With or Without You

by Brian Farrey

  “Pretty sure,” I say.

  “And you came all this way to find him?” She’s a little suspicious now, probably wondering if he’s in trouble. She has no idea.

  “We think he’s traveling with a friend of ours,” Erik says and the thought of Davis being Erik’s friend too makes my hands go cold.

  “You know,” she continues, “not long after you called to tell me you thought Todd was back in New York, a friend of his showed up and said Todd couldn’t make it, but he was hoping to get some things from his bedroom. He promised that Todd would be around soon. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to say no and possibly send my son even further into hiding, so I let the young man take what he wanted. My main concern was that Todd wasn’t getting his HIV medications. But his friend just took an address book and a camera.”

  “What did he look like?” Erik asks. “The friend who came for the address book?”

  She describes him. Average height, blue eyes, blond hair. Davis isn’t average height. It’s probably Mark. I’m not sure how many Chasers came with Sable.

  “Mrs. Sable,” Erik asks, “do you know where your son might be? Did he have any usual hangouts?”

  She shakes her head. “I checked most of them after he disappeared. No one’s seen him.”

  Erik squints at a framed photo on the wall and I join him. It’s a black-and-white shot of the New York skyline at night. A thin haze—smog—distorts the lights from the buildings and I instantly know why he took this shot: The haze effect makes the buildings look inverted, like it’s all negative volume. A blue ribbon dangles from the frame—first place.

  Erik asks, “But have you checked them since you knew he was back in town?”

  Mrs. Sable smiles. She escorts us downstairs to a kitchen loaded with appliances and gadgets and copper pans hanging from a steel rack above an island. As she rifles through a Rolodex, jotting down addresses, I take a picture of Sable from the side of the fridge. Because he looks older than he is, it’s hard to tell when the picture was taken. He’s fast asleep and lying in a hospital bed.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” I say, “how long … how long has Sa—Todd been … positive?”

  Mrs. Sable’s face steels. “I should be used to talking about this by now, shouldn’t I? Well … We thought that sending Todd to a boarding school when he was thirteen would be good for him. He was always a little rowdy. But he fell in with the worst element once he got there. Drug users. Six months after he started classes, he was infected by a dirty needle.”

  I look to Erik, who raises an eyebrow. Sable hadn’t wanted to catch HIV at all. It was an accident.

  Mrs. Sable stops writing, her eyes taking on that distant look I’d seen a dozen times before from Mrs. Grayson. “He … didn’t take the diagnosis well. We tried to explain that there were medications and as long as he took care of himself … But he felt cheated. Angry. We had to pull him out of the school and have him tutored here at home.”

  “Why was that?” Erik asks.

  Mrs. Sable looks down. “He became … violent. He would cut himself at school and shove his bloody arm at his classmates, telling them he would infect them. He kept saying that if he had to live this way, so should everyone else. We had a terrible fight in the spring. I wanted him to go to therapy to deal with his anger. That’s when he ran away.”

  Mrs. Sable hands me a list with about eight places on it. Our fingers touch when I take the list. Hers are shaking.

  Mrs. Sable sees us to the door. As we step over the threshold, she says, “I hope you find your friend. And if you see Todd … tell him he doesn’t need to send his friends to pick things up. He’s welcome here anytime. I really do want to see him.”

  I’m reading the list of addresses as we take the steps down to the sidewalk.

  “Let’s do this the smart way,” Erik says, poking the list. “Let’s go back to Shan’s, get out a map, and plot out these places. We can save time if we’ve got a plan—”

  Erik stops because I’ve stopped. Coming around the corner, head down, is Mark, wearing a sleeveless black shirt. He’s hardly a yard away when he notices me. He shoots a look at the brownstone, then turns and bolts. I take off after him, Erik in tow. We chase him a block before Mark ducks between two buildings. As the alley dead-ends, he stops.

  “Who’s this?” Erik asks as we catch up. Before I can answer, Mark spins around, throwing a wild haymaker. There’s a blur of arms. I flinch, then find Mark on his knees. Erik’s hands grip Mark’s wrist, now bent at what I can only guess is an uncomfortable angle.

  I notice Mark sports a tattoo of a praying mantis near his wrist. The skin around the bug is pink and puffy, suggesting it’s very new. It’s hard to tell if he’s grimacing at the way Erik’s holding his arm or because Erik is also digging both his thumbs into the raw, freshly tattooed flesh.

  Mark lets out a gasp as Erik gives his wrist a small jerk. He turns to me. “I’m guessing this is a Chaser?”

  I nod. Mark tries squirming but falls limp with a little more pressure from Erik.

  “Can we talk now?” Erik asks him.

  “I thought you said you got beat up in middle school,” I say.

  “I did. Funny thing, the beatings stopped after my dad signed me up for jiujitsu.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that can happen.”

  “So.” Erik returns his attention to Mark with another wrist twist. “Talk to me, Sparky. Where’s Sable?”

  hell

  There’s a reason so many gritty stories that take place in New York feature dimly lit streets with crumbling buildings. These streets really do exist. When the cab drops us off in some shadow-stained corner of the Bronx, a movie set unfolds. But there are no cameras or dollies reminding us it’s fiction. This is all too real.

  Most of the streetlights are out; the few that burn offer spots of murky white light that mark our path. The buildings seem to bow forward under the weight of their own misery. Or maybe they’re under the influence of the midsummer heat that’s making every breath a struggle. The distinct smell of urine saturates the air and there’s garbage in the gutter. Erik holds up the address we got from Mark before he bolted, peering at it in the semidarkness. Then he points at the building dead ahead.

  “That’s the place.”

  The sidewalk vibrates with a thunderous trance beat and the basement windows, covered with newspaper, flash and flicker with magenta, aquamarine, and amber. A yellow sign on the building proclaims: CONDEMNED! A few chunky guys in tight T-shirts hang out on the front steps, making out. We step around them and descend the stairs to the basement.

  Just before we open the door, Erik turns and holds my face in his hand. “We’re going to get Davis and get out. If anything happens—if I tell you to run—you do it and you do it fast. I mean it, Evan. Run means run.”

  The door swings open, the sweet, earthy smell of pot hangs in the air with an iridescent luster. It’s wall-to-wall guys. Party lights flash from each corner. The temperature goes up and my sweat glands go into overdrive.

  Most of the guys are naked or wearing leather chaps. Some are in leather harnesses with silver spikes and studs. Tattoos paint almost every arm—a few insects but mostly plus signs and blood-red biohazard symbols. Everyone’s moving to the pulsing beat, grabbing somebody else and going at it. Erik takes my hand as we navigate the sea of sex.

  A lean, muscular guy in a bright yellow Speedo steps from the throng. His blond hair tumbles over his ears.

  “Welcome, boys!” he shouts over the tumult. “Here to give or receive?”

  The guy looks me up and down and Erik insinuates himself between us, looking up into the tall guy’s face with a forced but friendly smile. “Looking for a friend. Name’s Davis. Seen him?”

  Blond Guy tries to steal another look at me and Erik sidesteps again to block his view. Blond Guy shrugs a shoulder. “You won’t find a lot of names here. They don’t matter much. If you just want a good time, check out the back rooms.” He throws h
is thumb over his shoulder. “There’s some fresh meat back there. Don’t get too rough—I haven’t had my shot yet.”

  Then he slithers off, pulling the first guy he sees into his arms. Erik leads me forward. I catch sight of a familiar face. Leaning up against a gutted fireplace, too stoned to stand on his own, is Del. He’s got a drink in one hand and he’s wearing only a pair of tighty-whiteys. I divert Erik to the fireplace and shake Del by the shoulders.

  “Del!” I shout. He shoots me a goofy smile. “Del, are you okay?”

  He gives me a big thumbs-up. “I’m next in line!” He raises a glass in celebration and takes a big swig. “Great party, huh, Rick?”

  “I’m not Rick,” I say, not knowing who the hell Rick is. “Is Davis here? Who all came from Madison?”

  Del tries to concentrate. “Just me. Me and Mark. And Davis. Me and Mark and Davis. With Cicada. Have you met Cicada? Cool guy.”

  I point to the back rooms. “What’s going on back there?”

  Del grabs his crotch and makes a grinding motion with his hips. “We’re becoming Chasers! We’re getting the gift!” Some guys overhear this and cheer in celebration.

  A flash of strobe light, an errant glance, and I catch my reflection in a mirror on the wall. It’s Shan staring back, disapproving, the frown she wore all summer. I wonder: Is this scene what she conjures when she thinks about having a gay brother? Would she believe me if I told her this sickens me? Yes. She knows better. She knows me. This place? Nothing I want.

  “Come on!” Erik shouts in my ear, pulling me toward the back rooms. Del collapses against the fireplace rubble and laughs stupidly.

  The hallway is dark and I can feel the floorboards beneath my feet give a little with each step. We pass by two rooms, each missing doors. Inside, two and sometimes more guys are rolling around on old mattresses, groping everywhere they can.

  We get to the last room at the end of the hall. It’s lit by a tiny lamp in the corner. The twin mattress on the floor is losing its stuffing. Alone, Davis lies on his back, a fading ember. His eyes are open, glazed. He doesn’t move. I can see blood caked between his legs and on the mattress.

  I kneel next to him, taking his head into my lap. His breathing is shallow. “Davis? Can you hear me?”

  Erik does a quick checkup: pulse, breathing, pupils. He scowls. “We need to get him to a hospital.” He rifles through a pile of clothes, finds the smallest pair of boxers, and slides them up Davis’s legs. As he reaches the midsection, Davis flinches and cries out. I can’t tell if it’s pain or fear. Davis’s eyes grow wild, looking around like he’s just woken from a bad dream. “It’s okay,” I whisper, but he can’t seem to hear me over the music.

  “Help me,” Erik says, throwing Davis’s arm around his shoulders and hoisting him up. I grab Davis’s other arm. He hangs limply between us, his head bobbing uselessly. Dazed, he manages small steps.

  We mow our way through the labyrinth of writhing bodies and we’re almost to the door when suddenly all of Davis’s weight is on me. Erik has been yanked back into the room. Sable towers over him.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Sable’s bloodthirsty voice is the only thing loud enough to drown out the ear-splitting beat. He’s in his black trench coat, his hair held back in a ponytail. I try to warn Erik but Davis slips from my grasp and I struggle to keep him from hitting the floor.

  Erik holds up his hands. “The kid needs medical attention. I’m a nurse. We’re just going to take him to the hospital.”

  And then, Mark is at Sable’s side, burning hate at Erik with his eyes. Sable puts his arm around Mark’s shoulders. “My friend says you weren’t very nice to him. I don’t think you’re gonna be very nice to Little Dude. In fact, I don’t think Little Dude wants to leave the party. Maybe you should just leave.”

  Erik nods. “Yeah, that’s the plan. But Little Dude’s coming with us.”

  Lightning fast, Sable reaches into his coat and brandishes a knife. Mark lurches forward but Erik demonstrates his prowess again, tossing Mark aside. Erik reaches up with both hands to wrest the knife from Sable. They struggle for control. In a moment, I lose sight of the knife as it disappears below their waistlines. I hear Erik yell, “Evan, get out! Get out now!”

  I pull Davis tightly to me and I push our way out the door. I drag him to the street and lower him to the curb. I turn to go back for Erik when he plows into me. As I go to steady myself by holding him, my hands are bathed in a thick wetness, and we both collapse to the ground.

  damage

  If I could assign physical coordinates to a nightmare, it would be the corner of Eighth and Baker in the Bronx: St. Mary’s Hospital. The familiar, odorous antiseptic sting yields to vomit and scarcely diluted ammonia. The walls hemorrhage three different shades of plaster and drywall. The floors are a collage of neglected stains and missing tiles.

  I am not alone. Nearly two dozen others sit, waiting for medical attention. We are all presided over by a gum-chewing, rumpled-scrubs-wearing slackass at the admissions desk, paging through his newspaper. He doesn’t care that some of these people are bleeding.

  The blood.

  First Davis, collapsing to the sidewalk. Then Erik and me.

  Blood everywhere.

  I remember hysterics, all me. Desperately yelling for help. Flagging down one of the few cabs in the neighborhood. I can only imagine the driver’s reaction to watching me shove two men, both of them bleeding, into the backseat, all the while screaming “Hospital! Hospital!” over and over, pressing my hands on Erik’s wound.

  When we arrived, they whisked Davis and Erik off quickly because, by that time, we were all soaked in blood. I only narrowly avoided an examination room myself.

  No. I’m fine. Take them.

  I stumbled my way through admissions—paperwork, questions—and talked to a cop who is apparently on duty at the hospital at all times.

  No, officer, just an accident at home. That’s why he’s bleeding. Nothing to report.

  I was dying to turn in Sable. But Davis is already in trouble with the law back in Madison. Getting the cops involved here will only complicate things. Sable’s free for now.

  Unless something happens to Erik.

  Then I sat. I waited. I wait more.

  I want my paints. My brushes. I want to stand outside on the sidewalk, peering in through the grimy window, ready to capture the moment when Erik comes out from behind the swinging door, good as new. Because he can’t die. Not over something stupid like this. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He shouldn’t pay for my mistakes. He’s going to come through that door. And I have to paint that moment of emergence. I need to.

  At one thirty a.m., Davis, in an oversized shirt and pants that came from God knows where, is led into the waiting room through a swinging brown door. The thin doctor has a hand on Davis’s shoulder. The doctor looks tired. Davis still looks dazed. I wave and the doctor brings Davis to me, guiding him to an adjacent chair.

  The doctor must believe the “we’re brothers” line I put on the admissions form because he addresses us both very frankly. Results of the STD screening will be available in two weeks. A tear in the anal wall, risk of infection, prescribing antibiotics as a precaution.

  “We don’t have PEP,” the doctor says.

  “What?”

  “Post-exposure prophylaxis treatment. If there’s a chance he’s been exposed to HIV, it needs to be treated with the urgency you’d treat a gunshot wound. In other words, immediately.” He yawns. “We don’t have PEP here but he should get it and soon. The longer you wait, the greater his chance of contracting HIV.”

  This is a hospital! Why don’t you have it? I want to scream. Then, instead of telling me where we can find it, the doctor narrows his tired eyes.

  “Your brother is not responsive so I’ll ask you: Was this consensual?”

  I don’t know what to say so I nod.

  The doctor brandishes a small pill bottle filled with antibiotics for the possible infection
from the tear in Davis’s skin. I must have taken it; it’s in my hand. I’m only half there. I won’t let my eyes leave the swinging brown door. The one keeping me from my boyfriend.

  “Erik,” I half shout, when the doctor tries to walk away, “the other guy I came in with. How is he?”

  What lie had I told about Erik? Another brother? A friend? Or had I finally stopped telling lies about Erik?

  Thin Doctor holds up his hands helplessly and I’m sure he thinks that look is sympathetic. But he really looks empty. He disappears behind the brown ER door. Swing, swing. I get two quick glimpses into the room beyond. No Erik.

  Forty-five minutes pass. Davis’s head droops and I can’t tell if he’s doped up on pain pills or just being a dick. I spare him a handful of glances at times when I’m not eyeballing the brown door.

  “Why are you here?”

  This might actually be the second or third time he’s asked. Davis’s voice is low, unrecognizable.

  “We’re waiting for Erik.” My voice wavers when I say Erik’s name. I can’t believe he’s asking.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I am here,” I return in anger, “to stop you from making a stupid fucking mistake.”

  A serrated grin carves Davis’s face. He giggles softly to himself. “Oh. Of course.”

  I stand and try to peer through the diamond-shaped window in the brown door. I only see a paper curtain. I wonder if Erik’s behind it. I want to paint that window.

  Turning back, Davis is staring at me. Or rather, through me.

  “You know what we should do? You know what we should do, Ev? Find a tattoo parlor. This is New York. There’s got to be a twenty-four-hour tattoo parlor.” He rolls up his sleeve, exposing his skinny left wrist. “A big cricket. Right there. That’s who I want to be. That’s my bug. A cricket.”

  My stomach implodes. He only thinks he got the bug, I tell myself. He doesn’t know for sure. There’s still a chance he wasn’t infected. Still a chance that nothing happened.