With or Without You Page 8

  But Shan’s no longer the ten-year-old who tattles. And I’m not a hopeless, boyfriendless lost cause anymore. I’m Erik Goodhue’s boyfriend and I say, “Yeah, we are. He’s the best.”

  I yank hard to release the near-vacuum seal on the freezer door; its frosty breath slithers out and pools at my feet.

  “’Cause you’ve been together a year, right?”

  I try to smile in a way that says, You know you’re making me very uncomfortable, right? If she gets the message, she doesn’t care. “Almost a year. Why all the questions?”

  Shan moves from the counter, takes a carton of Oreos, and begins stocking the shelf near the freezer door, bisecting her attention between me and the cookies. “I just, you know, thought about it last night. After I went to bed, it hit me: My brother is dating a guy. My brother is dating a college guy. My brother is … I must have said it a hundred different ways and no one way made me feel any better.”

  I close the freezer door. This might take a while.

  “I, uh … I thought you were cool with the whole gay thing.”

  The thought of losing Shan as the one person in my family who accepts me is devastating. Right up until the day she moved out, and even after she went to New York City, she was always telling me to get out, to meet and date people. I really believe she wanted that for me. I’m not sure what to believe now.

  Reading my thoughts, she sets down the Oreos, and joins me at the freezer door. “I am. I’m totally cool with the whole gay thing. I guess … I just feel protective. I’d feel that way if you were dating a girl. Or anyone I hadn’t met …”

  I exhale deeply; cancel Condition Red. Now, at least, I know what she’s fishing for. “You got any plans Tuesday night?”

  She looks up, consulting her mental calendar. “Jenny and I were going for a girls’ night out. Hit the old haunts. Why?”

  “That’s too bad. Erik really wants to meet you and he’s invited us over for dinner on Tuesday. He was gonna cook, too. He makes the best chicken cashew—”

  Shan claps and bounces up and down in excitement. “Screw Jenny! I got me a date with two hot gay boys! Waitaminute. Didn’t you say his head is shaped like a square egg? Um … he is hot, isn’t he?”

  I grin. “Thermonuclear.”

  We make a quick plan for Tuesday. I’m borrowing the store’s delivery truck so I can help Davis move, but Dad wants the truck back by three so I’ll be home well before the end of her shift. Soon, she’s darting around the store with renewed vigor. Satisfied we’re okay again, I slip into the freezer.

  It takes me half an hour to do inventory. It’s been pretty slow, even for a Sunday. I’m dusting the shelves behind the register when the bell over the door tinkles.

  Shan leans close and whispers, “Delivery for you, Spud. COD.”

  I turn to see Davis holding the door open for a frail woman in a pale yellow dress, like something from a Fifties fashion magazine. Her steps are measured, as though she thinks she might crack open the earth. Davis takes her arm and leads her through the door. She scans the room blankly, the familiarity of it not registering.

  Shan walks over and smiles warmly. “Mrs. Grayson! You’re looking well.”

  On the second Sunday of every month, Mrs. Grayson gets a special pass to come home for the day. And every second Sunday for the past four years, Davis has picked her up from the hospital, taken her home, and spent the day with her. The doctors say she can’t be left alone, although she’s pumped so full of many meds, I doubt suicide even crosses her mind anymore. Of course, Davis’s dad always finds an excuse to work, leaving her in Davis’s custody. Davis has never complained, not once.

  While my family hasn’t exactly embraced my friendship with Davis, it’s never affected how they treat Mrs. Grayson. She’s the one person we can all rally around and treat kindly. Every visit, we have to remind her who we are. Mrs. Grayson’s vacant, dreamlike eyes search Shan’s face for recognition but come up empty. Shan pats her shoulder reassuringly.

  “I’m Shannon. My parents own this store. Can I help you with your shopping?”

  Mrs. Grayson’s face softens. “Thank you. That would be very nice. You know, my Davis just graduated. I want to make him a cake.”

  Shan nods at Davis, who transfers his mother’s arm to Shan, and the two begin their search for cake ingredients. Davis joins me at the checkout counter.

  “Aw, man,” I whisper, “I forgot your mom was home today. What does she think about your old man kicking you out on Tuesday?”

  Davis shakes his head. “I told her it was my idea to leave. That I needed my own space. She got upset, but I think she’s coming around.”

  Even when we first met, Davis was the one who cared for his mother. He can be a total spaz in social situations, but watching him as a caregiver tells me that, given the right circumstances, he can be the somebody he wants to be.

  Davis traces the wavy grain in the countertop with his finger. “So …”

  Davis has never mastered the nonchalant segue.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are we still cool for the move and everything?”

  “Yeah, we’re set. I can have the truck at nine but I gotta have it back by three. Is that enough time?”

  Davis nods. “Yeah, I’m almost done packing. Can I snag a few empty boxes from the storeroom? Need ’em to pack some books and stuff. The whole move shouldn’t take very long. The octagon …”

  He stops and bites his lip.

  I poke him in the shoulder. “The octagon, what?”

  He won’t look at me. “I just … You know, I’ve been so busy getting ready to move and making sure I would have money … I didn’t get you a graduation present.”

  Davis has never missed a gift-giving occasion in the nine years we’ve been friends. Gifts were never a priority in the Grayson house. I think that when we exchange gifts, it’s Davis’s way of making up for that. I’ve still got the Spiderman comic book he gave me for Christmas a few months after we met. It must be killing him that he can’t give me a graduation gift.

  I blow it off. “It’s just delayed, that’s all. Wait until you’re settled.”

  He meets my eyes again and I see that familiar gratitude. “Hey, how about I take you out for our first meal in the big city, once we move to Chicago.”

  We. Chicago.

  San Diego.

  As stupid as it sounds, this is the first time it really sets in that I’m expected to be in two different places at once this fall. In different parts of the country. With different people.

  My brain tries to reconcile this. For a moment, San Diego takes over and I’m on a beach with Erik’s easel, painting the waves as they desecrate a sand castle. Erik is nearby with his new friends from his new school, playing volleyball. I initially decline to join in, insisting that I have to paint. But Erik begs and I can’t say no, so I take point and serve.

  But something’s not right. The sky, the clouds, the shoreline … The colors are distorted. Close to the world I know but different, like a bad forgery. On the horizon, there’s a man-shaped, colorless void.

  Davis.

  I’ve never imagined a scenario that didn’t involve Davis. I watch everything I know, think, and feel detach from who I am. I should feel incomplete, having so much removed. But I don’t. Because the colorless void is overshadowed by an embodiment of all color.

  Erik.

  What happens to Davis if I go to California? What happens to me if I don’t?

  “You okay?”

  I blink. Davis stands before me in baggy orange shorts and a faded Superman T-shirt.

  “Yeah, just … thinking.”

  “Hey,” Davis says, casting a glance over his shoulder at his mother, “we should ask Sable about the next Chasers meeting when we see him. I thought we’d have heard something by now.”

  “When we see him?”

  “Yeah. He’s helping me move, remember?”

  Right. Guess I hadn’t really expected that to happen.

&n
bsp; But his mention of Chasers makes me realize that all is not lost. I can’t imagine moving to California and leaving Davis alone. He needs someone for when the Boing overwhelms him. But what if Chasers works out? What if he makes new friends? I’m not sure I trust Sable, but the other guys don’t seem so bad. It may be worth checking out just to see where the whole thing goes. For Davis’s sake.

  Shan and Mrs. Grayson, their small basket filled to the brim, head to the counter. I snag Davis some extra boxes for his packing as Shan rings up Mrs. Grayson’s groceries. Before they leave, I whisper to Davis, who nods and grins wickedly, then I say louder, “Okay. Catch you later.”

  Davis gives me the thumbs-up. “You got it.” He grabs the groceries, winks at Shan (who kindly waits until his back is turned to grimace), and just before he and his mother hit the door, he turns back into the store and calls out, “Daffodil! Daffodil!”

  Mrs. Grayson laughs, unsure what’s happening, but she also cries out, “Daffodil!”

  I make three hash marks on our scorecard behind the register. Shan tugs roughly at my apron strings and growls, “Because, you know, I would have killed you if you told me you were dating him.”

  resurrection

  Poets would have us believe children strike out on their own so they can “spread their wings and soar.” These poets never worked for their parents’ grocery stores. Otherwise, they’d know the urge to leave home is less about flying and more about dodging the need for a patricide/matricide trial.

  My job’s just a job, but Erik loves what he does. He throws himself into his studies because it makes him a better nurse. He brings his patients something that no anatomy textbook can teach: actual feelings. This is not to say that all nurses are cold; they just seem like it in comparison to my boyfriend, who takes a lot of time to get to know his patients.

  Case in point: Today, we’re checking in on Mr. Benton at his home. No one told Erik to do this. It’s all on his time. His coworkers have told him he’ll burn out if he takes a personal interest in each of his patients. But he just blows them off. His personal motto? Sometimes, the toughest thing to do in the world is give a shit.

  After my shift ends, I meet Erik at his place. We take off in his Jeep, and a few minutes later, pull up in front of the gray stone duplex on West Johnson. Erik rings the doorbell to the lower unit and Mr. Benton comes to the door. Erik was right: He looks a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw him. His cheeks are fuller, rosy with color. I forget how old he is—late forties, maybe?—but he still looks a lot older. That’s because he’s hunched over a bit and his face is baggy.

  Benton smiles widely as he opens the door, but Erik stands spread-legged, like a gunfighter ready to draw at high noon, all business.

  “You,” Erik charges, leveling a dangerous index finger at Mr. Benton’s chest, “missed your checkup with Dr. Friese.”

  Benton holds up a few sheets of stationery. “Well, excuse me, Mr. Pretty Nurse Man, but I felt inspired and got a little writing done. I thought you’d be proud.” He steps aside to welcome us in. Erik shakes his head.

  Benton’s place might be huge, but it’s hard to tell. There are books everywhere. Everywhere. Each wall is lined with bookcases, some thick and sturdy, others made from flimsy particle board. Most of the shelves on the bookcases are bowed, one paperback away from snapping under the weight. Teetering stalagmites of books sprout up in clusters from the thinning carpet, forming a narrow path to the sofa.

  “Shirt off,” Erik says, plugging his stethoscope into his ears.

  Benton bats his eyes. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

  “Careful,” I warn, covering my ears, “children are present.”

  Erik starts his examination, listening to Benton’s concave chest and asking him to breathe in and out. Having accompanied Erik on similar trips, I prep the blood pressure cuff in the medical bag, knowing he’ll need it next. From inside the bag, I take out a small picture frame and hand it to Benton. On the glass, I’ve painted the Madison state capitol building at night, in the Cubist style of Picasso. Benton grins.

  “You’ve really got a talent, Evan,” he says, holding the picture at arm’s length.

  “It’s to celebrate,” I tell him. “Erik says your T-cell count is high.”

  “Go T cells!” Benton yells, making a fist with his free hand.

  I don’t really understand what that means. I know it has something to do with HIV and AIDS and low T cells means bad and high T cells means good. Sometimes, Erik launches into deep discussions about his work and what he wants to do at the research facility in San Diego. I’ve never had the heart to tell him it’s all going over my head. I imagine it’s how Davis feels whenever I start talking about art.

  “So, as I was saying,” Benton says with faux haughtiness, “before Nurse Ratched showed up and broke my concentration, I was doing a bit of writing.”

  “Good for you,” Erik says, tightening the Velcro strap on the blood pressure cuff around Benton’s upper arm. “You gonna try to get it published?”

  Benton cocks his head, his gray eyes dancing. “Actually, I’ve been thinking. If my health keeps up, I might just try resurrecting White Satyr.”

  Erik’s raised eyebrows tell me he’s impressed. “Pretty ambitious. Not to rain on your parade, but I’d be more confident in your ability to stay healthy if you did things like, oh, kept your appointments with Dr. Friese.”

  “Nag, nag, nag,” Benton mutters as Erik continues to poke and prod.

  “What’s ‘White Satyr’?” I ask.

  “My pride and joy.” Benton beams, pointing to a nearby bookcase. Every book on the shelves—easily more than two hundred—bears a bright white spine with thin red lettering. At the bottom of each spine is a horned black triangle and the words “White Satyr Press.”

  “Mr. Benton founded the Midwest’s first gay literary press back in the Seventies,” Erik reports.

  Benton steps away from Erik’s exam and plucks a small, tattered scrapbook from his desk. He hands it to me. I’ve seen this before, at Mr. Benton’s bedside the few times I’ve visited him in the hospital. He always has it with him. The first page has a black-and-white photo of eight smiling men with their arms around one another, sitting on the lawn at Bascom Hill on the UW campus. They’re wearing bell bottoms and big glasses and everyone’s got wild, long hair. I laugh when I spot Mr. Benton on the end, sporting a bushy mustache, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his hairy chest.

  “These were my friends back then. Artists, poets, playwrights, actors. We called ourselves the White Satyr Collective. Things were changing for gays across the country and we wanted to be a part of that. We were all struggling to get our work recognized in venues that weren’t comfortable with gay themes. One day, I said if no one else will publish the work of these brilliant people, I’d do it myself. So the Collective became White Satyr Press. We published poetry chap books, literary novels, plays, and photography books. We made gay history.”

  Gay history. It makes me think of Sable. But not in a creepy way. When Mr. Benton says it, it sounds noble.

  Benton takes the scrapbook back as Erik continues the examination. I take one of the White Satyr books off the shelf, a poetry collection called Red, Crimson, Carmine. The author is Joseph Benton.

  “I didn’t know you were a poet.” I smile, paging through the brittle, yellowing pages.

  “There’s a poet in all of us,” Benton waxes.

  “Not me.” I sigh. “Can’t write to save my life.”

  “Different vocabularies,” Benton argues. “I use words, you use color.”

  Color as vocabulary. I like it. I’ve always tried to give my colors meaning within the context of a specific work. Now, through Mr. Benton, I see them as nouns, adverbs, adjectives. Awesome.

  Benton glances at the cover of the book in my hands. He sighs. “That was the last thing I published before White Satyr folded.”

  “Why’d you shut down?” I ask.

  Benton looks
wistful. “My heart really wasn’t in it after I lost Arthur in ’89. By then, most of the Collective was gone. By the late Eighties, with things as they were, I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be around.”

  I’m not sure what he means but I’m afraid to ask. I’ve only heard Mr. Benton mention Arthur, his former partner, a few times before. I feel bad that I’ve dredged this up.

  Erik zips shut his medical bag and claps me on the back. “I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Benton. You stay on your meds, keep up with the yoga, and stop missing appointments and I know two local artists who’ll let you photograph their work so you can publish it.”

  Benton shakes both of our hands. “You got a deal, boys. Wait and see.”

  “Remember,” Erik tells Benton as we step out of the apartment, “this doesn’t take the place of an exam with Dr. Friese. I only did this ’cause I worry about you. Make a new appointment and get your blood work done by the end of the week or you’re in big, big trouble, mister.”

  Benton crosses his heart and raises his hand, palm out. “Promise.”

  Erik and I speed away in the Jeep. Now that it’s just the two of us, I can ask.

  “What did Mr. Benton mean when he said ‘Things like they were back in the late Eighties’?”

  Erik places his hand on my knee and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “The epidemic was going strong back then and there still weren’t a lot of advances in HIV treatment. Mr. Benton watched his friends die, then Arthur. Mr. Benton found out he was positive the day after Arthur’s funeral. I’m sure the future looked pretty bleak for him back then.”

  Epidemic. Treatment. I’ve been dating a nurse for a year and I’m only just now starting to figure out what he does. And what Mr. Benton went through. Learning some gay history might not be so bad. Even if it is from Sable.

  “We all set for dinner on Tuesday with Shan?”

  Erik’s trying hard to make it sound like a casual question. Why do I feel like it’s a test?

  If it is, I pass. “Yeppers. She can’t wait to meet you.”

  His shoulders relax. He was expecting an excuse. For once, I’m glad to disappoint him. But one test wasn’t enough.