With or Without You (18 page)

We’d been dating for almost three months and Saturdays
had become Question Days. We’d meet at James Madison Park just after noon—I’d paint, he’d practice yoga—and we’d ask each other question after question. I still remember that rush of excitement, when I couldn’t learn enough about him. And the rush of fear that he’d want to learn too much about me.

On this particular Saturday, I lugged THE CLAW down to the park. Erik—at my request—brought his bike and chained it to a rack near the big oak on the park’s west side. I aimed the octagon at the bike as he began his exercises. I was laying down a coat of sand-colored paint on one of the octagon’s panels. Erik stood perfectly straight, hands above his head, palms together like a prayer. I heard him breathe deeply through his nose as his arms dipped to either side. He bent at the waist and swan dove to touch his toes. The first question of Question Day came just as he reached the ground.

“Why don’t you paint people?”

Explaining this has always been difficult.

“When you paint somebody,” I said slowly, “you suspend them in a single moment. I guess I’m waiting for the
right
moment. That defining instant that changes everything. So the image in the picture is the last time you’ll ever see that version of that person again. Cut me some slack. I’m seventeen. It hasn’t happened yet.”

Erik continued his Sun Salutation: moving into a push-up
position, then back into Downward-Facing Dog. He exhaled. “Fair enough.”

My question, sadly, wasn’t nearly as probing. “What’s your most embarrassing moment?”

Erik groaned, gliding into Upward-Facing Dog. “When I hit on Tyler.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “I bet that went over well.”

“Oh, he clocked me a good one. We were fifteen and didn’t speak for a month. Then his mother told him he had two gay uncles, which he didn’t know, and suddenly everything was cool with us again. Inseparable ever since.”

I smiled. At least Davis hadn’t slugged me when I tried to kiss him.

Erik got to his feet and slid into Warrior One pose. Closing his eyes, he asked, “Are you worried that telling Davis and your family about me will completely change your life?”

I felt winded. I set my brush down and took a breath to regroup. In an instant, Erik was at my side.

“Hey,” he said over the wail of a late summer wind. “Hey, I didn’t mean to hit a nerve. You can … you can talk to me about it, you know.”

He stepped back and held both arms over his head to mime John Cusack holding up his boom box in
Say Anything.
It’d come to mean simply:
Talk to me.
He uses it when I get distant, wondering why this great guy loves me. I use it when he’s at his Studio, getting broody as Gregory Douglass sings in the background.

“We’ll talk about it,” I assured him, not meeting his eyes. “Just … you know. Later.”

He smiled, as he always did when he didn’t want to push me. He stepped into tree pose. “Okay, do-over. I get the idea behind the octagon. Little scenes that mark moments in your friendship with Davis. What does the bike lock signify?”

I half laughed. “Would you believe me if I told you I don’t know?”

He nodded, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. “Yes, I would believe that. It’s totally you.”

“How so?”

“You’re a spaz.”

I pulled a handful of grass from the ground and tossed it at him. Erik rarely breaks concentration when he’s doing yoga, but he laughed and I resumed painting.

“It’s like …,” I said, “it’s like remembering the punch line but not the joke. Saying the punch line is still funny but you can’t remember what led up to it that made it funny. Davis and I have been joking about a bike lock that looks like a snake for years. At one point, it was truly hilarious. But a couple years ago, we tried to remember why it was funny … and we couldn’t figure it out. But we still joke about it. Weird, huh?”

Erik crouched down, made a tripod with his head and hands, and slowly lifted himself up into a headstand. “Not that weird. Ever read Shirley Jackson’s ‘The Lottery’? It’s about
a bunch of people who perform a ritual year after year and nobody remembers why they do it. I guess sometimes, we all do things even after we’ve lost sight of why we started doing them in the first place.”

Erik leaned forward and effortlessly fell out of the headstand and into Lotus position. I marveled.

“I can’t get over you,” I confessed as he sat there, unmoving and tranquil. “You do yoga. You’re a great cook. You kick ass at volleyball. You sculpt. I just don’t get it.”

Erik’s eyes remained closed but he arched his eyebrows. “What’s not to get?”

I measured each word carefully. “I guess … all the jocks I know, they’re kind of one note. Sports and that’s it. But you’ve got all these different interests. I mean, I love it. I just don’t know how you do it all.”

Erik jumped up, joined me at THE CLAW, and slipped his arm around my waist. “I’m a dreamer, Evan. Sometimes I dream so hard I’m worried that I’ll float right off the earth. All these things I do—the yoga, the sculpting—they give me something to come back to. They let me dream about finding the perfect guy and settling down, about getting a really awesome job, about taking a year off to travel the world. But I’ve got something to ground me too. I suppose I could just find one hobby and get really good at it. But different things interest me and that keeps me going and makes life seem … more real. Y’know? Or does that sound stupid?”

It didn’t sound stupid at all. I looked over at my paints. What else did I have besides that? I wanted what he had. I wanted my life to be more real.

I stepped back and kicked off my sandals. “Show me.”

Erik smiled. “Sorry?”

“Yoga. Teach me. I want to learn.”

Erik surveyed my face; I was all business. He nodded, moved around behind me, and straightened my posture. He moved my feet together, then took my arms and, holding me from behind, moved my hands into a prayer position at my chest level.

“I love you,” he whispered into my right ear.

I’d heard him tell Tyler at China Palace two weeks earlier, but this was the first time he said it
to me.
I thought I would stop breathing, my heart would stop beating. No, death couldn’t come at a worse time. I wanted to keep going.

I turned to respond, but Erik pressed a finger to my lips. He explained the theory of the speed of stupid, saying he didn’t want a response until I’d really thought it through.

He laid the palm of his hand against my cheek and we stood there, staring at each other, living off the vibe of a single word. He gently turned me so I faced away and adjusted my back, forcing me to stand up completely straight. He shook my arms so they hung loose at my sides.

“The most important thing about yoga”—his voice rippled through me—“is the breathing. Long, deep breaths. Through
your nose. Focus on your posture. Focus on your breathing.”

It took me two more weeks of yoga lessons in the park to finish
Lockdown.
It only took me two days of slow, intelligent thinking to tell him that I loved him too.

A delivery of white hydrangeas signals a cease-fire. The attached card: “I was wrong. Forgive me?” Ross freaks when I leave him by himself in the store for the first time, but I duck into the cold case to call Erik.

“I really thought I was doing something good by taking you to Oxana,” he says. “I could have handled everything better. Can we talk tonight?”

I hesitate. I’m terrified that he’ll take one look in my eyes and know everything that happened at the Darkroom. How I helped lure the trogs into an ambush. How I kicked Kenny. How I enjoyed it.

How I reacted to Sable’s touch.

But I’m the King of Evasions. By royal decree, Erik will never find out.

“Absolutely,” I say, “I’m dying to see you.” It feels good to admit that. Despite tinges of doubt, this is the longest conversation we’ve had in days and it puts me at ease.
“And I’m sorry too. I freaked out and I snapped and … Let’s talk about it tonight.”

We make plans to meet at the hospital after his shift. By the end of our conversation, things feel familiar and easy again.

“Miss me,” he says, a smile in his voice.

You have
no
idea
.

When the time comes that afternoon to meet Erik, I scramble to get to the bus stop and manage to hop on the one bus without AC. When I walk through the hospital doors, sweet, chilly air cools my sweaty bod and I take the familiar path to the all-purpose room on the second floor.

Once a week, Erik teaches a class called Yoga for People Living with HIV. It’s a class he created for the hospital as part of his masters work. It started small, with just a couple people, but it’s gotten so big that Erik was planning on starting a second session. I don’t know what’s going to happen to the class when he moves to San Diego.

We? When
we
move to San Diego?

Davis uses “I” instead of “we.” I use “he” instead of “we.” Where did all the “we”s go?

I peek in through the window of the door and see Mr. Benton, legs folded in lotus position, instructing the twenty or so people who fill the small room. His closed eyes flicker open for a moment and he winks at me. I
open the door and Mr. Benton concludes the class by saying softly, “Thanks for coming, everyone. We’ll see you all again next week.
Namaste
.”

Namaste
s echo from the students, who begin to roll up their mats. Mr. Benton gets to his feet and slaps me on the back. He looks even better than when we saw him at home. He’s taking his meds. He knows better than to cross Super Nurse twice.

“Good to see you, Evan,” Benton booms. “You missed Erik. He was with us, but he got called away to an emergency.”

Benton slips on his shoes and we walk into the hall together.

“Erik tells me his sculpture is nearly done,” Benton says. “He must be getting nervous. Isn’t the unveiling coming up?”

I nod. On the drive to Milwaukee, Erik told me how he was dreading the unveiling ceremony in August. It was one thing for something he sculpted to be in Oxana’s lobby. It was different for his work to be out in a big public space with a dedication plaque. Erik’s not comfortable being the center of attention.

“Can’t wait to see it. It’ll really brighten up that park.” Benton beams. Then he lowers his voice like a secret agent. “You know, back in the Seventies, Reid Park used to be the gay cruising spot. There was this concrete bench
that faced a little bed of marigolds. If you sat there, it meant you were looking for action. That’s where I met my first hookup. I was a stupid high school punk looking to get laid. Place went to hell in the Eighties. Got so you couldn’t go down there without getting the crap beat out of you. I heard about those poor kids last year. I hope they can turn it around.”

A thought hits me. “Mr. Benton, do you remember Stonewall?”

He shakes his hand in a “so-so” kinda way. “The riots? I was just a kid. I kind of remember them. Didn’t really make a splash in the news around here. It’s more something I learned about after the fact.”

“But you lived a lot of gay history, right?”

Benton stares at me in that “open mouth, insert foot” way and I race to cover my slipup.

“Not that you’re old! I just mean that there’ve been a lot of, you know, changes … advances in gay rights and … and stuff. In recent years. And you’ve seen it.”

Good save, Weiss. No point in taking a diversion. This time I really do want to die.

Benton grips the strap around his yoga mat. He stares just over my shoulder, wearing the blank expression I remember from when he told me about his days as a publisher. “Sure. Sure, I’ve seen lots of changes. Some good, others not so good. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. I have a … friend who’s teaching me about gay history. He said that Stonewall really united the gay community, made it easier for gays to feel free in the Seventies. That it mobilized people like an army and—”

“Whoa!” Benton scowls and shakes his head. “You make it sound like a military maneuver, like it’s something that was planned. No one sat down and decided to riot. It wasn’t calculated. It happened spontaneously. People were getting tired of being pushed around, so they pushed back.”

As I listen to Benton describe what he knows of that night, my mind pinpoints the key difference between what happened in New York and what happened at the Darkroom: premeditation. Sable and the others smashed the trogs’ cars and lured them to the Darkroom. The real Stonewall wasn’t an ambush. Suddenly, I’m less confident that Sable’s “revolution” is on the up and up.

“Evan!”

Benton and I glance down the hall. Erik, his scrubs soiled, his eyes baggy, jogs toward us. Benton pats me on the shoulder, waves at Erik, and disappears around the corner. Erik kisses me—it’s quite possibly the best kiss ever—and I forget all about the Darkroom.

“Listen, things are a mess here.” He sighs, his face burdened with tired. “Twelve-car pile-up on I-94. I’ve been suturing wounds for the last hour and they need me a
while longer. Rain check? I promise: lots of talking and making up later. Lots of it.” He smiles and gives my butt a pat.