Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

“Of course you didn't.”

  “We had a fight the night before last. I broke some dishes,” he said, clutching her and compulsively confessing, wanting her to know, understand everything. “I think they were your grandmother's. I'm sorry, but the station was going to offer me an anchor position and … and Michael said I had to come out to them or he was going to leave me. He said he wanted to come to the Channel Seven Christmas party, and I just lost it. All the pressure, you know. Them and him. And me. And those fucking Emmys. I couldn't handle it. I just didn't know what people expected of me. But I loved him. I didn't hurt Michael.”

  “I never thought you did.” She pulled away, wiped her eyes, kissed him once on the cheek. “Come on in. Some friends are here.” She raised her eyebrows. “Rick's here too. Actually, he's been a big help. The kids are real upset.”

  He sucked it in. All the pain, the fear, the horror. He didn't want to see anyone else besides Maggie. He didn't want to have to put on any pretense, have to hold it all together for anyone. Yet when Maggie wrapped one arm around him and nudged him on, he didn't resist. He let her escort him down the hall and to the edge of the sunken living room, a large space lined on the far side with sliding glass doors that overlooked the lake.

  As they stood three steps above the gathered friends, Maggie whispered into Todd's ear, “Trust me, Todd, everyone knows now.”

  As they should, he thought, his stomach wrenching tighter. As they must. Maggie and Rick had been asked not to talk about it before, but suddenly those dark days of secrecy were over, finished forever.

  “Everyone,” said Maggie, sniffling, “this is Todd, Michael's partner.”

  It was so easy. No one cared. They were Maggie's neighbors and friends, four or five of them gathered for her support. As they rose and expressed their sorrow and shook his hand, all Todd could think was that he'd been crazy to hide like that, so deeply in the closet. Good God, what had he put Michael through anyway? Who cared about the ratings or career or any of that crap? As these people swarmed around him, as he replied with all the perfunctory remarks, he suddenly wished he'd never gone into television. So much was so clear now. Television had enlarged and broadcast all of his fears, placing all of him out there for judgment.

  “Uncle Michael was going to teach Jason and me to drive the boat next summer.”

  Todd looked down. What was he, six or seven? Josh was all boy, with an impy twinkle in his eye, just like Michael.

  Todd knelt down, roughed the boy's hair, tried to speak but had to clear his throat, finally saying, “Well, he won't be able to. But I'd sure like to. Can I come back when it's warm and I'll teach you everything that Michael taught me about boats?”

  The child glanced away and nodded.

  “Thanks,” said Todd.

  No sooner had Todd risen than he was faced with his most frequent daytime drink, a glass of mineral water sporting a wedge of lime. Rick handed it to him and embraced Todd awkwardly, the glass somewhere between the two.

  “I'm so sorry. He was such a great guy. I … I …”

  What was Todd supposed to say? He looked at Rick, Michael's brother-in-law, a handsome man with a round face and reddish hair that was receding. He was a burly guy, a jock's jock, always energetic, though now Rick looked exhausted as he stared at the ground, shaking his head. In spite of the trouble Maggie and he were having, Rick and Michael had been close and for years had had a standing monthly racquetball date. Michael was proud of Rick too, calling his brother-in-law the least homophobic het he knew.

  “I just don't get it,” said Rick, staring out the window and at the lake. “It just doesn't make any sense.”

  Todd took a sip of the water. No, it sure doesn't.

  Rick led Todd away from the others, lowered his voice, and volunteered, “We saw the papers. I'm sorry it all came out like this. You and Michael, I mean. I'm sure the police have been hard on you. It's just so awful. Do you have a good lawyer? Is there anything I can do?”

  “I think I'm all set for now, thanks. My friend Janice is handling the case for the time being.”

  “Well, I'm sure it's going to be rough, particularly for a few weeks.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a card. “You know Maggie and I are still having troubles. We talk every day and I've been over here a lot, but … well, don't forget you can always reach me at the office. Things are busy, but I'm around.”

  “The business is still going well?”

  “Gangbusters. Finally. It sure as hell took long enough.”

  “You've been working at it for a long time,” said Todd.

  “Over ten years, night and day, can you believe it?” Rick shook his head. “Then something like this happens and you realize what's really important. Good God, where's this country going? So much violence. Are any of us safe?”

  “No,” replied Todd. “I suppose we're not.”

  Maggie came up next to him, quietly said, “Todd, we need to start making the arrangements. You know, the funeral.”

  “Of course.”

  He stared out the windows at the flat blue waters of the lake. His mind flashed on Michael's body. What was the coroner doing to poor Michael this very moment? Todd turned away, felt a wave of nausea tightening his throat. No, he couldn't think about that.

  “I already contacted one place,” continued Maggie. “The funeral home we used for Mom and Dad. But it's your decision, really. Are you up to it, or would you like me to take care of it all?”

  If in many ways Todd had not given himself fully to Michael in life, if he'd held back out of any one of his myriad of fears, then he wouldn't now, not in the end. Nothing else mattered, and his pride in Michael rallied and began to surge forward. Of course he knew better than anyone what Michael would want.

  Maggie pressed again, asking, “Can you handle it?”

  Todd nodded. “Yes, absolutely.”

  12

  Todd stayed at Maggie's much too long. It was after four thirty by the time he made it back into town, and he could feel the exhaustion creeping like a numbing drug up his arms and legs. He knew he needed to sleep, yet he couldn't imagine closing his eyes or finding any kind of tranquility, because the closer he drew to home, the more he feared what he was about to find.

  As he turned Janice's Prelude onto the wooded Dean Parkway, he scanned the area in front of his building, and there it was, just as he'd pictured it: the next in this string of nightmares. A group of eight, maybe ten, people was gathered on the sidewalk like a band of union picketers. Todd clenched the steering wheel, but focused on his destination. Drawing close and turning into the drive, he took a deep breath, steeling himself, just as a thin, older man in a white shirt and tie turned his way, pointing at the small red car with an accusatory finger.

  “All homosexuals will go to hell!” he shouted, waving a Bible in his other hand.

  Todd quickly closed his window, and it was soon apparent that the group was by no means united. Two men in short plaid kilts and crowns of flowers—obviously from the fringe gay group Radical Faeries—jumped forward and blew Todd kisses. Next a woman in a long, billowy dress lifted up a sign that read I love you, Todd Mills! Marry Me!

  Todd's entire body tightened like a single muscle, and he headed up the drive, stomping on the gas and speeding past them all. As he left them shouting in his wake he wondered, was this just the beginning? Oh, Christ, he thought, his head pounding. While before he'd hidden his sexuality so well, now it was being rubbed and smeared in his face.

  As he passed the lobby he saw the security guard, Bob, a beefy, handsome blond man, stepping out the front door. Todd had always had a crush on this young man, and Bob had always been—until recently anyway—exceedingly friendly toward Todd, either because Todd was famous or because Bob was queer and he sensed Todd was too. That still wasn't clear, especially since one night last month when Bob had delivered a UPS parcel to Todd's apartment; when gorgeous Bob had lingered and wanted to talk, Todd had nearly panicked, saying he was working on a story and didn't
have a moment. So was Bob stepping out now to make sure Todd had safe entry to his home, or had he come to gawk and stare with disdain at Todd, the homo killer?

  Todd stopped by the door and opened the car window. He looked at Bob and cleared his throat.

  “Have … have they been out there long?” asked Todd, referring to the demonstrators.

  Bob didn't even look at Todd as he muttered, “All afternoon.”

  “Anyone from the media around?”

  Bob shrugged, then stepped back, retreating into the lobby.

  Great, thought Todd. He continued up the ramp and into the garage, where he parked Janice's car. He glanced around the vast dark space before climbing out, eyed no one, and then caught the elevator up to the fifteenth floor. As the doors opened he was pleased that there hadn't been any journalists lurking about. Now at least he'd be able to retreat to the confines of his two-bedroom condo, where he could barricade himself behind a locked door. Maybe he'd even unplug the phone, something he usually hated doing for fear of missing something, anything.

  Thinking of the phone as he walked down the long corridor, he reached into the pocket of his sport coat and felt nothing. Then he touched his shirt pocket. It, too, was empty. So where was it? Had he left his beeper down at the police station? Wait, no. He recalled checking it last night just after he pulled up in front of Michael's. Had he tossed it aside, broken it? Right, he'd thrown it across the car. But that didn't matter now. He'd probably be fired from Channel 7 anyway, and he most certainly wouldn't get the promotion.

  Nearing his place, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a key. As he went to unlock his door though, he froze. What was that? He heard a mumbled voice, some rustling. Todd turned, glanced down the hall. Was someone coming out of another apartment? Or was he merely hearing something from one of his neighbors?

  No, it was coming from his own place.

  His heart flushed with concern and he was very still. It sure as hell was coming from within his apartment. He heard talking. Yes, there were at least two people in there, conferring about something. As quietly and carefully as he could, he leaned forward, pressed his ear against the thick wooden door. He couldn't discern what was being said and he moved over, tried peering through the peephole. A black blob of a figure crossed the room, temporarily blocking the light.

  This couldn't be anyone from the station, could it? Dear God, had he given his key to anyone at Channel 7? Sure, not long ago he'd given a complete extra set to Mark Buchanan so he could drop by and pick up a videotape. So was this some sort of cheap stunt, were they now in there filming his place?

  He slowly twisted the knob, found the door unlocked. Carefully he eased open the door. Where were they? Who were they? He took a half-step in, paused, moved a little bit farther. The door to the kitchen was on the right, and he hesitated, peered around the corner. Although the kitchen was dark and empty, several drawers were pulled all the way open and a couple of things were spread out on the counter. Fuck, thought Todd, this wasn't the television crew. He was being robbed.

  “Found something,” called an amused voice down the hall. “Sock drawer syndrome!”

  Todd froze in disbelief, for he most surely recognized the voice. The next instant he exploded with rage and charged down the narrow hall, past the first bedroom, which he used as an office, and to the second, his bedroom. He tore through the doorway, saw a woman with short blond hair reaching into his sock drawer and pulling out a plastic container of lubricant, some condoms, and a glossy magazine full of naked men. An hysterical burst of panic overwhelmed him.

  “What the hell are you doing?” screamed Todd.

  His left hand was out, ready to grab her. He plowed forward, an out-of-control anger surging through him. But just as the woman spun around and before she could even raise her hands in defense, another figure came barreling out of the walk-in closet. Todd didn't see him until it was too late, until the guy smashed into his side, which sent Todd hurtling through the air onto the bed. Every bit of wind was knocked out of him, and he doubled over, gasped for breath. And then they were upon him, both of them pinning him down. Todd caught some air, bucked and screamed, but within a matter of a few short moments he couldn't even move.

  “Get out of here!” gasped Todd. “You have no goddamn right!”

  “Take it easy!” yelled Detective Lewis, her knee on his left shoulder.

  “You can't do this! You can't be in here! You can't go through my things!”

  “We've got a search warrant, asshole!” hollered Rawlins, who was on top of Todd's other shoulder and arm. “You know what a fucking search warrant is, don't you?”

  “But—”

  “We showed it to you last night,” said Lewis. “We told you it was for everything—body, house, work.”

  Towering over Todd, Rawlins added, “It's a court order, there's nothing you can do. Nothing! We're just doing our jobs. So cool it! Cool it, man! We've got to do this. There's nothing you can do.”

  Gradually it sunk in. Of course there wasn't. Not a blessed thing. And when they finally let go of him, Todd could barely move. He rolled onto his side, just lay there on top of his down comforter, wanting nothing more than to fall into a screaming, crying fit. But he didn't.

  “Don't worry,” said Lewis, catching her breath. “This is nothing unusual.”

  Todd eyed the magazine of naked guys, lying there across the bed, and he lifted an arm to take it. Rawlins grabbed the magazine and threw it aside.

  “Forget it, man,” snapped Rawlins. “We can take whatever we like. Now go on, get out of here.”

  It was all too much, and like a beaten dog Todd disappeared, retreating to the living room where he pulled an overstuffed chair up to the window. He sat there, lost in shock and staring at Lake Calhoun while Detectives Lewis and Rawlins went through the drawers of his dresser, his closet, his medicine cabinet. His desk. His files and bills. Sure, they'd told him about this. It just hadn't registered. He knew what a search warrant was, of course. He just hadn't realized it would mean this … this humiliation.

  Todd sat in the fading light, staring out over the oval lake for another half hour or so. He watched as a ring of park lights around the lake was illuminated and as car lights came on too. Finally he heard their voices behind him, heard them zipping up their jackets. Todd glanced back briefly and saw that they had gathered three large plastic bags of stuff.

  “We're going to be on our way,” called Rawlins from the entry hall. “I'm sorry about this. We thought you were going to be home all afternoon. We thought you'd be here. We didn't mean to surprise you, but we had to do it today.”

  Todd didn't move and his voice was faint. “Oh.”

  “Well, we have a few things,” Rawlins continued. “Don't worry, we'll take good care of it all. You'll get it back. We're going to have to go down to your office too. Oh, by the way, do you have a computer there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we'll have to print out all of your files.”

  “Sure. Go right ahead. Take the whole fucking thing.” Staring out at the car lights as they moved around the lake, Todd asked, “How did you get in here? Did the security guard let you in with his passkey?”

  “No, actually, I had copies of your keys made.”

  “How convenient.”

  Rawlins asked, “Say, where were you this afternoon?”

  “At Michael's sister's.” Todd saw the lights of a plane heading toward the airport. “Anything else you want to know, like when I arrived there and when I left or when I last took a leak?”

  “Yeah, actually I do have one more question,” said Rawlins, lowering his voice. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Eat shit.”

  The door shut a minute later, and Todd sat motionless. He'd always expected that he or Michael would die of AIDS. He'd feared the disease so much that he was sure that that was their fate. He'd confessed that worry to Michael once, and Michael had said don't be silly, it was primarily a heter
osexual disease, they had nothing to fear, for they were healthy and their relationship secure.

  “Come on, you idiot, chin up. If people see you as full of shame, then that's what you'll get in return,” Michael had begun, launching into his favorite lecture about how others perceive you. “And just remember, you don't die of AIDS just because you're gay, right?”

  Apparently, thought Todd. AIDS hadn't killed Michael. A knife had.

  A knife wielded by whom?

  The phone rang and the sound cleared away his thoughts. He didn't budge though. The answering machine would get it. The phone rang on and on, however, before the caller finally hung up.

  Todd twisted around, saw some dangling wires, and understood. He had a digital answering machine, so Lewis and Rawlins hadn't been able to remove a tape. They'd simply taken the entire machine. He shrugged and slowly pushed himself up. The phone, he thought. That reminded him that there was one person in particular he had to call. A call he'd put off for a long time, but which could wait no longer.

  He had no idea of the time. It was dark outside, dark in his apartment. He stepped into the kitchen, turned on the small light over the stove, then went to the refrigerator, poured himself a glass of chilled water. Taking a sip, he felt the icy water slide down his throat and slither around the massive knot in his stomach.

  He reached for the cordless phone, but on second thought he placed it back in its stand, for he needed this call to be absolutely private. He'd once done a piece where the details of a drug ring had been picked up from a cordless phone. Anyone might be listening in now, from the cops to reporters to amateur sleuths. Instead, he dragged the old phone from the kitchen counter and into the dining area, the cord trailing the entire way. Sitting down at his glass dinner table, he cradled his stomach with one hand, took a deep breath, and stared across the dark living room, out into the night. At last he punched in a long-distance number.

  On the third ring someone picked up on the other end and said, “Hello?”

  Todd tried to speak, but nothing emerged. It was partly because he was so exhausted. And it was partly out of fear.