With or Without You Read online

  “C’mere.” I ask him to take the octagon off the wall, which he does without question. We go downstairs and into the empty garage. I tell him to take a seat on a stool while I attach the window to THE CLAW. Every time I tighten a vise clamp to secure the octagon, my tender arm threatens mutiny.

  Davis laughs nervously. “What are you doing?”

  I hide the pain as I fasten the last clamp. “I’m finishing your graduation present.”

  His mouth drops and forms a smile for just a moment. He winces—smiling hurts—and lets his face harden again. His unswollen eye meets my gaze, saying what a smile can’t. Not thanks, exactly.

  I turn THE CLAW so it’s facing Davis and I push it toward him, zooming in until his ravaged, discolored eye fills the last empty box in the lower right corner. I squirt paint from my wrinkled tubes onto a palette and quickly begin to mix colors.

  Davis stiffens. He wants to be perfectly still while I paint. He wants me to get it right. He knows that I paint honesty. I can do sunsets and perfect pecs when the moment merits. But I can also do life when it breaks and you can’t ignore it. Davis respects that about me.

  I stare through the glass at my best friend’s grotesque eye, preparing to make Pete’s handiwork my own. I choose to mimic Seurat with this picture. Painting hundreds of tiny dots should give Davis time to stress down. “I’m calling this: Last Time.”

  “Fuck, yeah,” he whispers with that darkness I’ve grown to fear. The Davis I know has taken his leave again. “Last time.”

  His eyes, using our unspoken shorthand, tell me he’s got something planned. I don’t ask. I can only wait. It’s what I do. He gets reckless and I fix things. That’s the way it’s always been.

  “Hold still.”

  I paint hurt.

  TITLE: Perfection

  IMAGE:

  The perfectly toned pec of a

  UW volleyball player

  INSPIRATION:

  A single panel of Warhol’s

  Marilyn Monroe prints

  PALETTE:

  Flesh tone = lavender

  Musculature highlights = pink

  Nipple = off-white

  Background = cobalt

  The strokes are thick and precise. The colors are harsh, surreal, like holding a Technicolor film negative to the light. There is no doubt a lifetime of push-ups crafted the subject. From a distance, the contours resemble a child’s failed attempt at drawing a circle.

  A year ago, Davis and I took THE CLAW to James Madison Park. I tried to paint Lake Mendota while he sorted through college brochures. A gaggle of shirtless UW guys were playing volleyball nearby. Davis was so busy drooling over the guys that it took no time at all to talk him into the most convenient choice for school: the University of Chicago. I started mixing blues on my palette, our futures decided.

  When the game finished, one of the volleyball players—not too muscley, but not exactly rail thin like I was—made to leave the park, then turned and walked straight at us. Davis and I shared a glance: When guys with arms that big come our way, pain typically follows.

  Not this guy. He smiled, looked THE CLAW up and down, then asked what it was all about. I explained how I paint on windows. Volleyball Guy smiled again, said he loved the idea, and asked if I ever painted people. I told him the truth: I’d never painted a person. Only still life. Expecting him to leave, I turned back to have another go at painting the lake.

  Volleyball didn’t leave. “Maybe you just need a model?”

  He kept staring right into my eyes, pouty lips in a half smile. His head, while in no way unattractive, had a slightly atypical shape, like a square egg. It was kinda sexy.

  My body tensed, still not convinced this wasn’t a joke where the punch line involved actual punching.

  That’s when I caught Davis’s glare: Are you crazy? He’s gorgeous. Do it.

  Volleyball stood there as I lined up the window, wiped the glass clean, and painted his pec. Davis tried to make small talk but Volleyball gave only one-word answers: His eyes never left me. When I was done, Volleyball came to my side of the window to inspect my work. He laughed, clapped me on the shoulder, and said, “So you’re a chest man?”

  Volleyball tossed his shirt over his shoulder and dug in his pocket. He scribbled his phone number on the back of an old receipt and told me that he knew someone at an art gallery who might be interested in my work, because my medium was so unique. I thanked him and tucked the receipt in my pocket as he walked away.

  All the way home, Davis talked about how cool it would be if Volleyball could hook me up with an art gallery. But we laughed it off. We didn’t get beat up this time, but guys like that never helped guys like us.

  Later that night, I examined the receipt and found Volleyball’s name—Erik—and phone number, followed by a single word:

  Dinner?

  secret

  When I stumble bleary-eyed into the kitchen for breakfast, Mom stops darting around the kitchen and gags into her coffee cup when she sees me. At first, I think she notices: the scrapes on the side of my head, the light purple bruises shaped like knuckles that dot my chin. My war wounds are subtle and could be the result of anything. One of those mysterious doors that I always claim to walk into. Maybe if I hadn’t fed her a steady diet of stories growing up, explanations for where various black eyes and sore wrists came from, she’d take more interest. My fault, I guess. Still, given that she bought every story, she must believe painting is a full-contact sport.

  Her eyes fix on the graduation gown I’m wearing, a little test-drive before the main event. I pour a bowl of Cheerios as she eyes me up and down, a slightly guilty frown crossing her lips. “Graduation’s tonight. Isn’t it?”

  “Got it in one,” I say, drowning my cereal in milk.

  “Don’t be smart,” Mom warns. She’s running late, snatching at stacks of inventory lists and spreadsheets before pulling her long green work smock from a hook on the wall. “Gina called in sick and I’m opening alone. I’m not in the mood.”

  We live above the small corner grocery store that she and Dad own. The store’s cute, old-fashioned. We let customers run up a tab and we deliver groceries to people’s homes, to give you an idea. You have to watch TV Land to even know what a grocery tab is anymore.

  Mom’s stress is easy to understand. Last week, Dad fell down the stairs. Broke his leg and shattered his hip bone. He’s in pretty rough shape and getting him around is not easy. The burden of keeping things running is all on her, and pressure is not her friend. It doesn’t help that every day since his accident, Dad’s been calling down every half hour to make sure she’s handling things. Right now, I can tell she’s not handling the thought of more questions about handling things.

  I grimace, sucking air in through my clenched teeth. My arm, which was sore yesterday, is practically unusable this morning. Time to dig out my sling.

  “Shan mixed up her flight,” Mom mutters, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me. “She won’t be at graduation tonight.”

  I drop my spoon into the bowl. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Shannon, my older sister, lives with her husband, Brett, in New York City. She’s taking the summer off from grad school to come home and help around the store while Dad’s laid up. She was supposed to be flying in this afternoon so she could make it to graduation.

  “Joan!” Dad calls from the bedroom. I can hear him down the hall, grunting and gasping as he fusses to get dressed. “Joan, it’s Thursday. It’s Dairy Day. You need to call Land O’Lakes to—”

  “—get the milk order in, I know!” Mom hollers back. “Have you taken your pills?”

  My mother becomes an asylum escapee: wild green eyes, clenched fists, gritted teeth. No one can push Mom’s buttons like Dad.

  “Listen,” I offer diplomatically, “since getting Dad around is such a pain, I’ll understand if you need to skip the ceremony tonight.” I measure my tone. It says I’m only thinking of you and not Please, for the lov
e of God, don’t come to graduation.

  Neither message is received. She peers at her reflection in the microwave, fixes her hair, and heads to the door.

  “Don’t forget. Your summer hours start tomorrow. No running off with him until work is done.” Anyone unfamiliar with a Wisconsin dialect wouldn’t know that him is how Mom pronounces “Davis.”

  That’s it. No “Happy graduation.” No “Congratulations.” An outsider would assume my parents and I don’t like each other. “Like” doesn’t figure into it. It’s more a matter of failed comprehension on both sides. They think, How did we raise a daughter who’s outgoing and a son who’s an introvert? I think, Who wants to run a grocery store? Trying to be helpful, I offer, “Ceremony starts at seven. Just, you know, so you have time to get Dad down the stairs—”

  Mom clenches her teeth, growls, and slams the door on her way out.

  “Joan!” Dad calls. “It’s Dairy Day!”

  I meet Davis near the Coke machine in the commons at school. It’s half an hour until graduation and we’re two bruises in a sea of goldenrod robes. I’ve got my sore arm in an old sling, hidden under my robe. Davis is antsy, his eyes darting everywhere, his fingers flexing open and shut. I know he’s looking for Pete and the trogs. If they plan to continue what they started in the field, it’ll be tonight.

  “Isn’t Shan coming?” Davis asks. I follow his eyes to where everyone’s families are filing into the gymnasium for the ceremony. I spot my folks. Where other parents dressed up a little, Mom’s still wearing her clothes from work. Dad’s in a wheelchair, his leg thrust out in front of him like a lance. He’s wearing his red flannel shirt, the one he wears when he works the meat counter at the store. Classy.

  “No,” I grumble. The one person in the family I wanted at graduation and she screws up her flight home. But I can’t complain. Davis’s dad is, of course, absent. And his mom …

  Davis isn’t listening anymore. He’s spotted Pete and the trogs across the way. They’re not even looking at us. Just laughing to one another. Instead of honors cords, Pete’s wearing those stupid dog tags over the top of his gown.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Davis’s arm retract into his gown. His fingers emerge a moment later, a flash of silver catching the light.

  “What are you—” I gasp, snatching his wrist with my good hand and pulling his arm toward me. I nearly nick myself on the kitchen knife he’s palmed.

  “Pete’s two spots behind me in the processional,” Davis says through gnashed teeth, his eyes never leaving Pete. “He’s gonna try something tonight. I know it. If he touches me, if he even comes near me …”

  Even with his fist clenched, it’s easy to pry the knife from his small hand. I toss it in a nearby garbage can.

  “Are you crazy?” I say before he can protest. “Tonight, Pete’s just a turbo-douche. Nothing illegal about that. A knife”—I point to the garbage—“can land you in jail. Pete can’t touch you. There’re witnesses everywhere. Just relax.”

  His jaw stiffens but he won’t stop glaring at Pete. “I’d like to shove those dog tags—”

  The destination of the dog tags will forever remain a mystery because Vice Principal Hagen enters with a bullhorn and begins directing students to line up for the processional. Dutifully, we arrange ourselves alphabetically, which separates me from Davis. But from the back of the line, I keep an eye on him and hope that knife was the only thing he hid under his gown.

  The orchestra plays and we enter the gymnasium. The center of the gym is filled with folding chairs for the graduates. Friends and family flank the chairs on either side, sitting on bleachers. Flashbulbs ignite the air. Looking around, I see people weeping through smiles. Before I take my seat, I catch sight of my folks in the front row. Mom’s checking her watch. Dad shifts uncomfortably in his wheelchair.

  The choir sings. Principal Andrews speaks. Our vale-dictorian drones on about the future and the friendships we’ve made during our “school careers.” How great it was to share these years together. It’s all I can do not to laugh. Ask Davis’s swollen face about sharing these years.

  There are tears. There is boredom. I want it to be over with. What feels like a year later, we’re all asked to stand.

  Do not applaud for the individual graduates; hold all applause until the last graduate has received their diploma.

  The crowd is not deterred. They holler and whoop for their favorites. Someone from the orchestra shouts, “Hey, Boom Boom!” as Heather Carter, class slut, shakes the principal’s hand. If she’s embarrassed by the nickname, she doesn’t show it. I stand on my toes and look toward the head of the line. Davis must be near the front by now. I’ve got his back, scanning the line to see if Pete’s preparing.

  “Davis Grayson.”

  Davis takes the stage with a confident strut. If I didn’t know him, I might be fooled. As he shakes the principal’s hand, someone in the bleachers yells, “Faggot!” There is laughter. Davis turns in the direction of the shout, glares, and flips the bird. Gasps, boos. Davis is ushered offstage by a teacher. I catch a glimpse of Pete, who’s laughing. Big surprise.

  Our assembly line trudges forward. As I get to the stage, I look over at my parents. Holy shit, Mom brought a camera. Ten bucks says Shan had to remind her. Now I have to worry about smiling. I almost miss hearing my name.

  “Evan Weiss.”

  Posture perfect, stride sure. Shake hands, pause for picture. Then, from somewhere out in the crowd, comes a piercing whistle. Not derisive, but celebratory. It’s certainly not my parents; they’re grimacing at the noise. It’s not Davis; he can’t whistle. The warbling, lauding whistle continues until I finish crossing the stage and step down.

  Weird.

  More words. More choir. Canary cardboard hats sail into the air and then there is screaming. Lots and lots of screaming. The orchestra starts up and everyone begins filing out. I navigate my way through the mob and meet up with Davis near the front of the stage. Angry, knife-wielding Davis is gone. He smiles and my closest friend is back. We hug and cry and, with everyone else doing the same, for the first time ever, we go unnoticed.

  “Next stop: Chicago!” Davis whoops.

  I scan the crowd, hoping the mystery whistler will appear. No suspects emerge.

  Davis glances at his watch. “Shit. I gotta get the car home.”

  I nod. “Yeah, my ’rents are probably waiting in the parking lot. Mom will need my help maneuvering Dad into the car.”

  He nods. “See you tomorrow, right? Chasers. RYC.”

  We separate, negotiating the current of sobbing families.

  I make my way to the exit on the side of the gymnasium. A hand waving near the back of the bleachers catches my eye. I squint. Someone definitely wants me. I head over and once I’m close, the hand grabs my shoulder and pulls me into the shadowy niche below the bleachers. I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut.

  Hit the ground.

  Curl into a ball.

  I brace for the whiff of wrestler sweat coupled with the first blow. But there is no sweat, only chai-scented breath. Instead of a fist in my stomach, soft, full lips press hard against my own. I don’t need to open my eyes to know what’s happening. I go back to the volleyball game at Madison Park, almost a year ago. The one that lead to my first date. My first yoga lesson. My …

  When the lips pull away slowly and I finally open my eyes, Erik grins at me in the crosshatch of light filtering down through the bleachers. Breathing becomes something I forget how to do. My insides lurch, powered by shock and ecstasy.

  His brow scrunches and I worry that he’s mistaken my surprise for disappointment or fear. He asks, “What happened?”

  I wipe my eyes. “This? No biggie. Tears of joy, y’know?”

  Erik takes hold of my chin and tilts my head left to right, like a mother inspecting for dirt. He examines the bruises and cuts that Mom missed this morning. Thankfully, he can’t see my arm.

  “Did somebody hit you?”

  I have seen
Erik angry exactly twice since we started dating a year ago. Last fall, when he lost out on a scholarship that he should have gotten, and on Christmas, when his car was broken into and the gifts he’d gotten his family were all stolen. He’s never once been angry with me. He is not angry with me now. But he is not happy.

  And I see my life for what it is: a pentimento. That’s what they call it when an artist changes his mind while working on a painting—choosing another perspective, varying the color palette—so they paint over what they’ve already done, obscuring the original work. But over time, the paint can grow thin. Aborted lines and faded images begin to show through. And something that was never meant to be seen becomes all too evident.

  My life—the one before I met Erik—cowers in the background, ghostly images of a family that doesn’t get me, classmates who ridicule me, and a lone friend. My life since Erik bursts in the foreground with bright images from a year of walks at sundown, holding hands at the zoo, learning yoga, and being held tightly for the first time while completely naked.

  For eleven months, I’ve managed to keep the layers of my life separate. No one knows I have a boyfriend. Not my parents, not my best friend, not my sister. Here, with Erik in close proximity to the life I’ve hidden from him, the two works smear together in a pastiche of clashing hues. I knew this would happen at some point. Obscuring the background takes more skill than I’ve got.

  I offer a small laugh. “If someone had hit me, wouldn’t I send my manly-man boyfriend out to knock him around a little?”

  Royal blood surges through my veins: I am the King of Evasions. I can change a subject with the deftness of a judo master. And no one notices when I do this. Not my parents. Not Davis.

  But in Erik, I’ve met my match. He is the first person ever to call me on my avoidance tactics. He has two looks: The first says, I’m not buying it. Tell me what’s wrong. The second says, I’m not buying it but I’m going to respect your privacy and hope you’ll explain things to me later. I’m glad when he chooses the latter. I’m more glad that he has two looks he’s devised for these situations, two looks just for me.