The Listener

by Robert R. McCammon

“Well,” she said, “you should’ve known it. Ever’body knows it. When I saw that pin you were givin’ her, I figured you must’ve wanted it to go bad.” She made a grimace. The deep lines in her face deepened still more. She was small and frail, her cheekbones were like little blades wanting to cut through the tight flesh of her face, her eye sockets were hollowed down and like the lampshade seemed to trap any gleam of light that might try to escape. She was thirty-seven years old but very easily could’ve been taken for forty-seven. Many did. “Mercy me,” she said. “My back is hurtin’ so much tonight. Mercy, mercy. Hold onto your youth, Curtis. It goes so fast.”

  “Yes’m.” He’d heard those statements a hundred times a hundred; he had answered the same way, a hundred times a hundred.

  “You eat?”

  “I had some birthday cake.”

  “Must not have gone too very bad, then, you gettin’ some rich daughter’s cake.”

  He took in a long breath of heated air. The words jumped out of him before he could stop them. “When I got there…I was thinkin’ I was a guest, but—”

  “You don’t belong over there,” Orchid said. “You know it and I know it.” A hand as slim as a shadow moved at the end of a skinny arm to massage the back of her neck. “Long past my bedtime, waitin’ up for you to come home.”

  Curtis’s mouth closed. He nodded again, and that was all he could say.

  “Help me up,” she said, but she was already trying to stand on her own. “I’m goin’ to my bed. A tired lady here…waitin’ up worryin’.”

  Curtis helped her. She was like a little bundle of firewood that would crackle and crisp away with the first hot flame. The faded pink robe she wore beneath the blanket floated around her like smoke. Her scuffed leather slippers sought purchase on the weary brown rug. When she took a forward step she trembled and winced as if the pain of the world had shot through her bones. “Easy does it,” she said, and she leaned her slight weight on him for support. As usual, he found himself nearly carrying her to her room, which was lit by another single lamp but seemed to be a chamber of shadows.

  He helped her into bed, propping her up on the assembly of pillows. “Left over chicken gizzards and some tea in the kitchen,” she said, as she arranged herself beneath the bedclothes. “Get y’self fed.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Give us a kiss,” she told him, and he kissed her cheek. She ran a hand across his hair and patted his shoulder, and she gave a sigh and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling as if seeing there the stars of eternity.

  “G’night, mama,” Curtis said as he retreated.

  “Aren’t you sorry you went?” she asked just before he closed the door.

  “It was good cake,” he answered, with a slim smile.

  “There’s your daddy again. Ironheaded, just like he was. If a rattlesnake was to bite you, you wouldn’t say it hurt.”

  “G’night,” he said again, but she wasn’t done with him yet and he knew it.

  “I don’t know if I can go to church tomorrow. My back is hurtin’ so bad.”

  “It’d be good for you to get out some.”

  “In this heat? I feel like I would melt away. But you go on, and tell ever’body I’ll be there next Sunday rain or shine.”

  Once more, this was a ritual many times repeated. Curtis said, “I will, mama,” and as he closed the door she reached over and turned out the lamp on the bedside table and there was a deep silence in the room.

  In his room, behind the closed door, he flicked on the overhead bulb and then turned on his own bedside lamp, which gave the space a warmer glow. He used a brush on his suit jacket before he hung it up in the closet. His room was immaculate, the bed made—done every morning before he left for work—and everything in its own proper place, spic’n span as Ol’ Crab might’ve said. He started to undress for bed and then something seemed to give way in him, like a flaw in the floor of an otherwise carefully-constructed house cracking open and collapsing. He eased down in a chair by the single window, and he felt that if he ever could move again it would take another Curtis Mayhew—a stronger one, one with much more energy than he had tonight—to help him to his feet.

  He listened to the night. A dog was barking somewhere near. That dog named Topper, from the Aubrey house across the way. And music was out there too…the snippets of someone playing a trumpet, fading in and fading out as if heard on a defective radio, but Curtis knew it was George Mason who still worked at the docks that had ambushed his daddy back in the year 1920 when Curtis was six years old. You could tell how Mister Mason was feeling, by the wail of that trumpet, and tonight it sounded like the music was just as wounded as Curtis felt.

  He put a hand to his face. How could he have been so stupid? To think that…yes…to think that he belonged there. How could he have let himself possibly think he would be welcome in that world?

  He needed a listener. Oh, how badly he needed a listener this night of all nights.

  He formed the word in his head, formed it strong and clear, and he sent it out on his own wavelength as mysterious to him as any radio frequency travelling through wires in the air could ever be, but it was his and he owned it.

  :Hello:, he said in his mind.

  He waited, but nothing came back.

  :Hello:, he tried again, a little stronger this time.

  Again, nothing. Well, she might be asleep by now. Sometimes he called and she didn’t answer, so—

  :Hello:, she came back, and even though it was his own voice in his head it sounded different…some inflection, some emphasis different…and he knew she was on the line.

  :You trying to sleep?: he asked.

  After a little pause she said, :Just lying here.:

  :Oh. I didn’t want to bother you.:

  :I’m not real sleepy,: she answered.

  :Me neither. Everything good with you today?:

  There was another short pause, and then she said, :My little brother got a whipping today. He ran across the street to go see the ice cream man.:

  :What street would that be?:

  No answer returned for awhile. Curtis smiled a little. He knew of course that she was a girl—she’d told him so—and that she was ten years old, also told to him, but she wouldn’t give away her name or where she lived. He figured she lived somewhere in the city because he didn’t think he could hear anyone for many miles away, otherwise he might be hearing other voices night and day and they might be people who had no idea they were speaking to anyone else. His own ability had started to show up, little by little, when he was nine, so he thought maybe it was the same with her, whoever she was. They’d been speaking like this for about four months, off and on; certainly not every night, but once or twice a week, just talking at night like two people on the cusp of sleep but not quite ready to let the world go. Sometimes during the day he heard her, but it was like an Ouch or a Darn it or an Oh no as if she’d stumped her toe or dropped her school books or some such small calamity that made her speak out stronger. In respect to her he never replied unless she said Hello first and he didn’t press if she didn’t answer after two of his own.

  :Just that street,: the ten-year-old mystery girl replied, and Curtis knew she was smart not to reveal any more because she was still figuring out and exploring her own ability and she probably yet couldn’t get a firm handle on it.

  :You do know that I’m a real person, don’t you?: he asked.

  :My daddy says you’re not. He says I’m making you up and there’s no Curtis.:

  :My mama’s name is in the telephone book. I told you that already. He could—:

  :Daddy says I’m not to do this anymore,: she said.

  Her voice, even reflected in his own that he heard in his head, was strong. He thought hers was probably stronger than his had been at that age and she was just learning it. He recalled his own confusions when he was a little b
oy, and at one point hearing words in his head that sounded like the language Mr. Chlebowski used when he talked to himself behind the counter at the butcher shop. It had been a long road to figure out that he wasn’t crazy—hearing strange words and people speaking in his head that he knew were not simply his own thoughts—but he’d made it through, and with luck and guidance this little girl would too.

  A lot of luck and guidance, he figured. Otherwise a person could lose their mind over something like this.

  :You can’t help it,: he replied. :It’s just the way you are, same as this is me.:

  :I don’t want this,: she said, and he heard the words quaver as if she might be thinking of it as a disease or a curse that was going to plague her the rest of her life.

  Which might be true, depending on how she handled it.

  Curtis waited awhile for her to settle down, and then he said, :I kinda got a whippin’ myself today.:

  There was no answer.

  He waited. She’s gone, he thought, but he was able to keep those private thoughts guarded from her and he didn’t know how that worked though he realized that when he sent his thoughts he used a different place in his mind to project them, sort of a different station on his personal radio set. Telepathy, was what that book at the library had called it, and that really did sound like some kind of dread bone-warping disease.

  He didn’t want to bother her again. She was gone for tonight, and maybe for a good long while. He started to get out of the chair. It was time for him to undress and turn in for the night because Sunday morning came—

  :What happened today?: she asked suddenly. And then, :Who whipped you?:

  Curtis paused and then let himself relax in his chair, all his energy focused toward sending the words out on their strange journey from mind to mind. :I think I whipped myself, mostly. I thought I was invited to a birthday party by a girl I kinda like. Liked, I mean. Turned out she only wanted me there to play the fool. So I didn’t stay too very long.:

  :Oh. Did you take her a present?:

  :I did.:

  :Was it nice?:

  :Nice as I could afford.:

  :You didn’t leave it with her, did you?: When Curtis didn’t answer at once, she said, :You did leave it.:

  :Yes, I did.:

  :I went to Ryan Buckner’s party and I took him a nice present and he was so mean to me at school that next week I told him if he didn’t behave himself I was going to take it back. I didn’t want to go to that stupid party anyway. Just goes to show you.:

  :Show you what?: Curtis asked.

  :Not all people deserve to have nice presents,: she answered. :When they get them they don’t even know what they’ve got.:

  Curtis gave a slow smile to the wall. He said, :I do believe you’re right about that.:

  She was quiet for about fifteen or twenty seconds, and then she came back with :I’m sorry you had a bad time.:

  :It’s a passin’ thing, and matter of fact, it’s already passed. But I thank you.:

  :I’d better get on to sleep now, Curtis.:

  :Yep. Headin’ that way myself, directly.:

  He started to unlace his shoes. She stopped him by saying, :Is there something wrong with us? I mean…this thing.:

  She had asked him that question several times before, and he answered as he always did.

  :We’re different. Nothin’ wrong with us…just different. Now…if you’d let me visit your daddy and mama, and tell ’em what I know to be true it’d be a great help for you.:

  :No,: she said as she always did. :I can’t do that. Maybe sometime, but…I can’t right now.:

  :All right. If and when you get ready, I will be.:

  :Goodnight,: she offered.

  He answered, :Goodnight,: and this time he felt an almost physical disconnect from her mind, a blankness where there had been the electric buzz of energy, again a sign to him that she was getting stronger and was likely much stronger now than he’d been at her age.

  He figured she was going to have a hard road ahead if she didn’t let him help her, but Lord only knew what her daddy and mama thought about this. Just like his own mama, who’d reckoned he was smack out of his mind until they’d gone to see Lady and Mister Moon.

  He couldn’t do anything right now, so he let it go.

  Curtis undressed, put on the skivvies he wore as his nightclothes and got under the sheet. Off the bedtable he picked up the book that he read from nearly every night, even though he’d already read it cover-to-cover several times. He could never get enough of Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur, and even though he didn’t know how to pronounce the title or some of the words in the book that little problem mattered to him not a whit. It was the tale of the noble knights and their magnificent adventures that counted.

  He read awhile, until he was too sleepy to go on, and then he switched the lamp off and gave himself up.

  Ten.

  “Mr. Ludenmere, pardon me but there’s a man here to see you. I told him you were busy.”

  Jack Ludenmere, the forty-four-year-old owner of the steamship freight line that bore his name, reached across his oak desk and pressed the Talk button on his intercom. “Alice,” he said tersely, “Victor and I are real busy. I said I didn’t want to be disturbed. Is that clear?”

  There was no response. Ludenmere looked at his company’s attorney, Victor Edwards, and shrugged. Suddenly the office’s door opened, without the customary knock and invitation. Alice Trevelyan entered with a brown manila envelope in her hand. She said, “I’m sorry, sir, but he’s insisting I give you this.” She set the envelope down on the dark green blotter before him, next to the contract papers he and the attorney had been going over. “I told him you were with someone. He said—” Here she paused, because Jack Ludenmere was a fair boss and paid good wages but when he gave an order he expected it to be followed and now she saw in his light blue eyes a little flash of the lightning that could strike at any second to burn to ashes anyone who got on his bad side. But she had no choice, she had to continue. “He said he wasn’t going to leave until he saw you personally, if that took all day, and he needs to see you in private.”

  “Who the hell does he think he is, Huey damn Long? How’d he get past Roger?”

  “Mr. Delacroix called to tell me the man was very forceful, to say the least. He told me he was sending him up and for me to decide what to do with him.”

  “I don’t have time for this crap!” Ludenmere pushed the envelope away, but his fingers felt something hard within it. Something metallic, it felt to be. His curiosity jumped up and bit him. “Jesus Henry Christ!” he said, and he tore the envelope open to get a gander at what was inside.

  In another few seconds, he said in a subdued voice, “Vic…let’s take a break, shall we?”

  “What’s in there?”

  “We’ll talk later,” Ludenmere replied firmly, and that was Victor’s cue to get up from his chair and skedaddle. The attorney, who was pushing sixty and had the dignified air of an elder statesman, capped his white Parker fountain pen, stood up and left through the door that adjoined his office to Ludenmere’s. As soon as Victor had closed his door, Ludenmere said to Alice, “What’s his name?”

  “He wouldn’t give it.”

  “Well, damn. All right, tell him I’ll spare him ten minutes. And the next time you come in here without knockin’ I’ll have to kick your tail.” When Alice had gone, Ludenmere emptied from the torn envelope the Shreveport Police Detective’s badge onto his blotter and stared at it to make sure he was seeing straight. Though he still did business there on a limited scale, he was nearly eleven years out of Shreveport; what could this possibly be about?

  Within a few seconds, the detective came striding in like he owned the place. The man was of medium size, not very imposing and about four inches shorter than Ludenmere’s six-two. He wore a dark blue suit, w
hite shirt, black tie and a black fedora. Dressed for serious business, Ludenmere thought. The man was handsome in sort of a soft way, like an aging choirboy, but his eyes were hard. In fact, there was a deadness about them that Ludenmere found to be unsettling, and at once Ludenmere felt an ominous prickling at the back of his neck.

  “Thank you,” the detective said to Alice, but she stood there and looked at her boss until he waved her away. “Close the door, please ma’am,” the detective instructed, and she had been about to anyway so she closed it a little harder than usual.

  Ludenmere did not stand nor did he offer to shake the man’s hand, and the detective didn’t offer his hand either. Neither man smiled.

  “My name is John Parr,” the detective said. “Here’s my card.” He slid it from his wallet and placed it down on the blotter alongside the badge.

  Ludenmere spent a few seconds inspecting it. Printed in black letters on the small white card was John Austin Parr, Shreveport Police Detective, Badge Number 511, and below that the name of the Chief Of Police, Dennie Deere Bazer, the address of the police department and the telephone number OR7-1572.

  The detective picked up his badge and put it into his inside coat pocket. When the coat opened, Ludenmere saw he was wearing a shoulder holster with what appeared to be a .38 revolver lodged in it.

  “I drove from Shreveport all night to get here this mornin’,” the man said. “I’m hot and tired and I’m not in the best of moods. I understand it’s difficult to get in to see you and I had to nearly threaten that fellow downstairs, but this is of the utmost importance. I didn’t show anybody else my badge or tell them who I was, and I think you’ll appreciate that in a few minutes.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “It’s about a kidnappin’ plot, sir,” said the man known to Ginger LaFrance as Pearly, who was keeping himself focused though he was mightily impressed by the large picture window behind Ludenmere’s desk that gave a panoramic view of the Mississippi river and the docks where the company’s steamships were either unloading or taking on freight. “Your children are in danger.”