With or Without You (22 page)

I kneel at his side and recoil as I touch his hand. He’s burning up.

“Mr. Benton?” I ask, feeling his sweaty forehead. “Can you hear me? It’s Evan Weiss. Can you hear me?”

He swallows a few more times and holds out a hand, taking mine. A limp smile seizes his lips. “Evan? You’re so cold.”

“What are you doing on the floor?”

He looks around, barely able to pivot his head. His eyes cross, as if he hadn’t realized he was on the floor. “I was … I wasn’t feeling so good. I thought I’d go to the hospital. I got as far as the door and …” He shakes.

I take out my cell. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

He moans. “No. Please. Don’t need another bill from the meat wagon. My keys are on the kitchen table. Can you take me? Please?”

The next ten minutes blur. I grab the keys and get him to University Hospital. The emergency room staff takes him away to a room as I talk to the admitting nurse, who knows me.

“Can you page Erik?” I ask. “He’ll want to know about this.” She agrees and I head to Benton’s room.

An hour later, I’m still sitting at Benton’s bedside. Surrounded by numerous beeping machines and IV stands, I page through his scrapbook. I grabbed it on the way out, knowing he’d want it here.

I hold it open, staring at the picture of the White Satyr Collective.
By the Eighties
, Mr. Benton had said,
most of the Collective was gone.
I look at Mr. Benton, ashen and sweaty. Did the Collective choose this? Did he?

Sometime later, Mr. Benton’s fever breaks and color returns to his face.

“You scared me,” I scold. “You think Erik was mad when you missed your checkup? Imagine what’ll happen if you’re too sick to attend the unveiling of the
Angels
.”

“It’d be easier to wrestle the Grim Reaper than deal with your boyfriend when he’s pissed,” Benton rasps before sipping from a cup of ice water. “Thanks for the assist. You’re a prince and a gentleman.”

I chide gently. “You stopped taking your meds again, didn’t you?”

Mr. Benton holds up three fingers and lifts his chin. “Scout’s honor. I’m taking them every day. But sometimes the virus puts up a good fight. Just gotta ride this out.”

I think about everything I read online last night about HIV and bugchasing and my curiosity gets the better of me.

“Mr. Benton, can I ask you about … your disease?”

Benton raises an eyebrow. “AIDS, Evan. If you don’t say it, you’re only giving it power. And, yes, ask me anything you want.”

I take a deep breath. “Did you try to get it?”

His glare tells me I couldn’t have asked anything more insulting. He lifts his hands and points around the room. “Yes,” he says dryly, “because all I’ve ever wanted out of life is an unending supply of heart monitors and glucose bags and medication that leaves me dehydrated. Oh, and the constant diarrhea is a treat.”

I quickly try to explain. “I was reading online last night. About these guys. Bugchasers. They don’t care if they catch HIV. In fact, they want to. It’s like a status symbol to them. So they have unprotected sex—”

Benton holds up a hand and I stop. His breathing staggers. “First. To answer your question. No, I did not
try
to contract HIV. I got HIV because I was young and
reckless and I didn’t care who I had sex with. And I had a lot of sex. I don’t know who gave it to me. I also don’t know how many men I may have infected before I found out.”

His eyes well, a mix of anger and sadness, and he continues. “Second. I’ve heard about these bugchasers. They call HIV ‘the gift.’ It’s an obscenity. They think that because they’re young and weren’t alive when the epidemic was at its height, that they’ve missed out on an important part of the ‘gay experience.’ They think it makes them
unique
.” He hits that last word with disgust, his lips curling in a snarl.

“Third …” He fixes me with his most serious gaze and says, “Why are you asking me this, Evan?”

“No,” I respond fast, “no, it’s not like that. I’m not … I don’t want … I’m not stupid enough to contract—”

The hole I’m digging gets deeper as I realize I’m only insulting him with every syllable. But Benton lets me off the hook with a smile and a wave of his hand.

“It’s okay. You’re responding exactly the way you’re supposed to. It’s insidious.” He sighs, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “Not just the disease but the way we treat it. It’s the only disease in the world that forces us to talk out of both sides of our mouth. We’re constantly telling the people who are infected there’s nothing to be ashamed of and we’re scaring the shit out of everyone
else, saying ‘You don’t want to get that’ and thrusting condoms in their hands. It’s okay to
have
it but not to
contract
it. It’s a mixed message. And that’s what’s insidious. There’s no better way to respond.”

Mr. Benton takes his scrapbook and holds up the picture of the White Satyr Collective. He begins pointing them out one by one. “Dennis Parr … brilliant playwright. He coulda been the next Edward Albee. Dead: August fourteenth, 1985. … Albert Dean. Actor. Poet. Composer. Got offered a part in
A Chorus Line
and moved to New York but never made it onstage. Dead: April thirtieth, 1985. … Marshall Whitman. Has two sculptures at the Museum of Modern Art. Could have had more. Dead: June twenty-first, 1985. …”

He catalogs the others in the picture but I can hardly hear him. I can’t believe he remembers all of these dates. Then I realize how close together they were. That’s the sort of memory you don’t shake, when your closest friends die within months of one another. When he said the Collective fell apart, I’d assumed the members had moved on to other things. I hadn’t imagined this kind of loss.

He turns a page and I see a small Polaroid of Mr. Benton and a withered man in a wheelchair, whom I recognize as Arthur, Mr. Benton’s partner. They’re holding what looks like a quilt between them. On the front of the quilt, in a mosaic of multicolored fabric, is the image of a sailboat.

“Arthur loved sailing. This was taken a week before he died,” Mr. Benton whispers. “We made that square for the AIDS Memorial Quilt. The quilt was supposed to be a remembrance so no one would ever forget what happened: the senseless loss. Apparently, these bugchasers never got the message.”

Or they’re creating their own message
, I think. After hearing Mr. Benton’s version, Sable’s take on the Eighties doesn’t ring true. “I have a friend,” I say slowly, “I think … I think he’s mixed up with these guys.”

“Has he been exposed to the virus?” The real question is:
Has he had unprotected sex?

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Mr. Benton closes his eyes and exhales through his nose, making a quiet rattling sound. When his eyes open, they are the very definition of serious.

“I think you know what you have to do.” He closes his eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m really drained. I need to rest. Give my best to Erik when you see him. And thanks again.”

I pat his hand and exit into the cool, white hallway. Still no Erik. I wander the corridors of the hospital and find myself in the ICU. I glance occasionally into the rooms at the people hooked up to machines.

That’s when I see Pete Isaacson through a window. His head bandaged, his eyes shut. A thin bar of fluorescent
light casts harsh shadows down his swollen face. Someone, his back turned to me, sits hunched at his bedside. I step into the doorway.

The figure turns and, as he does, I can see past him. Pete’s inert hand lies on top of the thin seafoam green blanket. His visitor’s hand is on top of Pete’s. Not just on top. His fingers are interlaced with Pete’s. Tightly. I feel heat in my chest as I stare into Kenny Dugan’s eyes.

When Kenny recognizes me, he’s on his feet and in my face.

“Don’t you—You fucking—Get the hell out—” He’s sputtering and quivering and trying to be the same tough guy who broke my arm a year and a half ago. But I don’t buy it. I can’t. Because every syllable, every sound has a color of its own, from a palette I know intimately. The color of fear, of reprisal, of denial, but mostly of sheer terror. He didn’t want me—or anyone—to see him holding Pete’s hand.

Kenny’s shoulders pull back and I know that he wants to cream me but good. He wouldn’t dare—not here, not now. We stand toe to toe.

I ask calmly, “Is he going to be okay?”

Kenny’s nostrils pulse. He’s close to hyperventilating. I’d like to think there’s something in my rational tone that calms him down because, even though it takes a moment, he begins to deflate.

“He came out of the coma yesterday. Now he’s doped up on pain meds.”

I can’t ever remember hearing Kenny’s voice without that angry edge. Even answering questions in class, he was full of attitude and defiance. As he talks about Pete, the arrogance is gone. He’s vulnerable.

I can’t shake the image of Kenny holding tightly to Pete’s hand. When I look back to Pete, Kenny jabs a finger in my face. “Listen, fag, you don’t know what you saw. You think you know but you …”

I know, Kenny. I know.

“You’re a fucking coward, Kenny,” I say. “Davis and I took your shit all the time and we never once squealed on you guys. Not fucking once. You get a little of your own back at the Darkroom and you go to the cops and turn us in.”

Kenny’s jaw sets and I’m pretty sure he no longer cares about the trouble he’ll get in for starting a fight in the hospital. He raises himself up to his full height, a good three inches over me, and draws back his shoulders. But instead of hitting me, he says, “I didn’t tell the cops about your friends. I only told them what you did.”

“What I did?” I must be totally insane because now I’m in his face like a kamikaze gnat. “You’re pissed because I kicked you? You broke my arm, you asshole. And you’re pissed—”

And there it is. His eyes soften and Kenny turns his back. He sits next to Pete again. I can be pretty stupid sometimes but you have to cut me slack for not putting it all together, given the history we share. Officer Brogan’s exact words:
Someone said you were on the scene helping.
Not helping trash the cars. Kenny had seen me step between Davis and Pete. He had told the police I wasn’t involved, that I was trying to help. I don’t even need to ask why. I just picture his hand in Pete’s.

Kenny stares at Pete. “You protected Pete. I protected you. But I can’t stay quiet about the rest much longer. Pete’s parents know I know something. They’ve got the police pushing me to tell them who did this. You and me? We’re even. I owe nothing to nobody else.”

The meaning is clear. Kenny has no idea who Sable and the others are. He couldn’t turn them in if he wanted to. And he wants to. The only person he can still rat out is Davis.

He turns like he just wants me to leave so he can return his attention to his friend. Attention Pete can’t appreciate, doped up as he is. Attention Pete probably doesn’t even—

“Does Pete know—”

He whirls. “If you fucking say anything to him or to anyone else—”

I take out my wallet and remove the dog tag that Davis gave me at the observatory. I toss it to Kenny. “I’m not
saying a word. But—and listen to me, Kenny—if I hear you’ve beat up or even glared at another gay guy again, I’m gonna come down on you like the fucking wrath of God.”

I walk away, my breath even, my thoughts clear. So this is what life is like when you throw out the rules.

Erik and I almost collide as I return to the nurse’s station outside Mr. Benton’s room. He grabs me into a tight hug. “I’m sorry. My cell battery’s dead, I lost my pager, it’s been the day from hell. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I just clocked in and they told me you brought Mr. Benton. What’s going on?”

It’s funny. We both spent the day racing around trying to find each other. It’s funny but I can’t laugh.

I catch him up about Mr. Benton. His face falls and he gives me another tight squeeze. It’s all I can do not to cry.

Erik leads me into an echoey stairwell, away from the clamor of the nurse’s station, and strokes my cheek. “I was worried about you last night. You can’t just break down like that and run off. I even went to the store looking for you. Some guy named Ross said he hadn’t seen you. What’s going on?”

I swallow. “Have you ever been in a situation where you cared a lot about someone and you had to do something—something that you meant to be helpful but would
hurt them in the process? And you might even lose them?”

Erik stiffens. An overhead page requests his presence in radiology. He nods and says, “I guess so. People who live at the speed of stupid dig themselves holes. The smart people who love them help them dig out. But I think we can only do that for so long. I think at some point, you have to learn to cut your losses and move on. Even if it means getting hurt. Even if it means hurting them. Sometimes you let people live as fast as they want and you look out for number one. You know?”

He’s paged again. Erik leans in and kisses me. Not a quick “we’re in public so let’s be polite” peck. A long, slow kiss that instantly catapults me back to the last night we spent together in bed. The last time I felt nothing could ever come between us.

Erik whispers, “I’m off work at nine. Any chance I’ll see you at my place later?” The double meaning is clear:
I need answers.
I nod and he says with a wink, “Miss me.”

It’s not until after he’s gone that it occurs to me: Erik thought I was talking about us.

I think about the Gregory Douglass song Erik plays when he broods:

I’ll miss you hard enough to hide it,
I need you hard enough to try,
I love you hard enough to move on …

I can fix that. I know I can. I can make sure he understands that will never apply to us. But later. What I have to do now, I’m less sure about.

I go looking for Davis.

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IMAGE:
A stack of lead bars, as seen on the Wisconsin state flag