Body Language (44 page)

Mr. Pierce (45) points out that during his tenure, crime rates have fallen some 14 percent in our community. Department expenses have remained consistently within budget, and he has presented a responsible plan for the long-overdue modernization of the county’s jail facilities. He has proven himself a skilled administrator—as well as a good cop.

Daniel Ken (35), Mr. Pierce’s opponent in this election, is a deputy lieutenant within the sheriff’s department, having risen through the ranks as a detective in the footsteps of his mentor, Mr. Pierce. Interviewing Lieutenant Kerr at the
Register
’s editorial offices, we found him to be affable, intelligent, and committed to public service. If given the opportunity, he could doubtless dispatch effectively the duties of the office he seeks, and we applaud his eagerness to serve the community in this broader capacity.

We disagree, however, with Mr. Kerr’s position that the sheriff’s department should play a more aggressive role in enforcement of the county’s obscenity ordinance, a wrongheaded bit of lawmaking that runs contrary to every journalistic principle as well as to the First Amendment.

We fear that Mr. Kerr’s position, coupled with the curious findings of the County Plan Commission (reported elsewhere on these pages), neither serves nor protects the liberties of Dumont’s citizenry. In our view, this issue alone disqualifies Mr. Kerr as a tenable candidate.

On November 7, Dumont’s voters will be best served by returning Sheriff Douglas Pierce to office. We offer him our enthusiastic endorsement.

N
AMING NAMES IS PART
of my business. During my career as a reporter, I quickly learned that the name in the first sentence was the most crucial detail of the story: Who did it? As publisher of my own paper, I direct my staff in the reporting of news, but my own writing is generally limited to the occasional editorial. When a column appears under my byline in Dumont, readers know that my words are not restricted to the objective transmission of facts. Rather, I now tread boldly into the realm of opinion—and I’m still naming names.

As a publisher, I view election endorsements as one of my most serious responsibilities. They are also among my greatest risks. Even in a smallish town like Dumont, where the stakes aren’t seemingly all that high, the election of public officials provides the thrust and rhythm of grassroots democracy; for most people, participation in government begins and ends in the voting booth. And in local elections, voters are far more likely to feel some connection, whether real or imagined, to the names on the ballot. Chances are, when I urge my readers to elect so-and-so, half of them will be miffed.

“Why so early?” asked Neil at breakfast that Saturday. He set the morning paper on the kitchen table, folding the editorial page to face out. “I support Doug too, but the election is nearly two months away. Tactically”—he tapped my endorsement with his finger—“wouldn’t this have more impact in November?”

He’d raised a good point. Standing at the counter, waiting for the toaster to pop, I explained, “The report from the County Plan Commission needed a quick rebuttal, so I decided to rush ahead with Doug’s endorsement, since the election could now be riding on the porn issue. Doug
deserves
to be reelected, and everyone knows it—why let the public be diverted by this censorship campaign?”

Neil raised a brow. “Censorship?”

The toast popped. “In the final analysis, that’s what this porn battle really is. Regardless of whatever lofty motive is invoked to justify it—whether it’s public decency or political correctness or economic expediency—it’s still a case of using governmental force to restrict adult access to materials deemed offensive. In my book, that’s censorship.” I was buttering toast so vigorously, it broke, leaving my palm covered with greasy crumbs. Though agitated by the topic and by the minor mess, I couldn’t help laughing.

“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 that 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.