Pondering all this, I began to form a picture of my cousin Suzanne that was altogether different from the lingering memory of a blithe little girl I’d met only once. The prospect of that afternoon’s family dinner now filled me with even greater curiosity—and a jot of apprehension. I told Pierce, “I can’t thank you enough, Doug.”
Sensing that our meeting was over, he stood, asking, “For what?”
I stood, too. “For spending your Christmas morning horsing around with this nonsense.” I gestured toward the pile of hate mail, then added, “I also appreciate the scoop on the Quatrains.”
Crossing to the door to retrieve his overcoat from the hook where I’d hung it, he told me, “I thought some background information might add a little—shall we say, spice?—to your Christmas dinner.” With a quiet laugh, he winked.
I had the sudden urge to invite him to return later and join us all for dinner. Since he wore no wedding ring, chances were good that his day included no fatherly duties. Maybe he had nothing to do, nowhere to go.
But I decided that these thoughts were presumptuous. While I sensed that Doug Pierce could become a valued friend in my new hometown, Christmas dinner on the day we met might be pushing things. Better to let this evolve.
Walking with me from the den and through the front hall, he stopped near the foot of the staircase that led up to the third-floor great room. In the turns of the stair stood the tall pine that Neil and Parker had decorated. Pierce gaped at it. “It’s perfect, Mark,” he decreed. “May it bring nothing but warmth and peace to your life in Dumont.”
Sensitive comment, coming from a cop. I liked him.
That afternoon, the pace of things grew hectic at the house on Prairie Street. My meeting with Pierce had convinced me that I could dismiss the venom of Miriam Westerman’s minions, and I was able to concentrate instead on preparing to celebrate Christmas with friends and family—family I’d not seen since I was a boy.
Hazel took charge of the meal once the menu was agreed to. Earlier that week, Neil had suggested goose, hoping that our dinner would be strictly traditional. However, no one else shared his enthusiasm for the idea (Roxanne claimed she might gag—and did a credible job of miming it), so roast beef was discussed, which struck everyone as too pedestrian. In a spirit of compromise, then, we settled on turkey, in spite of the fact that we’d all had our fill of it at Thanksgiving.
The heady aroma of roasting foul filled the house as Hazel basted away in the kitchen, having chopped and clattered since dawn. By noon, everyone else was up and dressed and ready to pitch in. Parker Trent played backup to Hazel in the kitchen. Neil and Roxanne set the table and arranged flowers. Carl Creighton and I replenished the fireplaces with logs and kindling, ready for the match. By one or so, everything was in order. The Quatrains were due at two. We planned to sit down at three.
Shortly before the Quatrains arrived, I was tidying the grate in the dining room when Hazel came in from the kitchen to survey the table. She seemed satisfied, turned to leave, then turned back, bug-eyed. “Mr.
Manning!
” she gasped, hand to chest. “Too many places have been set.”
There were nine chairs. Counting on my fingers, I said, “There’s Neil and me, Roxanne and Carl, and Parker—five. Suzanne, Joey, and Thad Quatrain—that’s eight. And you, Hazel, make nine.”
Her jaw sagged, as if I were out of my mind. “Mr.
Manning!
” she gasped again. “I couldn’t possibly dine with the family.”
I laughed. “Don’t be silly, Hazel. You’re more a part of this family than I am. We’d love to have you at the table with us.”
She shook her head with quick, tiny wags. “I wouldn’t think of it,” she said flatly, removing a setting from the table. “I’ll eat in the kitchen. Of course.” And she trundled out of the room, dragging a chair to the wall as she left.
A while later, I was fussing with something at the back of the house when the doorbell rang. I checked my watch. Two o’clock—the Quatrains had arrived. From somewhere down the hall, Neil called, “Shall I get that, Mark?”
“Thanks,” I said, rushing toward the door, “but I’d better greet them myself.” After all, Suzanne and Joey Quatrain had grown up in this house, and it wouldn’t seem right for them to find a total stranger at the door. But then, they wouldn’t recognize me either—it had been thirty-three years.
“My God, Mark, it’s really you!” said the woman at the door as I opened it. Rushing over the threshold, leaving two men behind, she hugged me tight, effusing, “I’d know you anywhere!”
We both laughed. “Come on, Suzanne”—I gambled that it was she, but she didn’t look at all familiar—“don’t try to tell me that I haven’t changed. I was
nine.
”
She held me at arm’s length. “And I was fourteen. But
you’ve
become a renowned journalist, and I’ve seen your picture many times.” I remembered her as an especially pretty little girl, and now she was a beautiful, stylish, self-assured woman of forty-seven. She turned to the door and waved the others in. “Joey? Do you remember your cousin Mark?”
A middle-aged man stepped timidly into the house, looking about the entry hall, getting his bearings. He carried an armload of gifts, picking absentmindedly at their ribbons, fidgeting with the oversize buttons of his topcoat. I peered into his face, and yes, I could discern the features of the hyperactive kid who had hounded me with his friendship during my long-ago visit. It was Joey.
He was followed by a teenager who carried one small package, shivering because he hadn’t worn a coat. He had not yet grown out of his adolescent gawkiness, and while his face showed the promise of some handsome features, they had not yet gelled. His slunky bearing telegraphed that he’d rather be anywhere else, and he absolutely refused to let his eyes meet mine. It was Thad.
Neil was there in the hall as well, and I managed a round of introductions, bravely referring to him as my lover, briefly explaining the arrangement we had agreed to regarding our alternating weekends. Suzanne took an instant liking to him, curious about his architectural practice. Joey, in a word, was confused—polite enough, but his only interest seemed to lie with the house itself, as he hadn’t been inside it since his father Edwin’s death three years ago. Thad was downright rude, refusing to shake either my hand or Neil’s.
By now Roxanne and Carl had wandered in, so I introduced everyone again, explaining that Roxanne was the attorney friend who had brought Neil and me together. As Roxanne stood there gushing about Carl Creighton’s recent exploits in the Illinois attorney general’s office, I realized that she bore a remarkable resemblance to my cousin Suzanne—they even had similar names. Suzanne was older than Roxanne by about ten years, but otherwise, they had a twinnish air about them. In their speech patterns, their style of dress, and their languid laughter, they appeared to imitate each other.
“My
dear
,” Suzanne cooed at Roxanne, “you must feel utterly out of your element, up here in the provinces.”
“Actually,” she replied, “it feels a bit like a homecoming. I’ve always liked Wisconsin—I went to law school at Marquette.”
“Really?” I butted in. “I didn’t know that.”
“First in her class,” Carl bragged, hugging her waist.
Suzanne and Joey still had their coats on, and I offered to take them. Referring to the presents Joey and Thad carried, I said, “We have some things for you, too, but let’s save them till after dinner. You can put them under the tree for now.”
Joey managed to get his coat off without dropping the gifts, then eagerly got busy arranging things under the tree. Thad stood smirking, refusing to move. Suzanne prompted, “Thad, darling. Put your uncle Mark’s present under the tree.”
He pitched the small box underhand across the floor to where Joey squatted at the base of the tree.
“Thad!” his mother yelped. “That was a Tiffany
clock
.”
He shrugged, looking proud of himself. I wanted to slap him.
Roxanne broke the tension with a confused little laugh. “Just a moment,” she said. “I don’t think that Mark is Thad’s
uncle.
” She put her fingers to her lips, thinking. “No. Mark and Suzanne are cousins, and Thad is Suzanne’s son, so unless I’m mistaken, that makes Mark and Thad cousins once removed, sometimes called second cousins.”
Carl Creighton laughed. “That’s my Roxy—always the stickler for detail.”
“That’s
way
over my head,” I told the group.
Suzanne ushered Thad to my side and studied the two of us together. “I just don’t see them as
cousins,
” she told Roxanne, “‘removed’ or otherwise. For simplicity’s sake, let’s stick with ‘uncle.’”
“And ‘nephew,’” I agreed, resting my hand on Thad’s shoulder.
His head snapped toward me, and for the first time he looked me in the eye. Jerking his shoulder out from under my hand, he skulked out of the hall and wandered back toward the kitchen. I heard him greet Hazel there, and his tone was warm and amiable, as if the scene in the hall had never happened.
His mother apologized to the group. “Thad’s going through a rebellious phase. He even refused to wear his coat today. I hope to God he grows out of it—and fast.”
We all did our best to assure Suzanne that Thad’s behavior was typical, ignoring the minor detail that not one of us had ever raised a child. I made a mental note to take her aside later and attempt to beg out of my guardianship.
Joey kept interrupting our discussion, pestering us about wanting to see the rest of the house.
“Joey, love,” Suzanne said to her brother as if addressing a child, “you spent most of your life here. What could you possibly want to see?”
He stood quietly for a moment in our midst, then explained, “Things look different. There’s been other people living here,” which made me feel like an intruder, an invader of ancestral ground.
Suzanne looked about, gesturing toward the various rooms visible from the hall. “But, Joey. Everything’s been beautifully restored. Professor and Mrs. Tawkin were very careful about that. If you ask me, the place looks even
better
than when we grew up here.”
Joey stamped a foot. “But it’s not the
same!
” At forty-three, a year older than I, he still exhibited the petulant behavior that had marred my boyhood visit, when he threw tantrums at the slightest provocation.
Worse still, I vividly remembered that he had frequently threatened, “I’ll hold my breath till I turn blue and die!” Sometimes he attempted to do this, which threw the whole household into a panic, and, on one occasion, he actually blacked out. Mark, his older brother who was home for Christmas from his first semester of college, had just returned to the house from swimming at the local Y. Ten-year-old Joey was lying unconscious in the upstairs hallway with everyone circling him and yelling. Mark bounded up the stairs, dropping his gym bag as he fell to his knees and gave his younger brother mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I stood there mesmerized by the whole procedure, watching as my older cousin seemed to swallow Joey’s mouth. I was too young to identify the emotion that welled within me, but it was base jealousy—I wished that
I
had been the one there on the floor, straddled by those khaki pants, my lips being gulped by Mark Quatrain.
Joey now stamped his foot again. “I want to see my
room!
”
I said to the others, “We could tour the house—why not?” Joey’s mood immediately brightened, and I suggested to him, “Let’s start down here, in the kitchen. Wouldn’t you like to see Hazel?”
“Sure!”
I told Suzanne, “I’d like you to meet someone, my new managing editor from Milwaukee. He seems like a great guy. Last time I saw him, he was helping Hazel.”
“Lead the way, Mark,” Suzanne told me. “You’re lord of the manor now.”
So the six of us (Suzanne and Joey, Roxanne and Carl, Neil and me) piled into the kitchen, where Hazel had taken a break from her basting in order to feed Thad a sample of her mincemeat pie. The kid must have liked Hazel more than the pie, for he made a polite effort to swallow a few of the ugly brown gobs that he pushed around the plate with his fork.
“Suzie! Joey!” said Hazel as we entered. “Merry Christmas, my darlings.” Joey rushed to hug her, and Suzanne leaned through their embrace to give Hazel a kiss as the woman wiped a nostalgic tear from her cheek, a tribute to Christmases past.
Everyone talked about the delicious smells, gabbed about the menu, offered to help. Suzanne noticed that the Tawkins had updated the kitchen appliances, and Hazel conceded that the changes were a distinct improvement. Roxanne told us, “Historic preservation is a laudable goal, but in my book, it ends at the kitchen door.” We all laughed our agreement.
I glanced about, looking for Parker, whom I intended to introduce to Suzanne, but he was no longer in the room. Then I thought of something else.
“I just remembered,” I told Suzanne. “When I bought the house back from the Tawkins, they mentioned having found some things in storage here that may be of sentimental interest to the family—some old toys, the three Quatrain children’s baby books, that sort of thing. I’m barely settled yet, and I haven’t run across any of it, but when I do, I’ll send it all over to you.”
“Thank you, Mark. That would be most kind,” said Suzanne while helping herself to a glass of wine that Carl had just decanted for dinner. I poured a glass for myself, as did Carl and Neil. Joey joined Thad, having some milk. Hazel and Roxanne drank nothing.
Hazel said, “When things calm down some next week, I’ll do a thorough cleaning and keep an eye out for the toys and such.” Wistfully, she added, “If you don’t mind, Suzie, I’d love to take a look through those baby books.”
“Of course, Hazel,” Suzanne answered, then noticed that Thad was looking at her with dumb curiosity. She said to him, “You know what a baby book is, don’t you, Thad? It’s sort of a scrapbook that parents fill with hospital footprints, locks of hair, first words, report cards. I still keep
yours
up to date, honey.”
Predictably, Suzanne’s doting only annoyed the kid, who grunted while grinding more pie with his fork.