Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  The voice demanded, “Hello, who's calling? Anyone there?”

  Finally he managed to say, “Hi, Mom. It's me, Todd.”

  “Oh, hello, dear. How are you?”

  “Not …” He coughed, clearing his throat. “Not so good.”

  “Why, what's the matter?” Always the mother, she knew immediately this was serious. “What is it? What's happened?”

  Mom. He pictured her down in Florida, just north of Miami, a gray-haired widow in a bright white mobile home. After his dad's death some five years ago, she'd picked up and moved south. Sold most of the furniture and just took off. Never too late for a change, she'd said. And besides, I'm sick of this cold weather. Jiminy, I could slip on some ice and break my hip, do you know that, Toddy? So she'd moved to a little mobile-home park, an enclave of Chicago Poles, and in an odd way had seemed to blossom. Todd and his younger brother had talked about it, tried to figure out why she'd mellowed, even gotten nicer, and wondered if there weren't a new man in her life. After all, it couldn't just be shuffleboard, could it?

  “Todd, talk to me. What is it, dear?” she said, the concern coming over the lines.

  “There's … there's something I need to tell you.” He hoped she was alone. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Of course.”

  “It's about my personal life.”

  He'd imagined this moment. He'd pictured telling her. Seen her falling apart in tears. Heard her deep, Polish moans.

  Maybe even screams. He'd pictured the scene any number of ways. But he had to tell her now. With his name in the papers like this she was bound to find out anyway. Better from him. And he'd stay on the phone as long as she needed, as long as it took to comfort her, to settle her down. God, he didn't want to make her cry. He hated it when his mom cried. He should be doing this in person, of course. Or by letter. But there just wasn't time. At least, he thought, his father was dead. At least he didn't have to tell the old man. He would have had a screaming shit fit, maybe taken a swing at Todd.

  He heard her silence and thought the words. Thought them over and over in his head.

  He clenched his eyes shut, opened his mouth, and finally blurted, “Mom, I'm gay.”

  He cringed, waited for the tears, the explosion of anger. Instead, there was silence, and then his mother's voice.

  Softly she said, “I know.”

  “Wh-what?” But how? Oh, shit, he thought, bristling. “Did a reporter call you? Someone from the station?”

  “What, dear?”

  “How do you know, Mom?” he demanded. “Who told you?”

  “No one. I just figured it out a few years ago.”

  “You're kidding.”

  So it was just as Michael had said. Mothers were the first to know and the last to find out.

  “No,” replied his mother. “Remember when I came up that summer? You and Michael took me out to dinner. I guess that's when I knew for sure. I saw you two together and I just knew you were a couple.”

  This other pain, the one he'd been carrying all his life, suddenly cut itself out of his body. She knew? Jesus Christ, she knew? And then it wasn't Todd's mother who broke down in tears, but Todd. He clenched his eyes, but there was no stopping the pained relief.

  “Todd, dear, it's okay,” called his mother. “Not to worry, I love you.”

  “But … but …”

  He couldn't believe it. He was crying. He wasn't supposed to. It was supposed to be her, his mom. She was the one who was supposed to be crying. She was the one who was supposed to need help and comforting.

  Instead she became the pillar, saying, “Not to worry, dear. I've seen Oprah. I understand.”

  “What?” The oddness of her words made him smile despite himself, and he wiped the tears from his cheeks.

  “Really, I understand.” Like any good mother—although right then, as far as Todd was concerned, she was a great one—she added, “Todd, I love you.”

  “Thanks, Mom I … I love you too.”

  He choked on his tears, couldn't believe how easy it had been. In a flash he wondered why the hell he hadn't done this years ago. Or was the time only right now? No, that wasn't it. He'd been horribly afraid of hurting and losing her.

  “What about Dad?” Was there any way to answer that one? “Did he know? Did you two ever talk about it?”

  “No, we never did, but in his own way he probably knew.” She was quick to say, “He was awfully hard on you. You were the oldest and he came down so hard on you. I know that. I did what I could. He was just so…so frustrated, and unfortunately he took it out on us all. But, Todd, we've talked about that. And you've got to move past it. It sounds odd—God knows, your father was no prince, him and his temper and his vodka—but he was so hard on you only because he loved you so much. He wanted you to be the best you could be. There's only one thing you need to know: He loved you very much.” Trying to sound cheery, she said, “So you see, everything's all right in the end, isn't it? You have Michael and—”

  “Mom …” He caught his breath as another flow of tears began. “Th-there's something else. Something horrible's happened.”

  “Oh, God. What?”

  “Mom, Michael's dead.”

  She was so stunned she couldn't speak. “I … I … what?”

  “He was killed. Murdered.”

  “Oh, no! When?”

  “Last night.”

  “But … but …” she mumbled, now bursting into tears. “Why? He… he was such a nice man.”

  In a flash of realization, Todd saw that all his life he'd been like this dam. Sure. In that way he was just like his dad. This big solid wall, holding back the weight of the world. But he couldn't do it anymore. Not by any means. Michael was dead. Everything was crumbling. The dam was forever shattered. And clutching the phone with his mom on the other end, he sobbed like a baby. Swell after swell of tears poured out of him, and he muttered Michael was dead, what was he going to do, they thought he'd done it but he hadn't, he hadn't, did she understand? Did she? Of course, she replied. He rambled on and on, not making any sense, telling her how they'd arrested him, that it was in the papers and everything. Michael was dead, and he'd never cried so hard, not even at his father's funeral, and the more he sobbed, the harder he felt it, nearly writhing with pain and frustration.

  Finally he told her, “Mom, I gotta … I gotta go.”

  “But are you alone, dear? Is there anyone with you?”

  “Janice. Remember her? She's coming over soon.”

  “Oh, Todd, I'm so sorry. Should I come up?”

  “No. Listen, Mom, I'll call you later.”

  He quickly hung up, dropping the phone into the cradle. He couldn't get up from the chair though. Instead, he wrapped his arms around himself, clutching himself around the waist. His head fell forward, landing with a thump on the glass tabletop. The tears spilled out of him, and in a way he thought this was it, he was dying too.

  And over and over he muttered, “Michael … Michael …”

  Sometime later he woke up because of the knocking. Todd opened his eyes, peered around in the darkness, and ascertained that he was at home, not in some prison cell. He blinked, lifted his head from the cold glass table. His eyes felt swollen and achy, his nose wet. Quite obviously he'd fallen asleep, an extraordinarily deep one at that. So how long had he slept? Only a matter of minutes, or was it in fact hours?

  Someone pounded on the door and called, “Todd?”

  Who was it, Janice? Was Bob still on duty, could he have let her in downstairs, and was she now out there, the threatened pizza in hand?

  “Just a minute,” he called.

  He stumbled into the kitchen, grabbed the roll of paper towels from atop the refrigerator, ripped off a couple of sheets, and blew his nose. Then he turned on the cold water, let it run, and splashed his face. He was exhausted. What he needed were days of sleep. He should just crawl into bed and not emerge for a week.

  He was about to open the door when he hesitated, wondering if
it was indeed Janice out there. Or was this how Michael had been killed; had someone knocked and he'd just opened the door and let in a murderer? Or, God, was it Rawlins and Lewis again? They weren't coming back to continue the search, were they?

  “Who's there?” called Todd.

  “It's me.”

  It struck him as odd. Sure, he knew the voice, and he leaned forward, looked through the peephole, saw the familiar face. What in the hell did she want?

  “Cindy?”

  Was this day never going to end? Obviously it was something about work. Probably Lewis and Rawlins had already made it down there, already gone through his office and carted off his calendar, notes, whatever. So was there a problem? If so, why hadn't she just called? And how had she found out where he lived? Cindy Wilson had never been here before, but perhaps she had retrieved a few of his things or was coming to see how he was.

  He twisted the bolt, opened the door, and suddenly was assaulted with a glaring white light. He squinted, raised his right hand over his eyes.

  “Jesus Christ, what's going on?” he demanded.

  Clutching a microphone, she turned her back to him, facing the light.

  “What the flick is going on? How the hell did you get in?” He looked at the lights, saw the camera aimed at him. “Mark, is that you?”

  “Yeah. Sorry, buddy.”

  “But…”

  Todd couldn't believe it. Mark was his pal. Just two weeks ago he'd taken Todd out for a steak dinner; Mark wanted to celebrate that his AIDS test had come back negative. Some eight years earlier, Mark finally explained as he drank his third martini, he'd done some dope, gone to a very hip, very swinging party in San Francisco, and … and …

  Mark's voice counted, “Three, two, one.”

  “Good evening, this is Cindy Wilson, here at the home of Emmy Award-winning reporter Todd Mills, who last night was arrested for the murder of his gay lover, Michael Carter. Good evening, Todd. How are you?”

  “What the hell kind of stunt is this?”

  “Todd, can you tell us how long you were involved with Mr. Carter?” she asked in her best reporter voice. “You were his homosexual lover, were you not?”

  “My God, what kind of cheap trick is this?” he shouted.

  “Was there a history of violence in your relationship? We understand that the two of you fought the night before Mr. Carter was so brutally knifed to death. Is this true?”

  “Wh-what?”

  “And why did you deceive the management of Channel Seven, your coworkers, and all of your loyal viewers?” she pressed. “Todd, why didn't you tell any of us that you're gay?”

  Unbelievable. He stared at Cindy Wilson, with whom he'd worked for over a year. And he stared at Mark, the cameraman, whom he'd known for years. Fucking unbelievable.

  “Good night,” he gasped, backing away.

  “But, Todd, why did the police arrest you?” called Cindy. “What happened? Did you kill Michael Carter?”

  “Absolutely not!” he yelled. “Now get the hell out of here!”

  As he slammed the door his heart was thumping so hard that he thought he might collapse. He twisted the lock shut, realized he couldn't breathe. Clutching his throat, he gasped for air. Then he heard her voice outside, and he quickly squinted into the peephole and saw the bright lights still burning. Shit. She was still out there. The camera was still running live right outside his very own door.

  “And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, the first glimpse of star reporter Todd Mills since his arrest last night. Stay tuned to Channel Seven for the inside scoop on this tragic story of gay love and gay murder.”

  Trembling, he collapsed to the floor. He knew this trick: ramming a mike into a suspect's face and letting the cameras roll live. It was a CrimeEye trademark. And he had started it. Only now Todd was the fodder, and the public was going to love every second, eat it up, gobble him alive.

  13

  Todd bought a plot for them both. It was on a gentle hillside, close to several towering oaks and a pond, in the depths of Gracewood Cemetery, the priciest place to be buried in the Twin Cities. He'd already ordered a headstone too. Minnesota granite from Cold Spring. Michael would have like that. And there was a space for Todd as well, though Janice had balked a bit at that one.

  “Don't box yourself in just yet,” she'd advised. “After all, you're barely forty.”

  “And already I'm so tired,” he replied. “Here I've been married and divorced, and now in a gay relationship and widowed. It's just more than I wanted, more than I expected.”

  “I'm sure, but there are plenty of other fish in the sea, don't forget.”

  “How about stallions? I like that image better.”

  “Okay, then let me put it this way: Wouldn't you like another horse in your herd?”

  “As long as he's not a gelding.”

  “Way funny, Todd. Way funny.”

  Just one more, he hoped. That would be plenty. But regardless of who Todd might meet and form a relationship with, he wanted to be there in Gracewood, right next to Michael, in the end of ends. Michael had never liked being alone; in fact, he'd been afraid of growing old with no one else in his life. Well, he hadn't had the chance to get old, and Todd felt the least he could do was to make sure he wasn't lying alone forever. Todd owed Michael that much. If, by chance, that meant bringing along someone else, Todd's next partner perhaps, then that's where they'd all go, right there in the fertile soil of Gracewood Cemetery. He laughed at the thought of it. A threesome. Michael would finally get his fantasy, for all of eternity no less.

  The funeral took place four days after the murder, not long after the police released the body and just as soon as the undertaker could prepare it. It had threatened to rain, but the wind came up and the skies cleared, and so Michael Carter was laid to rest on one of the last warm, sunny days of the year. Fifteen minutes before the service began, Todd, Michael's sister, Maggie, her kids, and Rick, her estranged husband, all gathered in a small, private room at the rear of the cemetery's chapel.

  “Is my tie all the way up, Maggie?”

  He always asked that question right before he went on the air. Is my tie up? He hated having a small bit of shirt showing above the knot of a tie, but the question was more like a ritual before a performance. A final check-in with his ego. And this felt like a performance. How many people were out there? Hundreds? He'd peeked through the heavy oak doors. Who were all these people, and where had they all come from? If they were all Michael's friends why were there so many he'd never seen before?

  Maggie was smoothing down the hair on one of her son's head. She glanced over at Todd and said, “What? Oh, sure.”

  Rick crossed over to him, gave a closer inspection. “But it's not quite straight.” Reaching forward, he said, “Here, let me, buddy.”

  “Thanks,” said Todd, standing still in his charcoal-gray suit as Rick fixed the errant tie.

  “You hanging in there?”

  “More or less.”

  “This is going to be tough.”

  “Yeah.” Todd nodded his head toward Maggie, Joshua, and Jason, and in a hushed voice asked, “How about you? How's your family unit doing?”

  “Maggie's having a really hard time, of course. She and Michael were so close, you know.” Rick hesitated, then added, “But it's nice for me to be needed. I'm glad there's something I can do for her. Actually, Maggie and I haven't spent this much time together for months, and I think she's appreciating it as much as I am. I know the kids are. I just wish the circumstances were different.”

  The service began a few minutes later with the voices of a gay men's choir filling the chapel and seeping back to the waiting room. Todd heard the deep, soothing voices, went over to Maggie, and kissed her on the cheek. The minister, who was waiting out there, had told them this was their cue.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She reached out, hugged Todd, held on to him, bit her bottom lip. He embraced her, and they stood for a few seconds lo
cked on the memory of Michael. This was awful for her, he knew. Her parents had died five years ago, and now her only sibling. And her marriage was hovering on the brink of divorce. She was as strong as Michael, but could she pull through all this?

  “I hope I'll still be invited for Sunday night dinners,” he said.

  She wiped her eyes, kissed him briefly on the cheek, saying, “You'd better. We're going to need you, the boys and I.”

  He took her hand and the two of them started out, followed by Rick and Jason and Joshua. They passed through the door, into the chapel, into the music. The place was so packed that there were fifteen or twenty people standing at the rear of the chapel, and suddenly all eyes were upon Maggie and him. Todd glanced over this sea of faces, saw that about two-thirds of them were men, but recognized hardly anyone. There was Janice in a simple black dress, seated in the second row. A few people from Michael's office. A handful of other friends. It shocked Todd, though, to see so many unfamiliar faces. Certainly some were Maggie's friends, but he had no idea Michael had known this many people. Or were they mostly well-wishers, gay men who'd read about the service and wanted to be supportive?

  Todd's eyes beaded with tears, and he slowed, almost stopped before they reached the front pew. At the cemetery gates he'd caught sight of the Channel 7 van and Cindy Wilson, not to mention a handful of newspaper reporters lingering just outside the chapel. It had been like this all week, the media hounding him, calling, wanting interviews, anything they could mask as news. They and a handful of others had been hanging out in front of his building, wanting a sighting at least. But in here there was none of that. Sure, all the eyes were upon him. And he wanted them to see him, Todd Mills, as he really was. He'd been wrong, for this wasn't a performance. This was reality, not to mention the first time Todd had been in public since Michael's murder. Yes, everyone was looking at him, and everyone knew he was gay and they knew about his relationship. Dear God, here he was, coming out at Michael's funeral. Without Michael.

  A surge of grief and guilt passed over Todd. Maggie, Rick, and the boys sat down, but Todd didn't. As the choir sang, he looked at Michael's dark coffin. He was in there. Alone, his eyes shut forever. Suddenly Todd was crossing the empty space between him and the coffin. And then he was placing both his hands upon it. He stood there, his palms warming the wood, trying to imagine Michael. Michael. Michael.