With or Without You

by Brian Farrey

  At the park, there’s a stage set up near the picnic shelter. Next to the stage, a huge white sheet keeps the Angels from prying eyes. There are about fifty white plastic folding chairs arranged for the audience, but I’m surprised to see that the attendance is at least four times that number. Some kids are already milling around the refreshments table, sneaking bites before volunteers shoo them away.

  Near the stage, Malaika greets us both with a hug and introduces us to Madison’s mayor, who will give the keynote. She also introduces us to Cory Tanner, the kid who was in the hospital for months after getting beaten here. He’s in a wheelchair, looking from face to face as if struggling to remember if he knows us. Malaika says that she’ll speak, then Erik, and then, together, all the speakers will unveil the Angels.

  As we get ready to start, I bear-hug Erik and say, “Good luck.” The seats are all taken but as I move to join the SRO crowd, Malaika takes my arm and leads me to the stage and a reserved chair next to Erik’s. I smile, sit, and grasp Erik’s hand. TV news crews line up along the front of the stage. Erik spots them and I can feel his hand grow clammy in mine.

  “Just do it like we practiced,” I whisper, giving his fingers a squeeze.

  “We practiced,” he reminds me out of the corner of his mouth, “in our underwear. Are you willing to strip to keep me calm?”

  I poke him in the ribs. “Whatever it takes.”

  A police officer steps from the crowd, approaches the mayor, and they talk with concerned looks. The cop looks familiar, like maybe he’s spoken at school or the RYC. He and the mayor survey the gathered horde, the officer occasionally pointing out people. He then hands the mayor a slip of paper and walks back to his post. The mayor joins us onstage.

  “Anything wrong, Gabe?” Malaika asks quietly.

  “I don’t think so,” the mayor replies. “We thought there were some protestors here—we’d heard rumors people from that church in Kansas were making a trip up here to spread their hate. But it’s just some kids handing out flyers. I think they’re pro-gay. I’m not worried.”

  He hands the flyer to Malaika, who scans it and nods. I look past Erik and read it myself. It’s handwritten, poorly photocopied.

  STAND UP AND TAKE

  PRIDE IN BEING GAY!

  Be a CHASER

  Meeting tonight after the ceremony

  Meet by the new statue at 8 p.m.

  Panicking, I look into the audience. I easily spot Sable, handing out flyers like an usher at the opera. My scan picks up Mark, then Del, then Will, and finally Davis, who’s not far from the edge of the stage. I can’t tell if he’s seen me. Several moments pass before I realize I’ve pulled my hand out of Erik’s.

  The Monona High School pep band strikes up “We Are the Champions” and the crowd erupts in applause. The mayor takes the podium. He speaks, but I can’t hear him. I can only focus on Davis, who has stopped handing out flyers and has taken point near the front row. He’s listening to the mayor. If he’d seen me, I’m sure he’d be staring. Like I am at him.

  Has Sable “inducted” him yet? How long will it be? It’s only then that I place the cop talking with the mayor as the same cop who came to my house. Officer Brogan. He’s standing not three feet from Davis.

  Malaika’s speaking now. “A tide is turning,” she says. “We as a city have to unite and send a clear message: There can be no room for hatred. We will brook no intolerance. We bring the fight to the intolerant, using their own hatred against them.” I think about Pete in the hospital and sickness wells in my stomach. I think about Kenny, so fucked up with feelings he hates having. I count the days until I’m in California and can start over, tabula rasa, and none of that will matter.

  “And now,” Malaika says, her warm voice warbling slightly through the cheap sound system, “I’d like to introduce the artist who designed and built the sculpture we’re about to unveil. Mr. Erik Goodhue.”

  Whistles and hoots punctuate the applause. Erik squeezes my knee and steps up to the podium, holding his note card. “Thank you. It was an honor to be selected to create the work you’re about to see …” He stops, staring intently at the card. I prompt him in my mind.

  After six months of work … After six months of work …

  Then he turns the card facedown on the podium and swallows. “Listen, I’m terrified to talk in front of people.” A chuckle ripples through the crowd. “I thought writing my thoughts down would help me through this but it’s not. So I’m just gonna punt. The fact is, I made this statue because I could have been Cory Tanner. I got the snot kicked out of me almost every day when I was in middle school.”

  I never knew this. Erik? With those muscles, with that confidence? Beat up?

  “My mom—she passed away when I was nine—she used to tell me about angels. She said we all had angels to protect us. I don’t know where Cory’s angels were when those thugs were taking a baseball bat to him. But his angels are here now, with us today. His angels will stand here as a permanent reminder that there is grace all around us. And it’s through that grace that we’ll persevere. It’s a grace we find through unity. It’s a grace that comes from loving and being loved.”

  He stops, mouth poised to speak, like he thinks he should say more. But he glances at me and I nod. There’s nothing more to say. He nods back. “I’d like to show you the Angels now.”

  All of the speakers move to the covered statue. Erik turns and holds out his hand to me. I watch as Davis, who’d been staring at Erik with rapt attention during his speech, follows Erik’s outstretched hand and our eyes meet. I can feel the crosshairs home in.

  I stand and face Erik, smile on my face. I cross the stage and take his hand. The other speakers, Erik, and I take the rope and as the crowd counts to three, we yank, sending the cloak fluttering to the grass.

  A shaft of pure sunlight hits the polished wings, washing the first few rows of spectators in radiance. The crowd can’t decide whether to “oooh” or scream in appreciation so they choose both, competing with the wild applause for decibel supremacy.

  Erik leans in to kiss me, his soft brown eyes dancing. I know that look. It’s the one I keep inside whenever he’s not around. It’s the one I would have cried for, remembering in Chicago. Only I don’t have to remember now. I’ve chosen California. And I can have that look with me every day.

  I don’t want to know the look I’m getting from Davis. At the reception, Erik is the man. Everyone is shaking his hand, complimenting the statue. People ask to get their picture taken with him next to the Angels. He gets business cards. Hot guys hand him slips of paper with their phone numbers. Erik hands me the numbers to tear up. I smile, the proud boyfriend, but my chest is tight. I don’t know where the Chasers are and that scares me.

  Then I spot Kenny. He’s standing near the picnic shelter with a husky man; from the resemblance, I’m guessing it’s Pete’s dad. He and Kenny are speaking to Officer Brogan.

  Kenny caved. He’s squealing on Davis.

  Not now. Not in front of Erik.

  Erik pokes me in the ribs, our prearranged signal that the accolades are making him uncomfortable. We say our good-byes, he takes my hand, and we head out. We get close to the edge of the park when I see Sable and the Chasers, huddled near the Angels. Mark and the rest are talking to kids holding the flyers they got during the ceremony. New recruits. Sable’s got an eye on Officer Brogan.

  Davis breaks from the group and charges over. Instinctively, I try to remove my hand from Erik’s but he won’t let go.

  He knows.

  “So, uh … this is your statue?” Davis asks Erik, while he glares at me.

  “Yep. Did it myself.” Erik beams. He releases my hand, only to slip his arm around my waist and pull me into his side. He holds out his free hand. “I don’t know if you remember, but we met once. Last year, after my volleyball game. You’re Davis, right?”

  I’m sure Erik feels me stiffen. Please don’t do this.

  Davis shakes his head. “You know me? I
don’t know who the hell you are.”

  I look past Davis. The new recruits can’t take their eyes off Sable, whose flailing arms tell me he’s started his sales pitch. I want lightning to strike him. He’s the last person who should be anywhere near that statue and what it represents.

  “I’m Evan’s boyfriend. I’m Erik.” He’s still holding out his hand but Davis regards it with disgust.

  “Boyfriend?” Davis throws back his head and laughs. “Oh, man, are you in for a trip. Good luck. I really mean that. Maybe he won’t drag you down like he does everybody else in his life. Maybe he’ll be honest with you. He is honest with you, right? He’s told you everything about him? Like how he’s obsessed with artists. Like how he can only relate to his paints. Like how he tries to help but only makes things worse. Hope you know what you’re in for.”

  He’s lashing out. Making shit up just to hurt me. That’s what I tell myself. If I think for a second that Davis really believes what he’s saying, it means the last nine years have been a lie.

  Across the park, I hear Sable’s booming voice: “Move!”

  Suddenly, the Chasers scatter as half a dozen cops, led by Officer Brogan, descend on their meeting.

  Erik’s arm drops from around my back. Davis throws me one more searing glance before bolting to catch up with Sable. I can’t care. I have bigger problems.

  I reach for Erik and he recoils. His face is sapped of color. I stand in front of him and I’m reminded of every time I’ve lost Davis. Erik’s brooding was never like losing Davis. Now they look identical and I’ve never had to reclaim Erik before. I don’t know where to begin.

  “Erik,” I say firmly, fighting to hide the quiver in my tone. “Don’t listen to him. Okay? Just … just listen to me.”

  “You said,” he whispers in an even, measured tone, “that he knew about me. That he wanted to meet me. You. Lied.”

  “You don’t understand what’s been going on. I really thought I was protecting him. Erik, he’s really screwed up right now—”

  “Him? Or you? What have I told you from the start? I can deal with just about anything. But not lies.”

  The sounds of the nearby celebration evaporate into the heat of the summer sun and the only thing I hear is Erik’s every word quietly ripping through me. I find myself wishing for the yelling we did in Milwaukee. It hurt less. But that’s because this time, I have no defense.

  Finally, he turns to look me directly in the eyes with that expression he reserves for regretting the past and hating himself for all the trust he put in past boyfriends.

  “I can’t deal with this, Evan.”

  I want to reach out. I don’t. I want to smile reassuringly. I don’t. I want to say, I love you and your yoga and your square-egg-shaped head and your lopsided smile and that’s what matters.

  But I don’t.

  Nothing—no fight with Davis, no argument with Shan or my parents—has prepared me for a situation where I stand to lose everything. There are a million things I want to do but I don’t know that any of them will set this right. Apologies, excuses, stories … Something tells me this goes beyond anything they could achieve. So instead I do the stupidest thing of all: nothing. “Are we … breaking up?”

  His jaw drops. Erik doesn’t end things in anger. Instead, he shakes his head. “I don’t know what we are. And I don’t think you do either.”

  For just a second, thunder bursts in my chest. We’re not done. We’re not done. But then he adds, “We need to rethink San Diego.”

  He walks away. My vision goes out of focus as the park distorts and blurs like a child’s watercolor painting.

  LOCAL TEEN DIES OF HEARTBREAK

  No. No more diversions.

  Two blocks down, Erik turns the corner, disappearing from sight. Too little, too late, I thrust both arms up over my head and hold them there higher than John Cusack could ever manage. Turn around, Erik. Just look at me. I pray he’ll pop back around the corner, see my arms raised, and obey our private signal.

  He doesn’t.

  I turn to the sky. I feel like it should be raining. Isn’t it usually raining in these situations? That would be better. I summon my palette. I imagine a black sky, streets that glow red. Darkness. Despair.

  Instead, I’m forced to deal with a brightly lit, warm day that’s anathema to everything I feel.

  When it hurts this bad, shouldn’t it at least rain?

  With Erik now halfway back to his Jeep, I realize I have to finish the conversation by myself. I summon Erik in my mind. He’s not mad. He still wants me to move with him to San Diego. He smirks and gives me a single playful command.

  Miss me.

  More than ever.

  missing

  Space. I’m convinced Erik needs space, so I give it to him. I let three days pass. I corral every urge to call, write, or use semaphore. I picture a hundred different ways to apologize. I think about painting him something. I imagine throwing myself at his feet and begging for forgiveness. I picture romantic symbolism, getting an actual boom box and standing outside his windows blasting “In Your Eyes” at full volume.

  But in the end, I don’t have the courage. I’ve screwed up beyond belief. I’m dying to apologize but he has to make the first move. I’ve proven that, if it’s left to me, I’ll slaughter it.

  Friday nights at the store bustle during the school year, but with the fall semester still a few weeks away, it’s pretty quiet. With Shan gone, I’m working most of my shifts with Ross. He’s not such a bad guy. He picked up the job pretty fast. Even figured out how to get on Mom’s good side (no small task). We never talk about Chasers. Until tonight.

  “So, you still hanging around that Davis guy?” he asks, scraping a wad of gum off the floor.

  I dodge a real answer with, “He’s really busy with Chasers. You still see Del?”

  Ross shakes his head. “Won’t even give me the time of day. To hell with him. If he’s willing to give up on years of friendship just ’cause some wacko moves to town … Who needs friends like that? Right?”

  Silently, I hope. I hope I can still get through to Davis. I hope to fix things with Erik. But I’m not about to share that with Ross, so I keep my hope quiet.

  “To hell with him,” I concur, raising a can of beets in a mock toast.

  The bell over the door tinkles and we both look up to find Mrs. Grayson crossing soundlessly over the threshold. She moves like a husk, empty and light. She’s in a pale tan frock that hangs loosely from her brittle frame. Her haunted eyes seem more dazed than usual, if that’s even possible. Ross, who’s never met Davis’s mom before, picks up on this too. I extend my arm, like I’ve watched Davis do a thousand times before. Mrs. Grayson’s fingers chill me as she takes my elbow.

  “Mrs. Grayson, are you all right?”

  “I can’t find my Davis.” Her voice cracks and she swallows repeatedly. “I can’t find my Davis and I’m so, so thirsty.”

  I snap my fingers at Ross and point at the giant fridge. Not missing a beat, he grabs a water bottle and offers it to her. She downs half of it immediately. I turn, placing my body as a sound barrier between her and Ross.

  “Get my mother.”

  And he’s gone up the stairs.

  “Do you need to sit down?” I lead her to a nearby step stool.

  Mrs. Grayson sinks like a stringless puppet onto the seat, her head weaving slowly around as though still not entirely sure where she is. “Yes. That would be nice.”

  I turn the sign to CLOSED and lock the door. Mom and Ross arrive on the scene as Mrs. Grayson fishes in her pocket, pulling out a small pill bottle. She takes out two small yellow pills and they disappear with the rest of the water.

  Mom crouches near Mrs. Grayson. “Clara, should you be out on your own like this? Does your husband know you’re here?”

  Mr. Grayson, I can assure my mom, does not know she’s here.

  “I can’t find my Davis,” is all she says. It becomes an eerie, unsyncopated chant.

 
; And I realize: It’s the second Sunday of the month. Davis was supposed to pick her up at Mendota and didn’t. (Christ, did she walk here from Mendota? It must have taken her hours.) And where was Davis? Did the police catch him? Is he hiding with the other Chasers?

  Listening to Mrs. Grayson babble, I finally know a way to get through to Davis. When he opens his door at the RYC and I’m there with his mom, he’ll figure it out. He’ll remember he forgot to pick her up. He’ll remember all the years he spent taking care of her. Any thoughts of Sable or catching HIV will be gone.

  “Mom,” I say, snatching the keys for the truck from behind the counter, “I’m going to take Mrs. Grayson to Davis. He’s probably just really busy.” The silence that’s been the cornerstone of our relationship serves us now. I only need a glance: Something is wrong with Davis. She responds with a nod: Do what you have to.

  I take Mrs. Grayson’s arm and we move to the back door. “C’mon, Mrs. Grayson. I can take you to Davis.”

  “They left yesterday morning.”

  I’m glad Mrs. Grayson is slouching in the antiquated high-backed chair in the next room because I really don’t need her to hear Malaika.

  “They?” I ask, glancing over at the room keys behind her. The keys for both Rooms Three and Four hang on their pegs. “Davis and Sable? Do you know where they went?”

  “Sorry, no.” Malaika sighs. “I wasn’t here when they left. I only know they dropped off their keys. Davis left most of his belongings. Mr. Sable didn’t have much to begin with.”

  It feels like I’ve been slammed against a wall. Like stupidity has finally achieved escape velocity.

  I look over at Mrs. Grayson. She’s curling her fingers around a frayed strip of cloth on the arm of the chair. She’s singing softly to herself. I can’t be the one to tell her that her only child has disappeared.

  Malaika folds her arms. “Shortly after they left, the police came, looking for Davis. Now, you know I don’t tolerate anything that would bring the police here, Evan. What’s going on?”