With or Without You Read online

  I should be happy. Wasn’t that the plan? Help Davis fit in and make friends with the Chasers so I don’t feel like a shit for moving to California.

  Then why does it sting to hear he doesn’t need my help? He’s already in.

  Days pass and, quite conveniently, Shan and I continue to miss each other. She’s become a master of avoiding me, even when I’m deliberately trying to track her down. I’m tempted to confront her while she’s working, but I don’t think anything we have to say can be said at a regular decibel level. So I bide my time.

  Late afternoon on Friday. I decide to quit moping. I grab my new easel, a small circular window, and my paints and head over to Bascom Hill on the UW campus. I lock up my bike near the Mosse Humanities Building. It looks like a concrete sugar cube with massive columns around the perimeter and a waterfall of short, wide stairs leading down from the doors. I make my way about halfway up the stairs and stop.

  I unfurl Erik’s easel (which I now realize needs a name equally as cool as THE CLAW) and position my window to face the building. That’s when I hear a click and a pop from behind me. I turn and Sable’s at the bottom of the stairs, smiling up at me. His trench coat hangs loosely on his tall frame. He’s holding an old camera. It’s cumbersome, with a big silver dish on top, from which Sable ejects a flashbulb. As he climbs the stairs, Sable smacks his lips and yanks on a blue tab on the camera’s side. He draws out the picture he just took and hands it to me.

  “Hey, guy,” he says with a sanguine smile. “Weird running into you here.”

  He peels back a thin paper that covers the photo. There I am in black and white in the lower left corner of the picture. Taking up the majority of the shot is the Humanities Building behind me. There’s something about the angle and how the shadows fall that make the building look like a giant mouth: the pillars smooth, rounded fangs; the staircase a colossal, crenellated tongue. It’s about to eat me.

  “Awesome shot,” I say, handing back the photo, but he waves at me: Keep it. I’m not sure if he’s a good guy or a bad guy, but he’s a hell of a photographer. “Kind of an old camera.”

  He holds it proudly, smacking his lips again. His voice cracks; he’s parched. “Who needs this digital shit? Give me film any day. And the older the camera, the better. I like the effect it has on the image.”

  The pic in my hand is slightly distorted and grainy. There’s a dark halo around the outer rim, framing the picture as if seen through a monster’s eye.

  “Well, you’ve really got a talent for this sort of thing.”

  “Thanks. I won some awards,” he says. “I like to use lots of negative volume.” He points out the gaping empty space that dominates the photo. “That means the emptiness is your main target and all the objects around just give it shape.”

  “Yeah, my sister’s a photographer.” I nod. “She says she likes to define what’s there by what isn’t.”

  Sable nods, pulls a liter bottle of water from his pocket, and starts power-chugging. It’s a cool day but I notice for the first time that he’s sweating. And pale. Then Sable says, “So, we’re cool, right?”

  “Huh?”

  He takes out a cigarette and lights up. I don’t know why, but when he reached into his trench coat for the cigarette, I flashed back to my talk with Ross and half expected Sable to pull out a bottle of HIV meds.

  “I was really proud of you the other night at the meeting,” he says, taking a deep drag. “You were the first one to step up to bat and try to get me to stop. You got guts, guy. I admire that. But I just wanna make sure you weren’t all wigged out. You know I was just doing that to make a point, right? Hell, even Chinky Chinaman shook my hand.”

  Great. Creepy and a racist.

  “Little Dude thought you mighta freaked a bit.” Sable pinches the cigarette between his lips as he loads a new film cartridge. I don’t like the idea of Davis talking to Sable about me. I especially don’t like that he’s reporting on my mood.

  I grab my palette and start to mix some color. I think about the e-mail from Davis. “Is that why I haven’t been invited to any meetings?”

  Sable laughs. “We haven’t had any meetings yet, guy. I promise. Yeah, some of us just kinda got together. I’m new in town; guys were showing me around. As long as you say you’re still in, I’ll be sure you know about the next meeting. In fact, expect an e-mail soon.”

  “Hey, there you are.”

  We both turn to see Davis jogging up the stairs toward us. He holds out a small bag. “They didn’t have the flashbulbs you need at Walgreens. I had to get them from a specialty photo shop. They’re damned expensive. Hey, Ev.”

  Hey, Ev? Hasn’t seen me for days and all I rate is “Hey, Ev.”

  Sable tears into the package of flashbulbs. “They’re classics, my friend. Sometimes you pay for the classics.”

  Davis’s voice is all Boing. “Cicada’s teaching me about photography.”

  And he’s calling him Cicada now? I was hoping the nicknames were a joke.

  Davis continues. “Did you know that if you were to mix all your paints, you would get black? But if you mix all the colors of light, you get white?”

  “Yeah, I think I heard that somewhere.” Like fifth-grade science. Or maybe it was the time I tried to teach Davis to paint years ago. It’s hard to hear my own words taken seriously for a change, simply because they were spoken by Sable. Like somehow, when I said them, they didn’t matter.

  As Sable fusses with the flashbulb package, Davis pulls me aside. “Ev, Cicada is so cool. If he’d been around when we were in school, nobody would have messed with us. He doesn’t take shit. He used to pound guys who called him ‘fag.’ I wish we’d been more like that.”

  Yeah. “Cicada” doesn’t take shit. Being six foot four probably didn’t hurt either.

  Davis studies the new easel. “Hey, what happened to THE CLAW?”

  “Traded up,” I say, turning back to the pool of dark gray paint I’ve just mixed.

  Sable jams a new flashbulb into his camera and squishes Davis and me together. He hops back two steps and takes aim. Davis throws his arm across my shoulders and I try to smile as the bulb goes pop!

  Sometimes belonging sucks.

  retreat

  Negative volume consumes my life and I’m defined by what’s no longer there.

  No Erik—he loads up on double shifts at the hospital to pay for the big move in August. Between his schedule and mine, our relationship is reduced to e-mail and quick phone calls.

  No Shan—she trades shifts with Gina so we never work together. She even seems to know when I’m sitting at home waiting for her, and she makes herself scarce.

  No Davis—our work schedules keep conflicting, and on those rare occasions when they don’t, I go to the RYC and Malaika informs me he’s out somewhere with Sable. The “regular” Chasers meetings Sable promised have yet to happen but the “unofficial” ones continue. I start to resent Davis. Has he even once said, Hey, let’s invite Evan? Doubtful.

  With nothing else to do, I throw myself into Haring. I trace the outlines of the paintings in library books with my fingers, trying to get a feel for what it’s like to be him. Try to see how he saw things.

  Distillation. Reducing detailed images to outlines, the barest components needed to render it. Fusing individuality and community, creating a symbiosis so that each requires the other to survive. My dreams at night fill with recurring themes from his work: babies, couples, UFOs, people within people.

  I’m almost ready to paint my Haring.

  Just when I think I’ll really go crazy, Fourth of July weekend sneaks up and I get a call from Erik: Clear your schedule, pack a bag, we’re going out of town. I don’t ask any questions. I just get on the phone and start giving away my shifts at the store until the entire weekend is free. I tell Mom that Davis and I are going for a “presemester retreat” to the University of Chicago. She’s just glad I found someone to cover my shifts. I practically run with my duffel bag all the way to Eri
k’s apartment, where he’s waiting with the top down on his Jeep and soon we’re cruising east down I-94.

  We step over each other, trying to catch up. He tells me about every drunk, pervert, and pregnant woman he’s treated at the hospital. I tell him that Keith Haring is officially the coolest person on the planet who isn’t my boyfriend. He talks about how close he is to finishing the Angels sculpture. I talk about how Shan has been avoiding me. It’s a rapport that’s taken a year to master, but it’s all so natural now as we fall into a cadence, both of us relaying all the vital information, both of us listening intently, both of us just eager for a weekend away.

  “So,” I finally ask when we hit the Lake Mills city limit, “where are we going?”

  He teases. “I’m not sure I want to tell you.”

  “It’s a surprise?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Can I have a hint?”

  “We’re going to Milwaukee to see Nolan and Anna. Grill some burgers. See some fireworks.”

  We’ve spent time with Erik’s friends at their house on Lake Michigan before. But the fact that he’s being so secretive tells me there’s more.

  “And?” I ask.

  “And that’s all I’m saying.”

  I shoot a gaze at the back of the Jeep. A big furry blanket tied down with bungee cords hides mystery cargo. Earlier, when I went to load my duffel bag into the back, Erik jumped to block me, took my bag, and gently tucked it behind the passenger seat. Mystery cargo is apparently not for my eyes. Yet.

  “Does this have anything to do with the buried treasure?” I ask, thumbing toward the rear.

  “By Jove!” He shouts, posher than posh. “The boy’s a genius!”

  I’ve been to Milwaukee with Erik twice before, both times to visit his friends. Today, we’re nowhere we’ve been before. The streets are choked with cars and pedestrians, the buildings loom higher the deeper into the city we go. The smell of hops permeates the air.

  “Okay,” I concede, “we’re in Milwaukee. What’s the secret?”

  “Learn, you will,” his voice burbles in his Yoda impression. “Patience, young Jedi.”

  A turn here, down a street, then down an alley. Five minutes later, we pull up to the curb and stop. The streets are nearly deserted here. The architecture of the dilapidated buildings feels old. But in the middle of all this, a small, very modern building of marble and glass and sinewy brass demands attention. The front has a half-moon steel awning around which, in long, thin letters, are the words FEDOROV ART GALLERY.

  I start to unbuckle. Erik crawls over me and out my door, blocking my exit. He holds a single finger up and presses gently on the tip of my nose, as though he’s training a schnauzer. “Evan. Stay. Stay, Evan. Stay.”

  I chomp playfully at the finger and he darts into the gallery. He returns a minute later with a small cart, nods at the back, and commands, “Help me.”

  He removes the blanket and I freeze. Wrapped in foam and cushioned with bath towels and old coats are six small windows. My windows. These are the gifts I’ve given Erik over the past year. Birthday. Christmas. Valentine’s Day. “Just because” presents. Every one accounted for. Erik gently loads them on the cart.

  “Erik, why are—”

  “We need to work on your definition of ‘help me.’” He winces, loading a heavy oak-framed window on to the cart, completing the job himself. He pushes the cart toward the building, pausing only to call over his shoulder. “This’ll work a lot better if you actually come with me.”

  Zap. I’m at his side, holding the door as he proceeds into the gallery. The reception area is small and very, very beige. The floor is mottled, the walls are two-tone, the desk is boxy and speckled, but it’s all beige. Against the far wall, I see Erik’s robot sculpture—Some Assembly Requited. A young woman, not much older than me, hangs up the phone and grins at Erik.

  “Oxana’s on her way down,” she informs us.

  Here’s where Evan goes berserk.

  I should have recognized the name from the front. Oxana Fedorov is Erik’s friend who owns an art gallery. This art gallery. The one I’m standing in right now. “Friend” isn’t even right; she’s actually his godmother, an old college friend of Erik’s father.

  And she’s a world-renowned art expert. Not Wisconsin renowned. Not United States renowned. I mean, people in places like Barcelona and Zurich pay her a bajillion dollars to fly to them and appraise work and give lectures and teach master classes. USDA Grade-A Prime renown. In short, someone I do not want looking at my work.

  My breathing grows shallow and my extremities go numb. I want to claw at Erik’s arm and beg him to turn around and load the paintings back up into the Jeep. I don’t want my last thought to be, So this is what a stroke feels like.

  But a somber chime announces the opening of the nearby elevator and Oxana Fedorov, Art Goddess, emerges. She’s wearing a sleeveless ebony top with billowing milk-colored slacks that ripple as she moves toward us. Her dowel-like arms are folded in a self hug. Bright red-framed glasses hang from a sterling chain around her wrinkled neck.

  Her pink lemonade lips part in a smile as she kisses Erik once on each cheek. I’ve only ever seen that in movies. Davis and I used to make fun of it, but suddenly it’s very, very cool.

  “Oxana.” Erik beams, his hand sliding around to the small of my back. “This is Evan.”

  Everything about her seems formidable. I can picture her reducing artists to tears with just the slightest arch of her pointed eyebrows. Still, as she regards me, she is warm, and her Russian accent is the shit.

  She offers her hand, which I shake (after discreetly drying off my clammy palm). “Evan, it’s a pleasure.” She turns back to Erik. “Shall we?”

  Erik pushes the cart toward the waiting elevator. I find myself unable to move. Oxana weaves her arm into mine and we follow Erik.

  “Erik tells me you’re a fan of Keith Haring,” she says, pausing to poke the 2 button in the elevator. The doors chime, close in obedience, and we’re off.

  I nod. I realize that I haven’t actually used, you know, words for a long time now. I don’t imagine that changing soon.

  “When we are through”—everything about her voice is like Willy Wonka’s chocolate river—“you must go to the third floor. I have a small exhibition, on loan from his estate. It doesn’t open to the public until Monday, but I know the curator.”

  I laugh, a little too loudly, but I welcome the knowledge that, yes, I can still make sound. The doors open on the second floor. We go down a long hallway, and at the very end is an office door bearing Oxana’s name. Her office is huge and white. The walls are surprisingly stark, with only a few paintings. Six marble pedestals sit in a row down the middle of the room, right in front of her desk, which is near a giant window with a view of downtown. Erik begins setting up my paintings, laying the broadside of each frame on a separate pedestal. The phone on her desk rings and Oxana answers it. I close in on Erik.

  “What. The. Hell?”

  “Ah,” Erik mutters, turning a painting of our favorite bench overlooking Lake Monona so that it faces Oxana’s desk. “Evan go talkies again?”

  “Erik, I’m totally serious. Stop this. Please. I’m begging you. Don’t make me go through this.” In eighteen years, my voice has never sounded this desperate. I’ve never been this desperate.

  “You are a very talented artist. Oxana has an eye for talent. I’ve been promising to introduce you and now I’m following through with that promise. What’s the big deal?”

  I sense Oxana is wrapping up the phone call so I pull him in close and hiss, “Oxana does not have an eye for talent. She has two eyes for art. She has many, many eyes. She is a big eyeball monster when it comes to art. She can spot an amateur at ten paces. I’m not ready for this.”

  He stares at me and says firmly, “Evan, you need to trust me.” There’s something in how he says this. His emphasis, ever so slight, on “need” and “trust.” Embedded meaning: It won’t be long befor
e he asks to meet Davis. And my folks.

  I hear a click as Oxana hangs up the phone. Erik tips his head toward the door. “I’ve got a couple quick errands to run. I’ll leave you two to talk. Be back soon.”

  ARTIST’S HEAD SPONTANEOUSLY

  COMBUSTS, KILLING FOUR

  Madison, Wis.—The Fedorov Art Gallery, located in the warehouse district, burned to the ground yesterday. Investigators have determined the blaze was caused when the head of artist Evan Weiss, 18, exploded at the prospect of having his work inspected by Art Goddess Oxana Fedorov.

  Before I can say a word, Erik’s gone. I’m alone. With the eyeball monster.

  unnecessary

  I glare at the door and, behind me, I can hear the clicking of Oxana’s heels as she makes her way to the first pedestal. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, like yoga. Deep in through the nose, then out. I try to clear my mind but that’s hard when my boyfriend has just abandoned me. He means well … He means well … I repeat the mantra, wanting to trust Erik but needing to run away.

  Oxana walks a full circle around each painting, the cherry-framed glasses now poised at the tip of her nose. I’m not sure what’s expected of me. I feel I should explain each work. Or maybe tell her what they’re called. Or maybe just stand aloof like a tortured artist who doesn’t give a damn what anybody thinks. I settle for giving her space, slouching awkwardly near the giant window and dividing my gaze between Milwaukee and her casual stroll around my paintings.

  Twenty minutes pass. That averages out to three minutes per painting. I wonder how much this woman makes in three minutes. I wonder how much other artists would pay to have her spend three minutes on just one of their works, to say nothing of the twenty she’s granting me.

  With a flick of her finger, the glasses now dangle by their silver chain and she wraps her emaciated arms in another self hug.

  “You’re very good.”

  Ice blue floods my vision. I can breathe again.