The Listeners

by Jordan Tannahill

  THE LISTENERS

  Jordan Tannahill

  Copyright

  4th Estate

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.4thEstate.co.uk

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1st Floor, Watermarque Building, Ringsend Road

  Dublin 4, Ireland

  This eBook first published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2021

  Copyright © Jordan Tannahill 2021

  Cover photograph © PlainPicture

  Jordan Tannahill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins

  Source ISBN: 9780008445393

  Ebook Edition © July 2021 ISBN: 9780008445416

  Version: 2021-05-21

  Dedication

  For James

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Postscript

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  1

  THE CHANCES ARE THAT YOU HAVE, AT SOME POINT, stumbled upon the viral meme of me screaming naked in front of a bank of news cameras; a moment of sheer abandon forever rendered as a GIF, pasted in comment threads and text messages the world over. The chances are that you have also seen the coverage of the tragic events that unfolded thereafter on Sequoia Crescent. And the chances are that you probably think of me as some brainwashed cultist, or conspiracy theorist. I wouldn’t blame you for believing these things, or any of the other wildly sensationalized stories that have circulated in the days, weeks, and months since.

  The truth is that I am a mother, and a wife, and a former high school English teacher who now teaches ESL night classes at the library near my house. I love my family fiercely. My daughter, Ashley, is the most important person in my life. You read about parents disowning their transgender sons, or refusing to speak to their daughters for marrying a Jew, or not marrying a Jew, and I think—well that’s just barbarism. Faith is basically a mental illness if it makes you do something so divorced from your natural instincts as a parent. I remember holding Ashley when she was about forty-five seconds old, before she had even opened her eyes, when she was just this slimy little mole-thing, nearly a month premature, and I remember thinking I would literally commit murder for this creature. As I held her I imagined all of the joy and pleasure she would feel, all of the pain that I would not and could not protect her from, and it completely overwhelmed me. I imagined the men who would hurt her one day, and I imagined castrating them one by one with my bare hands. All of this before she was a minute old! So no, I have never understood how anyone could ever put any creed or ideology before their love of their child—and yet, this is precisely what Ashley accused me of doing in the year leading up to the events on Sequoia Crescent.

  I have attempted to recreate the events in this book as faithfully as my subjective experience of them will allow. I wrote these words myself. I did not have a ghost writer. I did not write this book to cash in on whatever minor and temporary notoriety I might have accrued, or to somehow exonerate myself. I wrote it as a way of making sense of my circumstances.

  I have always turned to books for this. I’ve been a voracious reader since I was a girl. I was raised by a single mother and a television. There were no books in our apartment growing up, so I would take out as many as I was allowed from the library, and sometimes a few more which weren’t returned. I’ve always been drawn to stories of women pushed to the brink, living through extraordinary times, and enduring remarkable hardship. I have no time for stories about people mired in self-pity or self-destruction, who flounder around helplessly and hopelessly, I mean who cares, just get on with it. Even though my life really goes down the shitter in this one, I hope that you’ll take me at my word when I say that I truly fought every second of the way, and I did not, and still do not, see myself as a victim. In fact, I’m sure many people see me as a villain in this story, but I try not to see myself as that either.

  In high school, I was an aspiring essayist in the mould of Joan Didion. I had visions of postgraduate nomadism, smoking half a pack a day and driving my way across America, stumbling into the eye of the zeitgeist with my notebook and pen in hand. I used to wear a big army jacket with deep pockets stuffed with dog-eared copies of Rimbaud and Pound. All I wanted back then was to see my name in print. That was before I got pregnant at twenty-two, married Paul, and enrolled in teacher’s college. I never harboured regrets, though. I enjoyed being a young mom. When Ashley was growing up, we used to finish each other’s sentences. People would joke we were telepathic, and sometimes I half believed we were. I’d be thirsty and she’d bring me a glass of juice. Or I’d wake up knowing that she’d had a nightmare and walk into her bedroom before she even cried out for me.

  All that to say, I never expected I would wind up writing a book after all these years, and certainly not under these circumstances. It just got to the point where I couldn’t bear to hear another person’s take on my story, another pundit or talk-show host weighing in on the events of Sequoia Crescent like they knew a damn thing about it, or making light of the tragedy for a late-night-show laugh. And trust me, I can take a joke. I’m sure I laughed harder than most of you at my frazzled hair and flopping boobs in that meme. But if you want to know the full truth, that requires digging deeper than an easy punchline.

  The thing I still struggle to wrap my head around is how did something so small, so innocuous precipitate the complete unravelling of my life. How all of this soul-searching, transcendence, and devastation could begin with a low and barely perceptible sound.

  Do you hear that?

  I was lying beside Paul in bed. He was reading the New York Times on his tablet, and I was marking student essays on Twelfth Night.

  Hear what? he asked, still reading his article.

  I put the essay down on the comforter. It’s like a—humming, I said. Paul looked up, and we both listened for a moment.

  A humming?

  Like a very low hum, I said. He frowned, shrugged, and returned to his tablet.

  I don’t hear it.

  I picked up the essay and tried to get back into it. After a minute or so, Paul asked me if I enjoyed myself at dinner. I nodded, noncommittally. The evening was supposed to be just another monthly meeting of my all-women’s dystopia book club, but it turned into me cooking an overly involved tagine to celebrate Nadia’s birthday—and then husbands were invited. Paul pointed out, rightly, that this was just my way. He was drafted into the role of sous-chef fo
r the evening, bless him. The nine of us spent most of the dinner talking about Trump, and the Mueller report, which then mutated into an intense and wide-ranging discussion about ethics and faith which had half the table speaking animatedly, and the other half in silence.

  Paul turned his head on the pillow, and said, You know, I wasn’t totally comfortable with you calling us atheists.

  It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. I looked up from my essay. I’m sorry?

  At dinner. You said we didn’t believe in God.

  What else could I’ve said? Tara asked me point-blank.

  Well I would say that, maybe, I actually do, he replied. Paul held my gaze until I laughed.

  Which god?

  What do you mean—?

  Like Jesus Christ?

  Paul looked at me like I was an idiot. Yes, he said.

  And his dad?

  I studied Paul’s face, wondering if this was all a set-up for one of his laboured jokes. He then told me that ever since his father died in the fall, he had found himself thinking about faith.

  Well not just thinking about it, but—

  But—?

  Praying.

  Praying? When?

  In my head, in the car sometimes.

  He told me that he found being back in the church for the funeral strangely comforting, and that it stirred something in him. He said he knew I would diminish it, which was exactly why he hadn’t told me, and I said no, I wasn’t diminishing it, as I tried to compose my face. He said that he’d been considering trying to find a church in our area that he could try visiting, even just once a month or something. That’s when I figured this was probably a test and that he was baiting me, perhaps because he was still a bit drunk and wanted to square some argument from earlier in the evening, but I certainly wasn’t going to bite. I just opened my eyes wide and nodded. He then reminded me, as if I need reminding, that Cass and Aldo are Evangelical.

  So?

  So, you were quite rude about it.

  I wasn’t.

  Yes, you were. You were being forceful and dismissive.

  Well I certainly didn’t mean to be, and if Cass thought so, she can tell me herself tomorrow.

  I was hoping that was the end of it, but I could tell it was still working on Paul as he lay there, staring up at the ceiling. For such a giant man, he could be like a little boy when he stewed on something.

  I actually think I’ve buried this part of myself for years because of you, and now I—

  Oh please.

  —no I do, because of your atheism, but I think if left to my own devices my tendency might actually be towards faith.

  Left to your own devices your tendency is also towards microwave dinners and The Wire on Netflix.

  He turned his head towards me again and smiled, then reached over and gently pushed my face with his big paw.

  If you want to start going to church, you can knock yourself out, I said. But leave me out of it.

  I never suggested otherwise, he replied.

  Paul knew better than to talk to me about God. I had invested twenty long years in un-fucking his head with that stuff. I’d seen what the church had done to people like his mother, and there was no way I was going to live a small, mean life under the thumb of the patriarchy. My feeling on the matter was: I had my shit together, I didn’t need God. That’s pretty much how I’ve felt since I was sixteen, when it suddenly struck me that God was no different than every other guy in my high school; he wasn’t interested in me unless I was down on my knees.

  Paul and I had actually done a pretty good job at synchronizing our belief systems for two people who were only together because one inseminated the other when they were both just a couple of years above the legal drinking age. When we met, I was a polyamorous riot grrl teaching English to Latin American refugees, and he was an unskilled labourer building the kind of tract housing we’re living in now. He was a hulking six feet four. Shy and polite, who danced purposefully with his shoulders. Not the kind of guy who’d normally finger a young woman on public transit, or join her at migrants’ rights protests. Acid, avocados, personal grooming, Tarkovsky—I kicked open a lot of doors for him, quickly. He was always a bit dazzled by how I carried myself socially; how I always seemed to be the linchpin in my group of friends. He once told me I made being important look like making a sandwich.

  In those days, even his absence in the room could turn me on; his underwear on the floor, his sweat on the bedsheets, his smell on the pillow. We were full of the unreasonable happiness of a new couple. Sometimes I would be in the shower behind him and think, Remember what water looks like on his neck, with his thin gold chain and freckles, remember always, because maybe I knew these communal showers were a temporary thing, a chapter in our love, and they were, of course. But thankfully I did remember. I still remember what the water looked like on Paul’s young neck.

  Paul had a beauty that begged to be remarked upon on a regular basis, and to not do so, to treat his beauty as something I could take for granted, felt luxurious and extravagant. What’s more, he had no idea he was beautiful, and no idea that I thought so, and I got an almost erogenous thrill at withholding those facts from him. I once told him he had a face like a cornflake—open and sunny, with dimples. This wasn’t received with the spirit in which it was intended. He looked his best when frustrated or concentrating intently. Whenever he bit his lip, I thought of a little toy train I used to have as a girl. The train had a face on it, and I used to pull it around on a rope.

  We’d been seeing each other about six months when the pregnancy happened. It was my decision to keep the baby, but we needed Paul’s family’s help, which came with the proviso that we get married. Paul was poor but secretly harboured dreams of being rich, whereas I was poor and secretly harboured dreams of being glamorously poor. Poor with taste. Jean Genet poor. Paul ended up starting his own contracting business when Ashley was twelve, and it took off, and ever since then we’ve found ourselves in a totally different stratum of life. But when you grow up with nothing, it becomes a pathology. Paul teases me that I wear out my underwear so much I need a belt for them. I’m perfectly content to repair a snapped-off rear-view mirror with duct tape, or use a hair dryer that sparks. I’m clumsy and break things all the time, which I sometimes think is because I’m still not used to having many things, things not made of plastic, things like delicate vases perched on bookshelves and lamps on end tables.

  I grew up urban poor, but Paul was a proper redneck, sharing a bedroom in a plywood-floored bungalow with three brothers a half-hour outside of Amarillo, where you could write your name in dust on the windshield of a car if you left it un-driven for more than three days; a gentle and earnest redneck who’s happy to fall asleep to a woman reading poetry to him. Everything about Paul is oversized. Hands, ears, face, heart. If I had to describe him in a word, it would be ‘concerned.’ Concerned about me, my happiness, if I’m too cold, too hot, too quiet, concerned about Ashley, about her grades, her friends, her haircuts, concerned about the future, our finances, global warming, concerned about what his neighbours think of him, about his mother getting older, sick, dying, his alcoholic brother, concerned about being good, being right, being on time. I am decidedly unconcerned.

  As Paul climbed out of bed and padded over to the ensuite to pee, I picked the turgid essay back up, but before I could find my place in it, I stopped. It was still there. I could still hear the sound. It wasn’t my imagination. There was a very low, reverberating tone, only just perceptible below the echoing of Paul’s urine in the toilet bowl, the soft din of the air conditioning, and the muffled Face-Time conversation coming from Ashley’s room down the hall. It was quite possible that the sound had been there all along and I had just never noticed. But now that I had, it struck me as peculiar.

  Paul flushed and walked back into the room. What’s wrong? he asked.

  I pointed into the air. It’s still there, I said. He sighed and shook his head, but we b
oth listened, this time for ten whole seconds, scanning the room with our eyes.

  I don’t hear anything, he said eventually.

  It’s almost like a vibration, I said.

  Paul asked if I left the hood vent on in the kitchen. I couldn’t rule it out. I groaned, peeled myself from bed, and pulled on the nightgown I’d left bunched on the floor. I trundled out into the hall, passed Ashley’s room, and descended the stairs into the darkness of the ground floor, where a constellation of red and green LED lights signified security alarms, fire detectors, carbon monoxide detectors, Wi-Fi, thermostat controls, all of the systems animating the body of our house, unnoticed and unappreciated like breathing or circulation. I entered the kitchen and listened. The hood vent was off. The fridge sounded normal. But the hum was still there, just as loud as it had been in the bedroom.

  I walked into the dining room, and again, the sound remained unchanged, which I found unnerving. I wondered if I was suffering from some sort of tinnitus. I raised my hands and pressed them over my ears, and the sound was dampened. It wasn’t in my head. The sound was coming from somewhere. I stood in the dark beside the table, where the plates from dinner were still piled, abandoned until the sobriety of morning, and I began to turn my head slowly, hoping to detect some variation in volume or direction. I then began to pace around the room. The moment I felt certain the sound was coming from one direction, and moved towards it, it suddenly seemed like it was coming from directly the opposite direction, behind me. I wondered if it might be our neighbour Farhad working with a power tool in his garage; he’s been known to mow his grass at ten o’clock at night. But that noise would have a clear direction. Whatever this was seemed completely diffuse.

  Ashley? I called upstairs. I waited for a reply, then walked into the front hall, to the foot of the staircase. Ashley?

  Yeah, she shouted down from her room.

  Can you check—? Did someone leave the bathroom fan on up there?

  There was a pause, and then the sound of her door opening. She appeared at the top of the stairs in plaid boxer shorts and a baggy white t-shirt, scratching her scalp through her post-gender haircut. Ashley once said her spirit animal was Sinéad O’Connor, circa ripping up the photo of the Pope on Saturday Night Live.