Without You: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and the Musical Rent

by Anthony Rapp

  “I’ll talk to you later,” I said then, stifling a sigh. “I love you.” But I didn’t feel it so much as say it.

  “All right. I love you, too.”

  I hung up. The call hadn’t been disastrous, but it had hardly been what I’d hoped for. I couldn’t understand why she was so worried. She knew what good care I took of my body, how healthy I was. She knew I was smart and awake and alive. She had trusted me so much my whole life, giving me opportunities and freedoms other kids only dreamed about. I wanted her to trust me now.

  The next family member to find out about Keith was Adam. When my brother flew to New York for a visit during his senior year in college, I hadn’t yet told him about my relationship with Keith or anything about my sexuality. Adam stayed with Keith and me for a week in our one-bedroom apartment in the East Village, sleeping on the living room couch while Keith and I stayed in our bedroom.

  One night, Keith and I were kissing under the covers, Keith on top of me, when the door opened.

  “Anthony?” Adam said. Keith and I froze, and I looked up to see my brother’s tall body in the door frame. He stood there for a moment, not saying anything more, and Keith and I didn’t move, as alert and still as birds, until finally Adam said, “Sorry,” and closed the door. Keith and I stayed still for another long moment, and then resumed our kissing.

  The next day, Adam didn’t say anything about what he’d seen. I didn’t bring it up, until that night, when we were walking together on Avenue A.

  “Keith and I are together,” I said.

  Adam didn’t look at me. “Whatever,” he said. We walked a few more feet in silence, my eyes cast down to the sidewalk, and then Adam said, “I don’t get it, I don’t get how you can do that, but whatever.” And neither of us said any more after that.

  For the rest of his stay, we didn’t talk about the incident again. Adam, who’d become a prolific writer at college, started to spend most of his time in the apartment, furiously working on a new short story. It was about a senior in college from the Midwest who comes to New York to visit his younger brother, only to walk in on his younger brother having sex with a man. Adam showed me the beginnings of the story. I liked it, and asked him if I could write it with him. He said yes, and among the scenes I wrote was a dramatic, intense confrontation between the two brothers, in which the younger brother demands to be heard by his older brother, demands to be accepted. Adam and I went back and forth like this, writing our respective scenes, neither of us acknowledging that we were writing about ourselves. As had so often been the case in our family, we avoided directly confronting each other, but for the first time we had a new outlet through which we could express ourselves. But even as we wrote, we absurdly never admitted to each other that we were working out all of our issues through our story. Not that all of those issues actually got worked out, however; in both the story and in real life, the older brother left New York without coming to terms with what he’d learned about his younger brother’s life.

  Keith and I continued together for just over a year, although as time went on we began to fight, and I became less and less comfortable with the idea of having him as a boyfriend.

  After my initial conversation about Keith with Mom, I didn’t mention him again to her until several months later, when she came into town for the Broadway opening night of Six Degrees of Separation.

  I called her at her hotel. “I want you to meet Keith,” I said.

  “Well, I want to meet him,” Mom said, but I sensed the tightness in her voice as she spoke. She did meet him, spending a brief and tense visit with us in our apartment, sitting quietly on our desk chair, her arms loosely folded across her lap, her legs crossed, her meek voice barely reaching across the room. Keith’s energy was generally high and nervous, and her presence that afternoon seemed to wind him even tighter than normal. His eyes darted around the room at twice their usual rate, and his hands fidgeted crazily with a pen, flipping it up and down, up and down, again and again, almost faster than the eye could follow. I found myself sinking down into the couch, feeling extremely monosyllabic, conscious of the slightest change of expression on Mom’s clouded-over and mostly blank face. Later, when I asked her what she thought of Keith, she said, quietly, not looking at me, “Oh, he’s very nice.” And we didn’t speak about him again for the rest of the trip.

  A few months later, Keith and I broke up, and soon afterwards I began to see David. David was an actor who was taking time off from show business to work as the AIDS Walk New York team coordinator. I was the AIDS Walk team leader of the Six Degrees of Separation team, so David and I had to talk on the phone a lot, and I immediately warmed to his bright, charming sense of humor and his passion for his work. I asked him out, and he said yes, and we started spending a lot of time together.

  In the meantime, Adam moved to New York and into my apartment, sleeping on the sofa in the living room. He and I hadn’t spoken again about the whole sexuality issue, either negatively or positively, but I resisted sharing with Adam my relationship with David. Instead, I invited David over more and more often, and he would usually spend the night, which Adam didn’t seem to mind, and after a couple of months Adam said to David, “Hey, I think you should move in.”

  I was shocked. “Really?” I said.

  “Yeah,” Adam said. “It would help out with the rent, and we all get along. It’d be nice.”

  “That sounds great,” David said.

  And even though Adam hadn’t said so, I knew that he had accepted me after all, for which I was deeply grateful.

  Even though Adam had accepted me, I still longed for a sense of peace with Mom. I would call her up and talk to her about my life, sneaking in a tidbit here and there about my relationship with David, and, when his name came up, she’d pretend it didn’t bother her. But I’d always hear a rigidity, a resignation, in her voice.

  Then, on Thanksgiving in 1992, a month after my twenty-first birthday, I wrote Mom a seven-page, urgent, handwritten letter:

  Dear Momma—

  This is the first letter I’ve written to you in I don’t even know how long…and I’m as surprised as you that I’m writing it, but I thought it the best way to say everything I want to say to you, because it’ll give you time to digest it and reread it if you want to, and then it’ll be something you can ask me questions from or respond to. So, here goes…

  Where to begin? Well, I guess first of all, I love you more than I can say. And, especially on this day of Thanksgiving, I am eternally grateful for the life you’ve given me. I know it was your support for me and my career and the choices I’ve made that have given me the confidence and responsibility and joy I have now. Thank you thank you thank you. (I can’t say it enough.)

  But there are some unresolved issues in our relationship, and I would love it if we could resolve them and move on and have a totally free, totally communicative relationship. I feel like we’ve been getting better and better, but I still see that we can be even more, and I think you agree. Do you?

  A big thing is my relationship with David. I’m really torn up about how to go about saying everything I want to say, so what I’m going to do is tell the whole truth, and leave nothing out, and hope you understand. First of all, I’ve stopped pressing the issue of trying to get you to accept the fact that I’m bisexual, because I know it made you uncomfortable to talk about or even think about. And I understand that it’s hard for you to accept. I really do. But Mom, is it worth it for you to be upset about something you can’t change, especially if your being upset prevents you from being able to appreciate the extraordinary relationship I have with this amazing man? I’m genuinely asking. Because I’ve respected your wishes to not bring up the subject of my sexuality, and I’ve discovered I’d much rather be able to share with you the joy and fulfillment and issues and problems that are in my life because of David. I know you can talk to Anne about her and Ken, and Adam about his relationships, and I’d love it if you could do the same for me. Especially since I’
m your son, and I’m in a relationship with David, and that’s not going to change. And believe me, Mom, please believe me that I’m not wanting to hurt you in any way by talking about it this honestly with you. I understand this might be uncomfortable for you (it is for me too), but I think, and I hope you agree, that a little discomfort in the moment is better in the long run, if it leads to more open communication. Do you agree?

  I guess a reason I’m talking about my sexuality again after leaving it alone for a while is that I’m here at my friend Joan’s house, and one of her sons is gay, and her other son is bisexual, and neither she, her husband, nor her daughter has the slightest problem with it. In fact, her son and his lover (who, unfortunately, has AIDS) are sleeping in the same bed in her house. I guess I’m telling you this to let you know that you’re not alone (I know you know that), and also that it is possible for a family to acknowledge and accept other family members’ ways of life without judgment. I would love it if I could bring David home, and have it be just as much a part of our family’s life as if Anne brought Ken home, or Adam brought Christina (or whoever) home. I don’t know if that will ever be the case, but I sure would love it, and I know David would, too.

  The truth is, Mom, we could go on as we have been, not really discussing some of these issues, but don’t you agree that we could have a much better relationship if we were able to talk openly about everything with each other? Even if that means we’re temporarily uncomfortable? I hope you agree.

  Above all, Mom, as I said before, I love you, I will always love you, and there’s nothing you can do or say that will change that fact. Really. And it’s only because I love you so much that I’ve been as straightforward as I have in this letter. Because it’s so much more worth it to me to have you fully be a part of my life (and vice versa) than to have all these things I feel I can’t talk to you about. Do you feel the same way? I hope you do.

  Please give all of my love to Annie and Rachel. Please let me know what you thought (and think) about this letter. I love you, Momma. Take care of yourself, and I’ll talk to you soon.

  Love,

  your son,

  Anthony

  I mailed off the letter but received no reply from Mom, in either a letter or a conversation. And as free and open as I’d felt while I was writing the letter, whenever I’d get on the phone with Mom my throat would close in on itself and I’d lose my nerve to ask her what she thought of what I’d written, and we’d go entire conversations without addressing a single point I’d brought up in the letter. Maybe it had been too much for her, I thought. Maybe I had been unfair. It was all well and good for me to sit by myself with my pen and paper at my desk, where I could safely pour out my thoughts, and then hide my head when I lobbed them over to Mom like a grenade. Mom hated confrontation, she’d had so much of it growing up, and I knew that, but it hadn’t stopped me from trying to get through to her.

  But finally, when we were talking about my plans for Christmas that year, I drew up my courage and said as nonchalantly as possible, “David would love to come home with me. He’d love to meet you and the rest of the family.”

  And without missing a beat, Mom said, “Well, that would be nice.”

  “Great,” I said, careful not to display too much relief. New anxieties quickly followed, though: What if they didn’t get along? What would Anne and Ken and Roberta and Rachel think? Would Mom let us sleep in the same bed in her house? Would the holiday be unbearably tense and difficult? But I didn’t air any of those concerns, and Mom and I, as usual, didn’t speak any more about it.

  My anxiety proved to be groundless. Mom and David sparked to each other readily, although I imagined Mom had prepared herself to remain distant. But even if she had, her reserve melted in the face of David’s rare and easy charm. He was exceedingly well-bred and had a kind of primal knowledge of how to socialize, how to chat and joke and compliment and listen attentively, all while eagerly sitting up straight, his face bursting into raucous smiles, his strong, clear voice resonating in all the right ways. He was a few years older than I and a real gentleman, and I watched Mom begin to take him into her heart, her eyes glinting during their conversations.

  We had Christmas dinner at Roberta’s house, feasting on a gorgeous meal she and her husband, Bob, both of them master chefs, had prepared for us. I felt almost giddy with relief as I wolfed down their food (they had been careful to provide vegetarian selections for me) and observed Roberta and Bob welcome David into their home and our family without a shred of reservation on their part. I should have known I’d have allies in Roberta and Bob; she’d always been a freethinking, self-made, slightly bohemian woman, and though I didn’t know Bob well, I imagined she’d never allow herself to marry anyone who viewed life more narrowly than she. I also loved watching Mom quietly relax into a sweet, satisfied glow while she was in Roberta’s presence. They were best friends, best sisters, soul mates, with what felt to me like a complete and utter understanding of each other’s very being, even though they couldn’t be more different at first glance. Mom was forever quiet and small, while Roberta was often boisterous and large. Mom had a cultivated sense of propriety, while Roberta had little, happily cursing her head off when she felt like it. Mom shrank from arguments, while Roberta seemed hungry for a good, chunky debate. Mom abstained from substances, including alcohol, while Roberta drank plenty of wine with dinner, even allowing herself to generate a healthy buzz, loosening her tongue and laughter even more than usual. And yet I never sensed any disapproval emanating from Mom toward her younger sister; I sensed only deep love, and an abiding connection and trust. I envied Roberta for that.

  Little five-year-old Rachel glommed onto David with her usual zeal, begging him to repeat again and again their impromptu game in which he swung her around the room by her arms and legs, her chirpy squeals cascading out of her, her adorably chubby-cheeked face overwhelmed with joy. I watched Mom watching their game to see if she disapproved in any way of David’s contact with Rachel, but Mom just beamed with pride at her child. After the fifth round, Mom said, “Oh, Rachel, you’re going to make David fall over from exhaustion,” to which Rachel replied, “No I’m not!” to which Mom said, without a tinge of reprimand, “Oh, Rachel, you’re so silly,” and then she settled into an easy laugh in response to Rachel’s endless squeals.

  I was proud of Mom and proud of David and proud of myself for the way the visit went between all of us. But as time went on I lost confidence in sharing our relationship with Mom, especially as it started to sour, and our fights grew more and more common (a pattern reminiscent of my relationship with Keith). A little over a year after bringing David home with me, I broke up with him to be with Marcus, whom I’d met while David was away on a German tour of West Side Story. I was fast becoming what one friend called a “serial monogamist,” and I felt ashamed to tell Mom that David, this wonderfully engaging, sweet man, whom she’d perhaps begun to think of as a possible son-in-law, had not been enough to sustain me, for reasons that I couldn’t articulate even to myself. (Was it that I was too proud to admit that I was young and immature and didn’t really know the first thing about maintaining an adult relationship?) All I knew was that David and I had grown apart and that Marcus and I seemed to be more of a match. I halfheartedly told Mom about breaking up with David and about my new relationship with Marcus. She listened, but as our conversation went on to other topics, I could feel a shift in the landscape between us, I could feel old anxieties of hers resurfacing. And for the next three years my old, familiar constraint and fear ruled any talks I had with her about my romantic life.

  Joliet seemed to be undergoing some sort of boom, I noticed as I drove into town from O’Hare airport on July 1, 1996: generic, identical new homes were sprouting up everywhere in newly minted subdivisions, and there were more five-store strip malls dotting the landscape than I’d ever seen. As always during my brief visits home, I was grateful that I had gotten out of Joliet’s culturally anemic suburban sprawl.

&n
bsp; I pulled into the tiny driveway of Mom’s three-unit condominium and parked, pausing behind the steering wheel to take in a few steadying breaths. I had no idea what condition Mom would be in when I went inside, and I had no idea whether we would be able to have a conversation about my new boyfriend, Todd, on this trip. Staring out the windshield at the new row of houses where there once had been a cornfield, I resolved to talk to Mom about Todd no matter what. I grabbed my overnight bag, got out of my rental car, and opened the door to Mom’s house.

  The small house was full of people: Anne, five months pregnant, who stood in the kitchen chatting on the phone, wrapping its long cord around her fingers; eight-year-old Rachel, who sat in the living room on the lap of an older woman with long gray hair—a stranger to me, who I figured to be Mary, the woman sent from Joliet Hospice to help Mom take care of Rachel; and Mom, who lay in her usual spot on the couch, her thin legs bent in an upside-down V before her. No sooner had I closed the door behind me than Zelda, Mom’s probably-half

  -beagle, maybe-half-Labrador, definitely-treasured mutt, let out her customary full-throated barks and leaped up onto me, attempting to lick my face off.

  “Zelda Lou, no jumping,” Mom said from the couch as sternly as possible, but having little effect.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” I said, although a strong, heavy Zelda threatened to knock me over with the force of her affection. “Hi, Z,” I said. “Hi there.” Mom had rescued Zelda from an abusive family soon after Zucchini’s untimely death. She had lavished her with love and care, and Zelda had responded wonderfully.

  “Zelda, get down,” Rachel said, her little-girl voice doing its best imitation of Mom. Zelda didn’t obey, of course, but I finally managed to shove her gently away so I could give proper hugs to my family. Rachel clutched me as tightly as always, Anne gave her usual half-second, lighter-than-air embrace, and Mom squeezed me into her with as much strength as she could muster, which wasn’t a lot. She didn’t look much worse than I’d seen her in April, though.