Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  It wasn't Michael's either. Michael had been encouraging Todd to relax, to be himself. Just because you're gay, he'd told Todd, doesn't mean you fit neatly into a stereotype. It doesn't mean you like bouquets of pink flowers and little dogs. It doesn't mean you like to watch figure skating and have a museum-size collection of cologne. It doesn't mean you have to be supermacho either. Look at me, Michael had said, I'm gay and I'm an excellent accountant and … and I read the sports page every day! We're a whole spectrum of people, Todd. Just look at you. You're a great journalist, you work incredibly hard, you're too serious, and you love to change the oil in your car. The only thing that might tip someone off that you're queer is that your socks always match your shirt. Either that or those deep, penetrating blue eyes of yours that tend to linger a millisecond too long on one half of the population.

  Oh, Michael, thought Todd, who's going to balance my checkbook now?

  Todd turned and headed down another hallway, following the arrows to the Show Room. He glanced up at the wall, and immediately everything drained out of him. He froze, leaned against a door frame. Oh, Christ. A small poster was taped on the wall opposite him. On the poster was Michael's face. Todd started reading. And started shaking.

  WANTED!

  Information on the murder of our dear friend,

  Michael Carter.

  The night before he was killed Michael was seen at the Gay Times.

  If you saw Michael leave with anyone

  please notify …

  Todd couldn't focus on the words. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and slowly, then opened his eyes, stared again at the poster. A grinning picture of Michael was staring back at him. How was any of this possible? And is that what you did, Michael? Did you come down here after we fought?

  Quite obviously so, thought Todd. Michael hadn't curled up with a book. He hadn't gone to the gym and worked off the tension of their argument. They'd had that horrible fight, Todd had rushed out, and then Michael had left the house as well. To do what? Have a drink with Jeff? Hang out with some other friends? Or meet a replacement for Todd Mills?

  A voice behind him said, “We haven't had any calls yet.”

  Todd turned, saw someone standing there, a bottle of beer in hand, and couldn't quite manage a reply.

  “But I'm hoping we're going to get some,” said Detective Steve Rawlins, in black jeans and a T-shirt.

  Todd was so stunned to see him in this crowd of men that he didn't know what to say, and only managed to mutter, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Guys, guys, guys.”

  Todd looked around. Detective Rawlins? Here?

  “What?” replied Todd.

  “Come on, dude, your head's not stuck that deep in the sand, is it? You knew I was gay, didn't you?”

  “Well … actually, no. I mean, what was all that about your first lover?”

  “I was talking about a guy, you dumb shit,” laughed Rawlins, who then took a slug of beer. ”I thought you'd already figured me out.”

  “Oh …” Confused and overwhelmed, Todd didn't know what to say, and he turned back to the poster. “I'm surprised to see this.”

  “Well, don't be. The entire gay community is afraid this is a hate crime, and everyone's up in arms. I think five hundred of these things were photocopied and plastered around town. Haven't you seen them? They're everywhere.”

  “I haven't really been out. I haven't seen it before.” Todd quickly studied Rawlins—really, queer?—then hesitantly asked, “So Michael was down here?”

  “Didn't you know?”

  “No, how would I?”

  “Michael. Didn't he mention it?”

  “Of course not,” said Todd defensively. “I didn't talk to him after our fight. I told you that.”

  “Oh, yeah, right. Right.”

  “So what … what was Michael doing here?”

  “Having a good time, I guess.”

  “But … but … what did …” Todd didn't want to ask, but he had to know. “Did he go home with anyone? Do you know that for a fact?”

  Rawlins looked away. “Nope.”

  Theirs had been a monogamous relationship. Or so Todd had always thought. But had the fight changed all that? Could Todd's loss of temper have convinced Michael that the relationship was no good and it was time to move on?

  A frightening scene passed through Todd's imagination. What if Todd had returned to Michael's that night, what if he'd found Michael in bed with some other guy? Todd would have gone truly ballistic. Or would he have just cracked, dropped into tears and utter confusion? He hoped the latter. He feared the former. He wouldn't have hurt Michael, would he? Could he have? Exactly what were his limits?

  “What do you think?” asked Rawlins. “Did he usually pick up guys? Was he into cruising?”

  “What? Michael? No. Hell, no.”

  “Well, you never know. Some guys cheat all the time on their wives, some guys cheat all the time on their boyfriends.”

  But not Michael. We talked, Todd wanted to say. We talked about our desires, our fantasies. How Joe Blow was incredibly hunky, what a great body he had. Who we wanted to sleep with. Why we wouldn't. How important we were to each other. We talked. And we had a great sex life. No, if Michael had been sleeping with someone else he wouldn't have been able not to tell me. Right?

  Rawlins grinned and glanced around. “So what are you doing here? Out for a good time? Actually, I don't think I've ever seen you down here before.”

  “What?”

  “You got your eye on anyone?”

  “No, I…”He shook his head quickly. “Not at all.”

  How could Rawlins even think that? They'd just buried Michael this afternoon.

  “I'm looking for Michael's friend Jeff,” Todd said quickly. “I wanted to talk to him.”

  “I see.” Rawlins took a swig of beer, gazed down at the floor, and then looked up with a grin. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  Stunned, Todd saw no other way than to be direct. He asked, “What are you doing, hitting on me?”

  “A good-looking guy like you, what would make you think that?” He gave Todd a firm pat on the shoulder, said, “Take care of yourself, buddy. And be safe, there's an epidemic out there.”

  Rawlins then turned and cut into a crowd of men, his broad shoulders and trim waist not going unnoticed by a handful of guys. Todd stared after him as well, then turned back to the poster, looked into Michael's frozen eyes. What the hell had all that been about?

  Moving on, pushing down the hall and toward the show lounge, Todd just had this sense. Of course Rawlins wasn't being forthright. From being so closeted for so long Todd knew how to recognize that screening technique, the way you make people look at the surface of you and let them think they're seeing every sincere inch. It was like a one-way mirror. While the real you was lurking back there unseen, people saw what they wanted to see.

  So had Rawlins purposely bumped into Todd in a deliberate effort to pick him up? Or had he followed him to the Gay Times in an attempt to squeeze as much information out of Todd as possible?

  15

  She was a big gal, maybe six feet tall and fifty pounds overweight, and her long, pink-sequined dress flowed from her broad shoulders down every ripple and fold of her body, all the way to her wide ankles. Her round face was thick with makeup, the eye shadow too heavy, the false eyelashes much, much too long. Her light brown hair, obviously an expensive wig, was huge and perfectly coiffed, and the silver earrings were massive, a collection of glittery balls that drooped almost to her shoulders. Lush, overly voluptuous, she strolled onto the stage of the Show Room in red high heels. And that was the only thing that surprised Todd. The height of the heels, so tall, so sharp, and the ease with which she moved in them.

  The emcee called, “And here she is, ladies and gentlemen, our own, our favorite, our delightful Miss Tiffany Crystal! Give it up for this charming and talented creature! And, I should add, Miss Crystal is dedicating this one to the memory of her
dear friend—our dear friend—the late Michael Carter.”

  As the audience burst into applause, Todd felt like he was being haunted by a ghost. Michael was everywhere in the Gay Times tonight, and Todd sipped at his bourbon and soda, gazed around the dark room. He sat at a cocktail table off to the side, a candle flickering in front of him. He looked about the small room. Were they clapping for Tiffany or for Michael?

  Sure, Jeff Barnes would want to sing to his longtime friend Michael on the day of his funeral. They'd known each other since the fourth grade, way before they knew what sex was. Later, during high school, they hadn't spoken about their raging desires, or so Michael had claimed. While the other kids had been dating and playing football, Michael and Jeff had just hung out together. They hadn't spoken about guys, guys, guys until one boring Saturday evening when they'd snitched some beer from Jeffs father, gotten tipsy, and put on Aretha Franklin. Jeff had started strutting and lip-synching, they started laughing, and the truth came pouring out at last.

  Thus was born the future Tiffany Crystal, trusted bank teller by day, glamorous drag queen by night.

  The recorded music started, stopped. Was quickly started over again. Through the speakers came the sound of a piano, simple and melodic. Todd recognized the song. Tiffany closed her eyes, lifted the wireless—and forever silent—mike to her glossy lips, and began lip-synching the Mariah Carey song “Hero.” Her mouth and throat moved with such realism that Todd couldn't tell she wasn't actually singing. Oh, Christ, he thought, watching that big body sway, hearing the music build. A huge swell of emotion rose from his stomach and lodged in his throat.

  As if she were on a stage in front of a thousand clamoring fans, Tiffany raised her right hand, clutched the mike, and crooned about a hero in your heart. She sang about not being afraid of who you are, of reaching into your soul, of finding an answer. Yes, she sang, let the sorrow melt away, let it disappear, look within, and see the truth.

  Todd was surprised to find his eyes misting up; since when could a drag queen do this to him? He picked up his cocktail napkin, blotted the light tears, and for the first time understood why he'd always hated drag queens. They so strongly symbolized homosexuality and for that reason were so very threatening. But of course being gay was not synonymous with being a queen.

  Oh, shit, thought Todd. It just didn't matter. Nothing did, not anymore. As the music rose emotionally, Todd felt himself swept along, propelled by the memories of Michael, the wisdom of Michael.

  “Hey, buddy, you gotta unwind,” Michael had urged not long ago as they jogged around Lake of the Isles. “The world's this big broad state of mind, a rainbow of colors rather than the little black and white boxes you're always trying to arrange in just the right order. Just remember that—”

  “Okay, okay, I know the lecture about cues,” Todd had interrupted.

  “You may know it, but I don't think you're willing to accept it.”

  “Michael, all I can say is I'm doing the best I can.”

  “That's right. You are. And you're going to make it too.”

  And now he had, he understood as he watched Tiffany swirl around on the stage, her lips and chin quivering as if she really were belting it out. He stared at her exquisite shimmering gown, and right then and there, deep in his heart, Todd felt an unbearable sense of joy dance with an unbearable sorrow. All along Michael had been nudging Todd toward a kind of greater truth. He'd been nurturing him every step of the way. He'd gotten Todd right up to the edge of the cliff. And Todd had finally, stubbornly, yet in the end gladly jumped off. Only to wake up in this new world of acceptance and find it was a world without Michael.

  Tiffany sang on about casting fears aside, being strong, and finally seeing that the real hero was within yourself. Yes, you find the truth and the hero, and you know you can survive.

  Oh, brother, thought Todd, I can't believe I'm crying. It wasn't as if these were the most profound words of the world. It wasn't as if this was enduring music. Nevertheless, the whole spectacle was speaking to his soul in a way Todd had never thought possible.

  With a big rustle and whoosh, someone sat down next to Todd. He looked over and saw an old queen in a ruffly black gown batting her lashes at him. Her hair was big and dark and stiff-looking, her dark foundation cracking in her deep wrinkles. And the lipstick ran all along her broad lips, which formed a huge smile. Todd couldn't help but grin back.

  “What's a matter, gorgeous?” she asked, her voice deep and breathy. “Got a broken heart?”

  “Yeah.”

  She looked down at herself and touched her cleavage, which was as pronounced as Elizabeth Taylor's. “Are you laughing at me?”

  “What?”

  “Or is it my dress? You know, this dress cost me eight hundred bucks. I bought it at the Oval Room at Dayton's. It's beautiful, isn't it? The material's just so smooth and nummy.” She smoothed it over her knees. “Don't worry, tiger. I don't bite. No hickeys either. Promise. Girl Scout's honor,” she said, raising several fingers and batting her eyes furiously. “My name's Limoge. What's yours?”

  “Todd.”

  “Well, you know what, Todd, dear? This old queen's seen a lot of pain in her life. I've seen it all, really. Truly, I have. And you know what?”

  Limoge reached for Todd's hand, which she took in both of hers.

  “What?” said Todd, not sure he wanted to hear this but knowing he had to.

  “I understand all about broken hearts. We see a whole hell of a lot of that in here. And you know what I feel in my heart?”

  “No.”

  “This guy of yours, the one who left you—and trust me, I know it pained him terribly to go because no man on this earth would freely leave a doll like you—he loved you too. With all his heart, he did. And he still loves you.”

  Todd could barely speak, but managed to say, “Thanks, Limoge.”

  Todd wondered, did she know? Had she seen Todd on TV or read about what had happened in the papers? Or did the Oval Room and the Show Room constitute her entire world?

  Todd glanced up at the stage, where Tiffany was approaching a soft, emotional climax. Several guys were lined up at the base of the stage, each in turn passing dollar bills to Tiffany, which she graciously accepted as she sang.

  “Oh, isn't Tiffany beautiful?” said Limoge. “God, she has such beautiful clothes. And the presentation. Just look at her sing. It's perfect. That gal's presentation is just perfect.”

  They sat there, Todd and Limoge, as Tiffany's song ended and the audience broke into a raucous applause. Tiffany curtsied, accepted a bunch of roses, then exited, her sparkly pink gown billowing as she flew off the stage.

  The emcee came back on, saying, “Isn't that Tiffany a delight? Yes, of course she is. And now for one of our most popular stars, the one you've all been waiting to hear, our very own, the very delightful Limoge!”

  “Oh, fuck!” said a man's deep voice right next to Todd. “I mean,” she said, clearing her throat and speaking with ever so much breath, “I mean, oh, dear, that's moi.”

  An image of fashion and grace, Limoge rose from the table and began making her way toward the stage. A spotlight searched for and caught her, and she waved to her fans, blowing each and every one a big, bountiful kiss. Someone came out, handed her the mike, helped her onstage. And then she started belting it out, a big Broadway tune made famous by Ethel Merman: “Everything's Coming Up Roses.” The boisterous, showy song filled the entire Show Room, and Limoge used the entire stage, strutting back and forth, broadcasting her song, her personality, just like the very best, the very biggest Broadway star.

  But Todd only smiled briefly. He wasn't transported to some rosier place, because, of course, everything hadn't come up roses. No matter how hard he had tried, he wasn't living the life he was led to believe would be his. There was no beautiful wife, no kids, no dog, no warm, wonderful house. And now there was no Michael either. A wave of melancholy rose within him, and the song sucked him back to Chicago. His parents had had
a dinner party in their small brick house. That song was blaring. All the adults were singing along with the powerful Ethel Merman. What fun. What joy. Life was so great.

  Yet none of it turned out like that. Not even his parents' life, his father having died a curmudgeonly, vodka-sodden death, his mother now having a rebirth in some Florida trailer court.

  Overwhelmed by memories of those days and of Michael, Todd rose and pushed through the seated crowd. He glanced up at the stage, and Limoge waved bye-bye as she blasted the audience with that big song. Todd lifted a hand in return as he headed for a side door. He'd come down to talk to one person, and he had to find him.

  Exiting, Todd found himself in a side corridor. He looked to the right, saw an open door, heard some voices back there, lots of cackling. He went to the doorway, peered in, and saw her there. Tiffany, a cocktail in hand, was surrounded by three others: a black queen in a purple gown, a white queen in a pants suit, and a much younger one in a miniskirt. Todd rapped twice on the door frame, and the conversation dropped away as all eyes fell upon him.

  “Oh,” said Tiffany flatly.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” said one.

  “I don't believe it.”

  “My, my, my.”

  “Someone hurry up and dial four-one-one. We desperately need some info on why this dude is here.”

  Of course they knew who Todd was. That much was perfectly clear. And from the bitchy, judgmental tones of their voices and their dismissive, glaring eyes, Todd assumed they had some strong opinions about the whole affair.

  “Do you have a minute, Jeff?” asked Todd.

  “This is our place,” said the black queen politely, “and in here she's known as Tiffany.”

  “Sorry.” He tried again, saying, “Can we talk in private, Tiffany?”

  She glared at him for a long moment. Then she shrugged, put her drink down on a table, and started out.

  “Excuse me, girls, time for some serious chitchat,” Tiffany said, turning. “Come on, Toad, I mean, Todd.”