Without You: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and the Musical Rent (15 page)

“Yes, it went very well, but we have a long day tomorrow, so you should go home and get your rest.”

“Okay, I will,” I said. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep, though.”

“Well, do your best. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” He flashed me his legal pad full of notes, and I nodded and said good night. When I got into the lobby, I peered in the box office window, where Jonathan was still talking to the
Times
reporter, his head bobbing up and down, as it always did when he talked about his work, his hands working overtime to keep up with his words. I watched him for a few moments, and thought about knocking on the window so I could at least wave good night to him, but decided not to disturb them. This was Jonathan’s moment, his first real interview. I would have plenty more opportunities to tell him all of the things I wanted to tell him. Even though I’d wanted to say it all tonight, it didn’t matter
when
it was said; it only mattered
that
it was said. And so I turned and walked out of the theatre, heading home, floating along on the knowledge that tonight had been only the beginning of what was probably going to be an amazing run.

I
woke up the next morning, January 25th, earlier than my alarm, sweating, having been cooked by the sunlight that was streaming through the window above my bed. I sat up, threw the covers off, and rubbed my eyes. The triumph of the previous night washed over me again. I reached for my phone, hoping that there would be some congratulatory messages waiting for me on my voice mail, and dialed. The only message was from Jim Nicola, NYTW’s artistic director.

“Anthony,” Jim said, his quiet, mellow voice sounding more than a little weary, “this is Jim over at the Workshop. Please call me as soon as you get this message.” And then he abruptly hung up.

I had no idea what could be so important, but it didn’t sound like it was something good. I didn’t understand; last night had gone so well, everyone should be thrilled. Maybe somebody had been fired, I thought. Maybe previews were being postponed for technical reasons. I was thinking about this, about to call Jim back, when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Anthony, it’s Sarah.”

“Hi, good morning.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No, no, not at all. What’s up?”

“Well, Anthony,” Sarah said, and then paused. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“What?”

“Jonathan’s dead.”

My chest froze in an instant. “What?”

“He is, he’s dead. He died last night. His agent works with me, and he got the call this morning. It’s unbelievable.”

“What happened?” My entire body felt electrified. My heart began to pound, my face began to heat up, and I tried to simply focus on Sarah’s words, to bear down on myself and keep my head clear as she talked.

“They don’t really know yet what happened. He just collapsed last night after he got home. His roommate found him on the floor. Oh, Anthony, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this.”

“I don’t know what to say…” My heart still thundering in my chest, I sat very, very still and noticed I wasn’t breathing, and forced myself to inhale and exhale.

“It’s unbelievable. He was so alive last night when I talked to him, so happy.”

I considered this, seeing in my mind the images of all of the people surrounding him, the images of him sitting in the box office. “What does this mean for the show?” I asked.

“Well, no one knows for sure. I think it will continue. It has to.”

“Yeah, yeah, it does.” It
had
to continue, for Jonathan.

“Oh, Rappy, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” I said. “This is crazy. I’d better go, I guess. I’ve got to make some phone calls.”

“All right. If you need anything, call me.”

“I will. Thanks, Sarah.”

“Bye, Rappy.”

I hung up and sat staring at the phone. Everything was shifting in me so quickly: I felt wildly crazy and perfectly calm at once. Jonathan’s death made bizarre sense; he’d not been well, he’d gotten this show out of him, which was the most important thing he’d ever done, the biggest expression of himself he could ever put out into the world, and when he was done, he’d died. Shaking my head to get these thoughts away from myself, I picked up the phone again and dialed the Workshop.

“Hello, New York Theatre Workshop, this is Sue.” Her voice was unusually subdued and strained.

“Sue? It’s Anthony.” I could hear Sue breathe in sharply on the other end. “I just heard the news.”

“Yeah,” Sue said. “Yeah.” She sighed. “Well, whenever you can get down here, we’re all gathering together, to try to figure out what to do about this.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there soon.”

“All right, honey.” I could hear her trying to keep her voice from quavering. “See you soon.”

I hung up and stared at the phone again, feeling myself suddenly click more completely into a protective, efficient, practical mode, a much easier state to be in than actually dealing with all that was roiling in me. There were tasks that needed to be accomplished, after all: phone calls needed to be made, people needed to be notified, arrangements needed to be coordinated. And if I was available to do them, I should. So, almost as if I were being compelled by an unseen force, I reached over to my address book and flipped through its pages, trying to think of who I should tell. I felt like I had been thrust into a made-for-TV movie. As I flipped through my pages, wondering who should know, it hit me: as far as I was aware, I was the only person who knew of Jonathan’s friendship with Christina Haag, so chances were she wouldn’t be on anybody’s list of people to notify. So I called her, steeling myself as the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Christina, it’s Anthony.”

“Tony! Hi! How are you?”

“Well, I’m okay, but I’m calling to tell you some terrible news.” I just had to come right out with it; there was no other way.

“What?”

“Jonathan’s dead.”

Christina’s shriek was instantaneous and terrifying and seemingly endless. “What?!?” she finally managed, breathless, almost hyperventilating. I clamped down on myself, to keep my stomach from leaping up into my throat as I listened to her sobs. “What—what do you mean?!?” she cried.

“He died last night, they don’t know why yet. He just collapsed.”

“This—this can’t be. Oh my god, no, it can’t be!”

“I’m sorry, Christina. I’m sorry.”

“Oh my god, oh my god.” She sobbed again.

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

“No, no, you had to. Thank you for calling me. I’ve got to go, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

I heard her gulp down a sob as she hung up. Shaken, I sat for a moment, slowly breathing in and out, and then I abruptly dialed the number for Friends In Deed. Cy wasn’t in, so I left her a message that Jonathan had died, and hung up, and then kept going through my address book, making calls, telling people that Jonathan had died, each time feeling strangely outside of myself and at the same time very much in control of myself, dialing number after number, because it felt like the only thing to do, saying it again and again, “Jonathan’s dead,” until there were no more people to call. And then I numbly got myself ready to go to the theatre, and made my way outside into the bright, harsh winter morning, and slowly walked down to East Fourth Street.

On the corner of Second Avenue and Fourth Street, I ran into Byron Utley, one of my fellow cast members, and even though we didn’t know each other well, we immediately fell into a wordless hug. Byron was tall, so I pressed my face into his comforting, puffy down coat and squeezed him tightly for a moment. We pulled apart, silently shaking our heads, and then he went inside the corner deli and I continued on into the theatre.

The theatre was quiet, even with all of the people who were wandering and sitting around. Sue was the first person I saw, and we shared a silent, firm hug. Then I saw Daphne, and we both rushed into each other’s arms, and that’s when at last I started to cry, pressing Daphne to me, Daphne saying, “Oh, honey, oh, honey,” and tenderly rubbing my back, soothing me while she cried as well. It was as if I’d been waiting for her embrace to allow me to unleash my sadness; now I could let go and weep, my tears impossibly hot and fast, my throat closing up, my face burning, my chest beginning to heave. I held Daphne and she held me, and finally my breathing eased and my tears slowed, and then we parted, holding each other’s hands and looking into each other’s eyes.

“Jonathan, man,” Daphne said, her voice thick and low, her eyes still moist with tears. “That fucker. What does he think he’s doing, leaving us like this? That motherfucker.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“But, I don’t know,” Daphne continued. “I don’t know. I guess he was done, you know? I guess he did what he had to do, and just split. Asshole.”

“I guess,” I said.

And then there wasn’t anything else that either of us could say, and we found ourselves slowly joining the rest of our fellow cast members onstage, where they either sat, their eyes cast down, or stood, embracing each other. Michael, Tim, and the band were there too, everyone’s chairs arranged in a circle, and Daphne and I walked up onstage and silently hugged each person, everyone’s face looking wasted and surprised and puffed out and grim. I took my seat, looking searchingly at everybody, overwhelmed by the intensity of feeling swirling around me.

We sat together, mostly in silence, for a very long time, the silence occasionally interrupted by someone’s halting words, such as, “I can’t believe it,” or “It’s terrible.” I felt that, for me, no words could do this situation the remotest justice, so I remained silent. Suddenly, Tim, who’d been sitting slumped in his chair, shaking his head ruefully, began to sob violently, burying his horribly contorted face in his hands. We all just watched him, allowing him his grief, and Taye Diggs, sitting to Tim’s right, placed his hand on Tim’s shoulder, steadying him, until at last his agonized sobs faded.

Gradually, our circle dissipated, and people broke off into smaller groups, or continued sitting quietly by themselves. I suddenly needed to leave; I was feeling both cleansed and oppressed by the grief all around me; and so I stepped outside, breathing in the bracingly cool air, and made my way to the corner deli. As I wandered up and down the aisles, unsure of what I wanted, just certain that something would bring me some comfort, I slowly realized that the music piping in through the store’s tinny stereo sounded naggingly familiar. I opened my ears to it, and it was then that I heard Michael Stipe and R.E.M. chiming their way through “Losing My Religion,” and even though I wasn’t sure whether I believed in ghosts or spirits or messages from the Great Beyond, I found myself standing perfectly still in the middle of that deli, closing my eyes, letting the song wash over me, feeling that Jonathan was somehow there. He had to be; this song was several years old, and it wasn’t played on the radio anymore, so what was the likelihood that at that exact moment I would just happen to hear it? Maybe it was Jonathan’s way of saying hello, I thought, maybe it was his way of saying that he was there, that he was okay, that he was at peace. But even as I thought all of this, I realized I was reaching desperately for something to hold on to, something that might make sense out of a senseless situation. But whatever the truth of the matter was, hearing that song in that deli in that moment made me feel almost blessed.

Back in the theatre, Michael approached me, his brow furrowed, his pale face flushed red. “Can I talk to you?” he said.

“Sure.”

He pulled me over into a corner of the room, away from everybody else. “I’ve been talking to Jim,” he said, “and we’ve been going back and forth about what we should do about tonight’s preview, and I wanted to ask you what you thought about it.”

I was flattered to be asked, and glad to have something practical to focus on. “Well, we have to do something, don’t we?”

“Yes, we do, we both agree about that, but we’re just not sure what.”

“What are the options?”

“Well, Jonathan’s family is flying here right now from Albuquerque and they’re going to come to the theatre, and I think we should just cancel the preview but invite Jonathan’s friends here and perform the show for his friends and family.”

I felt myself nodding emphatically. “That sounds right.”

“But I wouldn’t want the evening to be about all of the technical issues, you know, I wouldn’t want to get caught up in quick changes and lighting cues. I’d want it to be about the songs.”

“So what should we do?”

“I think we should just have you all sit up there at the tables and sing through the score.”

This felt absolutely correct to me. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Michael looked relieved. “Good, I’m glad you agree. I wasn’t sure if it made sense or not, but I’m glad you agree.”

So we talked to Jim, and solidified our plans, and then Michael told the cast, who all agreed that it was the right thing to do, and suddenly we all had a purpose. The energy in the theatre gathered steam as we all took part in the preparations for that evening’s performance.

Hours later, shortly before our performance was scheduled to begin, I returned from our dinner break to find the lobby teeming with shocked, disoriented people, some standing alone, some huddled together. I saw Christina, and we shared a tight, clinging hug—“Thank you for calling me,” she said in my ear as we embraced—and then I went inside the theatre. Michael came right up to me, fresh tears streaming down his face.

“His parents are here,” he said. I breathed in deeply, my jaw set. “I just can’t stand it. I can’t stand seeing so many parents lose their children. It shouldn’t be this way.” I just nodded and squeezed Michael’s shoulder.

“Where are they?” I asked.

“Right there.” He indicated a short, gray-haired couple, standing off to the side, quietly greeting well-wishers. “I can’t imagine how they must feel,” Michael said.

“Yeah,” I managed to say, my chest tight. I approached them. “Mr. and Mrs. Larson? My name is Anthony.”

Mr. Larson gripped my hand firmly, his eyes both soft and a little wild, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. “Oh, yes, yes, of course. I’m Al. Jonathan told me a lot about you.”

I shook his hand for a moment, unsure of what to say. Finally, I said, simply, “I’m very sorry.”