"Glad to meet you. I'm Jerry Deem."
We shook hands. His eyes never left mine. He was looking for something in them, but I didn't know what. What the hell I was doing at his kitchen table, I guessed.
"I'm sorry to bother you at this time of day, but I'd like to talk with you for a few minutes about some trouble that's come up over at Dot Fisher's place."
"Oh?" He looked puzzled but not overly concerned. "Well, why don't we go out and sit on the-"
"Shhh, listen!" Mrs. Deem interrupted. "It's on the news. Oh, gosh."
We all looked at the little Sony, and Deem turned up the sound.
First we saw the graffiti on the carriage house while Dick Block's voice intoned something about
"the latest alleged incident of harassment to the gay community." The "gay community," we soon saw, was Dot, seated on the stone terrace behind her house. She was being questioned by a young woman wearing the obligatory TV newswoman's scarf around her neck, even in the heat, like a drag queen trying to cover up his Adam's apple.
"And what were your thoughts," the reporter was saying grimly, "when you came out this morning and saw the words painted on your pretty barn, Mrs. Fisher?"
"Well," Dot replied, a little uncertainly, "my thoughts were… what I guess you would call… unhappy."
The reporter paused, squinting uncomprehendingly, as if Dot had just recited in Urdu. She said,
"Unhappy?"
"Yes," Dot said. "Unhappy. Wouldn't you be?"
The newswoman, her mascara looking dangerously moist, was growing fidgety. She said, "You must have been… upset."
Dot nodded. "Yes. I was. Though these things don't bowl you over the way they once did. I've seen a good bit of nastiness on the way to where I am now. And you learn to take a lot of it. Though only up to a point," she added emphatically.
Instead of asking about the point at which Dot was not going to lie down and take "it" anymore, the reporter continued to probe into Dot's "feelings." Dot was unaccustomed, however, to the requirements of video journalism and refused to tremble or burst into tears or turn herself into a rising fireball. Finally, the woman asked Dot who she thought might be responsible for the threats, to which Dot replied, "I'd rather not say. I'll discuss that with the police. If they ever get out here."
Throughout all this, Sandra Deem stood with her arms folded and saying from time to time, "Oh, gosh! That's awful, just awful." Jerry Deem stared at the set transfixed, not speaking or moving at all.
McWhirter appeared next. He discoursed briefly-the report must have been heavily edited-on the deficiencies of the "hopelessly homophobic" Albany Police Department, and then launched into a pitch for next June's national coming-out day and the gay national strike. He mentioned the meeting at the center that night and the bar tour that would follow. The report closed with a shot 20 of McWhirter and Greco watering Dot's peonies-Edith was nowhere to be seen-and then a pan to the side of the carriage house while the reporter's voice said that the Albany police had told Channel 12 they planned a thorough investigation of the incident. The Millpond situation was noted briefly, and Crane Trefusis was quoted as being "sickened" by the incident.
"Isn't that awful, Jerry?" Sandra Deem said, watching her husband. "Who would do a thing like that to a couple of old ladies? Even with their lifestyle?"
Deem was still gazing fixedly at the TV set, which was now singing a song about how "If it's not your mother, it must be Howard Johnson's."
"I was hoping," I said, "that one of you here, Mr. Deem, might have some idea of who's been harassing Mrs. Fisher. Later today she and Mrs. Stout also received a letter and then a phone call threatening them with death if they didn't get out of the neighborhood. It's all turning into a fairly serious and frightening business for them."
Deem slowly raised his head and peered at me again. "Oh, no," he said when my words had registered. He shook his head. "No, I really can't imagine who around here would behave in such an un-Christian way. Do you suspect us? Is that why you're here?" He suddenly looked hurt, incredulous.
"I don't suspect anybody," I said. "It seemed like a logical idea, though, to talk to the people with something to gain from Mrs. Fisher's selling out. Of course, you're one of them. Are there other members of your household besides the three of you? Dot Fisher mentioned you had a son."
"You're really looking in the wrong place," Deem said, shaking his head, seeming more relaxed now, and faintly amused at the thought. "Heck, it's true we've been pretty disappointed with Mrs.
Fisher for making things a little bit tough for us. It's not that we really need the money, actually. I mean, we're above water. I'm a provider. It's just that selling to Millpond would be a real opportunity for us. Know what I mean? To get ahead. But this stuff on the news-wow! No, Sandra and I just weren't brought up that way."
Mrs. Deem was back at the stove now, dropping pink franks into a pot of boiling water. She giggled nervously and said, "Like Jerry says, we could use the money. Right, Jer? Steak would be nice for a change. Or even hamburger," she added, and giggled again.
I took it this was all for her husband's benefit, but he let it go by.
I said, "What sort of work do you do, Mr. Deem?"
"I'm an accountant," he said, watching me carefully again.
"Where?"
"Where do I work?"
"Yes. Where are you an accountant?"
"Murchison Building Supply. In Colonie. I just got home from the office a little bit ago."
We were still standing in the dining alcove. No one had invited me to sit down again since Deem had entered the room. The boiling hot dogs smelled like boiling hot dogs but they reminded me that I was hungry.
The screen door banged open and Heather reappeared. "Hi-ee."
"Hi, honey," Sandra Deem said. "Getting hungry?"
"Yep. We're having hog-ogs for supper," she said to me proudly. Then, to her father: "Where's Joey?"
Deem didn't answer for a second or two. Then he said, "At work. Joey's at work, sweetheart.
He'll be home later."
"Joey's your son?" I said.
"Yes. That's right. Joey's working over at the Freezer Fresh for the summer. He turned sixteen in 21
June and just got his driver's license, and Joey's saving up for a new transmission for that eyesore out in the yard. Teenagers. Boy, what a handful they are."
I nodded knowingly. Raising adolescents was a topic of which I knew nothing, though a brief affair I'd once had with an eighteen-year-old suggested to me that "handful" was hardly the word for it.
Sandra Deem was grim-faced again as she set the table without looking at any of us. We were all pirouetting awkwardly as Mrs. Deem reached around us trying to get the plates and utensils into place.
Deem said, "Well, gee. I'm sorry we couldn't help you out, Mr. Strachey. It's our suppertime now, but if we think of anybody who might be mixed up in this thing down at Mrs. Fisher's we'll be sure to let you know."
"I'd appreciate it," I said and handed him my card. "Just give me a call."
"Will do. And you have Mr. Trefusis give us a call. I mean, if Mrs. Fisher changes her mind. I mean-with all this trouble she's having-maybe it would make sense for her to make the move.
You know, cut her losses while she can. I guess she's kind of stubborn though, isn't she?"
"What she is is gutsy," I said, and automatically looked over my shoulder for Edith.
"Are you going to talk to the Wilsons?" Mrs. Deem asked as her husband led me to the front door. "Maybe it's nervy of me to put my two cents in, but… well, to tell you the truth, I wouldn't put anything past them."
"Oh, yeah," Deem said, liking the sound of that. "Yeah, check out the Wilsons. Gosh, they're about as trashy a family as you'll ever run across. It's hard to tell what kind of funny business they might pull. Don't mention we said it, but that's a good idea Sandy had there. You check out the Wilsons."