Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  He bent down, kissed the coffin, and returned to the pew and sat down. His mother had been right. She'd wanted to come up for the service, insisted Todd needed her. But he'd said no, don't, there was too much going on. He was afraid he'd have to take care of her, couldn't imagine entertaining her, so to speak. But now he was sitting on the pew between Maggie and Rick, and he wished his mom were there. Placing his left hand to his face, he started to cry again and for only the second time in his adult life he didn't hold himself in check.

  The voices of the men's choir rolled over him, and he looked over at the dozen men, saw one of them staring back at him. It was Jeff Barnes, a heavyset man, bald, small eyes, and probably Michael's oldest friend. The two had not only gone to elementary school together, they'd been inseparable, for along with one other boy they'd made up the Banditos, a group of three once infamous in Linden Hills. And Jeff, who'd had nothing but disdain for Todd and his insistence on a closeted relationship, now gave Todd a cold glare.

  The service began, led by a woman minister, a lesbian neither Michael nor Todd had known but who was well-respected within the gay community. Todd had asked her to preside because she was sure to understand all the nuances of Michael's life, their relationship, what had happened. She spoke, this woman with the plain face and short dark hair and black robe, for some five minutes about love knowing no boundaries, about love everlasting. Todd heard it but didn't hear it. He stared at the coffin. Why had they fought about that stupid promotion? Why hadn't he been home the following night? If he had, none of this would have happened, right? If only he could do it over. Not merely that night. But the last four years. With the absence of Michael looming right in front of him, Todd realized the emptiness he now faced.

  The minister asked everyone to rise and join in song. A slow, solemn hymn filled the place. Maggie started crying, and Todd clutched her hand. Then the music stopped, and everyone was seated once again. After a minute of silent prayer the minister asked if anyone had a few words.

  One woman, a friend from work, was the first to stand up, saying, “Michael was such a source of joy. We had so much fun together.”

  “I knew Michael for ten years,” said an unknown man, rising next. “He was such a great friend.”

  “I always looked forward to seeing him,” volunteered another.

  “I loved his laugh.”

  “He was so wise.”

  “Sometimes he said he peaked during the disco days, but I never thought so. What energy.”

  “He gave so much.”

  “He could always make me feel good.”

  They went on and on, rising one after another. People who Todd didn't know spoke about Michael in the most intimate ways. They were people from work. People he knew from the gay bars. Todd had known Michael so intimately, so closely, yet at the same time he saw how much he'd forced Michael to shut off and give up. All these people who cared so much for him. Good God, what had Todd done to Michael's life?

  The service concluded, and Todd and Maggie proceeded to the main doors, where they stood and thanked each person individually. Maggie and he shook hands with nearly everyone, mumbled gratitude over and over again. People Todd had never seen before kissed him. Two women, obviously a couple, whom Todd had never heard of, stopped and told Todd how much he'd changed Michael's life. A guy embraced Todd, said how lucky Todd had been to have a guy like Michael. Another guy said he'd always had a crush on Michael.

  Who were these people?

  They went out, one at a time, slowly and patiently. As the crowd began to thin, Todd glanced to his left, saw two familiar faces. The detectives Lewis and Rawlins were waiting to offer their condolences.

  “I'm surprised to see you here,” said Todd, extending his hand first to Rawlins. “Thank you for coming.”

  “It's part of our job, but I'm glad we came,” replied Rawlins. “How are you? Hanging in there?”

  “Kind of.”

  Lewis shook his hand, said, “Nothing new to report just yet. We'll be in touch.”

  The two greeted Maggie, whom they'd already met and interviewed for almost three hours in the hopes of learning something new about Michael. As they now talked to Maggie, Todd stared at them. Doing their job? Nothing new to report? Of course he knew what they were inferring. The detectives had come to the funeral not simply to observe Todd and what emotions he might or might not be displaying. No, they'd come to note who was at the funeral. Certainly. Todd hadn't thought about it, but Michael's killer could very well have just been there, and that thought frightened him, reverberated in his mind. There was so much of Michael that Todd didn't know, simply because Todd hadn't wanted to socialize too openly, too outwardly. But what did that really mean?

  Suddenly washed with a new fear, Todd turned away from the crowd, left them outside, and went back into the chapel. He stood in the large empty space, stared down the main aisle at the coffin. It wasn't possible, was it? Todd had assumed they'd had a devoted relationship. Todd had thought he'd known Michael so well. He'd been so sure he had. Yet today, seeing all these unfamiliar faces, he saw how wrong he might be.

  Specifically, thought Todd to himself, could there have been another man in Michael's life, and was that who he'd let into his home that fateful night?

  14

  Todd couldn't let go of it. The idea lodged in his mind and he could think of nothing else.

  The actual interment was limited to the family and took place an hour after the chapel service had concluded. Todd and Maggie and her family stood at Michael's grave, his coffin hovering over the open pit, while the minister spoke still more prayers and thoughts. But Todd heard precious little. Instead, he stood there, the late-autumn sun on his shoulders, wanting Michael back. Just for a minute. There was just one thing he wanted to tell Michael: I love you. And one thing he wanted to ask: Was there someone else?

  The grass was clipped short, fading from its summer brightness to an autumnal dullness, and Todd's eyes drifted away from the grave, down the hill, past all the other gravestones and to the pond below. He watched a handful of ducks skim the surface of the water, settle down, float there. And then Maggie was pulling on Todd's sleeve. It was over.

  “I'll be right there,” he told her. “You all go ahead.”

  Maggie, Rick, and their kids followed the minister down the slope toward the narrow paved road, where they started walking back to the chapel. Todd watched them, then turned back to the coffin, which seemed to float magically above the open hole. He'd been so obsessed by his own secret—that of his sexuality—that Todd hadn't seen how self-centered it had made him. Certainly there could have been something or someone in Michael's life that Todd didn't know about. An old boyfriend. Someone from the past. Or some new guy. Someone Michael had flirted with at work or the gym. Sure, it was possible. Maybe Michael had wanted to tell Todd about this person. Or maybe Todd had driven Michael away, forced him into a secret of his own, a closet of a different kind. Yeah, that was possible. Perhaps likely. But why, thought Todd, didn't that feel right?

  Their closest moments emotionally were when the lights were out and they were in bed, side by side. It was only then that everyone and everything was blocked out. Or rather, it was only then that the entire world seemed to spark from their love and passion. When Todd held Michael in his arms, when he was assured that no one was watching and judging and that the expectations of the world were blind to them both, he knew this was right, the two of them. There was no paranoid doublethink, no wondering if others were looking, staring, hating. There was just the purity of the moment, the honesty of their emotions.

  “Here,” Michael had said sometime last winter when the temperature had plummeted to twenty below and they had slipped naked beneath the down comforter. “Put your forehead against mine. There. Now I can't tell where you stop and I begin.”

  Todd had held him tighter, pressed him closer, for all that Todd had known was what he'd said: “I love you.”

  He'd told Michael that, hadn't he?
Yes. Absolutely. Then and any number of other times. In spite of that horrible fight just a few nights ago, even though Todd had smashed that champagne and broken all those dishes, Michael had to have known how much Todd cared. God, he hoped so. As wretched as these past days had been, Todd only prayed that in the end Michael never doubted Todd's love for him.

  Todd now shook his head. He'd screwed it all up, their relationship and so much more. Yes, he'd told Michael how much he cared for him, but at the same time Todd kept throwing up barricades, thereby preventing things from becoming truly great. Not long ago Michael and he had gone downtown to Dayton's, that massive department store on the Nicollet Mall, and instead of perusing the clothes and enjoying just being out with Michael, Todd had worried what the clerks were thinking. Sure, they were looking at Todd. Sure, they recognized him as the star reporter. And yes, they were closely watching how intimately he was talking with Michael, how Todd was asking for Michael's opinions on this shirt, that color. So what were the clerks thinking, that he was que.er? Were they recognizing the truth? Would someone find out?

  So what if they had, Todd thought now. It wouldn't have made any difference then or any other time, he thought, shaking his head, understanding how much he'd twisted things. If anything, most of the male clerks had to be gay, and yet Todd denied his sexuality to them and thereby denied them a potentially positive role model.

  “You know,” Michael had said more than once, “a queer like you—responsible, intelligent, masculine, not to mention on TV all the time—would be a very positive thing to a lot of people. A lot of gays would look up to you, and a lot of straights would be amazed because the only gays they see are the visible ones, you know, the swishy kind.”

  Perhaps it was simply that ever since he was a child, Todd had been equally fearful of rejection and approval, fears that over the years had manifested in his own homophobia. But now, just as he had to let go of the man he loved, he had to let go of all that self-hatred.

  Todd reached over, touched the edge of the coffin. And just stood there. Five blank minutes passed.

  And then, with tears once again in his eyes, he softly said, “Sleep tight, dear friend. I'll always love you.”

  He turned and walked away from the suspended coffin, back toward the chapel. Glancing toward a distant street he saw someone peering through the wrought iron fence. And he saw that someone holding something. A camera? Shit, he realized. Always people watching him, judging. That was a photographer with a telephoto taking Todd's picture. Had he gotten the whole thing, Todd and Maggie and all gathered around the grave site?

  They piled into two cars, Rick's Oldsmobile and Todd's Cherokee, which the police had just returned, and then they drove the six blocks to Uptown, the small, trendy neighborhood packed with shops and cafés. As planned, they met Janice at a small restaurant, Café Laurie, where she'd already commandeered a large corner table for a late lunch. It was a simple establishment, the walls tall and white, the food simple but elegant, and Todd sat with his back toward the main part of the room. He didn't want to be recognized. He didn't want to be disturbed. And they weren't.

  When they were done, Todd pleaded exhaustion. Janice wanted to come back to his apartment, sit with him for a while. Maggie couldn't hide her concern, wanted him to come out to her place for the night so he wouldn't be alone. But Todd declined.

  “I'll be okay,” he assured them all.

  “I can't believe it, you're turning into a Minnesota martyr,” Janice said, referring to the staunch and inexpressive Scandinavian types that were so prevalent in the area.

  “No, I just need some downtime.”

  So by sunset he was home and out on his fifteenth-floor balcony, wrapped in a jacket and watching the last of the joggers and walkers make their way around Lake Calhoun. He sat there, the evening chill whooshing into the city, the sky fading from blue to orange to red, then back to a deep, dark blue, and still he couldn't let go of that thought.

  It wasn't so much that he feared there had been someone else in Michael's life. He didn't feel betrayed or jealous. He just wanted to know. To put things in perspective. Todd saw how much of the world he'd blocked out by being so closeted, how distant he'd kept so much and so many, but now he wondered, feared, that he'd blocked out a good deal of Michael as well. And, of course, he had to know if this other person, if indeed there was one, might have been the one who'd visited death upon Michael.

  Todd knew who he had to talk to. It was dark out now and cold, and he left the balcony and went to the kitchen, where he looked up a phone number that had been scribbled on a list. He then went to the dining room, sat at the glass table, and picked up the phone. The line was answered on the fourth ring.

  “Hey, there,” said the big voice on the answering machine. “This is indeed Jeff. And I don't know where I am, but you know where you can find me Wednesday through Sunday, rain or shine!”

  It was late in the week and Todd did in fact know where he could find Jeff. But not yet. If he remembered correctly, Jeff didn't begin performing at the Gay Times until nine. But would he go onstage tonight? Did rain or shine include the funeral of your oldest and closest friend?

  Todd had only been down to the Gay Times once, about three years ago. At Michael's insistence they'd gone down one Saturday night to see Jeff's show. But it had been risky for Todd. The new segment at Channel 7 was just starting up, his career was just gaining some momentum, and he didn't want to jeopardize anything by prancing into a gay bar with only Michael. So instead they'd made an evening of it, inviting Maggie and Rick and Janice. They'd all gone out to dinner beforehand, then arrived in mixed couples at the Gay Times and taken a front and center table. Sure, some people recognized him, but the gay bar was straight-friendly, as Michael always said, and no one knew what to make of Todd's presence. God, how stupid, Todd now thought. How really queer.

  He didn't hesitate tonight, however, and as it approached nine Todd got into his car and headed downtown. He drove down Hennepin Avenue, that lively and somewhat tawdry street of entertainment, and parked in a lot less than a block away from the Gay Times. As he approached the building he saw the flashing lights and the other men heading toward the place and heard the muffled thumping music as it filtered onto the street.

  The Gay Times was the biggest gay bar in the area. And it was always growing, gobbling up more space, annexing neighboring buildings. When Todd had been here before, there were just a couple of bars and only two dance floors. But it had mushroomed in recent years, or so Michael had reported, claiming that it was now a complex of ten or more bars, and as soon as Todd walked in the front door he saw what Michael had been talking about. Though it was still early and the place wouldn't fill up until eleven or twelve, the huge main room was filled with tables of guys eating dinner. To the left he saw another room with a long bar, and to his right he heard the pumping and throbbing of dance music coming from a distant room.

  Todd stood on the edge of the main room, and more than a couple of tables turned his way. Sure, they recognized him, if not from television then from the recent scandal. Feeling as if he were going live on the air, the alter-egolike voice of his agent, Stella, popped out of nowhere. If you ever want to make it big in broadcast, she had advised shrewdly, don't ever let your waist get bigger than your chest. I'm talking about if you want to go to the top, doll, and I know you do and I know you can. In fact, if you can make sure your waist is about a third smaller than your chest—any more than that and you'll look artificial, like a squeezed toothpaste tube, and people will think you're dumb and cheap—then I can guarantee I can get you on the nationals. I think you'd fit in at CBS. Connie would love you. And don't forget about the dental bleaching. Get that set up right away.

  Todd shook his head, tried to block Stella out. It was time for his public and private lives to merge; it didn't matter how people perceived him anymore. And with a sense of relief, Todd realized that coming in here didn't make him feel nervous. He didn't feel threatened as he used to whe
never he went into a gay bar, which was usually in some distant city like Dallas or New York.

  He turned right and headed up a staircase, passing a mezzanine where a guy in a baseball jacket stood with a bowl of condoms and a big admonishing smile, saying, “Don't forget to dress up tonight, boys!”

  Todd continued to the top of the stairs, where he turned to the right and stepped into a long pool hall with a motorcycle on the wall. Butch-looking guys in plaid shirts and jeans were standing around, shooting pool, drinking beer, laughing. One handsome, thickly built guy who looked like a construction worker—then again, thought Todd, maybe he was a lawyer by day and a pretend construction worker by night— walked past Todd, gave him a friendly smile and a deep stare. Maybe some other time, thought Todd, but not this week, not this month.

  He passed through the room, turned again to the right, and entered the piano lounge, a small, intimate room with a baby grand in the middle. A striking black woman with short hair and a rich, melodic voice sang and played, and Todd looked around. There were a dozen or so couches with couples seated about, men and men, women and women, black and black, white and white, black and white, cocktails in hand. Except for the diversity, it reminded Todd of a Polish piano bar in Chicago.

  He continued on, passing through a coffee bar, where two women were laughing over cappuccinos in one corner and three guys were deep in conversation by the window. He came to another dance hall, a huge, dark room with raucous music. He saw guys in black leather pants, leather vests, leather shirts. And chains, lots of them, draping from waists, over crotches. Some were dancing next to a beat-up old wire fence. No, thought Todd, Jeff wouldn't be here. Definitely not his scene.