Free Body Language by Michael Craft Page A

please,” she added, “do call me Suzanne.”
    “And I, Suzanne, am simply Parker.”
    She paused in thought. “So,” she said, “you’re a researcher.”
    “A highly skilled one,” I answered for Parker. “He’s been responsible for some first-rate journalism, and I’m eager to put him to work here in Dumont.”
    He granted, “Research has always interested me, and I guess it is, in fact, one of my strong points.”
    She nodded. “After you settle into the job, perhaps we could talk. I’ve been involved in a little research project of my own lately, and I could use some advice.”
    Unzipping his coat, he said, “Glad to help, if I can. What’s the focus of your project?”
    “It’s of a scientific nature. Specifically, DNA.”
    “Sounds interesting. Maybe we could—”
    “I’m bored,” Joey interrupted. “Can we please go upstairs now?”
    The rest of us laughed. Joey had been sidelined long enough, so we all headed upstairs. Parker ran back to deliver the groceries to Hazel, then joined our group, draping his heavy ski jacket over the banister at the foot of the stairs. Arriving in the upstairs corridor, we toured the rooms on either side of the hall—six bedrooms.
    The two most lavish of these were originally occupied by my uncle and aunt, Edwin and Peggy Quatrain. While separate bedrooms for a married couple now strike me as a civilized notion, it was highly unusual back in the sixties when I first visited the house, and, even as a boy, I was curious as to why Mr. and Mrs. Quatrain didn’t sleep together. Now, Neil and I had claimed my uncle’s room as our own, where we did indeed sleep together. We decided to use my aunt’s beautiful room as our principal guest room, and it was occupied that weekend by Roxanne and Carl.
    Of the four remaining bedrooms, three were originally for each of the Quatrain children, and the last was the guest room where I slept as a boy. (Hazel’s little suite was still in its original location, downstairs off the kitchen, except that now she lived there alone, as she had since the death of her husband, Hank the handyman.) Now these four smaller bedrooms were mostly in disarray, except for the room that had been my cousin Mark’s, which Parker Trent had spruced up as his temporary quarters until able to lease an apartment of his own.
    As we passed through the hall, Suzanne paused to look inside her room. It still had the pink floral wallpaper and frilly tieback curtains she had known as a girl, and I expected her to linger in the doorway, sharing with us some fond memory of awaking there with the giddy excitement of a long-ago Christmas morning. But she said nothing. She simply stepped back from the room, and it was impossible to read any thoughts whatever from the blank expression on her face.
    Joey was eager to see his old room, and he raced ahead of the crowd to open its door. We followed and watched as he wandered to the center of the room, little more than a clearing amid the piles of boxes and other miscellany that had been stored there. I expected him to react with indignation at the discovery that his childhood sanctuary was now used as a junk room, but, to the contrary, his face lit up with fascination, and I remembered that even as a boy, he defied Hazel’s best efforts to bring some order to his constant mess.
    “Hey!” he said. “Look at this, Thad.” We all craned into the room as Thad joined his uncle, helping him extract something from the bottom of a box. As they worked together, I realized that Thad—who had thus far comported himself as an absolute snot—was actually capable of displaying a spark of interest in someone else’s life. It was also clear from his manner that Thad liked his uncle Joey, sympathetic to his disability.
    “It’s my typewriter ,” said Joey as they lifted it out of the carton. “I wondered where it went.” And sure enough, there was the old Smith-Corona portable that Joey had lent to me during my visit. He