Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

With a big grin, she hung up. Kenwood was just to the south of downtown, not even a mile from Channel 7's studios. She and Mark could be there in just over five minutes, what with the flashing lights of their van and all. And if her luck still held out, they wouldn't be able to reach Todd.

  Holy shit, thought Cindy as she grabbed her tan raincoat. West 23rd Street. That couldn't be more than a block from Walter Mondale's. She'd have to bring that up. Maybe as they sped into the neighborhood she'd have Mark get a shot of the house. Or was he off in Japan now? Well, no need to mention that. Hopefully one of his kids would be there and the place would be lit up. Murder was creeping into the Lake District.

  Brad popped back into Cindy's office, all flushed and hyper, blurting, “Mark's grabbing his camera and they're paging Todd.”

  “Great.” Cindy buttoned up her coat and coolly moved around the edge of her desk, knowing she'd have to do her hair and makeup in the van. “Now get back to the newsroom. I'll call as soon as we arrive.”

  “Right.”

  Brad darted down the hall, and Cindy quickly moved out of her office, down the long, straight hall that was flooded by stark fluorescents. The camera guy, Mark Buchanan, short and slightly heavy, popped out of another corridor, a camera in hand, an eager smile on his round face.

  “No reply from Todd yet,” he said. “He's supposed to be in town tonight, so he should be calling in any moment.”

  “Let's go. He'll have to meet us there.”

  Maybe he was off celebrating his promotion. She prayed he was across the Mississippi in Saint Paul, having a leisurely dinner or maybe even getting drunk. So just maybe he'd let her have this one after all. Todd was a reasonable sort, and on the eve of his promotion she needed to look good. He'd certainly understand that. Yes, she said to herself, this blond chick from the original dysfunctional family wants this story. Wants it bad. A murder in the richest part of the cities. Kenwood. The Lake District. How great.

  As she and Mark darted through the maze of hallways and toward the small parking lot at the rear of the building, Cindy Wilson checked her watch. Right on. The 10:00 P.M. news was fast approaching. What incredible timing. There could be nothing better for her image and career than reporting live from the scene of a hot crime.

  4

  Now that he had reached a resolution, Todd was extraordinarily anxious to return to Michael's. He felt a burning need to apologize for his behavior and to share with Michael his new clarity, his resolve.

  Steering his dark green Cherokee out of the parking lot of that restaurant, Todd headed down the ramp, onto the straight freeway. Jesus Christ, he had so much to say to Michael, so much to rehash and try to make sense of. Ever since his first same-sex feelings stirred—he'd been thirteen when he'd seen that grinning kid at the pool, Dan What'shisname, with the powerful body and the charming grin—there'd been a war waging in Todd's soul. But now at last the battle was over, for no matter how much he wanted to change, no matter how much he felt he should and had to be straight, he just couldn't be. The real him had won out. The truth was victorious.

  Yet while the war may have ended, he knew there would be scars. Last night's decisive fight was the worst.

  God, Michael and he had fought, but never like that, not physically. And Todd saw how it was all his fault. All of it.

  The rage and frustration had just come barreling out of him. After work yesterday Todd had come home to Michael's— even though Todd owned a condo overlooking Lake Calhoun, he'd been staying at Michael's most nights for almost two years and it was home, their home—and told Michael about the promotion. Somewhere Todd had known that it was all wrong, but the job was a huge step forward, one that would carry him to the top, make him rich and famous, and that was fabulous, wasn't it? Todd Mills, an anchor on the evening news. The top Minneapolis station. It was only a matter of time before he went soaring to one of the national networks. His father, the Polish immigrant, would have been smug, muttering how the Milkowskis were the best and of course Todd should rise to the very highest point.

  Michael was far wiser than Todd though. He immediately saw all the ramifications, knew at once what this meant for their relationship. Todd had come home, champagne bottle in hand, wearing his lucky Cubs hat—the real fitted model the pros wore, with the dark blue wool cap and red wool visor— and found Michael in that dingy kitchen, his tie still on and starting dinner, a chicken dish. Michael had been peeling carrots and had only smiled weakly at Todd's news. Setting down the peeler and a half-cleaned carrot, Michael had then drifted into the living room, where he slumped, head in hands, on the big black leather couch, the one they'd picked out just last month. Instead of beaming with pride for Todd, instead of toasting him, Michael had looked right at him and said that was all fine and well, but enough was enough.

  “I just can't take it anymore,” he'd said.

  “What? What does that mean?”

  Michael shook his head. “Shit, Todd, you just don't get it, do you? You're so fucking dense. So fucking focused on your career. Would you just once look at what's really important in the long run?”

  Todd glared at him, and even though he knew what the answer would be, he snapped, “And just what's that, Mr. Smart Ass?”

  “Us. Todd, if we're going to make it, we can't go on hiding. It's making us both nuts and it's killing our relationship.”

  “Oh, please, spare me the psychology.”

  “Todd, this is too much, and you know it. If you want to stay in the closet, then you're going to have to sneak out at night and pick up boys in the park.”

  “Michael, what the fuck are you saying?”

  “Either you tell Channel Seven management that you're gay or …” Michael hesitated, but the resolve was clear. “Either you tell Channel Seven the truth or our relationship is over. Finished.”

  Todd had stood there in shock.

  “Do you get it?” Michael had asked. “It's just too much.”

  Todd hadn't understood at first, hadn't wanted to, and Michael spelled it out once again: time to come out of the closet. Either Todd accepted the anchor position as an openly gay man or their relationship was done. Over. Finished. Todd had stood there dumbfounded, clutching the bottle of champagne by its chilly neck.

  “At least,” Michael had joked weakly, “if management knew then I could come to the Christmas party.”

  “What?!” Todd yelled, ripping off his Cubs hat and throwing it on the floor as hard as he could. “You want me to jeopardize my entire career so you can come to some stupid ass Christmas party?”

  Then he'd turned and hurled the bottle of champagne against the brick fireplace, where it exploded in a burst of bubbles and glass. Michael had jumped up, shouting his own anger, and Todd had grabbed him hard by the shoulder. He'd wanted to punch Michael as hard as he could, but by some bit of sanity he'd spun away, charged into the dining room, where he'd shoved over the pine sideboard.

  Horrified at how crazy he'd gone last night, Todd shook his head as he maneuvered through the light traffic on 494. Everyone thought of him as so cool, so even-tempered, which he always tried to be. Had to be. The good son. The good boy. If he was likable enough then no one would ever doubt his sexuality. But then last night he'd arrived at this huge fork in the road, the one he'd never wanted to face and yet knew was lurking inevitably, and he just snapped. The soaring career and his sexuality were on a collision course, always had been, which was why he'd flipped into such a rage. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't control any of it, and he'd just been so angry that he'd gone kind of crazy. No, he'd gone fucking nuts.

  He shook his head. Todd had grabbed Michael last night, clutched his flesh in his hands, and wanted to kill him. Instead, thankfully, he'd ruined a piece of furniture, broken a shitload of dishes. Then he'd stormed out, beating a furious retreat to his condo, where he fell asleep only after his third Scotch. This morning his head had ached as much as his soul. He made coffee, stared at the phone, hoped that Michael would phone. But of course he would
n't, because Michael was nothing if not resolute. Todd had wanted to talk to him, needed to, and he'd picked up the phone perhaps a half-dozen times, yearning to hear the richness of Michael's voice, wanting to eke out one of his big laughs just so Todd would know everything would be all right. But Todd wasn't so sure of that, wasn't so sure that things would ever be right again, and he hadn't called Michael, not out of stubbornness, but because until just a few minutes ago he hadn't fully come to peace with … with all this crap.

  Now if Michael would only forgive him. He had to, thought Todd as he gulped a huge nervous breath. It couldn't be too late. They'd come too far. No one had ever understood, ever accepted all the raging conflicts that Todd faced as fully as Michael had. No one had ever seen his pain and been able to soothe it so gently and completely.

  “If people see you as uptight and closed, Todd, that's how they'll react to you,” he'd said more than once before launching into his favorite lecture about setting the tone.

  Oh, Michael, thought Todd, what would I do without you?

  He shook his head, chastising himself for putting Michael through all this. He'd beg forgiveness. Yes, Todd had placed all these wretched restrictions on their lives, excluding Michael from dinner parties, choosing obscure restaurants where the chance of Todd being recognized was less, going to the theater in a mixed crowd to camouflage their relationship. But that was over now. Maybe they should take some time off. Go on a vacation. Have some big fun. Things were going to change. Absolutely. So Michael was just going to have to accept Todd's apology. And Michael would. He was that accepting. That forgiving. So sweet-natured. So…so wonderful. And if Channel 7 management forced him to choose between the anchor position and Michael, the choice was now clear. It was better to let the truth catch up with him, better to face reality at this point, than to let his career pull his life any further out of line.

  Driving well over the speed limit, Todd sped toward downtown, then veered left, shooting briefly onto 94 before riding a ramp upward and then down and onto Hennepin Avenue. God, wondered Todd, maybe he should put his condo on the market. That would make complete sense. No use in having to maintain two households. And maybe Michael should put his duplex on the market as well. Then they could buy a place together, one of those great houses in Kenwood. Maybe between Michael's and his salary they could even afford one of the grand old ones perched right on Lake of the Isles.

  Todd turned right on 24th Street, checked the digital clock on the dashboard, saw that it was just after ten. Of course Michael would be home. He was addicted to the late news, always watched it because, Todd joked, Michael was a true Minnesotan: obsessed by the weather. Michael would sit through twenty minutes of news even if the most important item was a high school marching band in desperate need of tubas, all in order to find out how cold it would be the next morning.

  It was only a half-dozen short blocks from Hennepin over to West 23rd, and the closer he drew to Michael's house the faster Todd's heart began to beat. Yes, Michael had to be there, waiting, wondering, wanting to talk to Todd as much as Todd wanted to talk to him. With any luck Todd would find him camped out on the living room sofa, watching the late news, one hand stuck in a bag of microwaved popcorn.

  Oh, shit, thought Todd. The 10:00 P.M. news. He reached into the left pocket of his dark blue wool coat and felt his pager. Yes, the small box was there, right where he'd put it after he'd flicked it off. Had anyone been trying to contact him? He didn't want to know, didn't want to care, but compulsively he pulled the small device from his pocket, turned it on. And sure as hell, the thing was flashing. As he drove through the dark October night, he tried to see the brief message. What was it, a robbery, a drive-by shooting, a murder? He couldn't tell, but Cindy was good, she could handle it. There just wasn't enough light, and screw it anyway, he thought, tossing the pager on the seat next to him. Michael was infinitely more important. That was what he had to focus on now, their relationship. Absolutely, he told himself as he approached the corner of 23rd and Irving, as he turned the corner and suddenly saw this brilliant display of lights and a scattered melange of vehicles.

  The surprise bowled him over, and out loud he muttered, “What the hell's going on?”

  Oh, Christ. He didn't know what to think, to do, as he took in an amazing spectacle of activity. He saw bright lights focused on one house, then saw quite clearly that it was Michael's duplex, that big white thing with the stucco that glowed moonlike both day and night. And there were clumps of people gathered on the sidewalk, in the yard. Next he saw the familiar van, the white one with the big red lettering:

  Channel 7's CrimeEye Team on the Way!

  Oh, shit, thought Todd. They're all here. His heart charged ahead like a racehorse. Dear God, they'd come here to announce his promotion live on the 10:00 P.M. news. His face flushed red and he even began to tremble. What a disaster. Couldn't he be left alone, just for a while, just for tonight?

  He took his foot off the gas and parked three or four houses short of Michael's. What the hell was he supposed to do, turn around and flee or walk right up to Michael's and into a celebration?

  Wait a minute, he thought. A celebration at Michael's? What the hell was he thinking, how self-centered had he become? His official address was his condo, not here. No one at the office knew he was spending most of his nights at this place, in that bed, with that man.

  A deep chill shot through Todd. Up there, on the flat walk that led to Michael's front door, the very walk that Todd had shoveled last winter and swept this past August, were two uniformed cops. One of them slipped on a pair of clear plastic gloves and rushed inside. The other was unrolling a yellow plastic band, tying it to Michael's mailbox, stretching it out. Oh, dear God, thought Todd. There was an ambulance too. Right past the Channel 7 van. The Channel 7 van that was parked halfway up on the sidewalk, its doors open, cables flowing like languid snakes out and onto the lawn. And there was Cindy Wilson, touching up her makeup, straightening her tan raincoat, adjusting the collar.

  Electrocuted with fear, he snatched up the pager, clutched it in both his shaking hands. He was suddenly very hot and short of breath. Nearly crushing the small device in his hands, he leaned into the seeping streetlight. He saw what he feared: 1603 West 23rd Street. Next on the miniature screen he saw something totally absurd, totally ridiculous, impossible, and horrific: murder. Todd threw the pager against the passenger door, where it shattered into a handful of cheap pieces. This wasn't possible. Next his heart seized up: if not murder, then suicide.

  He threw open the door. Not that. Michael couldn't have killed himself after their fight last night, could he? No. That wouldn't be like him. But then again, why hadn't Michael tried to call Todd today?

  He stumbled down the sidewalk, past a neighbor swaddled in a red plaid bathrobe. Todd might be panicking needlessly. There were two renters upstairs, a young couple. The lawyers Ken and Marcy. Oh, God, if someone's dead in this house, let it be one of them. Just not Michael. Anyone but him.

  Everything seemed to rush out of Todd as he climbed the short grassy knoll on Michael's front yard. He kicked through wet oak leaves. Cindy Wilson saw him, but pretended not to. Like a zombie he stumbled on, wanting nothing to do with her or television ever again. As he neared, her voice rose sharply, an entirely new set of stark lights burst on, and then Mark Buchanan's camera was rolling.

  “Good evening, this is Cindy Wilson of the CrimeEye team,” she began coolly, “reporting live on what appears to be a gruesome murder in the heart of Kenwood, just a block from the home of Ambassador Walter Mondale. On this dark night, a mere two weeks before Halloween, a horrible crime has taken place.”

  She driveled on. Said something about a phone call. Then her contacting the police. Todd pushed a short woman out of the way and zeroed in on Cindy.

  Mark lifted his head from the camera, mouthed the word Live!

  But Todd didn't stop, not even when Mark started waving at him to get back. Todd couldn't. He had to find out what happ
ened, who was dead.

  Cindy Wilson struggled to ignore Todd, but couldn't quite do it. She tripped over a couple of words. Todd pulled closer, staring at her.

  Cindy reported, “The police arrived only moments after we did, and an ambulance, as you can see, was called as well. A squad of detectives is now inside, but as of yet no body has been—”

  Todd stepped forward, blurted, “Who?”

  Always the professional, Cindy masked her anger at having Todd literally walk into her story, instead saying cordially, “And here we have our lead reporter on the CrimeEye team, our own Emmy Award-winning Todd Mills.”

  “Was it downstairs?” he demanded, raising his voice, as the camera turned on him. “Damn it all, who is it, who's dead?”

  Taken aback, Cindy Wilson failed to reply at first, then stared at Todd, tried to remain ever-poised, saying, “Yes, that's right. It was the man downstairs. As of yet we don't have his name.”

  He felt himself scream, but no sound came out. In a vacuum of horror, Todd stood there staring up at the white house. Two medics emerged. But they weren't hurrying, nor were they pushing a gurney. They were just gabbing, making it clear there was no emergency.

  With a barely audible gasp, he muttered, “Michael.”

  “What was that, Todd?” ventured Cindy, jumping at the situation and holding the mike right up to his mouth. “You don't know the victim, do you? You don't know his name by chance?”

  There was nothing around Todd. Nothing but shock. Nothing but innocence. And horrified disbelief.

  Gasping, he managed to say, “My … my …”

  With one hand Todd batted the microphone from his face, and then he left a speechless Cindy Wilson standing there. He started running, unaware of everything, even the television camera that was still trained on him as he charged across the front lawn, shouting one name over and over again. Faces turned toward him. From the side he saw a figure in blue. A cop. The guy was hurrying toward Todd, but Todd leaned down, his college days never far off, and clipped him. Todd had to get inside the house. He had to reach Michael.