Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  He shook his head and turned away from the phone, toward the coffee maker. He'd deal with the calls later; for now he'd tend to his number-one priority, namely, brewing some extrastrong coffee. As usual, he'd take his first cup of coffee into the shower, where he'd stand and let the water blast him into the morning. And then what?

  He supposed it was time to think about picking up the pieces. He should call Janice, see if there was any news, ask her if it was okay to contact Channel 7. Oh, and he had to call Stella. She'd called three times last week, but Todd had yet to phone her back. There was the delicate matter of his career, of course, and what in the hell would happen now. Could it be possible that everything would die down, that no one would give a shit about his sexuality, that he could go back to work? Was the world that wonderful, that generous? Perhaps. Perhaps, too, all this publicity might fuel interest in his career and propel him into another stratosphere à la Harding and Kerrigan. On the other hand, his career might be over at Channel 7 and he might soon be interviewing in the boonies. No, that wasn't right. He couldn't go to a small town because that would certainly mean going back into the closet. And he couldn't, wouldn't. Well, then, maybe New York. Or San Francisco. Maybe he could get hired on one of the new gay cable programs.

  As he was pouring that first cup of coffee there was a solid knock on the door. He guessed who it was, and was surprised to find himself smiling. Perfect timing. He'd just gotten up and the coffee was fresh. And maybe his visitor had picked up some bagels or muffins. It might be nice. They could talk. He took a deep breath, exhaled. Michael wouldn't mind this, would he? No, absolutely not. Move on with your life, his ghost would say. Enjoy. I'll be with you in spirit, buddy. Just don't forget about the flesh. You gotta take care of the real part of your life.

  There was more knocking, and a voice called, “Todd?”

  Of course it was him, thought Todd as he put down the coffeepot and called, “Just a minute.”

  “It's me.”

  Yeah, that was him. Sure it was. The forceful knock was familiar, and who else just arrived up here on the fifteenth floor? With the recent exception of Cindy Wilson and Mark Buchanan, hardly anyone. His neighbors usually called before dropping by. And the guards downstairs—Larry and Bob—always cleared any visitors coming in. The security was good here, yet they obviously had let Rawlins in unannounced because he was a cop. Carefully holding his coffee with one hand, he unlocked the bolt with the other.

  An uneasy sense of paranoia came over him, and before he twisted open the door handle he peered out the peephole, saw the very familiar figure, and asked, “You're alone, aren't you?”

  “No, my mother's with me.”

  Todd couldn't suppress a grin as he opened the door. “Hi. Want some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  As Rawlins brushed past him, Todd saw that he was carrying a brown paper bag. Muffins? Bagels? Just how serious, he wondered as he followed Rawlins into the kitchen, was this going to be from the start? He knew he couldn't handle a torrid affair. Not yet anyway. Friendship, yes. Companionship, definitely.

  “You don't look like you slept too much,” said Todd, an amused look on his face.

  He watched as Rawlins deposited the brown bag on the kitchen counter and turned, his eyes intense and deep. Todd felt a shot of arousal clutch his waist. Or was it fear? He didn't know, couldn't tell, and he backed up slightly.

  “I didn't,” replied Steve Rawlins, his voice deep and scratchy. “And it doesn't look like you did either.”

  Dressed only in his white terry-cloth bathrobe, his hair uncombed and still tousled with sleep, his teeth unbrushed, Todd felt oddly exposed. Or terribly vulnerable. He felt Rawlins's eyes running down his neck and burning through his robe. Was this to be a replay of last night's union?

  “I … I was just about to take a shower,” Todd muttered and then took a sip of coffee.

  “A little groggy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Nowhere. I just got up.”

  Rawlins stared at him, said, “But you weren't here. I tried calling.”

  “I switched my phone off last night.”

  Oh, shit, thought Todd. His heart pounding, his throat tightening. Rawlins was moving toward him, his steps slow but sure. Yet Todd wasn't sure he liked this. Something was different, not so easy, and he stepped back, felt the refrigerator at his back, realized he was cornered.

  “I don't think I moved a muscle since you left.” With a nervous laugh and his voice surprisingly faint, Todd added, “As if I weren't exhausted enough, you wore me out.”

  “It was great, wasn't it?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Sh.”

  “But, Steve—”

  “Rawlins,” he said in a hushed voice as he closed in. “Everyone calls me Rawlins.”

  “I'm … I'm not sure I'm ready for this.”

  “Just put your coffee down.”

  “But …”

  Todd set his mug on the counter and couldn't help but close his eyes as he saw the hand reaching out slowly. An instant later he felt the sure, strong fingers of the other man wrap around the back of his neck. Todd gasped, then leaned over, pressing his cheek against Rawlins's thick, hairy wrist. He opened his mouth, softly bit at the skin. Then Todd sensed Rawlins's right hand on the other side of his neck, and as Rawlins began to knead and massage him, Todd's breath began to come in short, deep gasps.

  “Oh, my God,” moaned Todd. “That feels incredible.” He reached up with his right hand, wanting to touch Rawlins, satisfy, please him in some way as well. But just as his hand descended on Rawlins's shoulder, Rawlins removed it, gently pressing it down and back against the cool refrigerator door.

  “Just relax,” instructed Rawlins. “Just take from me.” Todd tumbled into a nervous kind of bliss as the other man's fingers massaged his neck, the back of his head. With a deep, gentle, and circular motion, Rawlins's strong, steady fingers worked their way over Todd's ears, up his scalp. Todd dreamily opened his eyes, saw how intently Rawlins was inspecting him.

  “Close your eyes,” ordered Rawlins. “Just receive.” Trapped in the corner of his kitchen, held captive by a deep surge of desire, Todd did as he was told, feeling the hands next on his forehead, next softly descending to his temples. A finger brushed over Todd's lips, and he lunged out at it, bit and sucked on it. But Rawlins wouldn't be entrapped, and slowly, steadily, his hand moved down. A moment later Todd felt the hands on his chest, then sensed his robe tugged totally open. Oh, Christ, he thought. Here he was, all of him, including the extent of his arousal, totally exposed, as easy to read as a thermometer.

  He couldn't help but reach out. Couldn't help but open his eyes as Rawlins's right hand skimmed over his stomach. But what was this? This was definitely different from last night, when the charge of energy had been coming from both of them. This felt lopsided, as if Todd was being used, nothing more.

  No, realized Todd, grabbing at his robe, pulling it shut. They had to talk. They had to work things out. Perhaps— hopefully—there'd be time for this later. For now it was all wrong. He didn't know why. He just knew it was.

  “Rawlins,” began Todd, pushing away, “this is a little too soon for—”

  “Please.”

  “Don't,” said Todd, pulling free of his grasp.

  Surprised at himself, amazed that he was breaking away, Todd grabbed his mug. He quickly crossed to the coffee maker where, with a trembling hand, he poured himself a refill.

  “I've got to take a shower.”

  His body surging with desire, his head churning with confusion, he rushed down the narrow hall, coffee splashing out of his mug and onto the beige carpet. He charged into the bathroom, shut the door, and locked it. Michael, Michael, Michael. He took a sip of coffee, stared at the door, then purposefully unlocked it. Not knowing at all what he wanted, he took another swallow of coffee, slipped out of his robe, then climbed into the shower, coffee in hand. He set the
mug on a back shelf, then disappeared beneath a pounding stream of steaming water. Breathing as hard as if he'd just climbed several flights of stairs, he wondered if the door would be pushed open and a naked Steve Rawlins would join him, wondered, too, if that was what he wanted after all.

  Nothing happened however.

  He was not disturbed as he bathed, and eventually the shower cooled his desire and warmed his flesh. He washed and shampooed, then stood there, the water beating against his back. Drinking more coffee, he was relieved to feel in control once again. Control? Fuck that, he thought. For so long he'd been so tight, so worried. He had to let go. Noth- ing mattered, not anymore. But did that mean giving in to Rawlins? Maybe. Maybe eventually. He just didn't know, and finally he climbed out of the shower, calmed but no less confused. As he toweled himself off he heard a noise from somewhere in his apartment. What had that been, a door closing?

  He cracked the door and called out, “You're still here, aren't you?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “I'll be right there.”

  “Take your time,” replied Rawlins. “Hey, where do you keep your knives?”

  “The silverware's in the drawer beneath the coffee maker.”

  “No, the sharp ones.”

  “Oh. They're in the drawer left of the stove.”

  So what was Rawlins doing, cooking breakfast? Things could be worse, thought Todd as he turned to the sink, lathered up his face, and began to shave. Actually, a good solid breakfast, some company, and a calm morning were just what he wanted and needed. It would be only too great if Rawlins and he could back up a bit and start the day from a different angle.

  Minutes later Todd had tugged on his favorite blue jeans, the faded ones that gripped his body smoothly and snugly, and pulled on a dark blue T-shirt that hugged his chest. He ran his hands through his hair, ruffled things a bit, and started back to the kitchen. Wondering what Rawlins might be cooking, Todd took a deep whiff. He smelled only the rich aroma of coffee. Not even the warm scent of toast. Cereal? Was that to be the morning's fare?

  But then Todd entered the kitchen and found it empty.

  “Rawlins?” he called rather desperately. “Where are you?”

  Shit, he thought, when his question was answered by silence. Rawlins had left after all. Within the last few minutes he'd slipped out. That wasn't what Todd had wanted. No, he realized, the disappointment stinging him. He shook his head, dumped his now-cold coffee down the drain. He hadn't realized it when he'd first gotten up, but this promised to be an extremely lonely morning. The phone, he thought, remembering his lifeline of human contact. As he crossed to it and flicked on the ringer, he checked the answering machine and saw that there were now eight messages. What was all this about? It seemed odd that there'd be so many calls, particularly so early in the morning.

  His eye was caught by an object: the brown bag, which still sat on the counter. Well, whatever Rawlins had brought, at least he'd been decent enough to leave it. Stepping over to the bag, hungry for any kind of baked good, Todd peered in and found a hat. A crumpled Cubs hat. He reached in, pulled it out. What was this all about?

  “That yours?”

  Todd jumped, turned around, saw Rawlins standing in the kitchen doorway, and said, '‘Shit, you scared me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I thought you'd left.”

  “Nope, just out on the balcony.” Rawlins nodded toward the hat. “Is that your hat?”

  Todd turned the cap in his hand and recognized the creases and folds, the faded tones and the soft wool. All of it seemed familiar except for one thing.

  “I'd say sure, but mine doesn't have an orange spot like this.” He glanced suspiciously at Rawlins. “Why?”

  “Someone found it down by Lake Calhoun.”

  “Then it's not mine,” Todd replied quickly. “I haven't seen it in a while, but mine's probably in the closet.”

  “Which?”

  “The front hall one right there. Why? What difference does it make?”

  Rawlins didn't answer him, instead turning around, stepping toward the closet, and opening it. It was only then that Todd saw the large knife that Rawlins was clutching in his right hand.

  “What are you doing with that knife?” Todd demanded.

  Rawlins ignored the question, peered into the closet, pushed aside a few coats, and said, “There's no hat in here.”

  “It's on the shelf if it's there.”

  “Nope. Nothing.” Rawlins turned around, pointed with the knife at the hat in Todd's hands. “That's gotta be yours, doesn't it?”

  “What the hell are you getting at?”

  “And this is your knife, isn't it?”

  “Of course it is. You just took it out of the drawer.” Todd didn't like any of this and he stepped toward Rawlins, his hand extended. “Give it back. I don't know what you're getting at, but I don't like it.”

  “Someone was killed last night.”

  “What?”

  “Or rather, early this morning. Right out there by Lake Calhoun. Right by blow-job beach. You can even see the spot from your balcony.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” demanded Todd.

  Rawlins nodded at the cap. “And they found that by the body. That orange spot is the guy's blood. The crime lab ran a test.”

  His eyes wide with shock, Todd stared at the hat he held. The next instant he threw it on the counter.

  “It's not my hat,” Todd said quickly.

  “They took some hair samples, so they'll be able to tell for sure.”

  “It can't be mine.”

  “What if it is?”

  “Well … well, then someone took it from me. Someone came in here and stole my hat.” Todd remembered throwing it on the floor at Michael's. “Actually, I haven't seen it since that night Michael and I fought.”

  Rawlins asked bluntly, “Todd, where were you last night?”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Todd. “I was at the Gay Times, then at Michael's, and then here. Here, fucking you. Remember?”

  “What about after?”

  “Are you kidding? I … I was asleep. I didn't even move until ten minutes before you showed up.”

  “Are you sure you didn't make a—”

  “Don't. Don't even dare suggest it.”

  A horrible realization whooshed through him. This entire morning was coming all too quickly into focus.

  “Holy shit,” said Todd, “that's why you're here, isn't it? You didn't come here to coo in my ear. You came to check me out, see if you could find anything. Well, I don't have any scratches, do I? No bruises either. Nothing except maybe some of your little paw marks.”

  “Todd, you need to—”

  “Get out.”

  “You can either tell me everything or we can haul you back downtown.”

  “Great, you take me in for questioning and I'll tell them, among other things, that you're a size queen,” threatened Todd, referring to Rawlins's penchant for well-endowed men. “I bet the guys downtown would get a bang out of that, so to speak.”

  “Todd, if we bring you in, the press will be all over you. They'll eat up whatever's left of your career. You'll be completely ruined.”

  “I'll tell you this much,” snapped Todd in disgust, “I don't know anything about anyone getting killed last night. I wasn't down at Lake Calhoun. Now, give me my knife and get out of my home.”

  Rawlins raised the gleaming blade, saying, “Someone was murdered with a long knife, perhaps one just like this.”

  “Get out! Get the fuck out of here!” Todd charged forward. “I can't take this and I don't have to. Now leave!”

  “Not until you tell me how your hat got down there.”

  “Well, why don't you tell me where you went after you left here last night? Actually, that's a pretty good idea. How the hell do I know you didn't head down to the lake and do a little trolling? Well?”

  Rawlins flushed red with anger. Standing only inches in front of him
, Todd saw the other man's hand tighten on the handle of the knife.

  Todd's hand shot through the air, grabbing the knife by the blade as he shouted, “Give me that!”

  He wrenched the knife from Rawlins, stormed past him, and yanked open the door, saying, “Get the fuck out!”

  Rawlins stared at him, but instead of leaving he ducked into the kitchen, where he snatched the Cubs hat and stuffed it back into the paper bag.

  “What the hell are you doing?” demanded Todd, letting go of the open door and hurrying back to the kitchen.

  “This is a piece of evidence.”

  “But—”

  “But what? It's yours? I thought you said it wasn't.” He glanced in the bag and shrugged. “Sorry, I've got it now. You want to try and stop me? You've got a knife. Go ahead. I dare you.”

  “Just get the hell out of here and leave me alone!”

  Without further words, Rawlins heaved past Todd and out the door. Charging after him, Todd twisted the bolt shut and stood there, flushed with anger. A moment later he sensed a hot, wet sensation in his right hand, looked down, and saw a steady stream of blood curling from his hand down the shiny blade of the knife.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  He started for the kitchen, but just then the phone began ringing. Todd threw the knife on the counter, grabbed a kitchen towel, wrapped it around his hand, and picked up the phone on the third ring.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Jesus Christ, Todd, where the hell have you been?” demanded a voice.

  “Who is this?”

  “It's me, Janice, you idiot. I've been calling you all morning. Didn't you get my messages, all five of them?”

  “I turned my phone off. And—”

  “Listen, you've got to get down here. We have a problem. Or, I should say, you do. You've heard the news, haven't you?”

  Todd tightened the towel around his hand. “Rawlins was just here.”

  “Oh, God. Officially or unofficially?”

  “That's a good question.”

  “Well, get your butt down here right away. We've got to figure out what's going on.”