With or Without You (24 page)

I play my last card. “Maybe. Maybe not. If I don’t, Kenny Dugan will.”

He has to believe that.

“If he does, then you go down too,” Davis sneers, each word blistering as it comes out. “You were as much a part of it as the rest of us. Plus, you lied to the cops about knowing—”

“I’ll take the heat,” I promise him, not budging. “If they send us all to jail, then I’ll go. I can’t let you throw away—”

Davis yanks his arm back. He throws one more taser-like glare before walking away. And I let him go. It would hurt too much to follow. Even though it seems impossible for things to hurt worse. We’ve had fights where we didn’t
talk for two, three days. We always made up. I used to think we always would.

Always isn’t as long as it used to be.

My drenched clothes are draped over the radiator in Erik’s living room, though it won’t produce heat for another four months. I’m finally dry. His jeans and Badgers hoodie hang loosely from my body. I’m rolled up in a ball in the papasan chair when the door clicks open and Erik enters with a bag of groceries.

I’ve lit a few candles and he seems more surprised by that than to find me huddling in the growing darkness. He abandons the groceries in the kitchen and then kneels next to the chair. My cheeks are flushed, raw, and damp. My nose, I can only imagine, is red and caked with vile things. He offers me a Kleenex and I blow.

His hand rests on my knee. That calming touch sends any tears I had left into hiding. And he waits. Patiently. He knows I’ll talk. He knows me.

I wrap my arms around his neck. He pulls me in and runs his hands through my hair. I’m safe. I’m welcome. I’m home. We move to the love seat; Erik lies on his back, I lie on top of him, my head resting on his chest. His heartbeat, strong and rapid, coaxes my own to match his.

“It’s time,” he says softly, “for you to tell me what’s going on. Why you were crying the other night. Why you
ran from me. Why you’re crying now. Because, Evan, it’s starting to freak me out.” He takes a deep breath. “I dated guys who had these … mood swings. Meant they were dealing with a guilty conscience. They started to lose track of all the lies they’d told. Get flustered and angry and sad and then clingy and …”

His arms lift into the air.
Talk to me
. I reach up and draw his arms back down, forcing him to hold me. I press my ear firmly against his chest and his heartbeat pounds a tattoo within. It fills every inch of me.

“There’s so much I want to tell you,” I say, tracing a vein on his bare forearm with my finger. “So much I’m
going
to tell you. But just trust me one more time. Trust that I’ll explain once we’re in San Diego.”

With my ear to his chest, my voice reverberates in my head and I hear a thousand distorted echoes of these words. A thousand affirmations. I’ve made my choice.

He lifts my chin and turns my head so I can look him in the eyes. His chest stops rising; he holds his breath. “Do you mean that?”

He shouldn’t trust me. He should say,
Evan, I need to know what’s going on because it could affect our future and I can’t commit to bringing you to San Diego if you aren’t totally open with me.
But he doesn’t. Yet again, he trusts that I’ll provide all the answers once we’re away from here.

Once more, love overrides.

I scoot forward and kiss him, then return to position my head near that comforting heartbeat. “Once we’re in San Diego, I’ll tell you everything you ever wanted to know.”

“They’re gonna hate it. They’re gonna boo me off the stage, tear it down, and sell it for scrap metal.”

Erik is currently a jigger of top-shelf crazy. In just over an hour,
Fierce Angels
will make its debut in Reid Park. He’s pacing his apartment, spouting off every worst-case scenario he can imagine. To say he’s nervous is to submit the winning application for Understatement of the Year.

The last week has been spent talking about Milwaukee—apologies and tears from both sides—and working toward becoming who we were. It’s been about planning for San Diego and the future. In this moment, though, none of that matters. We’re inching closer to the unveiling ceremony, which Erik has been dreading.

And if it wasn’t bad enough that Erik is somewhat attention-phobic, two days ago he found out he’s expected to say something at the unveiling. He’s been Basket Case Erik ever since. Apparently, public speaking is not his friend.

We go over the notes for his speech. As he practices to his audience of one, his voice is effete and melancholy. To keep him focused, I crack jokes. I walk him through relaxing sun salutations. I stand him in front of the antique mirror leaning against the wall in his living room so I can straighten his tie. It’s like our fight never happened.

When he’s as calm as he can be, we climb into the Jeep and head for the park. Erik’s hand rests on my knee. He’s stopped asking about my family. All the queries fell prey to my promise to join him in San Diego. Instead, he’s been pressuring me about my painting.

“If there’s anything else you want to paint in Madison before we leave, you better snap to,” he says, reminding me that we leave in just a week. “I haven’t seen you pick up a brush … in ages.”

He means to say,
Since Milwaukee
. And it’s true. I can’t shake what Oxana said. I’ve even stopped studying Haring’s work. I’ve thought about it: What does it mean to be my own artist? There is an answer to this question. The answer eludes me.

At the park, there’s a stage set up near the picnic shelter. Next to the stage, a huge white sheet keeps the
Angels
from prying eyes. There are about fifty white plastic folding chairs arranged for the audience, but I’m surprised to see that the attendance is at least four times that number. Some kids are already milling around the refreshments
table, sneaking bites before volunteers shoo them away.

Near the stage, Malaika greets us both with a hug and introduces us to Madison’s mayor, who will give the keynote. She also introduces us to Cory Tanner, the kid who was in the hospital for months after getting beaten here. He’s in a wheelchair, looking from face to face as if struggling to remember if he knows us. Malaika says that she’ll speak, then Erik, and then, together, all the speakers will unveil the
Angels
.

As we get ready to start, I bear-hug Erik and say, “Good luck.” The seats are all taken but as I move to join the SRO crowd, Malaika takes my arm and leads me to the stage and a reserved chair next to Erik’s. I smile, sit, and grasp Erik’s hand. TV news crews line up along the front of the stage. Erik spots them and I can feel his hand grow clammy in mine.

“Just do it like we practiced,” I whisper, giving his fingers a squeeze.

“We practiced,” he reminds me out of the corner of his mouth, “in our underwear. Are you willing to strip to keep me calm?”

I poke him in the ribs. “Whatever it takes.”

A police officer steps from the crowd, approaches the mayor, and they talk with concerned looks. The cop looks familiar, like maybe he’s spoken at school or the
RYC. He and the mayor survey the gathered horde, the officer occasionally pointing out people. He then hands the mayor a slip of paper and walks back to his post. The mayor joins us onstage.

“Anything wrong, Gabe?” Malaika asks quietly.

“I don’t think so,” the mayor replies. “We thought there were some protestors here—we’d heard rumors people from that church in Kansas were making a trip up here to spread their hate. But it’s just some kids handing out flyers. I think they’re pro-gay. I’m not worried.”

He hands the flyer to Malaika, who scans it and nods. I look past Erik and read it myself. It’s handwritten, poorly photocopied.

STAND UP AND TAKE
PRIDE IN BEING GAY!

Be a CHASER

Meeting tonight after the ceremony
Meet by the new statue at 8 p.m.

Panicking, I look into the audience. I easily spot Sable, handing out flyers like an usher at the opera. My scan picks up Mark, then Del, then Will, and finally Davis, who’s not far from the edge of the stage. I can’t tell if he’s
seen me. Several moments pass before I realize I’ve pulled my hand out of Erik’s.

The Monona High School pep band strikes up “We Are the Champions” and the crowd erupts in applause. The mayor takes the podium. He speaks, but I can’t hear him. I can only focus on Davis, who has stopped handing out flyers and has taken point near the front row. He’s listening to the mayor. If he’d seen me, I’m sure he’d be staring. Like I am at him.

Has Sable “inducted” him yet? How long will it be? It’s only then that I place the cop talking with the mayor as the same cop who came to my house. Officer Brogan. He’s standing not three feet from Davis.

Malaika’s speaking now. “A tide is turning,” she says. “We as a city have to unite and send a clear message: There can be no room for hatred. We will brook no intolerance. We bring the fight to the intolerant, using their own hatred against them.” I think about Pete in the hospital and sickness wells in my stomach. I think about Kenny, so fucked up with feelings he hates having. I count the days until I’m in California and can start over, tabula rasa, and none of that will matter.

“And now,” Malaika says, her warm voice warbling slightly through the cheap sound system, “I’d like to introduce the artist who designed and built the sculpture we’re about to unveil. Mr. Erik Goodhue.”

Whistles and hoots punctuate the applause. Erik squeezes my knee and steps up to the podium, holding his note card. “Thank you. It was an honor to be selected to create the work you’re about to see …” He stops, staring intently at the card. I prompt him in my mind.

After six months of work … After six months of work …

Then he turns the card facedown on the podium and swallows. “Listen, I’m terrified to talk in front of people.” A chuckle ripples through the crowd. “I thought writing my thoughts down would help me through this but it’s not. So I’m just gonna punt. The fact is, I made this statue because I could have been Cory Tanner. I got the snot kicked out of me almost every day when I was in middle school.”

I never knew this. Erik? With those muscles, with that confidence? Beat up?

“My mom—she passed away when I was nine—she used to tell me about angels. She said we all had angels to protect us. I don’t know where Cory’s angels were when those thugs were taking a baseball bat to him. But his angels are here now, with us today. His angels will stand here as a permanent reminder that there is grace all around us. And it’s through that grace that we’ll persevere. It’s a grace we find through unity. It’s a grace that comes from loving and being loved.”

He stops, mouth poised to speak, like he thinks he should say more. But he glances at me and I nod. There’s nothing more to say. He nods back. “I’d like to show you the
Angels
now.”

All of the speakers move to the covered statue. Erik turns and holds out his hand to me. I watch as Davis, who’d been staring at Erik with rapt attention during his speech, follows Erik’s outstretched hand and our eyes meet. I can feel the crosshairs home in.

I stand and face Erik, smile on my face. I cross the stage and take his hand. The other speakers, Erik, and I take the rope and as the crowd counts to three, we yank, sending the cloak fluttering to the grass.

A shaft of pure sunlight hits the polished wings, washing the first few rows of spectators in radiance. The crowd can’t decide whether to “oooh” or scream in appreciation so they choose both, competing with the wild applause for decibel supremacy.

Erik leans in to kiss me, his soft brown eyes dancing. I know that look. It’s the one I keep inside whenever he’s not around. It’s the one I would have cried for, remembering in Chicago. Only I don’t have to remember now. I’ve chosen California. And I can have that look with me every day.

I don’t want to know the look I’m getting from Davis.
At the reception, Erik is the man. Everyone is shaking his hand, complimenting the statue. People ask to get their picture taken with him next to the
Angels
. He gets business cards. Hot guys hand him slips of paper with their phone numbers. Erik hands me the numbers to tear up. I smile, the proud boyfriend, but my chest is tight. I don’t know where the Chasers are and that scares me.

Then I spot Kenny. He’s standing near the picnic shelter with a husky man; from the resemblance, I’m guessing it’s Pete’s dad. He and Kenny are speaking to Officer Brogan.

Kenny caved. He’s squealing on Davis.

Not now
.
Not in front of Erik.

Erik pokes me in the ribs, our prearranged signal that the accolades are making him uncomfortable. We say our good-byes, he takes my hand, and we head out. We get close to the edge of the park when I see Sable and the Chasers, huddled near the
Angels
. Mark and the rest are talking to kids holding the flyers they got during the ceremony. New recruits. Sable’s got an eye on Officer Brogan.

Davis breaks from the group and charges over. Instinctively, I try to remove my hand from Erik’s but he won’t let go.

He knows.

“So, uh … this is your statue?” Davis asks Erik, while he glares at me.

“Yep. Did it myself.” Erik beams. He releases my hand, only to slip his arm around my waist and pull me into his side. He holds out his free hand. “I don’t know if you remember, but we met once. Last year, after my volleyball game. You’re Davis, right?”

I’m sure Erik feels me stiffen.
Please don’t do this
.

Davis shakes his head. “You know me? I don’t know who the hell you are.”

I look past Davis. The new recruits can’t take their eyes off Sable, whose flailing arms tell me he’s started his sales pitch. I want lightning to strike him. He’s the last person who should be anywhere near that statue and what it represents.

“I’m Evan’s boyfriend. I’m Erik.” He’s still holding out his hand but Davis regards it with disgust.