The Enemy at Home

When Roger Tallant stepped out of the Mecca Café with Connie, he thought he saw Nora Kinney’s teenage son watching them from across the street.

The café was a perfect halfway point between Connie’s and his apartments in the Queen Anne neighborhood. The restaurant was a bit of a dive, but it stayed open late, the cocktails were good, and it was one of the few spots that allowed women to wear slacks, which Connie liked to do—even after work. Occasionally, she also liked to stay up late during the workweek, tonight being a perfect example. They both had to be up in six hours.

Roger had cut Connie off after four gin and tonics, because she often became argumentative or sometimes overly affectionate after one too many—and Roger wasn’t a fan of Connie in either mood.

“Say, isn’t that your friend Nora’s son?” he asked her, pausing under the Mecca Café sign, unlit because of the blackout. He started to wave to the boy but then turned to her. “What’s his name again?”

“You mean Chris?” Connie asked, buttoning up her coat. “Where?”

Roger pointed across the street. But when he looked in that direction, Nora’s son was gone. “Well, he was there a second ago. I could swear it was him.”

“What would he be doing out this late on a school night?”

“I don’t know, maybe following you around,” Roger answered. “I noticed the way he was looking at you the other night. I think he might have a crush on you.”

“Ha, I think you might have a crush on him,” she scoffed.

“I got over teenage boys back when I was a teenager,” Roger replied. “And I don’t think Chris plays on my team.”

Roger took another long look across the street, but it was as if Chris had vanished.

They started walking west—toward Connie’s duplex, about six blocks away. Though chilly, the night was clear with a beautiful full moon. Connie was wobbling a bit and put her arm through Roger’s.

“I’m surprised you even noticed Chris on Sunday night,” Connie said. “You were so busy making goo-goo eyes at Nora’s brother.”

“I don’t think he plays on my team either” was all Roger said. Connie was the one who had flirted shamelessly with Nora’s smug, handsome brother. But Roger decided not to argue with her. Connie seemed to be in one of her belligerent moods tonight. She often taunted him about his sexuality whenever she wanted to tussle with him.

“By the way, did Nora mention that she saw me in the cafeteria yesterday?” he asked.

“Yeah, she said something about that,” Connie sighed.

“I was sitting with the guys during our break, and Wendell was camping it up,” Roger said. “I was ready to strangle him. I’m sure Nora noticed. Did she say anything to you? I mean, do you think she’s figured out about me?”

“Ha, it’s not too hard to figure out. Not everyone is as dumb as I was about you.”

Roger said nothing. He was imagining what could happen if Nora Kinney put it together that he and his little clique of engineer buddies were queer. All she had to do was say something to the wrong person at the plant, and he and his friends could lose their jobs. He was always worried about Boeing cracking down on “deviants” in their ranks. He could end up exposed—with his name in the newspaper and his parents finding out that he was a homosexual.

Connie tightened her arm around his. “You know, if you’re so concerned about people knowing . . .”

Sometimes, it was like she could read his mind. And he could read hers, too. She didn’t even have to finish her sentence, because he knew what she was about to suggest. She’d suggested it several times before. As if the two of them getting married would dispel any rumors. A couple of his gay friends were married and living a double life. But they were just as vulnerable as he was. Besides, he wouldn’t do that to Connie. She deserved a husband who genuinely loved her in every sense.

“Please, let’s not start talking marriage again,” he groaned.

“But we’re already friends,” she whined, playfully bumping her hip against him as they walked. “In fact, we like each other more than most married couples I know.”

He chuckled. “If we got married, we’d end up killing each other.”

“You could change, you know.”

“For years, I told myself the same thing: ‘I just haven’t met the right girl yet.’ And, Connie, honey, you’re as right a girl as I’ll ever meet. We’ve known each other for months, and as much as I wish I could please you, I haven’t changed one iota.”

She released his arm and shoved her hands in her coat pockets. “You’re not even trying . . .”

“If you have to try to be attracted to somebody, then the whole relationship is in trouble. I’m not going to change, Connie. I’ve tried. And all I’ve gotten out of it over the years is several frustrated, baffled women whom I’ve hurt. Then I end up feeling like a heel.”

“Well, you are a heel,” she argued. “You weren’t honest with them. You never should have asked them out.”

“Hey, most of them asked me out.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re irresistible . . .”

“Well, apparently so,” he shot back. “Because you’re fully aware of the fact that I like guys, and yet you still want to marry me.” He heaved a sigh and muttered, “Nag, nag, nag. God, I feel like we’re married already.”

She stopped in her tracks and scowled at him.

Roger stopped, too. “I’m sorry, okay? Come on, it’s late . . .”

They both started walking again.

“You don’t have to walk me home,” Connie said coolly. “I’m not helpless.”

“I know, but I want to.” He started to put his arm around her but thought better of it.

They walked in silence for a couple of minutes. Roger saw her duplex up ahead. The building was completely dark. There wasn’t even a sliver of light peeking out at the edges of the blackout curtains.

“I’m not like those other women you went out with,” she said. “I know about you. If we got married, we’d have an understanding.”

“Oh, please, Connie,” he groaned. “Those kind of arranged marriages hardly ever work.” He tried to laugh. “I mean, you and I have the same taste in guys. If one of us got lucky, the other one would be so damn resentful and jealous. It’s a recipe for disaster.”

“OH, FINE!” she bellowed, stopping at the end of her walkway.

He shushed her.

“No! God, why do I waste my time with you? I’m sick of this whole thing! I keep all your secrets and listen to all your stupid problems. Thanks to me, people don’t know the truth about you. I’m your smokescreen. You’re just using me . . .”

“Connie, the neighbors,” he whispered.

She marched up the walkway to the front stoop. Searching in her purse for her keys, she obviously didn’t see the lights go on behind the black curtain in the front room of her downstairs neighbor, Myrtle. Roger could never remember the old woman’s last name. Connie called her Myrtle McSnoop because the lady was such a busybody. She always complained that Connie made too much noise. She’d sometimes pound on her ceiling with a broomstick or whatever—just to get her point across. She’d even called the police on two occasions—most recently when Roger and Connie were just talking at a normal volume on her living room sofa at one in the morning.

“You can go now,” Connie announced at the front door. Her back was to him as she continued to rummage through her purse. “I’m fine. You’ve done your manly duty walking me home!”

Roger saw the curtain move. “Connie,” he whispered again. “McSnoop’s on the warpath. You need to quiet down . . .”

“I don’t care!” She pulled her keys out of her purse and held them up. “Found them! You can go now. Good night!”

She unlocked her door, ducked inside and then practically slammed the door in his face.

Roger stood there for a few moments. He saw Myrtle’s blackout curtain move again. With a defeated sigh, he retreated down the walkway. He took one more look at Connie’s duplex and saw a light go on behind the second-floor window blinds.

Connie could be such a pain in the ass at times, especially when she had too much to drink. But she was also a loyal friend, and she knew him very well. Practically everything she’d said at her front door was true. She listened to his troubles, they had fun together, and people thought they were a couple. Since he wasn’t the most masculine guy around, it was nice to have the “smokescreen” she provided. And he loved her—as much as he could, just not in the way she wanted.

Roger grew up thinking he was the only homosexual in Colfax, Washington. It wasn’t until after college, when he moved to Seattle, that he started meeting other men like him, and he wasn’t so alone anymore. He actually started having sex once in a while, but not nearly as often as some of the guys he knew. He still wasn’t completely comfortable in that “gay” underworld. And, of course, on the outside, he tried his damnedest to come off as “normal.”

After Pearl Harbor, like every other red-blooded American male, Roger and his closest “bachelor friend,” Stan, wanted to do their part for the war effort. Built like a linebacker and hairy, Stan was almost as effective a “smokescreen” as Connie would end up being. Roger was amazed how easy it seemed for his friend to carry on a double life. Most people didn’t have a clue Stan was “that way.”

He and Stan were determined to join the army, but that meant lying about their sexuality during the physical exam. Roger was terrified of being found out. At the same time, he knew his country was under attack, and he wanted to do something. He also had a peculiar notion that the army might help him become more of a man. They might not “cure” him, but maybe they’d make him less of a sissy. Still, he was conflicted and filled with dread for days before he and Stan went to join up.

Roger shouldn’t have worried. The army doctors found he had a heart murmur. He was rejected before he even got to the psychological part of the induction exam. Stan, on the other hand, effortlessly lied his way through the procedure and was accepted.

Stan had been like Roger’s guide in Seattle’s homosexual underworld. He’d shown him the ropes and where to meet other men: bars like the Casino and the Double Header, located in Pioneer Square, also known as “Skid Road” or “Fairyville.” Without his friend, Roger was a bit lost. But he made new friends at Boeing—a small clique of engineers, a couple of whom didn’t seem discreet enough for Roger.

He stayed in touch with Stan, who was having the time of his life in the army. Writing in code, he referred to other homosexuals as “Cougar fans,” after the Cougar football team of Roger’s alma mater, Washington State University. Stan said he was meeting a lot of Cougar fans at the army training camp in Mobile, Alabama. In a long-distance phone conversation, where Stan could be more candid, he told Roger about life in a barracks full of men in peak physical condition, all the new friends he’d made, and all the places he’d had sexual adventures.

Roger was jealous, but he also had a feeling that Stan was pushing his luck.

And Roger was right. Once there was no longer a critical shortage of inductees, the army started cracking down on homosexuals in their ranks. All it took was one soldier to say another guy was queer, and the suspect would be hauled in front of an inquiry board and made to name any fellow soldiers who were homosexuals or suspected homosexuals. They were classified as Section 8 and locked up in makeshift mental wards along with the “basket cases.” That was what happened to Stan.

Roger found out about it when one of Stan’s army pals called him to explain why Stan hadn’t returned his letters. Stan’s friend recommended that Roger not contact Stan again. It would only make things worse—for both of them.

Roger felt like his friend had been killed. It was as if Stan had died in disgrace.

Roger was heartbroken, and angry at Stan for being so reckless. He was also terrified. What had happened to all the letters he’d written to Stan? What if the army made Stan tell them about his homosexual friends in civilian life? What if the news got to Boeing, and the company forced Roger to name all his friends who were “degenerates”?

He didn’t talk about these fears with his other buddies—only with Connie.

With Stan gone, she was his closest friend and confidant. So Roger felt awful whenever she was mad at him.

The last three blocks to his apartment building were halfway up the steep incline of Queen Anne Hill. Roger always took it slow, mindful of the strain on his heart. But tonight, he hadn’t paced himself. By the time he reached his brownstone, he was exhausted. He would have stopped to catch his breath at the front door, but he heard the pay phone ringing in the hallway just beyond the lobby.

Unlocking the door, he flung it open and ran up the five steps from the vestibule to the lobby. He hurried past the mailboxes to the pay phone on the wall opposite the landlady’s apartment. Just as Roger grabbed the receiver, his landlady opened her door. She poked her head out and frowned at him. She had bobby pins in her gray hair and wore a threadbare pale-blue robe.

“Hello?” Roger whispered into the phone. He tried to get his breath.

“Well, I was pretty awful, wasn’t I?” Connie said on the other end of the line.

With the receiver to his ear, Roger looked at his landlady. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mousel. It . . . it’s kind of an emergency.”

Clutching the lapels of her robe together, she glared at him and then nodded down the hall, where another neighbor, old Mr. Snyder, had his head out the doorway.

“It’s always an emergency with her,” the landlady grumbled. She’d answered the phone one too many times late at night when Connie had called for him. “Do you know what time it is? It’s eleven fifteen . . .”

“Yes, I know. I’m so sorry,” Roger whispered.

“Tell that old witch you own a wristwatch,” Connie was saying on the other end of the line. “You know what time it is . . .”

“No consideration!” Mrs. Mousel hissed. Then she stepped back and shut her door. Roger heard the chain lock rattling on the other side. Down the hallway, Mr. Snyder closed his door, too.

Roger sighed. “I swear, one of these days, you’ll get me kicked out of this place,” he whispered into the phone.

“Serves you right for living in a building with a bunch of old fuddy-duddies,” Connie said.

He kept his voice low. “Speaking of old fuddy-duddy neighbors, did you have any problems with Myrtle McSnoop?”

“Nope, not a peep out of her,” Connie replied. “You know, if we were married, we could have our own house with our own phone, and no old biddies telling us what to do. You haven’t even stopped to consider all the practical advantages to a marital arrangement. And with our stylish tastes, we’d have a really beautiful place. We’d give the best parties . . .”

Hovering by the pay phone in the hallway and still trying to catch his breath, Roger thought about how late it was. And his landlady was probably listening at her door. “Connie, honey,” he said under his breath. “Are we really having this conversation now?”

There was no response.

Roger figured he’d made her mad again. “Connie?”

After a moment, he heard her voice, muffled: “Is somebody there? Hello?”

“What is it?” Roger asked.

“Sounds like somebody came in downstairs,” she said.

“Your downstairs entrance? Did you lock the door after you came in?”

“I can’t remember. Wait, just a sec . . .” Then she called out again. “Who’s there?”

Roger had been in Connie’s apartment enough to know the layout. Her telephone was on a built-in phone stand between the living room and kitchen. She would have to put the phone down to go to the door to check the private stairwell up to her apartment.

“Is your upstairs door locked and bolted?” he asked. Sometimes she left the door wide open when he was there. “Connie?”

“I’m not sure. I think somebody’s coming up the stairs . . .”

“Well, maybe it’s Myrtle—”

“She never comes up to talk to me. She always calls.” Connie raised her voice again. “Hello? Who’s there?”

“Listen, put the phone down and go bolt the door!”

“Roger, I’m scared.”

“What—is this a joke or something?” he whispered.

“I’m serious!”

“Connie, put the goddamn phone down and go bolt the door!”

“Okay.” He heard her set the phone down, and then her distant voice: “Is somebody there?”

Roger waited for a response, but all he could detect was a slightly muted noise—like a piece of furniture being kicked across the floor. Then he heard Connie—maybe closer to the phone now—letting out a strange, frail moan. It wasn’t a scream or a cry. But the sound still frightened him.

“Connie?” he whispered. Then louder: “Connie, are you there? Can you hear me?”

Then there was a thud—like something had fallen on the floor.

“Connie? What’s going on?”

He heard a click on the other end, and the phone went dead. Roger jiggled the receiver cradle, but the connection was lost. “Jesus,” he murmured, frantically digging into his pants pocket for a nickel. He put it in the coin slot, waited for the tone and dialed Connie’s phone number. He got a busy signal.

“Shit!” he hissed.

Mrs. Mousel’s door flew open, and she glowered at him. “Mr. Tallant, people are trying to sleep . . .”

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Roger said.

He hung up the phone and, without collecting his nickel, hurried toward the lobby. Running out the front door, he headed down the street. He figured he could be at Connie’s place in less than fifteen minutes. But he couldn’t race down the dangerously steep hill without stumbling or falling. Roger walked downhill as fast as he could. All the while, he thought of Connie in trouble, eleven blocks away. He should have called the police, told them what he’d heard and sent them to her address. But he couldn’t be sure that Connie wasn’t playing a prank on him. After all, she was tipsy and mad at him. Maybe this was her warped way of getting even. But would she have really done that?

He finally reached the bottom of Queen Anne Hill and headed west—running now, though his legs felt wobbly. He kept thinking of the faint rasp he’d heard over the phone—as if Connie was struggling to breathe.

That hadn’t been faked.

He wished he’d known Myrtle’s last name or phone number. He could have called her and asked her to check on Connie. Maybe she’d already done that. She was such a busybody. The old biddy had already sicced the cops on Connie twice. If something had really happened to Connie, if she’d been attacked, certainly the old lady would have called the police. Roger wondered if he’d see a squad car in front of Connie’s duplex when he finally got there.

With five blocks to go, he felt his lungs burning. He started to slow down as he passed the Mecca Café. Sweat covered him, and he thought his heart might burst. Connie knew about his condition. She knew he didn’t have a car, that he’d have to run to her place if she were in trouble. This wasn’t a joke—as much as he wanted it to be.

He started to pick up the pace again. He was close enough to her duplex now that he should have seen police car lights or heard sirens. He wasn’t sure what to think.

Roger rushed toward the duplex. It looked the same as when he’d left. The place was still dark, but he could see slivers of light around the edges of the curtains in the first-and-second-floor windows. From the end of the walkway, he thought he saw a curtain move in Myrtle’s window. As he staggered up the walkway, he noticed something else—hanging from the front doorknob was a pair of Connie’s work slacks.

The door was open a crack.

He swallowed hard and tried to catch his breath. Then he pushed open the door. “Connie?” he called. He paused for just a moment but didn’t hear anything—except the faint, distant sound of a siren. At the top of the stairs, Connie’s door was open, and light spilled out onto the narrow staircase. Roger bolted up the steps.

Stopping in the doorway, the first thing he noticed was that nothing seemed disturbed in the apartment. Connie wasn’t the tidiest person in the world, but there was no sign of a struggle. If what he’d heard on the phone earlier had been a piece of furniture getting knocked over, it had been put back in its place.

“Connie?” he called with uncertainty. He stepped into the living room and glanced over toward the kitchen. That was where he saw her, sprawled on the tiled floor with her face turned to one side. Her hair was in her eyes. Someone had drawn a clownlike smile with lipstick on her mouth. Stripped of her slacks, she wore a pair of panties and an apron that was askew. A nylon stocking was tied around her neck—so tightly that it looked embedded in her flesh. A kitchen knife stuck out of her chest. One wound, but it had bled profusely, creating a crimson puddle beneath her body.

Horrified, Roger hurried toward her and slipped on the blood. He hit the floor with a thump and banged his knee. He smeared blood across the black and white tiles. It was on his hands and down the front of his clothing. His trouser leg was soaked.

As he got to his feet, Roger heard the siren become louder and louder. He knew Connie’s neighbor must have called the police after all. But they were too late. And he was too late.

Roger started crying. After a few moments, he realized Connie’s killer could still be inside the apartment. Unwittingly, Roger tracked blood toward the bathroom as he checked it. He noticed what he’d done as he went to check the bedroom. He felt so stupid.

Suddenly he heard a car come to a screeching halt in front of the duplex, and then Myrtle’s frantic voice. But her words were undecipherable. There was the clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and a man calling out: “This is the police! Is everything okay up there?”

For some crazy reason, all Roger could think of was that Connie wouldn’t want anyone to see her like this. He stood over her body, wondering what he could cover her with. But once again, he was too late.

He heard the police officer at the top of the stairs now. Roger turned around and reached inside his coat to get his wallet—to show the cop his identification.

The cop was in the doorway. “Hold it!” he yelled, pulling out his gun.

“No, I—”

That was all Roger could say before two shots rang out. The first shot missed him.

The second shot hit Roger Tallant in the throat.

* * *

Nora woke up to the sound of someone coming up the stairs.

She squinted at her alarm clock. It was a quarter to one.

Chris and Jane had still been awake when she’d gone to bed at nine fifteen. For a few nights, while Ray had been staying above the garage, she hadn’t worried about noises in the middle of the night.

But her brother was gone, and the sound she heard was from someone inside the house. She heard the floorboards in the hallway creaking.

Nora kept her bedroom door open most nights, and because of the blackout curtains, she had a night-light in the hall. She saw a shadow moving across the hallway wall.

A panic swept through her. Throwing off her covers, she scurried out of bed and ran to the door. She saw Chris in the hall, creeping toward his bedroom.

He was dressed and wearing his blue jacket. He froze the moment he saw her.

Even in the shadowy hallway, Nora could see the guilt on his face.

She’d been so relieved when he’d come home from school yesterday without a mark on him. And yet, here he was, up to his old tricks, sneaking out at night again. She couldn’t imagine that Earl had put him up to it—not after he’d broken Earl’s nose just two days ago.

“What in God’s name are you doing up?” she whispered.

“I . . . I heard a noise out near the garage and went to check,” he said, sounding slightly winded. “That’s all. But it was nothing.”

Standing in her bedroom doorway, Nora looked him up and down. “You got completely dressed to go check on a noise outside?”

Chris nodded. “If someone was out there, I didn’t feel like—y’know, confronting them in my underwear.”

She frowned. “Are you sure you didn’t sneak out to meet Earl again?”

He sighed. “Mom, I can’t stand Earl. And besides, he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me now. He even switched with someone in biology class, so he isn’t my lab partner anymore. I swear, I was asleep only ten minutes ago and got up to check on a noise out by the garage.”

“And it was nothing,” she said tentatively.

He nodded. “Yeah. Must have been a raccoon.”

“Well, thanks for checking, honey,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”

“G’night, Mom,” he whispered. He headed down the hall toward his bedroom. The door was closed and the light was off.

As Chris walked down the hall, Nora noticed the bulge of his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. He’d brought his wallet with him to check on a noise outside? And why had he bothered to close his door?

It didn’t make sense.

Nora watched her son step into his bedroom and quietly close the door.

And she knew he’d just lied to her about where he’d been.