Innuendo

by R. D. Zimmerman

  Get it? Dad's loaded, you're a fag, and now you're coming home not because you have the dreaded thing, but because he does. Think, thought Tim Chase as he sat in his trailer prepping for his next scene, big irony. He kicks you out because he thinks fags are vile and disgusting, as exemplified by AIDS… yet now he's the one that's got it. You want to say it out loud: Serves you right, you old bastard. But you can't. You can't even think that because those were his words the last time you saw him. He stood there at the big white front door with the shiny brass knocker, screaming, shouting, saying one thing that stuck like nothing else: It'll serve you right if you get AIDS! And for eleven years your very own father's curse has echoed in your head as you've watched friends and strangers in San Francisco succumb to the dreadful plague, and you've thought one thing over and over again: No one deserves this, no one but someone like your own dad.

  And now he's got it. And you're sick with guilt as if you yourself somehow wished it upon him, as if you yourself somehow had been in that operating room and personally selected the two pints of tainted blood that were pumped into his body. So that's why you've come home, to untangle the love, hate, and guilt so tightly braided in your heart. And—

  There was a light but distinct knock on the aluminum door of his trailer, and a woman's voice said, “Tim? Tim, are you in there? It's me, Melissa. I need to talk to you. Do you have a moment?”

  Looking up from the script, he muttered to himself, “Oh, crap.”

  He should have left instructions that he didn't want to be disturbed. Not only did he have too many lines to learn, but every time someone asked a question, particularly regarding business, it pulled him out of the mind-set of the story. Hadn't he always been clear on that? Didn't everyone know that business came either at the beginning or the end of the day, but not in the middle, not during shooting?

  Wearing a navy blue sweater, a freshly pressed blue shirt, and khaki pants—the costume his character would be wearing when the taxi drove from the airport and into the drive of his family's home—he remained seated on the couch, and called, “Yeah?”

  The knob turned, and an attractive young woman entered. Rather short and small-framed, she had a gorgeous face with dark eyes and a bright white smile. Her long, curly brown hair was put up in a haphazard bun, and she wore a baggy gray sweater and tights that hugged her slim hips. Everybody loved her, not simply because she was beautiful, but because she had a knack for getting people to gab and, of course, eventually say more than they ever wanted to. Both of which were why Tim had hired her in the first place. More often than not, she was the first real image the media folk saw of Tim Chase, Inc., and he needed her not only for the positive first impressions she so easily made, but also for the information she could so successfully glean from the outer world.

  “Hey,” said Melissa, stepping inside. “Sorry to bother you. This will only take a minute.”

  “What's up?” he said, managing a smile, albeit a small one.

  It was a typical trailer, with goldish-tan carpeting, one couch, a couple of chairs, and a tiny kitchen filled with a stainless-steel sink and some fake wood cabinets. In the back was a single bedroom Tim used for napping. Melissa, a thick file in hand, crossed to one of the chairs and sat down opposite Tim.

  She said, “Okay so this is all the stuff I have on him, this Todd Mills guy from WLAK.”

  “Oh, right, the guy I saw on TV last night.”

  He watched as she opened the manila file folder, which was stuffed, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Taking them, Tim quickly thumbed through the printouts of articles and stories. All he saw were words, words, words and an occasional highlighted sentence.

  “Jesus Christ, Melissa, the fucking CIA couldn't do a better job.” He looked up at her with a grin. “Where did you get all this shit?”

  “Mostly the Net. Some I had to have faxed from the California office. They pulled it off a news service we subscribe to.”

  “And?”

  “And you're right, he is gay.”

  “Yes, I knew that,” said Tim.

  “He's got a good reputation too. He's won a couple of Emmys, a bunch of other awards, and he's very, very out. From what I read, he didn't used to be, but then he was implicated in some sort of murder case and was outed. Something like that, anyway. It looks like he used to work for one of the other stations in town, so he's been around here for a while.”

  “Perfect.”

  He glanced out the small window and down the hill toward the house and Lake Minnetonka, where they were setting up the cameras for the day's shoot. The house they'd leased for the film was long and white, a sort of French Colonial thing, a story and a half with a big cedar shingled roof. It had commanding views of the huge lake, a perfectly manicured lawn that spread down to the water's edge, massive oaks and maples that were just beginning to turn into perfect Martha Stewart shades of fall, and, of course, a large white dock. It reeked executive. Stunk of old money. Had WASP written all over it. In other words, it was perfect for this movie.

  Late last night Tim had watched the local news. And as soon as he saw Mills covering the murder, he had that sense about him, that gut feeling. Right then and there he'd known that, yes, they needed him.

  “But, Tim,” pressed Melissa, “are you sure? Isn't giving him an exclusive opening a can of worms that you really don't want to have opened? You're paying me for my opinion and direction on these things, and frankly I don't think it's such a great idea. You know it's going to come up, the rumors and all, not to mention the lawsuit.”

  She didn't get it, he thought, looking at her. She didn't understand. But then again, why should she?

  “Don't worry, Melissa. I know this is the guy we want. I know he's the one we want on my side. Besides, one meeting with him can't hurt.”

  “Well… okay.” She paused, then said, “I just spoke with him and—”

  “What's he like?”

  “Nice enough. Rather direct, kind of smart. I think he was surprised I called.”

  “I bet.”

  “I wanted to see what he was really like, so I just started blathering away without introducing myself. Then I lied, told him someone from L.A. was supposed to have already called to let him know I'd be in touch. He was a little impatient, but then very, very nice once he found out I was your publicist.”

  “So he'll be there?”

  “Oh, yes. Nine o'clock tonight, your place. I already gave him the address and all the specifics. Namely, I told him this was just sort of a preliminary thing to see how things go. No notebook, no recorders, no cameras. And no one else. Just a chance to talk a bit.” Melissa added, “But I want you to think about it, Tim, I really do. If you change your mind, just let me know. I can always cancel, I can always tell him that you're going to be late on the set or something.”

  Tim cracked one of his famous smiles, bright and kind of sassy. “Don't worry, I know exactly what I'm doing.”

  “Okay, you're the boss, but I should be there too. Actually, you don't even have to—”

  “Melissa, Melissa, there's no need to worry. Since when haven't I been able to handle myself with a reporter, huh? Trust me, there's no need for you to waste your evening. I can take care of this guy.”

  “But—”

  “But what?” he said, the smile still coming, naturally so. “Everyone knows about the rumors. And everyone knows about the lawsuit, which, thank you very much, I won big-time. And I'm married—maybe I'll have Gwen swoop in for a minute or two—and I have a son. Yes, I'm doing a film where I play a gay man, but why? Because I work in Hollywood, because I've seen a lot of people die from AIDS, because this is a story that not only needs to be told, but transcends all sexuality. It's about family. It's about love and hate in a family searching for something good, and how, maybe, they might just find something great.”

  She folded the file shut and looked up at him with a small grin, and said, “You know, you are good. I mean, very, very good.”

  “I know,�
�� he replied. “How else would I have gotten so far in an industry as fucked up as this?”

  15

  There was no doubt in her mind that it was Andy, that her firstborn was dead and gone. Martha Lyman felt it in her heart, felt the pain digging so deep that she could barely move. But still she had to do this. She had to go into that next room and identify her baby. The authorities here in Minneapolis already said they had positive identification—someone who had known Andy—but she wanted to make sure, absolutely sure. And, yes, she wanted to see him, Andy, her oldest child, just one more time. She wanted to look at him, touch him, kiss him, and cradle her beautiful boy in her arms just once again.

  Oh, God, she thought as she sat on a short vinyl couch in some basement room of the Hennepin County Medical Center complex. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Her family wasn't supposed to be torn apart. And none of her children was supposed to die before her. Nothing, nothing whatsoever, had prepared her for this kind of pain, this unimaginable horror. Even though she'd never said it, she'd always thought John would die first, that he'd keep gaining weight and that one day, perhaps during harvest season, his heart would give out and he'd peacefully collapse in the fields or in the barn. Then Andy, who would have a wonderful wife and lots of kids, would take over the farm. And when it was her time, she was supposed to fade away, watching lots of grandkids play in the yard and witnessing the miraculous cycle start all over again. That was how it was supposed to happen, how she had envisaged the closure of her life until the last year.

  Instead…

  She stared downward, her eyes wide and red, and saw nothing, particularly not the bland linoleum floor with its ripples of beige running through it. Her blond hair hung limply, and her blue dress lay wrinkled, particularly after the long drive here. How had she done it? How had she gotten to The Cities all by herself? She wasn't really sure, everything had been such a fog since the police had phoned last night, but somehow this morning she'd gotten in the car and driven a hundred miles. And now she sat alone in the waiting room of the Minneapolis morgue.

  Yes, alone. While one part of her was collapsing under the weight of her grief, another part was seething with anger.

  “I'm sorry, Martha,” her husband, John, had said to her early this morning, “I just can't.”

  “You… you can't what?”

  “I can't do it. I can't go with you.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I don't want to look at that body”

  “Wh-what? What in God's name are you saying?” she had begged through her tears as she stood at the kitchen counter. “You can't be serious?”

  “I swore that night that I never wanted to see him again. And I meant it.”

  “But… but he's your boy! Your own flesh and blood!”

  “No, my boy, Andy, was someone else. Someone who died that night, someone who's long gone. Besides, Lord knows I've got work to do around here.”

  Everything came to an immediate rush of a boil—her grief, her frustration, her fury—and Martha had taken two steps across the kitchen floor, brought back her right hand, and slapped John as hard as she could. He took it without a flinch, standing there, his eyes shrinking, viperlike, his face flushing red. And then Martha had turned away, charging through the living room where her two daughters sat huddled in tears and confusion. She changed into the blue dress, made a feeble attempt at brushing her hair, then grabbed her purse and stormed out the kitchen door.

  Over the past months she'd tried to forgive her husband for that night when he'd dragged Andy into the barn and threatened him so horribly. Shed told herself that, yes, what her boy had been doing was disgusting and ungodly and that her husband had been justified in losing his temper. But how in the name of the Lord could she forgive him this, for rejecting their boy even in death? It was too much, far, far too much, this double-edged sword of grief. Here she'd lost her boy, and now she felt as if she were clearly seeing the distance and difference between John and her for the first time. And hating him. Was he really so repulsive a human being?

  “Mrs. Lyman?”

  She looked up, saw a man with silvery hair and a kind face.

  He said, “I'm Sergeant Neal Foster. I'm the one who called you last night. Thank you for coming.”

  Her voice barely audible, she replied, “Oh… yes.”

  “As I said on the phone, someone who knew your son has already provided positive identification. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Biting her lip, she nodded.

  “Okay, then. It's this way.”

  She pushed herself to her feet, then felt him by her side as they walked toward a door, which he held open for her. Suddenly her heart started pounding, both horrified and fearful of what she was soon to see—Andy, really dead, the life truly drained from him? Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to run, to turn and charge away, but she couldn't, not by any means. As if by instinct Martha was drawn forward, her body operating on its own, her legs taking one step after another. She was aware of him, the policeman, close by her side. She felt his hand on her elbow as they left the waiting room and crossed a wide hall.

  She heard him mumble something, and then, “… Through these doors.”

  She saw two wide stainless-steel doors, one of which he pushed open. Immediately she breathed it in, the strangest of odors, at once medicinal yet also repulsively foul. And immediately she recognized it even though she'd never sensed anything like it before: the smell of death. Suddenly she found it difficult to breathe. Suddenly the strength ebbed from her legs. Dear God, could she really, truly go through with this? Was she going to make it?

  Straight in front of her was a woman in a clean white jacket, a woman who smiled but didn't smile and who said something else. Martha glanced to her left, saw a wall of stainless steel with row after row of small square doors, some fifteen doors long and four high. Yes, she knew what that was, a cold beehive of the dead.

  With a gentle nudge on her arm, the policeman drew her to a stop and there it was, a long bed, a gurney to be exact, with a sheet-covered figure reposed like a white shadow. Her eyes ran up and down the outline of a body, realized the head was up there, the feet down at the other end. Andy? Oh, please, sweetheart, don't let it be you. I love you, you know I do. You know I never stopped. Please let this all be a mistake. Please come back. I've missed you, I really have.

  And then she felt Foster's grip tighten on her arm.

  He said, “Okay.”

  As neatly as if she were turning down a bed in the finest of hotels, the woman in the white doctor's coat pulled down the crisp sheet. First to emerge was the gorgeous hair, which in his childhood had been as white as cotton but was now in his adolescence the rich color of straw. Then came the forehead, John's forehead, wide and proud, with the slight scar right in the middle from when he'd fallen out of the hayloft. Next his eyebrows, flowing and golden. And then his eyes, once as blue as the sky, now closed and forever dark.

  “Oh, God!” she sobbed as the world fell away

  16

  Rawlins hadn't been back from Lake Harriet for more than ten minutes when he looked out of his cubicle and saw Foster leading a woman with shattered eyes into the Homicide Division. He looked at Foster, then at her, the blond woman whose face bled with pain, and Rawlins was sure all over again that this was the worst, that interviewing a parent after the murder of his or her child was the toughest part of his job. Closing a file on his desk, Rawlins rolled back his chair and pushed himself to his feet. This wasn't going to be fun. Having to confront a parent and ask some of the toughest, most frank questions about their kid never was, particularly in a case like this.

  Rawlins grabbed a microcassette recorder from a shelf above his desk, then started after Foster and the woman. Some ten steps behind, he followed them around a corner and to the second door on the left, entering the small room just as Foster was helping Mrs. Lyman into one of the four chrome-and-plastic chairs gathered around a table. It was a small, cla
ustrophobic chamber with horribly bland beige vinyl wallpaper, an overhead fluorescent light bright enough for an operating room, and a vent in one wall that concealed a video camera.

  “Hi, Neal,” said Rawlins as he came in and headed for one of the chairs.

  His face grave with compassion, Foster looked up briefly, then turned to the woman on his right and said, “Mrs. Lyman, this is Sergeant Steve Rawlins. He's my partner and he's actively involved in this case as well.”

  Without raising her eyes to his, she nodded.

  “I knew your son,” began Rawlins, his voice low, as he took a seat on her right. “I met him at a youth center here in town, and he was a very fine young man. My sincere condolences to you, Mrs. Lyman. Andrew's death was a big shock to me and has been very upsetting. You can be assured that Neal and I are going to do everything we can to find out what happened.”

  She nodded again, this time a bit more forcefully, then stared at the grill on the wall vent. Following her gaze, Rawlins was about to say, no, don't worry, we're not going to videotape this, but then she bowed her head and rubbed her eyes with her left hand. She looked too stunned to cry.

  “To fill you in,” said Foster to Rawlins, “we've just been to view the body. Mrs. Lyman came by herself, and she's headed back to her family farm this afternoon. She's kindly agreed to talk to us before leaving.”

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Lyman. We need as much information as possible, and anything you can tell us will be helpful, I'm sure.”

  “Martha,” she said, mustering the smallest of voices through her grief. “Please call me Martha.”

  “Of course.”