Closet Case (Robert Rodi Essentials) (33 page)
Read Closet Case (Robert Rodi Essentials) Online
Authors: Robert Rodi
Tags: #FICTION / Urban Life, #FIC052000, #FIC000000, #FICTION / Gay, #FIC011000, #FICTION / General, #FIC048000, #FICTION / Satire
“I don’t
want
you. This is
your
loony scenario, not mine.”
Yolanda, dripping wet and incomparably beautiful, had run down the dock and was now standing as close as she dared, panting with anxiety. The others followed close behind.
“I
do
know you,” Perlman said when he reached her, his eyes alight with illicit glee.
“What do you mean, ‘loony’?” Bob said, almost as though his feelings were hurt. “This is how it
had
to end! You and me, in a duel —
mano a mano
! There’s nothing loony about it!”
“There’s nothing
but
loony about it,” Lionel snorted.
“You’re Tina the Screamer!” Perlman said all at once. “From Annie Craven’s fine establishment! Jesus, how could I have
forgotten
?”
“Please
, Mr. Perlman,” said Yolanda, her tears falling freely. “Now is not the time!”
“Who’s Annie Craven?” asked Becca.
“I
knew
that girl was a screamer,” muttered Deming.
Bob picked up his spear and pointed it at Lionel.
“I won’t fight you,” Lionel insisted, his voice breaking. He threw down the poker. “God damn it, I
won’t
.”
“Who is Annie Craven?”
Becca asked again, her voice shrill and sharp.
“Mrs. Craven is a madam,” said Yolanda, losing her temper. She whirled to face them, and her wet hair whipped through the air; an inch closer and it would’ve flicked Becca’s eye out. “I worked for her, as an escort. What does it
matter
? Please
someone
, just stop them from
fighting
!”
Bob, stunned, looked at Yolanda; he couldn’t find his voice.
“And what were
you
doing at a whorehouse?” Becca roared at her husband.
David reappeared, without his suitcase. “Police are on the way,” he said smugly. “Called the motor club to come and tow Tarzan’s car, too.” He caught sight of Lionel’s wound and the color drained from his face. “My God —
Lionel
—”
“Baba, exactly what caliber of people are you bringing into our home?” Wilma demanded, a look on her face like she’d just swallowed something sour. She pulled her Chanel towel around her shoulders and shivered, more from rage than from cold.
Magellan regarded her with mayhem in his eyes. “Oh, it’s
my
fault, is it?”
Peg reappeared, her faced flushed, brandishing a small bottle of red liquid and a roll of bandages.
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”
“Lionel’s not ready yet,” Deming said, extending his scratched and swollen arms. “Do me first.”
Bob’s lower lip quivered. He held the spear limply at his side. “Yolanda?” he murmured, his voice like a frightened child’s. He took a few steps toward her. “Is this true? You were … you were …”
“
Yes
, Bob,” she snarled. “I was a sex worker. And sometimes I even enjoyed it.”
He shook his head. “It’s another lie. All these lies today …”
“Every one of them has been the truth,” she said, her face blazing fury.
Peg, who had been busy unraveling gauze, looked up and said, “Lionel’s girlfriend is a prostitute? Oh, dear. Has he had the AIDS test? I can’t treat him with tincture of Merthiolate till I know he’s had the AIDS test. I only have the one applicator.” She waved up at him. “Lionel, dear, have you had the AIDS test?”
“I still want to know what
you
were doing at a whorehouse,” Becca growled. “And don’t tell me you were designing them a logo!”
“I hope you told the police to hurry,” said Wilma to David in disgust. “I want these people and their sex and their violence hauled
out
of here.”
Bob and Yolanda stood facing each other, separated by just a few yards, but more so by a chasm of misunderstanding; their eyes locked in a battle far fiercer and more terrible than any of the spastic flailing between Bob and Lionel. And by the way he was shaking, it was clear Bob was losing.
Then all at once it was over. Bob’s face sagged with the full weight of the truth he had been forced to accept. He turned his bloodshot, wounded eyes on Lionel.
“You!”
he cried, and he sounded inhumanly, almost demonically angry.
“You’re responsible!”
He started after him, waving his spear wildly.
“You did this to her!”
“Oh, God, oh, God,” Lionel panted as he ran back to the deck (past Peg, who shook gauze at him eagerly) and across it to the opposite side of the cabin.
But unbeknownst to him, Bob had doubled back and gone the other way, so that when he reached the front of the house Bob was already there, rushing him and screaming murderously.
Lionel screamed, too.
“You corrupted her! You turned her into this!”
Bob bayed as he closed the gap between him and Lionel, his spear lifted high.
And Lionel Frank, who had always said he’d rather die than come out of the closet, now suddenly understood what that would entail in practice. For here
was
death, nipping at his heels in pleated white trousers, a pale-green striped sailor shirt, and avocado canvas sneakers. Death, he discovered, was not pretty.
And so Lionel Frank, at long, long last, changed his mind.
“I’m gay,”
he shrieked.
“I never touched her! I’m gay!”
Bob brayed a laugh, and kept swinging his spear.
“Another lie!”
“Who would lie about THAT?”
Lionel cried. He zoomed around the corner, to where the others were all now standing.
“I’m gay,”
he cried as he ran between Babcock Magellan and Hackett Perlman.
“I’m gay!”
He wove between the others, using them for protection while Bob skirted the group’s perimeter, trying to find an opening.
“I’m gay,”
he blared at Becca Perlman and Julius Deming.
“I’m gay, I’m gay, I’m gay,”
he barked at Peg Deming and Wilma Tripp.
The others began to disperse in confusion and anxiety, leaving Lionel exposed. He broke away from them and hurled himself toward the lake, screaming,
“I’M GAAAY, I’M GAAAY,”
so that birds in trees took flight in alarm. He screamed it all the way down the length of the dock, and then, when he reached its end, he leaped into the air, into its brilliant, light-soaked, intoxicating purity, and he screamed it one more time —
“I’M GAAAAAY”
— before plunging deep into the bosom of Lake Gilbert.
And then he swam underwater as far as he could, feeling the cold, clear currents flow through his hair and his teeth and his wound, washing him clean, stripping him of his fear and his indecision and his shame, making him dizzy with the fullness of himself, startling him into courage, until his lungs gave out and he had to surface. Then, with his first gasp of air, he yelled it again, so that it barreled across the vastness of the lake and resounded endlessly, so it seemed, from every side, from everywhere —
“I’M GAY, I’M GAY, I’M GAY, I’M GAY
…”
And when the echo at last faded, he looked toward the dock, where everyone had gathered, friend and foe alike, to stand and stare out at him in utter, gobsmacked silence.
Lionel swung open the door to his apartment. He tossed his suitcase inside, dragged his feet through the door, slammed it shut behind him, and then dropped his back against the wall. He heaved a sigh.
“Qui est la?”
called Toné from the other end of the apartment.
“Only me,” he said exhaustedly.
The hairdresser appeared at the end of the hallway in an off-white cotton tunic, culottes, and flip-flops. “You’re back
days
early!” he exclaimed, his arms akimbo. “Is something
ne pas juste
?”
Lionel shook his head in awe. “Toné, what
is
that you’re wearing?”
He did a complete turn, modeling the tunic. “One couldn’t very well allow Spencer to go on soiling one’s
chemises
with his droppings, so one invested in an outer garment that your darling
oiseau
might have his way with.”
Lionel smirked. Five minutes earlier, he’d thought he might never again feel the urge to laugh, and here was Toné, proving him wrong. “It’s very nice,” he said.
Toné flapped over and pecked him on the cheek. “But you haven’t answered one’s question! Has something dreadful brought you back here
en avance
?”
“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind,” he said, slipping off his shoes.
Toné clicked his tongue. “One is once again a mere service provider, is that it?”
“No, no … listen, I’m sorry.” He unbuttoned his shirt and let it hang open; it was warm in the apartment. “I’m just too tired to go into it now.” He ran his wrist across his damp brow. “Next haircut. I promise.”
“And one is to wait till then? Lionel!
On peux mourir
from the suspense!”
“Well, do your best to hang on,” he said wanly, pushing himself away from the wall. He absent-mindedly put pressure on his wounded arm, and winced.
“What’s the matter?” Toné asked, concerned.
“Small injury. Pay no attention.”
“Well, do come and see your bird; that will cheer you up. One has trimmed his feathers a bit — he looks quite
merveillieux
!”
“Thanks,” he said, noting the blinking red light on his answering machine, “but I think I’ll check my messages first.”
Toné sighed in defeat and returned to the kitchen while Lionel went to the couch, dropped onto a cushion, and depressed the PLAYBACK button.
“Lionel, it’s Chelsea,” the first message began.
“Oh, joy,” he said. He leaned back and put one foot up on the armrest.
“Is it true you resigned? Tracy just stopped me in the hall while I was on my way to file a stack of P.O.’s for that horrible WIPT job that made Simon pull out half his mustache in June, and she told me that Deming just called her from Wisconsin positively
ranting
about you, saying you’d left a note in the cabin resigning because you’re gay and then just
disappeared
with some prostitute you’d brought with you! Honestly, all of us are
dying
to know if it’s true. If it is, it’s the best resignation anyone’s
ever
given in this hell-hole — better even than Pixie Digby’s, and
she’s
the one who dumped photocopier toner fluid into Perlman’s crotch! Call me as soon as you can and tell me all the deta— What? … What? … Sorry, Lionel.
What?
… Okay … Lionel? That was Donna. She says to send a special ‘hi’ from her.”
“I should’ve just let Bob kill me,” he muttered, placing his hands over his eyes. When he removed them he saw Toné’s shadow spilling in from the hallway. “I know you’re there,” he said, as the machine sounded its between-message beep.
“One isn’t trying to
pry
,” he said, affronted, stepping into the room. “One is only coming to water the plants. Doing one’s
job
.”
“Let them die. This is private.”
Toné harrumphed and flapped back down the hallway.
The second message was from his father. “Lionel,” Colonel Frank began, “I’ve just received a very disturbing phone call from a coworker of yours, a Miss Monmouth. She was seeking confirmation of an obscene story about you that is apparently gaining currency among your colleagues. In particular, it concerns your resignation — both the reason for, and the manner thereof. If you would please do me the favor of calling me to reassure me that none of this holds any water, I would be grateful.” A slight pause. “And if by some chance you are
unable
to provide this reassurance, then I would be even more grateful if you did
not
call. Ever. I hope we understand each other.” Click.
Or maybe I should just kill Motormouth,
Lionel thought, carefully rolling over onto his side.
“Did you hear the one from Yolanda yet?” said Toné, peering around the corner.
He sat up. “Nosy fucking hairburner!” He hurled a pillow at him, causing his arm to sting. Toné cackled maliciously and darted away. Lionel sat with his head in his hands, awaiting the third message.
It was, in fact, from Yolanda. “Hello, Lionel! Thank you again for dropping me at Emil’s motel. The police have just been here to see us, and they asked where they might reach you if they have any more to ask about the charges against Bob. I gave them your home number; I hope that was all right. Call me to let me know how you are. I am so sorry about the way everything turned out. I do love you so. And Emil does as well. He thanks you profoundly for protecting me from Bob. Good-bye now, dear Lionel.
Call
me.”
The fourth message began in an absurdly deep, drippingly friendly recorded voice that asked Lionel to “Please hold for some vital information about private mortgage insurance!”
Lionel turned off the machine and lay back on the cushions again.
Toné reappeared, the tunic draped over his arm. “As long as you’re home now,
mon brave
, one hopes you don’t mind if one departs. One can use the extra time to dash across town and meet one’s
cher
when he gets off his shift.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still with the Belgian!” Lionel said, raising his head in astonishment. “Not after he attacked you with a knife!”
“Mais certainement,”
Toné said a touch indignantly. “Did one not tell you, weeks ago, that in spite of the drama, we were meant for one another?”
“Well, yeah … but I’ve heard you say
that
before.”
“One
always
believed it at the beginning,
mon brave
. But this time, one was lucky enough to have it turn out to be so! There is
toujours
hope, you know.
Toujours
.”
Lionel sighed. “I’ll remember that,” he said, rolling over so that he was no longer looking at him. “I’m happy for you Toné, honestly. And thanks for everything you’ve done here.”
