With or Without You Read online

  “Aren’t you moving Davis to the RYC on Tuesday?”

  I’d forgotten I mentioned that. “Uh … yeah.”

  “Need an extra pair of hands?”

  “Thanks,” I say, waving my hand like it’s nothing. “But Davis doesn’t own much. It won’t take long.”

  I stay cool. I sound breezy. He nods. Mission accomplished. A Davis and Erik meeting has been averted. For now.

  The King of Evasions changes the subject with finesse. “So you think Mr. Benton might really publish a book with our work in it?”

  Erik’s face is noncommittal, distant. “Resurrecting White Satyr would be good for him. He needs something to focus on, to be happy about. But I wouldn’t hold your breath. He doesn’t take care of himself like he should. I worry about him.”

  I reach over and squeeze his knee. That’s another reason I love Erik: He’s figured out exactly what he’s supposed to be doing and it’s not just a life-sucking nine-to-five. I really don’t know if I can make a career in art. I haven’t thought much about how I can apply what I do to some sort of job that will earn a living. But Erik has and he’ll take on anything, no matter how tough.

  He gives a shit.

  moving

  I’m alone when I ring the bell to Davis’s house at nine sharp. It’s a big three-story house here on Mansion Hill, overlooking Lake Mendota. You’d think the Graysons have money but the truth is that Mr. Grayson just likes to appear successful. Davis told me once that his dad barely breaks even every month and that a lot of his money goes to the huge mortgage and taxes. All in the name of looking wealthy. No wonder Mr. Grayson wants Davis to move out. Now he gets all the frozen dinners to himself.

  Mr. Grayson answers the door. He’s a small, nearly invisible slice of milquetoast.

  “Good morning, Evan,” he says in a listless voice. “Davis is upstairs. Thank you for helping him.”

  I was hoping Mr. Grayson would be at his office. He must be working from home today so he can make sure Davis is out on time. What a guy.

  I nod, step past him, bound up the stairs and down the hall to the second room on the right. I knock on the closed door.

  When there’s no response, I open it slowly. His room looks like Tetris threw up inside. There are boxes—cubes, rhomboids—piled everywhere. Half of his stuff isn’t even packed. A mound of dirty laundry stinks up the middle of the room. Davis is sprawled on his twin bed, facedown, wearing only a pair of tighty-whiteys.

  “Up and at ’em, soldier!” I bark, tossing a shirt at him. He moans and stirs, then shoots me a look of hot, flaming death. “Did Sable call?”

  “Mmpgh,” Davis gargles, crawling to the pile of clothes on the floor. He throws on some pants and resumes packing while I begin lugging boxes downstairs to the truck. Mr. Grayson makes a show of glancing up at us and then over at the grandfather clock each time we pass by his study. We’re very aware of our deadline: Davis must be out by noon.

  At ten thirty, when I see that Sable isn’t going to show, I pick up the pace. Davis makes an excuse for him; Sable’s new to town and is probably having trouble finding the house. Every time I look at the clock, Davis has another excuse. He’ll be here soon, Davis promises, but he starts moving more quickly.

  It’s eleven fifty-eight when we shove the last box in the truck. Davis climbs in the passenger seat. I glance back at the house. “Aren’t you going to say good-bye?” I’m stupid to ask.

  “Just drive.”

  We park on the side street next to the RYC. Malaika is there to greet us. She hugs Davis and we go into her office to do paperwork. The rules of the house: It’s temporary housing; he can stay a maximum of ninety days. After two weeks, he needs to pay thirty bucks a week for rent. If he can’t afford that, he’ll be given odd jobs to do around the Center and must complete them in order to stay. No overnight guests; all non-residents must be out of the building by eleven p.m. As Davis begins signing his life away on a dozen forms, I snag the room keys so I can start hauling boxes.

  I’m dropping off the first load to Davis’s stark room when the door across the hall opens. Sable, hand shielding his eyes, leans on the door frame and smiles.

  “Hey, guy.”

  He looks like he slept in his clothes. His big toe sticks out from a formerly white sock. His voice is light and airy and his head sways slightly. His other hand holds a clear plastic bag containing a dozen translucent-brown prescription bottles. He sees me glance at the bag and shakes it like a baby’s rattle. “I loves me some vitamins.”

  A sweet, earthy odor—carried on a thin sheen of smoke—filters from his room into the hall. He’s high.

  I’m pissed but I make a joke. “Morning, sunshine. We been waiting on you. Party can’t start without you.”

  Sable squints that way people do when they struggle to remember. Then he chuckles and nods. “Yeah, right. You and Little Dude.”

  “Little Dude” appears at the top of the stairs, loaded down with boxes. Sable tosses the pill bag back into his room, then launches over and takes the boxes off Davis’s hands. “Let me get that for you, stud. Sorry I missed the excitement this morning. I totally spaced.”

  Yeah. Getting stoned will do that.

  “No biggie. You’re here now, right?” Davis says.

  Sable winks at Davis and Davis melts.

  With Sable’s help, it only takes us a little more than an hour to unload the truck. I’ll give him this; as he sobers up, Sable becomes a workhorse, often making two trips for every one Davis and I make. Of course, we’ve already done this once today so we’re tired.

  It’s just after two when we finish and sprawl out on Davis’s floor, exhausted. Davis orders pizza to thank us for our help, and two larges with the works are devoured within ten minutes of their arrival. I’m cleaning up the pizza boxes when Davis produces the octagon window from a box and looks around for the right place to hang it. Sable takes it from him, having spotted a nail on the wall over the bed. He hangs it, gives it a good look, and mutters, “Cool.” I almost forgive him for leaving us in the lurch.

  I glance at my watch and realize I only have five minutes to get the truck home before Dad does his Chernobyl impression.

  “Sorry, I’d stay and help you unpack but—”

  “No worries,” Sable says, gripping Davis’s shoulder. “We got it covered.”

  I look to Davis, who grins at Sable, then nods at me. I don’t have time to be annoyed; I take the stairs down two at a time, burst through the door, and race to get the truck home.

  I’m only two minutes late. I walk through the store. Dad is planted in his wheelchair at the register, ringing someone up. Mom is in the back room, rifling through a pile of job applications, scowling at each one. Even though I promised to work until I leave in August, she has to start looking for my replacement now so I can train them.

  “Thanks,” I say, dropping the truck keys on Mom’s desk. She doesn’t respond. “Hey, I know replacing me will be hard but, wow … I can actually see mercury rising in your eyes. Like a cartoon.”

  She selects three applications that have somehow managed not to offend her. “Shan says the two of you have plans tonight.”

  I freeze. What else has Shan said?

  I suck all the air out of the room through a tiny gap between my lips. It figures that the one time I need a story, I don’t have one. “Yup. Some brother-sister bonding.”

  But as usual, it doesn’t matter.

  “Don’t stay out too late. You open tomorrow morning.” She’s not suspicious; it’s business as usual. She likes when I spend time with Shan. She wants Shan to rub off on me. The air slowly returns to the room.

  “No problem,” I promise.

  “You got a letter from Chicago. I put it on your nightstand.”

  The hair on the back of my neck shoots up. There are two things that are very strange about what Mom just did. One: She hasn’t looked at me once. When she wants me to obey a direct order—don’t stay out too late—she always looks me in the e
ye. Always. Two: Weiss family modus operandi dictates that all mail, regardless of recipient, gets piled on the kitchen table. You scrounge for what’s yours. A personalized delivery to my room is weird.

  I bound upstairs to my room, shedding my clothes for a shower. T-minus three hours until dinner with Erik. And Shan. Erik and Shan. What have I done?

  I catch sight of the Chicago letter. Right next to my plane ticket. The one I left out in the open. The one-way ticket to San Diego dated August 12.

  The one I thought only I knew about.

  deluge

  The walk to Erik’s is painful. Shan and I avoid each other’s eyes. In the silence, I worry about stupid things. That I’ll break out in zits because I’m worried Mom saw the ticket. That Shan didn’t do her hair, which probably means she’s not taking this seriously. That our outfits clash and we look like Couture of the Damned on Parade. Our only conversation consists of a warning: “If you call me ‘Spud’ in front of Erik, I’ll put Nair in your shampoo.”

  As we turn onto State Street, I close my eyes and draw strength from the thought of Erik. This will be a great night. I am totally at ease. And then … I really am.

  We arrive at the Bookworm and I make a small presentation of using MY key to open the locked door at the base of the stairs. As we climb to the second floor, I can already smell the powerful spices I associate with Erik making Chinese food. I’m tempted to show off again and let myself in with MY OTHER key, but I play it safe and knock.

  Erik opens the door. He’s wearing a russet-colored dress shirt, a striped tan tie, and bister slacks. Gel spikes his hair in that way that turns me into Captain Libido.

  Down, boy.

  Erik smiles and steps aside, welcoming us in.

  “Shan,” I start, “this is Erik Goodhue. Erik, this is my sister, Shan Reynolds.”

  I know them both well. Her smile: tight to the face, corners of the mouth just barely up, no teeth showing = I’m playing it cool and withholding judgment. The DictionErik translation of his handshake: firm, two quick shakes = I was beginning to think he’d never let me meet anyone in his life; it’s a pleasure.

  Shan squints at Erik’s head, then turns around to me and says, “Totally. Square-shaped egg.”

  Erik, who is positioned just behind Shan, narrows his eyes at me in a mock threat. He is not a fan of my square-shaped-egg analogy when it comes to describing his head.

  “What does that even mean?” he demands from me. “Eggs aren’t square.”

  “Trust me,” Shan assures him. “It fits.”

  He holds up his index finger, smirks, and mouths, “That’s one.” I have no idea what it means but I’m already plotting to make it to two.

  “Make yourself at home,” Erik says, sweeping his arm at the living room. Even though his place is normally immaculate, a chemical-pine sting to the air tells me he’s worked extra hard today. “Dinner will be just a couple minutes.” He plants a kiss on my cheek and retreats into the kitchen.

  I lead Shan into the living room, trying to gauge how she handled the kiss. I don’t know why it felt conspicuous. That’s what boyfriends do, right? They kiss. Still, it leaves me feeling naked. If she’s shocked/offended/intrigued, she does nothing to show it. I show her Erik’s sculptures and she nods, impressed. I give her the quick tour—kitchen, bathroom, bedroom—and we end up back at the kitchen just as Erik is hauling two huge bowls filled with food to the table.

  He’s gone way out. Three place settings—a small ivory bowl atop a shiny obsidian salad plate over a matching main-course plate. Champagne flutes filled with grape juice sit near a small centerpiece of orchids. Ivory cloth napkins folded to look like swans sit atop the silverware to the right of each place setting. To the left, everyone has a set of redwood chopsticks. It’s all way over the top but that’s Erik. I didn’t even know he owned this stuff. Then it hits me—he went out and bought it all for tonight’s dinner.

  I try to picture a way to love him more. I fail.

  Erik begins ladling fresh egg drop soup into each of our bowls.

  “Smells delicious,” Shan says, dipping her spoon in. I still can’t get a read on her and that worries me. I’m the one who’s supposed to be unreadable. When did we swap?

  We follow with a small salad covered in mandarin orange slices and then the main course: chicken cashew. Erik, the master navigator of conversation, keeps things flowing all night. He asks me how the move went with Davis. He asks Shan about living in New York. He asks us both what it was like growing up in the Midwest. Now and then, he responds with a little information about himself.

  In short, he demonstrates to Shan—in one hour—everything that made me fall in love with him over the course of an entire year. I feel like I won; she got the fifty-cent version and I got the grand tour.

  As the evening progresses, Shan loosens up. She’s mesmerized as Erik describes his Angels sculpture and says she can’t wait for the unveiling. She laughs at all the right places and trots out embarrassing stories from my childhood, including how I once emptied every box of Jell-O from the store into our bathtub to make the world’s biggest dessert. But I know my sister. She’s holding back. I hear something false in her laugh. See the surreptitious glances at the door.

  When we’re done eating, Erik tries to usher us into the living room while he cleans up, but we insist on helping. Shan commandeers the plastic wrap, covering bowls and slipping them in the fridge. Erik and I stand shoulder to shoulder at the sink. He sings “Bohemian Rhapsody” and we trade off on the “Bismillah!” line.

  Shan rolls her eyes.

  When everything is dried and put away, Erik and I sidle up to each other on the love seat while Shan sinks into the papasan. The back of the chair gathers around her shoulders like a cobra’s hood.

  “So,” Shan says, adjusting her dress, “are you sleeping together?”

  Colors usually only explode in my head during a beating from Pete and his cronies. Now I’m bombarded by mushroom clouds of vermillion, beryl, and jade, like the immediate aftermath of a head injury. My mouth goes Sahara.

  Erik sits up, a pleasant smile on his face. He lets his arm drift across the back of my shoulders. “Are you asking if we’ve ever shared a bed or if we’re having sex?”

  “Either,” she says.

  “Both,” he returns.

  When did my sex life end up on the conversation menu?

  Shan is, obviously, not prepared for something this direct and I catch her nibbling her bottom lip for just a moment. “He’s only just turned eighteen—”

  “I know.” Erik nods. “If you’re worried, though, we did wait until he was legal.”

  Coin toss—how do I feel: invigorated that Erik is standing up to Shan’s wacko, totally-out-of-left-field line of questioning by refusing to feel shame about our relationship or embarrassed because my sister now knows I’m having sex? It’s a tough one. I choose the former, with caution.

  Shan clears her throat. “I hope you told him about all the guys you’ve slept with before you two did anything. The last thing Evan needs is to catch an STD from his first sexual experience.”

  “Why would you assume that I’m Evan’s first?”

  “So!” I say. “How ’bout them Brewers?” No one bites. Apparently, my sex life trumps baseball.

  I’m silently begging Erik to steer the conversation elsewhere. Erik doesn’t break eye contact with Shan, whose face grows darker by the second. I know she’s storing up for a major fuel burn.

  “But, yes,” Erik continues, “before Evan and I did anything, I told him about every guy I’ve ever been with. I even showed him a recent STD screening. I’m clean. I’d tell you about my former lovers and show you the test results but it’s, frankly, none of your business.”

  Shan purses her lips, looks from me to Erik to me to Erik, and says, “Please tell me you’re using condoms.”

  MADISON TEEN DIES OF

  EMBARRASSMENT

  Madison, Wis.—Doctors at the University of Wisconsin
Hospital are reporting the first actual death by embarrassment. Dr. Elias Schroeder, head of the hospital’s trauma unit, told journalists that 18-year-old Evan Weiss was having an uncomfortable conversation with his sister and boyfriend when he keeled over.

  Attempts by Erik Goodhue, Weiss’s boyfriend, to use CPR to revive Weiss were thwarted by Shannon Reynolds, Weiss’s sister, who reportedly pulled Goodhue off the inert Weiss screaming, “You’ll give him herpes! You’ll give him herpes!”

  My diversion is interrupted by a pounding at the door. Erik opens it and Cece from across the hall bounds in.

  “Fucking A, I can’t believe this—” She glances over and spots Shan and me. “Sorry, I didn’t know …”

  We all smile at Cece. Nothing to see here.

  “Erik, I’m sorry but I can’t get Ratfuck on the phone.” Ratfuck is Mr. Teske, the building’s super, who has yet to be available at his twenty-four-hour emergency number. She holds up a faucet nozzle. “I went to turn the water off in my sink and this broke. The water won’t stop, the drain’s clogged, the sink’s getting full, I’m late for work, and …”

  Before she goes into full panic mode, Erik is in his kitchen, where he grabs the small toolbox under the sink and announces, “Lead the way.”

  I smirk. “I’ll get Noah on the phone and have him start work on that boat he’s been talking about.” Sculptor, yogi, nurse—but a plumber, my boyfriend is not. Having witnessed past excursions with that tool box, I know we’re in for an Abbott and Costello routine.

  Erik holds his fingers up in a V and mouths, “That’s two.” He takes a monkey wrench from the box and waves it at me threateningly as he snarls, “Miss me,” before disappearing with Cece.

  I whirl on Shan and come out swinging. I’ve got no other choice.

  “What the hell?”

  Shan’s on her feet, clutching her head and walking in circles. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, it happened … I’ve turned into Mom!” Her hands shake as she takes a deep breath. Tears form in her eyes as she looks right at me. “Ev, I’m so sorry. I panicked. I don’t know where this is coming from. I’m just … All the stories I hear about AIDS and gay bashing and … I was scared and I panicked.”