is Sheriff Pierce? What happened?”

  “Yeah,” said Barb, elbowing Glee with a sisterly nod, affirming that they were waiting for answers, and now. “What the hell’s up with that disappearing act?”

  I glanced at Neil. “Thad,” I said quietly, focusing on the boy, “something awful has happened. Jason Thrush was found dead in his bedroom this evening.”

  “Huh?” murmured Thad, Glee, and Barb. “What?” “My God.”

  Kwynn Wyman had just emerged from the crowd, all smiles, stepping forward to tell Thad something, but he didn’t notice. He asked me, “How did he die?”

  “We don’t know. The sheriff and the coroner are still there with Mr. Thrush, and—”

  “What?” said Kwynn, startled by our somber tone. “Mr. Thrush died?”

  “No,” Thad answered, turning to her. “It’s unbelievable, but it was Jason.”

  Her mouth trembled. Then she blurted, “Jason’s dead?”

  Her words were loud enough to catch the attention of those around us, who instantly dropped their own conversations, turning to listen to ours. I explained to Kwynn, “Jason’s sister found him in his bedroom tonight after the play started. We don’t know how he died. There were no signs of—”

  But there was no point in continuing. Word was out, spreading fast, and the jubilant opening-night clamor was quickly transformed to a chorus of gasps and shrieks. Denny Diggins rushed forward, his face drained of color, demanding to know what had happened. Tommy Morales tagged behind him with a blank look of alarm, trying to hear what was said. Other cast members gathered around, stricken by the news that one of their own had died so tragically and so young. Then, as if on cue, the whole cavernous space fell silent, except for the sobs.

  After a few moments of this instinctive, respectful lull, Nicole Winkler, the pretty one, said through an anguished cry, “I can’t believe he’s dead! I’ll never believe that Jason’s gone…not really gone.”

  “Holy shit!” someone said. “It’s just like the play.”

  Someone else: “Yeah. Jason died on opening night.”

  Another: “Unreal. How could it happen—”

  Bitterly, through her tears, Nicole reminded everyone, “Thad threatened Jason. And now Jason’s dead.”

  PART TWO

  Fairy Rings

  CORONER STUMPED

  Jason Thrush, popular local teen, found dead of mysterious causes

  By CHARLES OAKLAND

  Staff Reporter, Dumont Daily Register

  AUG. 4, DUMONT WI—JASON Thrush, a popular local student and talented young actor, was found dead yesterday evening at home in his bedroom. He attended Dumont Unity High, where he would have been a senior this fall. He was 17.

  Cause of the boy’s death is still unknown. He had been suffering from an apparent summer cold, but was otherwise in excellent health. The body bore no signs of trauma or struggle, and the victim had no known history of drug use.

  His body was discovered by his sister, Mica Thrush, shortly after eight o’clock last night. Dumont County sheriff Douglas Pierce and coroner Vernon Formhals were both called to the scene. Time of death is estimated between 5:00 and 6:00 P.M. yesterday.

  “We are treating this case as a suspicious death,” said Pierce. “There was no immediate evidence of foul play, but only an autopsy can reveal whether the young man died of natural causes or not.”

  Dr. Formhals told the Register that routine toxicology tests would be performed, regardless of findings of the physical examination. “In perplexing cases like this,” he said, “it can take weeks to find definitive answers.”

  Jason was preceded in death by his mother, Patricia Thrush, ten years ago. He is survived by his sister, Mica Thrush, 21, and by his father, Burton Thrush, 56, founder of Thrush Typo-Tech, a local print-related industry.

  Friends and teachers remember Jason Thrush as a diligent student, aggressive athlete, and accomplished actor. His theatrical experience included roles in eight productions. In an ironic twist, his death occurred on the very evening he was to perform the leading role in Teen Play, an original production of the Dumont Players Guild.

  Thad Quatrain, another young local actor, was called upon to star in last night’s premiere. A review by the Register’s Glee Savage appears elsewhere in these pages.

  Saturday, August 4

  NEIL TOSSED THE MORNING paper onto the table. “Christ, Mark, did you have to drag Thad into the story? It all but points an accusing finger at him, stopping just short of naming him as a suspect.”

  Turning to Neil from the kitchen counter, I carried-two mugs of coffee to the breakfast table, trying to explain, “There was no way to leave Thad out of the story. You heard the suspicious gossip start to snowball at the theater—I’ll bet phones were ringing all night. So I deliberately soft-pedaled the circumstances that could suggest Thad’s complicity. That’s why I didn’t assign the story, but wrote it myself.”

  “Hey,” said Barb, stowing something in the refrigerator, closing it with a thud. “I read the paper already. That wasn’t your story, Mark—there was some other name on it.” She crossed her arms accusingly, as if catching me in a fib.

  Neil laughed. “Though the story carries Charles Oakland’s byline, Mark actually wrote it, Barb.”

  I explained, “When I took over as the Register’s owner and publisher, I knew there’d be times when I’d want to report a good story. If I used my own name, though, my reporting might lack credibility, since readers here have grown used to seeing my name on editorials—in other words, opinion. For factual reporting, then, I simply invented a pen name, Charles Oakland.” I slurped some coffee, the day’s first. As I’d had a late night, I needed the caffeine.

  Not satisfied, Barb eyed me askance, asking, “Isn’t that…well, dis-honest?”

  “Why?” I asked in return. A note of defensiveness colored my voice. “Writers often use different pen names for different audiences. The point is, I stand behind every word I’ve written. That story is accurate and unbiased.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s why you ‘soft-pedaled the circumstances’ regarding your kid.”

  She had a point. Perhaps I had slightly compromised my journalistic integrity on that issue. And I realized, with considerable surprise, that this stretching of principles didn’t bother me in the least. I told both Barb and Neil, “I would do anything in my power to protect Thad.”

  Barb gave me a wink and a thumbs-up. “Can’t argue with that.”

  Neil stood, leaned to kiss the top of my head, then sat again.

  He wore loose, olive-hued cargo shorts, a rumpled white shirt, no shoes yet—Neil looked great in anything. I was in a comfortable old pair of khakis, as I’d be going to the office, but there was no need for a tie on the weekend, so I wore a soft, faded plum-colored polo shirt, the one that Neil always said looked good on me (“It complements your gorgeous green eyes,” he put it). Barb wo
re something like a sweat suit, but it had gold-braided trim.

  I asked anyone, “No sign of Doug this morning?” I had a taste for the kringle Pierce usually brought with him—the sugar might provide a needed energy boost.

  “It’s Saturday,” Neil reminded me. “He usually gets a later start at the gym.”

  “We all should have gotten some extra sleep this morning,” I said. “After the excitement last night—the premiere and Jason’s death—I’m feeling sort of whipped. I’ll bet Thad won’t roll out of bed till one or two.” As an afterthought, I added to Barb, “Unless you sent him out on another early-morning mushroom hunt.”

  “Nope,” she said matter-of-factly, puttering with something near the stove, “I got all the black trumpets I needed on Thursday. They dried all day yesterday, and today the culinary wizardry happens. Everything’s under control.”

  Neil asked, “Just what is it you’re concocting?”

  I didn’t want to know.

  “Nothing fancy,” she said with uncharacteristic modesty, banging pans as she pulled them from a cabinet. “Sort of a party dip, a spread for crackers, bread…even bagels! You just simmer the black trumpets in a bit of milk, chop them up fine, then sauté them in butter. With a fork, you blend in chives and plenty of cream cheese till it’s gooey enough for spreading. Easy. And I love serving it. Guests can never figure out what’s in it, but lots of folks rave about it.”

  Right, I thought. They’re the lucky ones. The others have perished.

  I asked, “Are we all still sure that tonight’s party is a good idea?” It wasn’t so much the mushrooms as Jason’s death that fanned my doubts.

  Barb turned to me, one hand to her hip, the other brandishing a wire whisk. “I thought we decided. I thought that was the point of our discussion last night till God only knows what hour.”