Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “That's down at Lake Harriet,” volunteered Maggie.

  “There's Michael.” Pointing to a chubby kid in the middle, Todd guessed, “And that's got to be Jeff.”

  Maggie nodded and grinned. “He's always been a little overweight. But this is them, the famous Banditos. They were best buddies from grade school all the way through high school.”

  She turned the page, exposing a large black-and-white class photo. There were four rows of kids, the front row seated on the floor, the back row standing on a short riser. A sign in the corner read, Mrs. Fitz's Sixth-grade Class, Lake Harriet Elementary.

  “See,” said Maggie, pointing to the same three boys standing at one end of the back row. “Here they are in the little graduating class, the three of them. I think they terrorized half of Linden Hills, actually. Everyone knew the Banditos—they went everywhere on their Schwinns and were inseparable.”

  “Michael had a lot of stories, from capturing raccoons to toilet-papering houses.” Todd looked more closely. “Who was the third kid?”

  “Um … um …” Maggie leaned back. “Shoot, he was over at our house all the time, almost every day. What was his name? I must be losing my mind.”

  Todd leaned over, suddenly captured by the picture of the three boys. Michael. Jeff. And who? He stared at the third boy, who stood there, squinting his left eye in the sun. Just what was so familiar about him? Though still a child, you could see he was going to be a stocky, perhaps muscular man. Perhaps a little tough. Odd, thought Todd. While faces of some kids changed dramatically as they aged—Todd had gone from having a skinny face to a rugged, square one—others retained an element of their initial bone structure as they moved into adulthood. A few years ago in a Chicago bar Todd had recognized a grade-school classmate simply by the deep cleft in his chin.

  “He really looks familiar,” said Todd.

  “He was kind of quiet, I remember that. Kind of had a temper too.” She shrugged. “Beats me, I can't remember … wait, it was Corky. That's right. That's what everyone called him. Corky.” She laughed. “He was the troublemaker, if I recall correctly.”

  “I don't recognize the name. Maybe I've just seen this picture before.”

  Corky was obviously a nickname and did not help to explain the child's real identity or why Todd had an odd sensation of knowing him. Maybe Todd actually did. More than likely Todd had met this third kid via Michael, perhaps at a party or maybe just out on the street. Michael and Todd could have bumped into him while strolling around Lake of the Isles, for Michael was always running into someone he knew.

  Okay, get to the point, thought Todd. You've come here to ask her something specific. You have to know. So ask, he told himself. You've got to, no matter how much it upsets her.

  “Maggie, I've been wondering something.”

  He sat back, looked out the window and at the lake. Maybe, he thought, I'm nuts. Maybe I'm just a jealous asshole. But one way or the other he had to put the pieces together.

  “Michael talked to you, Maggie, more than anyone else. I mean, he told you everything, didn't he?”

  “Just about.”

  “Was … well, do you know, was he happy with me? I mean, I didn't make things easy for our relationship, and—”

  Maggie gently took Todd's right hand in both of hers, looked him straight in the eyes, and said, “Todd, he loved you. Michael was crazy about you.”

  “But …” He took a deep breath, for here was the real question. “But was he seeing anyone else?”

  She flinched, her hands abruptly squeezing his. And in that instant she seemed to separate somehow. To drift away. Maggie sat motionless there on the couch, but every bit of her seemed to rush away. She turned away from Todd, stared at a blue and green pillow on a chair across the room.

  “I'm sorry, Maggie,” began Todd. “I didn't want to ask you. And … and I don't mean to imply that Michael was sleeping around. I—”

  “It's all right,” she said, raising a hand to silence him. “The police stopped out here. Those two detectives—”

  “Rawlins and Lewis?”

  “Right. They were out here the day before the funeral, and they asked all sorts of questions, including that one.” She hesitated, said, “I don't know why, but I always worried about losing Michael. I worried about him and AIDS so much, which was why I was so glad when you two got together. You were both healthy and … and … who could ever have thought he'd be murdered? A car accident maybe. But not this.”

  “That's why I'm asking. It doesn't make any sense.” Todd bent forward, rubbed his eyes. “The police think that it wasn't random, that Michael knew whoever killed him. There was no sign of forced entry into his apartment, after all.”

  “Right.” Her voice very faint, Maggie said, “The police told me everything.”

  “The whole idea hurts, I can't say it doesn't, but maybe Michael was seeing someone else.” He hesitated. “And maybe that someone else killed him. I mean, I wouldn't blame Michael if he was looking around. I certainly didn't make it easy for him. Our relationship, I mean. I was an asshole, just so worried what people were thinking. I'm sure I was slowly and methodically driving him away. And … and …”

  “Todd, don't. Please don't.” Pronto started barking out front, and Maggie said, “That's Rick.”

  She closed the photo albums, placed them on the coffee table. Silently she rose and headed for the front door. Halfway through the living room she stopped and turned back to Todd.

  “Sure, Michael and I talked a lot, and I know …” Her eyes became misty yet again. “I know that your career was very hard on him and your relationship. Frankly, he complained a lot about it, how the stress of being so hidden was wearing him down. He just didn't know what to do. But he was crazy about you, Todd. He really was. So to answer your question, I'll tell you the same thing I told the police: No, he never said anything to me about dating anyone else. Then again, Michael also knew how much Rick and I care for you, so maybe he wouldn't have told me.” She ran her hand along the back of a chair. “Actually, I've been thinking a lot about this since the detectives were here. Michael and I talked a lot about where our heads were at, what kind of problems we were having. Particularly relationships. But if Michael was sleeping around, I sure didn't know. Then again, I think Rick and I wore him out talking about our troubles. On the other hand, Michael and I never talked about sex. I mean, after all, he's my brother.” After a long pause she corrected herself, saying, “I mean, was.”

  Todd watched as Maggie climbed the three or four steps up to the front hall, and then heard her go out the front. At a loss, he sat on the couch. What now? What had he been hoping he might find out here? Something the police might have missed? Of course Rawlins and Lewis would have quizzed Maggie and Rick about every detail of Michael's life, from Todd right on down to the possibility of another lover and every other man Michael had ever encountered. And quite obviously they hadn't learned anything new either.

  Todd glanced toward the front door, saw no sign of Maggie and Rick returning yet. Rather compulsively he reached for one of the photo albums, taking it in his lap and flipping quickly through the pages. He stopped at the picture of the three boys standing knee-deep in Lake Harriet, stared briefly at the mysterious third boy, then turned the page to the class photo. Without thinking whether he should or shouldn't, he reached forward and ripped the large photo out of the album. Hearing Maggie and Rick coming in now, Todd quickly put on his jacket and tucked the picture against his shirt. He then slammed the album shut and shoved it back on the coffee table.

  “Todd, what a surprise!” called Rick, a bag of groceries in his arm. “How good to see you. I'll be right there, just let me get rid of this stuff.”

  “Hey, Rick,” said Todd, rising to his feet.

  There was the sound of scratching nails scrambling through the front hall, and a moment later Pronto came bounding down the steps and into the living room. In a second the dog was jumping up at Todd.

  “Pront
o!” shouted Maggie, charging behind. “Your feet are all muddy. Out! Get outside!”

  She rushed through the living room and over to one of the sliding glass doors, which she yanked back. Shaking her head, she snapped her fingers and ordered Pronto into the backyard.

  “Some things change,” she said with a sigh, “and some don't.” She took one look at Todd with his coat on and said quickly, “Oh, don't go. Sit back down and take your coat off.”

  With thinning red hair, Rick emerged from the kitchen and stepped down into the sunken living room. As he smiled, he extended his hand and shook Todd's warmly.

  “Stay for dinner, won't you? Please? I've got to pick up my mail and do another errand, but we'll be having an early dinner,” he said. “The kids would love it if you stayed. We've got plenty of food—the best burgers in Minnesota. And I was going to make grilled french fries too.”

  “Actually, I have to be going,” replied Todd, checking his watch.

  “The boys will be home in another twenty minutes,” said Maggie. “Can you stay at least until then?”

  “I'd love to, but … but I have to see Janice,” he replied, lying slightly. “Sorry. Things are a little intense right now.”

  “I hate to imagine,” said Rick, shaking his head.

  Wanting to be gone as quickly as possible, Todd kept his left arm pressed against his coat. He hugged Maggie and said good-bye, promising he'd be back soon, promising to keep in touch. And Rick made him swear he'd call if he needed any help.

  “Oh, and Michael's apartment,” added Rick. “We're going to have to deal with it sometime. The three of us, I mean. It's not going to be any fun, but it's got to be done.”

  “Of course,” said Todd, “but I don't think we'll be able to get in until next week.”

  “Probably not,” interjected Maggie.

  Rick escorted him out of the house and to his car, walking by Todd's side, saying how much he hoped Todd would stay in contact. His boys had only one uncle, he explained, and they adored him. Now that Michael was gone, Rick's entire family needed Todd.

  “Thanks, you don't know how much I appreciate that,” said Todd, pulling out his car keys.

  As they neared the Cherokee, Rick slowed to a stop. He glanced back at the house, making sure Maggie couldn't overhear.

  “There's one more thing,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Maggie told me what you were talking about. I mean, when I came home just now she told me what you asked. You know, about Michael and whether he was seeing anyone else.”

  “I hope I didn't upset her.”

  “She'll be fine. The police already asked the same question, after all.”

  Todd looked at him, saw him start to talk. Then stop. So there was something else.

  “What is it, Rick?”

  “Well, I didn't really think about it when we were talking to the police. It didn't occur to me, actually. There was just so much other stuff going on. But … but … Michael and I had lunch a couple of weeks ago. We usually got together once a month or so, and this last time I was talking about my marriage. You know, the problems Maggie and I were having. I went on and on. Michael was always the good listener, but …”

  “But what?” pressed Todd.

  “You really want to hear this?”

  Todd looked up at the trees, saw how most of the leaves had already dropped. Then he heard barking, saw Pronto bounding through the woods after a squirrel. No, he really didn't want to hear anything more, wasn't sure he could.

  He replied, “Sure.”

  “Well, I don't know if I cut him off. I was just so absorbed in my life, what was happening with Maggie and me.” He kicked at the gravel. “But he did talk about recently bumping into one of his old boyfriends. I don't know who or from where, but Michael said an old love had just reappeared and … and he implied how it was too bad things between the two of them hadn't worked out. He said it had just been such an easy relationship.”

  Part of Todd was crumbling inside. “More open probably.”

  “I don't know. But he did mention that he was going to be getting together with this guy for a drink.”

  “Oh.”

  Oh, fuck, thought Todd. Oh, shit. This was news to him. Sure, he knew Michael had dated lots of guys over the years. There'd been a couple of serious ones before Todd too. But Michael hadn't mentioned the recent reappearance of any particular one, certainly hadn't admitted that he'd gone off and had any little social time with an old beau. And that fact alone didn't bode well.

  “Unfortunately I sort of dominated the conversation, and Michael didn't say much else,” added Rick. “Sorry. I …

  I …”

  “No, it's okay. I'll tell the police. I'm sure they'll follow up on it.”

  “Have them give me a call.”

  “Yeah.”

  Todd didn't say much more. He couldn't. Feeling like he'd just been hit by a truck, he climbed into his Cherokee, started it up. He waved good-bye to Rick, slowly turned his Jeep around, and headed down the drive. It was more than he could handle, more than his brain could imagine. Michael and some other guy. He'd been such a fool, thought Todd, cursing himself. He'd had it all … and lost it.

  As he turned onto the main road he reached up, took out the photo, and glanced briefly at it. Well, at least he knew where he had to go next.

  29

  Rawlins told Detective Lewis down at the station that he was just going over to the bank. Maybe he was being paranoid, he didn't know.

  “I'm going to deposit a check,” Rawlins had said.

  She had stared at him suspiciously, quizzed, “So what's up?”

  “Huh?”

  “You getting rich on the side or something? Didn't you just go to the bank yesterday?”

  “That was to get cash. This is to make a deposit,” he lied. “A friend just paid back a couple of hundred bucks he owed me. I'll be back in twenty minutes.”

  But of course there was no check, just as he'd gotten no cash yesterday. Instead he was headed for the main post office, and as he now turned into the small parking area just to the north of the long structure, he supposed he was being silly. He just didn't want to tell his partner that he was going to the post office and then have her say, You got a letter to mail? Here, give it to me, I got lots of stamps. I'm going downstairs now. I'll drop it in the box for you. Or, What are you doing? Paying your bills or sending off love letters?

  As he parked, Steve Rawlins supposed he hadn't told Lewis about where he was going because he didn't want to give her even the slightest reason to suspect. He didn't want her looking at him, saying, main post office? What in the hell are you going all the way over there for? He didn't want to explain that he was going to the sprawling central post office, a long art deco building that ran for several blocks along the banks of the Mississippi River, because it was so anonymous. When he checked the box no one would take note.

  Walking to the main entry of the post office, Rawlins pushed his way through the brass revolving doors. It was an elegant structure, cool and graceful, and this vast central hall stretched on and on. A polished black stone floor. Native Kasota stone walls that were sleek and beige. Brass signs. Brass chandeliers. Brass writing podiums for jotting that last message.

  And few people.

  It always surprised Rawlins how empty this place was, how hushed and still. There was an older man silently pushing a big, long broom along. Five people lined up at the service window. A couple of people checking boxes. Someone heading into the passport office. But no one else. He knew that the mail for the city and region was being sorted back in the depths of this building, so somewhere within these walls were constant activity and constant work. But out here you'd never know it. So quiet. Like a library.

  Rawlins walked nearly a half-block through the hall, came to a long bank of mailboxes. He pulled the piece of paper from his pocket and glanced at the number he'd scribbled. Then he slowed. His eyes ran up and down the small brass boxes. There. Right in the middle. But
he didn't stop. Not yet. He kept moving. There was another entry down at the other end, and he just wanted to make sure. Right. Rawlins glanced way down there, saw a woman come in. No one else.

  And then he turned around, looping back. He glanced again at the service window, this time having to squint because it was so far away. One. Two. Three. Four. And the fifth person? There she was, just heading toward the far door. So no one had followed him in here.

  Excellent, he thought, as he turned toward the mailboxes. He checked the slip of paper again. Yes. That box. Right there. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the key he'd been given and slipped it into the lock, which opened effortlessly. As he pulled open the small door Rawlins glanced to his left, to his right, then leaned forward and peered into the box. And yes, there it was, the nice small envelope. Perfect.

  30

  Five miles from downtown Minneapolis, the Linden Hills area was a quintessential Middle-American neighborhood and the city's most stable area in which to live. The only common gripe was the noise of jets approaching the nearby airport.

  Circling the western edge of Lake Calhoun, Todd caught a glimpse of the recently built towers of downtown, then turned down Xerxes Avenue and into Linden Hills proper. As he passed beneath the last of the yellow and red and brown leaves, he thought of Michael, who referred to this, his childhood neighborhood, as Familyland. And he was right. As Todd drove beneath the last of the massive elms, turning off Xerxes and onto 43rd, he took note of the solid wood houses, replete with friendly front porches, that lined block after block. With bikes and kids everywhere, this was one of the last corners of Norman Rockwell's vanishing America.

  “But it's so white and so incredibly straight!” Michael had always complained even as he waxed nostalgic about growing up here.

  While not a large building, the area library was neverthe- less a neighborhood landmark. A dark red brick structure with a thick slate roof and a bright, newly refinished oak front door, it resembled a Carnegie library, which it might have been. Todd just hoped that somewhere inside would lie the answer to his question. Taking one last look at the class photo he'd taken from Maggie's, he headed up the front walk, passed inside and climbed the split stairs on the right. As he approached the main counter he admired the tall arched ceilings, the leaded-glass windows, the fireplace, and took note of the unfortunate beige linoleum flooring.