With or Without You (10 page)

“Right,” I guffawed, “like you’d last five minutes without me, tardmonkey. Hell, I give you three minutes before total system failure.”

He hiccupped a laugh and threw a halfhearted punch at my shoulder. “Tardmonkey I may be, but you’ll always be Lord Emperor of All Tardmonkeys.”

The alarm bleats and Sunday begins with a fusillade of Huge Thoughts:

HUGE THOUGHT #1:
I hate opening Sunday mornings.

My feet meet cold hardwood floor.

HUGE THOUGHT #2:
I get to work with Shan.

I shut the bathroom door and quietly beat my head against the wall.

HUGE THOUGHT #3:
Why the hell didn’t you just say, “Yes, please take me to California,” Weiss, you complete and total loser?

But now’s not the time to worry about what I should or shouldn’t have said to Erik. Now’s the time to face the dread of Sunday: M and D’s one completely non-working day of the week, when I’m left in charge. Today the store is mine.

Bwah-hah-hah.

In reality, running the store on my own is a colossal pain in the ass. But Shan’s home to help, so today is destined
to rock. I get to hide out in the freezer and do the cold-case inventory while she helps people out on the floor. And, of course, there’s the Game.

When Shan and I are in charge, we pick a code word and, as we help customers, we get points every time we can get them to say the word. I am the reigning champ, having made Mr. Blazejewski, one of our regular customers, say “walrus” over seven times in one fifteen-minute visit. This is a grocery store. Working “walrus” into a conversation about fresh kohlrabi is murder.

I throw on work clothes, scarf down a piece of dry toast, and meet Shan downstairs. We go through the familiar opening ritual: switching on lights, counting the cash drawer, sweeping the floors, sweeping the sidewalk, hauling out the “Specials Today!” sandwich board, rolling out the awning, and a hundred other mind-numbing tasks. We finish with the most important task of all.

“The code word,” Shan says, searching over her shoulders for imagined prying ears, “is ‘daffodil.’”

“Ouch.” I wince. “Game on.”

At nine sharp, we open.

“Okay, I’m gonna hit inventory,” I announce, grabbing my coat and wool gloves.

“Did you have a good time last night?” Shan asks.

I smile. “Yeah. It was great. Remind me later and I’ll show you what Erik got me for graduation.”

“Are you guys serious?” She’s going for casual. She manages suspicious.

Condition: Red. Our childhood flashes before me. Shan knows about Erik. Something that no one else knows. History says that I’m in trouble. Emotional blackmail is a Weiss family tradition.

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.

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
.”

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.