Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

ROGER

Usually if I cry myself to sleep, I won't wake up for a good long time, maybe eighteen, twenty hours. That day I woke up early. To be fair, it can't have been much later than eight o'clock, if that, when we fell asleep. I stayed up breathing in one-two-three out one-two-three until I was sure he was asleep. Scared. Of Mark.

Yeah, I know, that's pretty crazy. Me, afraid of him; he seems so little and meek but the truth is, Mark can dominate like hell and guilt like the best Jewish mothers. Mark's a scary thing when you're on his wrong side. And I wasn't sure if I was.

I hated it so much, lying there, afraid of the person holding me, trying to make it better but when he touched me I just…

So the next morning, I was out of bed early. It was a great morning – cold, clear. I forgot the radiator didn't work (again) and kicked it (again) and bruised my toe (again). Murmuring obscenities, I folded a paper towel into a coffee filter and put a pot of water on the stove. It was just one of those mornings – coffee, oatmeal, chocolate chips. I defy anyone to tell me chocolate chips don't belong in oatmeal.

Okay, I defy anyone to prove it.

My throat was killing me, so I added honey to the oatmeal. Honey-chocolate-chip oatmeal is probably the best kind, ever, no questions. Mark disagrees but he'll always kiss me after I eat it. I was halfway through my second bowl of it that morning when the telephone rang. Usually when our phone rings it's Mark's parents or my mom, so I let it ring until the machine picked up. There was the gentle whirr of the tape starting up, our "Speak!", and then:

"Hello, I'm looking for Roger Davis." I looked over at the answering machine as though it might tell me something more. Oatmeal dripped from my spoon. I knew that voice. "I'm Dr. Tsang with the New York Police Department and it's very important that I speak with Mr. Davis—"

I shot off my chair so quickly it tumbled. So did I. I must've hit the ground loudly enough to wake Mark, but I didn't care. My knees and elbows stung and I nearly fell again in my haste to reach the phone. I did, just as he was preparing to hang up.

"Wait, please, this is Roger Davis!"

"Hello, Roger. Perhaps you don't remember me, but—"

I shook my head. "I remember you, Dr. Tsang." How could I not? Probably that was a formality. "What's going on? Is something—is Dad up for parole?" The idea didn't frighten me, strangely. Up until… probably shortly after I moved in with Collins, it would've. It would've terrified me – did, actually. No more.

"No," Dr. Tsang said.

"Roger?" That came from Mark. He stood in the doorway, doorhole really, to our bedroom, looking sleepy. He wasn't dressed except in boxers, and he was looking at me and asking for an explanation.

I covered the receiver. "Two minutes?" I begged softly. Mark nodded and disappeared into the bedroom. "Um, I'm sorry I interrupted you."

"It's fine."

"So… what's going on? Am I in some kind of trouble?"

"No. I wouldn't mind seeing you again, though, if you're amenable to the idea. I've heard worrying things, Roger. Running away from home—"

"There were some problems," I interrupted, feeling suddenly hot. I hadn't spoken to Dr. Tsang since I was fourteen, and the renewed contact… well, I regressed a little. Couldn't help it. It just sort of happened, the way it does when you're a teenager. I mean that in a completely non embarrassing-shorts-spraying-moment kind of way. "Sorry," I murmured.

"That's all right, Roger. I would like to speak with you, though. If you could come down to the station some time in the next couple of days that would be great."

"Yeah," I found myself agreeing with surprising ease. "Yeah, um, I can come down today." We arranged a time quickly: I would meet him at the police station in a little over an hour. After hanging up, I downed what was left of my coffee, put the oatmeal in the sink to soak, then headed for the bedroom. I needed to dress, didn't want to be a moment late -- and I needed to show Dr. Tsang how fully functional I was.

Mark was waiting, sitting on the bed, now fully dressed. "Roger?" he asked. I'll admit something: I wasn't scared. He was. "Where are you going?" he asked, like my mother, reminding me of my lies.

"Just an appointment," I told him. Not going out to cheat on you, not leaving you.

He fiddled with his glasses. "Oh... um..." It was awkward dressing with Mark watching me. I've stripped before, but never much liked it. Never done it for someone I cared about, though. I didn't much like it, but maybe that was what Mark really thought of me. The idea turned my stomach. "Can I come?" Mark asked, and I turned, shocked -- but he hadn't meant that. He wasn't even hard.

Realizing what he meant, I nodded. Mark wanted to come to my appointment. That would be okay. "It... might be kinda boring for you." He wasn't coming into the office without me, that was for sure.

"That's okay. I just want to be with you." He reached out and touched my sleeve. I had to resist the urge to pull away. Mark must've seen it, because he stopped and looking stricken he let his hand fall to his side. "If you want me," he added softly.

Did I? No. I didn't want Mark to see me walking into the police department. I know what he would think. I know what anyone would think. But I needed Mark near, or he would be afraid I'd leave him. I wouldn't. I just didn't want him to know.

"Of course I want you, Mark."

---

"How have you been?" Dr. Tsang asked. We were seated in his office; Dr. Tsang is the police psychiatrist. When last we spoke I was young enough to be in the children's office, a bright room with a lot of toys, but you don't dare touch them because you're afraid of what this will mean to Them, the cops. This time we used his regular office, a room with comfortable chairs, a lot of neatly shelved books and windows that would let in a lot of sunlight, were it not snowing.

"All right."

"What have you been up to the last few years?"

I gave him a quick overview. "I moved in with a professor from NYU." I didn't meet him there, but this makes it sound much better. "Umm. Had some trouble with drugs. My girlfriend killed herself, and... I spent a long time very isolated. Another girlfriend died, this one from AIDS. That was rough. But, um, I'm doing okay now. I'm with Mark, who you met."

Dr. Tsang, an Asian man in his mid-thirties, asked, "Why did you leave your mother's?"

I winced slightly and thought for a moment, then replied, "I couldn't be rehabilitated. I didn't belong there."

"Do you think your mother would agree with this?"

Defensive, I replied, "I send her postcards!"

Dr. Tsang nodded. "I know, Roger." He shifted slightly. "I've had to contact her." At that moment I nearly replied furiously. I left that life. She didn't want me fifteen years ago, she won't want me now. Dr. Tsang headed me off. He replied before I could start to speak, Dr. Tsang informed me, "You're a runaway, Roger, and in this city we have thousands every year. It means something to your mother that you're found, and to the police."

I sighed, but nodded. He's right. One runaway child found, well, it may be a drop in the bucket but enough drops can tip the statistic. Even if the child prefers not to be found.

Then it occurred to me... "How did you find me, anyway?"

"Someone accessed your file," he replied. "The person in question has been apprehended, but his lawyer claims to know you."

The word "lawyer" set off alarms in Roger's brain. "Joanne?" he asked. Dr. Tsang nodded. "But then... d-does she know..."

"Not yet. We chose to bring you in so that you might have some say, Roger. He claims to know nothing of the personal information in your file, but given the private nature there could be a damages suit. The complication here is that personal information about your past would come out at trial." And then he broke my heart. "He says he knows you, Roger."

"Fucking hell." There was only one man I could think of who knew me and had any skill with computers, and it wasn't Mark. "I want to talk to him."

"Are you sure--"

"Where's Collins?"

Dr. Tsang's expression changed when he realized it was true.

---

It's a lucky thing it was Saturday, Maureen thought, because Joanne could head down to the police station when Collins called. She'd been asked not to take his case, but on her personal time there wasn't much her bosses could do to stop her offering legal aid to a close friend. On company hours, however, defending an HIV-positive, homosexual liberal was against company policy.

And when Joanne left, Maureen followed. You just didn't keep Maureen away when she wanted to be somewhere.

She was sitting on the table, bored, watching Collins and Joanne exchange concerned looks, when I burst into the room. Maureen perked up in surprise. She hadn't heard the details of the case.

"How could you do this to me!" I demanded. Collins had stood up and started to say something, which gave me the opportunity to shove him against the wall, showing surprising strength for a skinny little guy -- or so I was later told. "How could you! I trusted you!"

Mark placed his hand on my shoulder and I turned away. How could he have...

"Roger?" Collins asked. His voice was low, like we were the only people there, even with Maureen and Joanne and Mark staring. "Roger, I'm sorry. I wanted to know. I invaded your privacy, and I shouldn't've done that. I'm sorry."

Then he stopped and waited. I wanted to say, It's okay. But I didn't. I couldn't. I just stood, shaking. So he added, "I don't know of anything after the fire."

"What fire?" Maureen asked.

There wasn't anything else for it. Sooner or later it would come out. Joanne would find some legal loophole to look it up, and Maureen would find out, and once Maureen knew...

So I told them the first part. "A little over three years ago..." I sighed. "A building burned down. In the city. They found me stumbling around in my underwear. I didn't know my phone number, my last name or my age. Didn't even know my birthday. I thought I was maybe eleven or twelve years old."

"How could you--?" Maureen started to ask, but Joanne shushed her.

Mark did the math. "Um, that would make you fifteen," he observed, somewhat nervous. No wonder. He had sodomized me.

"Well, I was wrong," I told him. "I was fourteen. They found my mother. In Hicksville. They sent me to her, but..."

Something clicked. Maureen said, "You're Evelyn Davis' boy!" I blushed, I lowered my eyes and I nodded. "I remember you. All the parents were whispering, and when you disappeared..."

"And I moved to New York," I filled in.

"But... what about before?"

I shrugged. Stared out the window. Tried to ignore the others in the room, tried talking to their reflections. "They split up when we were small. Me. My sisters. I stayed with my dad... he didn't much want a toddler, much less one who looked like Mom. Probably just kept me to get back at her. Then he didn't mind so much. He'd found a way to make a profit from it."

And then another moment of silence, a moment of everyone adding up just what my childhood had been, just what had made Roger Davis into the mess and ruin they knew today. Someone said "Oh, Roger..." and someone said "Oh my God". And after a moment, I started crying. Again. After everything, after admitting everything I had managed to hide for nearly two years, I lost control and owned up.

Mark tried once more, placing his hand on my shoulder, but I pulled away from him and fled across the room. After everything, I fled, sobbing, and clung to, of all people, Collins.

to be continued!

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