Body Language

by Michael Craft

  Minutes later, we all emerged from my office and found the rest of the household in the dining room, where Hazel had rearranged our untouched Christmas dinner as a cold buffet. Carl Creighton picked without enthusiasm at the platter of already dry turkey, smothering a few slices with cranberry sauce in hopes of rehydrating it. Joey sat sniffling over a plate heaped with Christmas cookies and cold yams. Thad dug angrily at a dish of Neapolitan ice cream.

  Sheriff Pierce and I had agreed that the first order of business was to talk to Thad and determine whether he was aware that his mother had appointed me as his legal guardian. Needless to say, I was dreading this encounter, half hoping that the boy’s strident homophobia would serve to convince everyone that I was simply not the man to raise him. Seeing the food, I lamely proposed to the den crowd, “Why don’t we all eat something?” Yes, I was hungry—starved by then, in fact—but the underlying motive that spurred my suggestion was to postpone, if only for a few more minutes, the discussion with Thad.

  It was not to be, however. I had just picked up an empty plate when Thad asked anyone, “What’d the old gasbag want?”

  I gave him a moment’s cold stare before answering, “Mr. Coop, who is not a gasbag but your mother’s trusted attorney, deserving of your respect, was good enough to bring to our attention some important provisions of your mother’s will. Do you understand what a ‘will’ is, Thad?”

  “Yeah,” he said through a mouthful of ice cream. “What’d I get?”

  Truly appalled by his callousness, I glanced at the other faces in the room before telling him point-blank, “For starters, you got me—as your legal guardian.”

  “No way,” he grunted, tossing his spoon over his shoulder, whipping a strand of ice cream against the wall. “No fucking fag is gonna tell me what to do. Me and Joey can live together.”

  I slammed my plate and spun toward him. “What did you say?” Enraged as I was by his use of both f-words, I was all the more disturbed by his abuse of the objective case. No kid of mine would start a sentence with “me” and not hear about it.

  I yanked him up from his chair and jabbed a finger at his chest. “Me plenty pissed,” I spat at him. “You get this straight, young man: You’re well past the age of confusing ‘me’ and ‘I,’ and I don’t ever want to hear it again. If you honestly don’t know the difference”—I started calming down—“I’ll get you a book.”

  That was a gamble, I admit. He might have dismissed me as a ranting psychopath, or, worse, a prissy schoolmarm. But I had a hunch that he’d find my reaction so unexpected and bizarre, he just might listen to me.

  And he did. To the surprise of everyone in the room, he straightened his shirt, picked his spoon off the floor, and sat again. In a civil tone, he told me, “Joey and I can live together. Better?”

  “Much better,” I told him. “And it might not be a bad idea.”

  “Uh, Mark”—Pierce stepped toward me and took me aside—“I’m afraid that is a bad idea. Joey needs almost as much supervision as Thad does. They’re in no position to take care of each other. That’s why Suzanne asked you to consent to the guardianship in the first place.”

  While trying to spin an argument for some way out of this, I was distracted by the ring of the doorbell. Hazel had been boohooing by the sideboard, but stalwartly tucked her hankie in her sleeve and marched down the hall to the door. A moment later, she returned to the dining room with another woman in tow. She announced dryly, “An unexpected guest.”

  Whisking a heavy woolen cape from her shoulders, the new arrival struck a pose, framed by the portal to the hall. Middle-aged and lanky, with straight, graying hair, she wore a long crinkly skirt, primitive jewelry, and no makeup. “‘Visionary!’” she declaimed, quoting from a source unknown to me. “‘Thy paradise would soon be violated by the entrance of some unexpected guest.’”

  Roxanne perked up. Recognizing the passage, she continued, “‘Like Milton’s it would only contain angels…’”

  “‘… or men sunk below,’” the other woman added. Then she and Roxanne laughed like old friends reviving a long-dead joke.

  Roxanne cited the passage: “Mary Wollstonecraft, The Rights of Woman, 1792.”

  “Brava!” shouted the unexpected guest, rolling the r, applauding with such gusto, her beads rattled.

  Uncertain how to react to this performance, the rest of us watched in silence. Finally Sheriff Pierce addressed her, “Merry Christmas, Miriam. What brings you here, of all places, this afternoon, of all times?”

  Uh-oh. It was Miriam Westerman, founder of Fem-Snach.

  She told Pierce, “I had to dash right over as soon as I heard the tragic news.” Her tone was far from grieving—it was almost euphoric. “I’ve come to console Ariel”—she rushed to Thad—“you poor, motherless angel!”

  He recoiled from her touch. “My name’s not Ariel. I’m Thad.”

  “No, dear, no,” she explained. “On the day you were born, the Society celebrated your birth and called you Ariel, our child of the mists.”

  “That sounds like a girl’s name,” he said, his voice heavy with revulsion. “Mom would never do that to me.”

  “Your name is Ariel, my child.” Her tone was now firm. “Get used to it.”

  “Get over it,” he shot back, and I realized that his spunk had a certain appeal.

  Pierce asked, “What’s this about, Miriam? I don’t think your presence is much appreciated in this house, especially after that letter-writing campaign, which you obviously instigated. Shame on you.”

  She sailed right past the reference to the hate mail. “I’ve come to take Ariel, of course. It was Suzanne’s wish that I serve as his foster mother in the unlikely event of her own untimely passing. Little did we know, alas, how prophetic that conversation would prove to be.”

  Huh? It was news to me, and it was promising—was I really to be let off the hook so easily?

  Pierce questioned her, “When was this? There’s been bad blood between you and Suzanne for years, and everyone knows it. What’s more, Suzanne’s will stipulated that her son’s guardian was to be her cousin, Mark Manning. By the way, have you met?”

  I mumbled some formula courtesy at her, but she stood rigid and silent, glaring down her shiny nose at me.

  When she spoke, she would not address me, but replied to Pierce, “It was mere weeks ago when dear Suzanne and I had a complete rapprochement. We met to discuss plans for a project we had first formulated during our much younger years, the building of a school. During Suzanne’s active years with FSNACH, she set up an irrevocable trust that would, upon her death, endow the Society with sufficient funds to build a school as part of the group’s growing complex—the first holistic/environmentalist/paganic school in Dumont—or in Wisconsin, for that matter.”

  I heard Roxanne mutter, “Or in the world, for that matter.”

  “Then,” said Miriam, “our conversation turned to Ariel…”

  “Mom never called me that.”

  “Don’t interrupt, dear. Our conversation turned to Ariel, and she expressed concern over his recent phase of belligerent behavior. I, of course, recommended that she place him on a steady course of Saint-John’s-wort brownies. She asked me for the recipe, which I happily provided.”

  Thad rolled his eyes, meeting mine. I grinned. As for the others in the room, Pierce was taking notes again; Joey was paying no attention, busy with his cold yams; Neil, Roxanne, Carl, and Parker listened in gaping disbelief; and Hazel had retreated to the kitchen to indulge in another crying jag.

  Miriam continued. “It was then that Suzanne revealed to me that she had displayed the poor judgment some years ago to name her cousin as her son’s guardian. That was well before certain changes occurred in her cousin’s life, before he became a revolting, flagrant penis-cultist.” She sniffed.

  “Let me remind you,” I told her, “that you happen to be in my home. You were not expected, and now you are not welcome. Please leave.”

  “Come along, Ariel.
” She held out her hand.

  Thad laughed at her.

  She told Pierce, “Sheriff, do your duty. Carry him to my car.”

  He answered, “Frankly, Miriam, I don’t believe a word you’ve said. Show me some documentation of these claims.”

  “When we discussed Thad’s future, Suzanne was perfectly healthy and saw no immediate need to fiddle with the paperwork, but her intentions were perfectly clear, and I intend to honor them. As for the trust fund”—she pulled an envelope from the folds of her cape—“I believe you’ll find everything in order. This document dates back a bit, prior to Ariel’s birth, but counsel has assured me that its terms are still binding. Construction of my new school will begin as soon as this claim is probated.”

  She handed the envelope to Pierce, who opened it, offering me a look. I motioned for Roxanne and Carl to join us in perusing it. It was dated nearly eighteen years ago and specified a sum that, compounding interest over that period, would now allow construction of a school.

  Roxanne said to Pierce, “This is a cursory opinion, of course, but it appears to be a well-drawn trust.” She looked to Carl, who nodded his agreement.

  Pierce said, “Suzanne’s signature appears genuine. Elliot Coop should be able to verify this—it was drawn up by a former partner in his office, who’s now dead.”

  Miriam snatched it back. “I’ll be visiting Coop as soon as his office reopens after the holiday. Meanwhile, I’m prepared to discharge my motherly duties at once. Ariel,” she demanded with a finger snap. “Come.”

  “I’d rather starve on the streets, you old witch.”

  I was grateful that Thad had restrained himself from calling Miriam a bitch, but, in truth, either word applied.

  Thad added, “I’d even rather live with him,” jerking his head in my direction.

  Though a backhanded compliment, it was a distinct improvement over his earlier performance, and I was surprised to feel a change of heart regarding what was best for Thad’s future. I told Pierce, “The woman is obviously lying about the guardianship—Suzanne showed no qualms whatever about my life with Neil. At the same time, I know that Thad has serious misgivings about living with me, and that’s his right. Ultimately, I feel that this is a decision that should rest with Thad himself and, if necessary, the courts. For the short term, though, I feel that Thad should stay here in the house on Prairie Street.”

  Pierce turned to the boy. “What do you think, Thad?”

  “Why can’t me and Uncle Joey”—he caught it—“can’t Joey and I live together?”

  Pierce smiled. There was a tender quality to his voice as he said, “Now, Thad, you know that’s not a good idea. Yes, Joey loves you, and he’s a wonderful uncle, but I don’t think he’s able to act as your parent. Do you understand that?”

  Thad quietly answered, “Yes.”

  “So then,” said Pierce, “your uncle Mark thinks that it should be your own choice whether he or Miss Westerman will take care of you. But sometimes these things get complicated, and the courts have to help us sort it out. We’ll see about that later. Tonight, though, it’s up to you. Where would you like to stay—here, or with Miss Westerman?”

  For the first time, I actually felt sorry for Thad, being faced with a decision between two options that he found so unappealing. Anguishing with his choice, he at last answered, barely above a whisper, “I guess I’ll stay here.”

  “Okay,” said Pierce to the room as a whole, his voice now carrying the ring of authority, “the boy will stay here for now, at least till things get sorted out better.”

  Miffed, Miriam scurried to Thad’s side and poked his arm, telling him, “Don’t take any chances, Ariel. You be sure to lock your door tonight—and I mean lock it good and tight!”

  “That’s enough,” I told her. “I’m sick of your insults. Get out.”

  She glared at me. Everyone else in the room beamed at the prospects of a delicious confrontation. Pierce asked me, “Shall I escort her to the door?”

  “Thank you, Sheriff, but I’ll handle this myself.” I marched toward Miriam and, pointing toward the hall, repeated, “Get out of my house.”

  She crossed her arms with a defiant smirk.

  So I grabbed one of her arms and dragged her into the hall. She hadn’t expected that, and she started yelping about male aggression and sexual harassment and lawsuits and my penis. “Sheriff!” she hollered. “Do something!”

  By then we had reached the front door, which I opened with my free hand. “Get the hell out,” I told her, shoving her over the threshold, slamming the door behind her. I was tempted to open the door again and shout a profanity into the darkness, but I’d already made my point, and it would have been rude to disturb the neighbors.

  Everyone in the dining room had watched from the portal, and by now they were enjoying a hearty round of laughter, Thad included. “Can we finally eat?” someone asked, and the little crowd herded back to the table.

  Still standing at the door, I caught my breath and felt my adrenaline subsiding. Then I noticed that Hazel was not with the others, but there in the front hall, watching from near the Christmas tree. When our eyes met, she approached me. With lowered voice, she said, “Mr. Manning, there’s something I need to discuss with you.”

  “I’m sure there is,” I told her, guessing the topic. “Thad’s room—we need to put one of the spare bedrooms in order. Could you help with linens?”

  “Certainly, sir. But that’s not what I meant to discuss.” She checked over her shoulder, then touched my arm, as if preparing to tell a secret. “It’s regarding Mizz Westerman.” She wagged her head, signaling general disapproval of the woman.

  I led her to the den, and we stepped inside the doorway to talk. I told Hazel, “I’ve been wondering about something. How did Suzanne ever get involved with Miriam’s group in the first place? I can understand Suzanne’s general interest in feminism—she was a talented and strong-willed woman—but I can’t imagine how she could support the Society’s belief in paganism. The Quatrain family is Catholic to the core.”

  Hazel sighed. “Suzie had a strong Catholic upbringing like the other children, but she broke from the Church many years ago, way back in high school.” Hazel wrung her hands, offering no more details—there was something else she was anxious to broach.

  Again she touched my arm. Leaning close, she told me, “I thought you’d want to know that Mizz Westerman was here at the house earlier today.” She removed her heavy glasses, waiting for me to react.

  “Oh?” My brows arched. “When?”

  “During all the confusion just before dinner, just before poor Suzie was butchered. Miriam Westerman came to the back door with a fruitcake—an organic fruitcake, if you can believe it—with her ‘belated best wishes for the winter solstice.’ I told her we’d tolerate no such heathen nonsense in this house, and then she had the gall to get huffy with me—right there in the back hall by the service stairway. I was getting pretty well steamed, and not feeling right about fighting on Christmas, when the oven timer went off, praise the Lord. So I bit my tongue, thanked her for the ‘gift,’ and excused myself to the kitchen.”

  I couldn’t help laughing at the scene Hazel had sketched. I asked her, “What did Miriam do?”

  “That’s my point,” said Hazel, replacing her glasses and peering tensely into my eyes. “I assumed the woman would leave—the back door is right there, just around the corner from the kitchen. Once I’d put down the fruitcake and checked the oven, I noticed that I hadn’t heard the door open and close, so I poked my head into the hall to ask her if she wanted something else. But she wasn’t there, Mr. Manning. Glad to be rid of her, I went back to work in the kitchen. Now, though, it’s plain enough what happened.”

  Hazel folded her arms resolutely, concluding, “I’ll bet that woman slipped up the service stairs to clobber the life out of poor Suzie.”

  It had been a harrowing day, and by ten o’clock, Roxanne and Carl were tucked in for the night in Aunt Pe
ggy’s lovely former bedroom. Grudgingly, Thad settled into the old guest room, hastily arranged for him. Hazel retreated to cry in her quarters near the kitchen. And Joey had gone home hours ago (at the same time Sheriff Pierce left the house), not quite grasping the gravity of the day’s events.

  Neil, Parker, and I sat up later than the others, talking in the den. There was a tidy group of stuffed furniture near the fireplace, and we sat there finishing a drink together. Neil and I had our usual—Japanese vodka on ice, garnished with orange peel—we both knew instinctively that it was important to maintain our rituals, since our relationship would now be tested by separate living arrangements. As for Parker, he drank Scotch, single malt, neat.

  “Help me sort this out,” I asked my companions. “What do we know so far?”

  Neil shrugged. “Suzanne Quatrain was murdered upstairs in the great room.”

  Parker continued. “And we don’t know who did it, how, or why.”

  “Thanks, guys,” I told them under my breath before sipping some vodka. Gathering my thoughts, I recalled aloud, “During the minutes leading up to the murder, the household was in a state of happy holiday mayhem, with people all over the place involved in various tasks—no one person’s actions can be mapped for the entire time. Since the third-floor apartment where the murder occurred is served by both a front and a back stairway, it’s impossible to focus on the killer’s access to the scene. And since there were no screams, Suzanne probably knew her killer. It could have been anyone in the house.”

  Parker nodded. “Who was here? There were the three of us. And the three Quatrains—Joey, Thad, and victim Suzanne. Roxanne and Carl were here. And Hazel. That’s nine, minus Suzanne.”

  “Plus Miriam Westerman,” I told them, “assuming Hazel was on the level with me, and I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t be. So the way I see it, we have three suspects: Me…”

  “Stop that,” Neil interrupted. “Parker and I know you didn’t do it.”

  “Thanks,” I told him, “so do I. But we have to be at least as objective as the DA will be, and right now I’m at the top of his list—I was found with the victim with her blood on my hands, and I’m suddenly a wealthy man as the result of her death. We know I’m innocent, but the only way to prove it is to prove someone else’s guilt.”