With or Without You

by Lauren Sanders

  I put a dollar on the counter for my coffee and jumped off the stool. The old man grabbed my arm. I grunted and flinched away, my heart speeding. Fucking lunatic was lucky. I was armed and so far still a Democrat, even though I hadn’t voted.

  “Hey!” the man called out. “Hey you! I’m talking to you.” I turned and he stared right at me, crusty green soup caught in his stubbled chin. “You can’t have real love if you don’t have children!”

  “Settle down, Jimmy,” pleaded the woman behind the counter.

  I got out of there as quickly as I could and ran to the theatre. A young woman led me to my seat and handed me a Playbill. I read and reread your bio until the lights dimmed and the curtain opened. You were the last of the cast to be introduced, although everyone had been talking about your character before you got onstage. There were all kinds of little plots involving friends and lovers. I was bored to tears until the second act when you confronted your father. Removing your shirt was a big mistake. A few people gasped. A man stood up and his chair creaked loudly. Everyone turned toward him, a few people said shush. He stormed out. You kept up your monologue. Crying like the biggest crybaby in the world. I can see how you got the part, having been through all those teary-eyed scenes on World, but I was sorry you’d taken it. How could you stand there half naked in public? I knew you were acting, I wasn’t that naïve, but it was your body, your silken flesh and nipples glaring like pink neon stars before hundreds of prying eyes. My Playbill slipped from my lap, and I bent down to get it, incurring the wrath of the shushers. “I dropped my Playbill,” I whispered.

  “SHUSH!”

  I didn’t make another sound until you came out for two curtain calls and I screamed my lungs out. Despite the nudity, I was so proud of you. I decided to hang around and wait after the show. The lobby was clearing out, so I asked a man in a blue velvet vest where I could find your dressing room. “Behind the stage,” he said. “But you can’t go back there.”

  “I’d like to see Brooke.”

  “You and half the city.”

  “But …” I wanted to explain who I was but suddenly thought better of it; he’d never understand.

  “If you go around the building and turn up Ninth Avenue, you’ll see an alley that leads to the stage door. That’s as close as you’re gonna get to Brooke Harrison.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Maybe he understood more than I knew.

  I left the theatre and followed his directions. Ninth Avenue was bustling with skanky restaurants, homeless men with grimy faces begging for quarters, heavy foot traffic heading for Port Authority. Ever since I was a kid I’d heard stories of girls stepping off buses from places like Iowa and being forced into prostitution. There was even a TV movie about it. But it never seemed that dangerous to me. Just dirty. I passed a couple of theatres, a steakhouse that bled a smoked-meat scent into the streets, then came to the alley, where I turned and saw a group of people, mostly young girls, women, and a few men who looked like fathers, waiting by the stage door. A few weeks ago, in a TV interview you’d said it was difficult always meeting the demands of your fans. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my fans, but sometimes it’s a bit of a strain,” you said. “I mean, John walks down the street and he’s John Strong, but me, I’m Jaymie Jo Rheinhart.” You said when you were in Italy last summer with your family, a busload of American girls chased you around the Vatican. They wanted to take pictures and hug you. You said people always put their arms around you because they see all these crazy things happen to you every day and they feel bad, which you could understand but it wasn’t too cool. So in Italy, you were like, “Can’t you see I’m on vacation? I’m with my family.” But it didn’t matter. Because to them you were just Jaymie Jo in a foreign country.

  You were not going to be happy with this scene. I tried to break through the crowd and get closer to the stage door to warn you, but it was no use. Nobody would budge, not even the fathers who clutched their rolled Playbills and looked up at the electrified sky, trying to pretend they weren’t standing in an alley waiting for a soap star. I turned and bolted down Ninth Avenue to the parking lot, where I paid the attendant, and he brought me my Saab. Windows open, I chain-smoked as I sped home along the L.I.E. in the warm June night, thinking I would return in a few days and see if the crowds outside had died down.

  Any theatre lover will tell you that you can often catch the second act of a show for free since the ushers never check tickets after intermission. I’d learned this from my mother, who once pointed to a lady sitting next to me at Grease, where the seat had been empty during the first act. Nancy was appalled. She said if you didn’t have the money for a ticket you had no business being at the theatre. Your show had a sold-out run, thanks to reviews as good as the producers had anticipated. There was even talk about extending a few weeks. But I still managed to sneak in a couple of times after intermission and find a seat, Nancy be damned. Once, I got as far up as the second row, where I could see the beige makeup running down your temples and noticed your arms were full of bruises. They must have come from all of the thrashing around you did on stage. The role was just as physically demanding as your exorcism had been.

  Two weeks into the run, I cut my last classes on Wednesday to see if I could scalp a ticket for the matinee or at least secondact it. I thought I might have better luck catching you afterwards on a weekday. I took the train in to avoid rush hour coming back and arrived at the theatre a bit early. There was nobody at the box office, but the front doors were open so I walked inside. I went to the bathroom and pumped sweet-smelling soap into my palms, then ran it through my hair to tame the waves. Outside, a man was setting up the small bar, and I could hear rustling coming from the box office. I needed a cigarette, but didn’t want to leave the building. I thought maybe I could first-act the play. Sneak inside and shirk the ushers until the curtain went up. I was already in the building, why leave and have to buy a ticket?

  I ducked behind the bar, toward the side of the balcony. There was a red Exit sign hanging above a door, which was open slightly and seemed to lead to a stairwell. I walked to the door and pushed it slowly. The spring creaked, and it sounded menacing, like an Abbott and Costello movie. I imagined a mummy on the other side. My breath came faster, ghoulish faces flashed through my mind. Only the gun in the side pocket of my pants calmed me as I pushed the door all the way back and walked into the gray cement stairwell. The walls were dark and floors dotted with cigarette butts. I’d stumbled upon the right place. I turned my head and there you were, sitting on the grated metal stairs with your head folded between your legs.

  I gasped.

  You looked up, barely registering me, then put your head back in between your legs and stared down at the step beneath you. Sweat poured from my armpits, down my back, between my legs, and I felt as if my head might explode from the pounding. I didn’t know what to say, wasn’t prepared, and could not for the life of me move. You picked through your hair with your fingertips, as if you were braiding, and when you got down to one single strand you yanked it from your head with a snap. There were stray hairs around you. I stood, fascinated you could do this in front of me as easily as you could take off your bra on stage. At least it was me who found you and not someone who wouldn’t understand. My pulse slowed and I stopped sweating, but my neck and lungs felt heavier than normal. It’s stupid but I wanted to weep. I’m not sure how long we stayed, you weaving and picking, and me watching, before the man in the blue vest who’d led me to the stage door the other night came through the stairwell and saw you sitting there. “Ms. Harrison, Sampson’s been looking all over for you,” he said, bending down in front of you. “He’s got your notes from last night.” You didn’t respond, not even to ask what notes, which is what I wanted to know, but when he offered you a hand, you shoved it away and slowly leaned up against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he said, then pivoted closer to me. “And what are you doing in here?” He sniffed the air. “Ugh! You were smoking. How many times do we have to talk abou
t this? Smoking in the back office only. Now go on in and get your vest from Tabitha, and we’ll forget it this time.”

  I was too flummoxed to ask what vest and couldn’t take my eyes off you. You held one palm against the wall and swayed toward what must have been your dressing room. I was about to turn around and run from the building before this guy realized I wasn’t who he thought I was, when I saw the suede flask on the stairs where you’d been sitting. I kneeled down and picked it up. It reeked of alcohol. “Give me that!” The man yanked it from my hand. “Now, go on, go. I know we don’t pay you, but that doesn’t mean you can break any rule you want. Tabitha’s already opened the house.”

  “Okay,” I said, and followed him out. But before we left the stairwell, I swept my hands over the step where you’d been sitting and grabbed a few strands of your hair.

  In the lobby, a couple of people stood by the bar, waiting for someone to appear behind it. Others clustered in small groups. We tracked down Tabitha, a bleach-blond woman with a waxy yellow face who must have been about Nancy’s age, and when the man in the vest went to introduce me, he apologized for forgetting my name.

  “It’s Edie,” I said.

  “Of course, Edie,” he said. “We had you here a couple of weeks ago.”

  I nodded.

  “Must’uv missed you.” Tabitha grabbed my hand and shook it hard. “A blessing you’re here today, though. Two other girls canceled. I’ll have to take the balcony myself. Follow me.”

  A bunch of keys hung from her belt loop, jingling as she waddled toward a musty room with a cluttered desk and stacks and stacks of Playbills on the floor. There were a few shelves on the wall, separated into little boxes. Some were empty, some had blue vests, T-shirts, and other clothes. “Do you remember what size we gave you?” Tabitha asked.

  “Large,” I said. It had to be big enough to fit over the blue Oxford I was wearing. She reached up and grabbed a vest. “Do you need a T-shirt?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She looked me over. “Oh yes you do. Only white under blue, sweetheart.”

  “Oh,” I looked down at my clothes, “I remember.”

  She handed me the vest and T-shirt, which was wrapped in plastic, and pointed to a stack of Playbills. “Grab a batch after you change, put your clothes in a cubby, and don’t forget to shut the door behind you. Lotta sticky fingers around here, if you catch my drift.” She whispered the last line with her head down, as if she were confiding in me.

  I nodded and started unbuttoning my shirt, thinking how funny it was to be removing my clothes in this theatre the same way you did every night. Tabitha left. I finished undressing and ripped the T-shirt out of its wrapping. It smelled like new cotton and was stiff against my skin. When I lifted the blue vest, I noticed a cigarette burn near the left shoulder. That, I would report immediately. I wasn’t about to get falsely accused of smoking twice on my first day of work.

  THE GUARDS HAVE BEEN SLACKENING WITH ME, allowing me a few hours a day to go to the library, use the rowing machine in the gym, watch TV in the fishbowl, usually during meals when nobody else is around. They’ve also let me outside a few times since the weather started warming up. Keeping a watchful eye on me, of course. They don’t want me picking fights I’ll lose and end up in the hospital or worse. Their job is to keep me alive for my trial, which seems further off than ever since that last bail hearing.

  “Not to worry,” Brickman said, a week later. “The longer we go, the less impact they’ll have. Time is on our side.”

  “I don’t care, I can’t take it anymore. I’m going crazy.”

  “You have to trust me. We have a damn good shot of getting you off free and clear. How’d you like that? You can walk outta this place and never look back … and even if you are convicted, I’d be surprised if they can get anything more than manslaughter.”

  “That’s not what Miss A.D.A. says.”

  “Let her talk. What does it matter? She’s just stalling. They’ve got no case and she knows it. So just sit tight. Every hour inside is time served. And believe me, you’re better off here than Upstate. At least they’re watching you.”

  “I want to go Upstate. I think it’s time.”

  “You don’t know what you want.”

  “I have an appointment with destiny.”

  “Send my regards.”

  “I’m serious. You don’t know what it’s like in here, and besides, I’m a fucking murderer. Does that mean anything to you? I did it. I killed her. I killed Brooke Harrison!”

  “Shut up! You’re delusional, you didn’t kill anybody!” he shouted, and my shoulders caved inward. “I’m sorry, but how many times do we have to go through this. I can’t help you if you don’t do what I tell you.”

  “I want to be a normal prisoner.”

  “You want to be back out there with those psychopaths?”

  “I’m one of them.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re different.”

  “I want to be normal. Please let me be normal or …”

  “Or what?”

  I looked down. He approached the table where I was sitting and shoved his oily nose up next to mine, like he was one of Blair’s cats. An effective tactic. You’d say anything when you’re staring up into a guy’s hairy nostrils. “Or what, Lillian?” he said, drawing out every syllable so it was the ugliest name.

  “I don’t know.” I turned my head away from him. He pushed himself backwards and rolled up his sleeves. Another one of his talks was coming. Would he appeal to my guilt about my father? How he’s lost everything on the trial, including his wife, and all he ever tried to do was make me happy. Didn’t I have anything I ever wanted? Wasn’t I lucky? Or maybe he’d talk more about the D.A.’s case. How plain-Jane Picasso still couldn’t find one person who’d seen me at the theatre the day you were shot, and even worse, she couldn’t dig up the missing weapon. The only person who’d claimed to see a gun was a drug-addicted high school dropout with a criminal record; Edie’d said she had no knowledge of it at all.

  But Brickman didn’t give a speech that day. He just sighed and said, “Remember, there’s no law in the state of New York against being a soap fan.”

  “But that’s not the whole truth. And I wasn’t even a soap fan, don’t say that. I hate soap fans.”

  “All right, all right, I’ll make you a deal: I won’t call you a soap fan if you forget about the truth. There is no such thing as truth in a courtroom. It all boils down to how we show it versus how they do, and they’ve got the burden of proof, you must have learned this by now … All we’ve gotta do is put the slightest bit of doubt in one person’s head. Persuasion, Lily, that’s what it’s all about. Giving people a scenario they want to believe and, believe me, they want to believe you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a girl.”

  “Huh?”

  “Let me put it to you this way: Girls are sugar and spice and everything nice. Understand? It may sound stupid and old-fashioned, but people cling to this stuff. It’s all they’ve got. The minute they start thinking a girl could be snakes and snails and …”

  “Puppy dog tails.”

  “Is that really it?”

  “Think so.”

  “All right, so you’ve got boys running around with puppy dog tails in their pockets and where do you think they got them? They cut them off the puppy. And that’s the bottom line here: Boys do things like that, girls don’t.”

  “But that’s ‘not the—”

  He held out his hand. “Eh-eh-eh … remember our deal.”

  “It’s just a dumb saying. Nobody believes it the way you’re talking.”

  “Oh, yes they do … it’s cultural mythology. You look confused. What the hell are they teaching you these days? Anyway, if you don’t believe me, ask your father. I bet he can tell you all of it.” He took an accordion file from his briefcase and set it down on the table. “Or better yet, read the depositions. That might settle your mind a bit.”
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  The depositions do nothing to settle my mind. I’ve been reading them in the library, the only place I can bear it, surrounded by books and wooden tables with names and numbers and curses carved into the top. The room is familiar yet detached. Like the set of a play. I read the words of people I know and try to pretend they’re actors on stage. Today I’m watching Edie. She seems frightened and a bit sorry for me despite the one letter I received from her early on saying she’d hired a lawyer and that I had no right to impersonate her at the theatre. I thought she’d get a kick out of that. I wrote her back and am still waiting for a response.

  Now she tells her story to the D.A.’s people, and I’m surprised how sympathetic she sounds. She said I was a putz and a freak and really awkward around other people, but I made her laugh. And no, she never thought my relationship with you was too weird.

  E.S.: You have to remember, everyone was watching World back then. Lil taped it every day. We’d get high and laugh our asses off. It was fun watching Jaymie Jo and Max fall in and out of love. They were totally romantic. But then when all of that religious stuff started and Jaymie Jo became celibate … please! I don’t know what those writers are thinking sometimes.Anyway, that’s when I stopped watching. In my opinion the show went totally downhill after that. Lil said it was because Brooke was more interested in getting a movie career going.

  A.D.A.: How did she know?

  E.S.: She read it somewhere. She was always reading and cutting out articles.

  A.D.A.: And you didn’t think that was odd?

  E.S.: A little bit, but like I said, everyone was into World back then. All the girls talked about it in gym class. Lil did go a bit overboard with the posters and making her own videotapes, but I went with her to a fan thing once and you should have seen some of the whacked-out shit … I’m sorry, can I say that?

  A.D.A.: You can say whatever you want.

  E.S.: Okay, you should have seen it. One girl brought this photograph of her room and every part of the wall was covered with a picture of Brooke Harrison. Lil never did anything that bad. We were totally cracking up. See, Lil thought they were as ridiculous as I did.