I was the woman in Ancient Greece with a womb wandering through my guts like a feral dog for having sexual desire, or anxiety, or depression, or whatever other feeling was inconvenient for my husband. I was the melancholy woman prone to demonic possession and witchcraft. I was the woman sent to the Alpine sanatorium, when my husband no longer wanted to deal with me complaining about his mistresses. Too much sex. Not enough sex. Too much female seed becomes venomous if not released through regular climax, don’t you know. Too much menstrual blood. Not enough menstrual blood. If I was living a hundred years ago, less even, I think it’s entirely possible I would have been subjected to electroshock therapy for hearing The Hum, and maybe a hysterectomy fifty years before that. And I have the feeling that Paul would have very lovingly and supportively allowed it.
I was the one who first told Ashley the story of the dancing plague. The plague started with a woman, naturally, named Frau Troffea, who on a clear summer morning in Strasbourg in 1518 began dancing in the street. Neighbours gathered to laugh and clap and cheer her on. But it soon became clear that something was wrong. Frau Troffea danced and danced for six days without stop. Her husband and children brought her water, and shoved pieces of bread and cheese into her mouth to keep her alive, for she wouldn’t even stop to eat; and as discreetly as possible, they did their best to clean her whenever she soiled herself. By the end of the first week, more than thirty others had joined Frau Troffea, and by the end of the first month, there were four hundred dancers, most of them women. Some of the dancers dropped dead in the street, sweaty and red-faced, from exhaustion and strokes and heart attacks. At the height of the mania, around fifteen people were dying each day. The doctors of Strasbourg ruled out astrological or supernatural causes, and instead attributed the dancing to ‘hot blood.’ Some prescribed bleeding, but others suggested the only cure was for the afflicted to dance day and night until they had danced out their mania. So the city gave over two guildhalls and the grain market to the dancers, and when these spaces filled up, the city hired a band of musicians and built a giant outdoor stage. But, perhaps unsurprisingly, this only encouraged more people to join in. Soon, people from all across the land were pouring into Strasbourg to dance to their deaths. It is still not known why the mania began, or how it ended.
While writing this book, the obvious question that struck me was—Whatever happened to Frau Troffea? I could find no mention of her fate in any article, despite nearly every single one identifying her as the first dancer. A few details also differed from my memory of the story. Like for instance, there’s not a single mention of her husband and children bringing her food or cleaning up her shit as she danced. I suppose that was my own hopeful invention. I did, however, find an image of an engraving by Hendrik Hondius from 1624 called Dancing Mania on a Pilgrimage to the Church at Sint-Jans-Molenbeek. Hondius based his engraving on a drawing made nearly eighty years earlier by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, who had been a witness to the events.
In the foreground of the engraving are six figures. Two middle-aged women are held by men on either side. The men have their arms hooked through the women’s arms, and grip the women’s hands, but it isn’t initially clear if the men are dancing with the women, or restraining them. In the distance, two men appear to be carrying a woman away over a low bridge, while nearby, another woman sits in a stupor by a creek. The more I looked at this image, the more I realized that the women were the only ones being portrayed as wild. Raving crones to be wrestled by their concerned menfolk. The women are not rendered sympathetically; they’re homely and heftier than the men who attempt to subdue them. In other words, they’re comic subjects, meant to be mocked and scorned. It feels like a knowing elbow nudge, from Bruegel to Hondius, one man to another, about the inherent and eternal madness of women. Madness as our nature. We only need the slightest provocation to break free from our homes, from our domesticity, and flee into the wilds, for our menfolk to come chasing after us, and carry us back to civilization, back to our senses.
When I found this image, my eyes lingered over the figure of the woman on the left-hand side of the group. Her gaze is angled towards the sky, and her brow is furrowed with intensity, as if trying to challenge God. She is gazing beyond the moment, beyond herself, and the strictures of her body, and the social order that attempts to restrain her. She is gazing upward to the heavens, to the birds that circle above, to a divine mystery that she alone seems attendant to in that chaotic moment. In her look I do not see madness.
I see resolve.
11
KYLE WAS NOT INVITED TO THE PARTY. ASHLEY AND I HAD been extremely clear about this fact. So it was with considerable surprise that I pulled into the driveway the next morning to find Kyle walking out the front door. And not only was he walking out the front door, but he was accompanied by Paul. And not only was he accompanied by Paul, but he was helping carry one of Paul’s cardboard boxes down the front walk and load it into the trunk of Paul’s car.
What the actual fuck is going on right now? I murmured to myself.
After loading the box into the trunk, Paul and Kyle both looked over at me sitting in my car, and gave me polite nods as if this wasn’t the most surreal scene any of us had been privy to, as if my former student who precipitated the implosion of my marriage wasn’t helping my husband move out of my party-ravaged house. They then turned and disappeared back up the front walk. I sat there for a stunned moment, before climbing out of the car, and hurrying after them into the house.
Stepping through the front door, I noticed where there once was hardwood floor, there was now a carpet of deflated balloons, crumpled streamers, discarded corsages, and plastic cups. A framed Georgia O’Keeffe print formerly hanging near the staircase was missing, replaced by smears of god-knows-what on the walls. And the glass front of the ornamental clock in the front hall was smashed.
Morning, Ashley said from the staircase. She was wearing her PJ Harvey t-shirt and plaid boxers and was watching, with serene disinterest, as Kyle and Paul negotiated which box to lift next from the pile in the hallway. Paul turned and gave a furtive little wave, and said he had texted Ashley last night to let her know he was coming over.
But my phone died, she said, as if that were all the explanation needed.
I looked at her with what I hope she read as bewildered rage, and then back down the hall at Kyle, who flashed me an apologetic smile. His shirt was stained all down the front with what looked like cola.
What are you doing here? I asked him.
I know, I’m sorry, I—
When I saw him last night I threw my drink at him, Ashley said, sounding vaguely proud.
And then dragged me upstairs—
Well we weren’t going to have it out in front of everyone, so yeah I took him into your bedroom because—
What?
—because there were people in mine, and—
You went into my bedroom?
Our bedroom, Paul corrected.
So we could have somewhere to talk—
We agreed—
I know, I’m sorry, but we had a talk, she said, turning to Kyle. About everything that’s been happening, your little group, these meetings—
The meetings? I asked, feeling like I was scrambling up a sand pile. What, what did you say?
Nothing.
I wanted to know if he really believed, Ashley said. All this shit about the Resonance, did he really, did you really believe it? she said, looking at him.
I can literally hear it, Kyle replied. That’s like asking me if I believe in gravity.
And then I asked him what Howard wants.
Wants, I said. In what way?
Like what’s his agenda, Ashley said.
I put my overnight bag down, and steadied myself against the wall.
He’s a scientist, Kyle replied. He’s interested in the truth.
He’s your leader, Paul said, looking at me.
He’s not our leader, I replied, exasperated. We’re all equal, we all l
ead, we all contribute.
Right, Paul said, nodding, dismissive.
Well it all sounds majorly fucked up, Ashley said.
Why, because you don’t understand it? Kyle asked, in a measured tone. Do you think you understand the whole world? You don’t think there’s room for things no one can explain? Is there nothing left to discover?
Ashley turned to me, and said, matter-of-factly—Kyle’s here because his mom kicked him out of the house yesterday, and he had nowhere else to go, and I felt sorry for him.
What? I looked at Kyle. Your mom—?
Kicked me out. Yeah.
Kyle—
She found out about the meetings. You can’t hide shit from my mom, she’s like the CIA.
I told him he could crash here for the night, Ashley said. I figured you’d probably prefer that than letting him wander the streets.
Well of course.
And then I came home to find him on the couch, Paul said. And we had a pretty damn heated exchange, let’s say. Well I was heated.
Just hearing this was giving me stomach cramps.
But we had a talk, didn’t we, Paul said, looking at Kyle.
Kyle nodded.
What kind of talk? I asked weakly.
That’s between us men, Paul replied.
He actually said ‘us men,’ I kid you not, like he’d just given his son the sex talk, and I would have laughed if I hadn’t felt so close to stress-vomiting. In retrospect, Paul must have been unbelievably stressed as well, to have said something so dumb; he was never very good at performing calm when he wasn’t. Either way, I found his answer both disquieting and irritating.
And then, Paul continued, at the end of it, Kyle very kindly offered to help me with these boxes.
I see, I managed to breathe out.
You’re not thinking of letting him stay here, are you? Paul asked me.
Paul, I have no idea, I’ve just walked through the door. I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet.
Because I don’t feel comfortable with him staying here.
Well it’s not your decision.
I still own half of this house.
Oh right. So what half are you taking with you?
You’re just going to let him sleep on the couch? Claire Devon’s House of Strays?
It was just a night, Ashley said, flinging her hands up.
Claire, do you get how this would look? After everything?
I turned to Kyle and asked him if he had somewhere else to stay. He puffed up his cheeks as he thought, then exhaled—I’m sure I can figure it out.
But do you? I pressed.
I don’t know.
What about Luke or Mohammed?
You’re joking.
Or Jay?
His family doesn’t have the room.
Are we seriously having this conversation? Paul asked.
It’s not our responsibility, Ashley said to me.
Of course it is.
Paul flushed with indignation—How?
Because I’m a human being.
Really, it’s fine, Kyle said. It’s not your—
There must be someone, Ashley said.
I’ve asked Rory for a night but I haven’t heard back.
What about like an uncle or aunt? Paul asked. Grandparents?
It’s just me and my mom.
Well you’re not staying here. I’m sorry.
Yes he damn well is if he has nowhere to go, I said. I do, actually, have some responsibility.
What’s your mother’s phone number? Paul asked Kyle.
I held my finger up at Paul—Do not, no—
I’m calling and resolving this right now.
You’re going to make this a thousand times worse.
Worse than him moving into your house?
His mom should know, Ashley said.
Paul leaned in towards me—He is her goddamn problem, not ours.
And then, whether to curry Paul’s favour, or because he felt he had no other choice, Kyle recited his mother’s home phone number. Paul grabbed his own phone out of his pocket, and had Kyle repeat the last four digits as he dialed. Paul held the phone up to his ear, and we waited, breathless, for the call to go through.
Is this her real number? Paul asked Kyle after several rings.
Yes, of course.
She’s not answering.
It’s nine in the morning on a Sunday, Ashley said. She’s probably still sleeping.
She’ll be at church, Kyle said.
Church? Paul looked surprised. Right. Didn’t even occur to me.
The call went to voicemail and Paul began leaving a message—Hello, Mrs. Francis, this is Paul Devon speaking, Claire Devon’s husband. I’m sorry to be calling you so early on a Sunday—He wandered off into the kitchen while recording the message, stepping over balloons and piles of paper plates.
Kyle looked at Ashley, and then at me—Well I’ll see you later, he said, turning and walking out of the living room, towards the front door.
I followed him to the door, and tried to stop him—Kyle, wait.
But he charged outside and down the front path without turning around, as I felt white-hot anger flare up in me. I turned around to find Ashley right behind me.
You’re such a little shit, I said quietly.
Excuse me?
You knew your dad was coming this morning, and you invited Kyle to stay over knowing this would happen.
Are you insane?
Did you want to embarrass me? I asked. Punish me?
You’ve fucking lost it, woman.
Make him think I can’t possibly be left on my own?
I was trying to do the right thing!
I stared at her, shaking my head. I knew in my gut that she had seen Paul’s text the previous night. Just as she had seen Brenda’s text, and never warned me. She knew Paul would be there that morning, knew I would come home to this ambush. I had never spoken to Ashley like that before. I didn’t recognize myself. And in that moment I didn’t recognize her either.
Your phone is dead, I said, mocking.
It is.
Show me.
No.
Show me your phone.
I’m not a child.
No, you’re a liar.
She set her jaw, just as Paul returned from the kitchen holding the espresso machine with both arms—I’m going to need someone to help me unload the boxes on the other end.
I’m coming with you, Ashley said. Lemme just grab my bag.
She bounded up the stairs towards her room.
Ashley, come on, I called up after her. Your father has no second bed, no bedding, no kitchen supplies.
I looked at the espresso machine in his arms—Well, no useful kitchen supplies.
I can host her for a few days, Paul said. Maybe she just needs some space.
Well a studio apartment doesn’t have much of it.
I don’t think it’s healthy for her to be here right now, with you like this, and with him hanging around.
With me like what? What am I like?
In a cult! Ashley shouted down from upstairs.
I felt like she had just slapped me across the face. A cult. Before I could reply, Paul said—Let’s call a spade a spade, Claire.
I’m sorry, what?
You believe in a totally illogical delusion.
Paul, you believe in talking snakes and the parting of the Red Sea and a God who somehow has a son who he sent down to Earth to be born to a virgin woman—
Okay, okay—
No really, how many people have to believe for it to stop being a delusion? If I’m in a cult, you’re in a far bigger and more fucked-up one than I am.
You’ve completely—he made a spinning gesture with his hand to signify that I had unravelled, I suppose, that I was spinning out of control—I mean look at you, look at this place.
She just threw a fucking party, I said.
With underage drinking and adults nowhere to be seen.
As
we argued, I thought, Was this really what Paul and Ashley had been thinking all along? That I was in a cult? I found this completely astonishing. For them to say this was to suggest there had been some disjuncture in the continuity of my being. I was not, in their eyes, fundamentally the same person they once knew. I couldn’t be. Not if they truly believed their accusation.
Ashley bounded down the stairs with a duffle bag slung over her shoulder, and tossed her phone to me, which I barely managed to catch.
It’s dead, she said.
I handed it back to her without looking at it. What did it even matter? I felt like bursting into tears, or perhaps flames, like a car slammed at high velocity. She grabbed the last box from the front hallway, and walked out with Paul, who closed the door behind them with a look I had never seen him give me before. I held the look in my mind for several seconds after he had closed the door, parsing it out, until I realized—it was pity. Paul, my cornflake-faced giant from Amarillo, had every possible emotion at the disposal of a heterosexual man, and he chose pity. He might as well have chucked an egg at my face before closing the door. One parting addition to the mess of my house, my life.
12
THE GROUP HAD CONTINUED TO CHANGE SHAPE OVER THE winter, and into spring. At one point we had three new members, but then Pierce—the bald architect who came to one session, and said next to nothing—never came back. The other two newcomers stayed. The first was Shawn—a witty, loud, and effete man in his early thirties, with something of an equine face: big nose, big eyes, big teeth. The second was Mia, also in her early thirties—a self-described ‘antifa’ who worked with autistic teenagers and spent winters living and working at an ‘eco farm and wellness retreat’ in Oaxaca, Mexico. She had been arrested the year prior for blocking the construction of a new natural gas pipeline. I can’t recall how either of them found out about the group. It’s possible it was through Damian’s post on Reddit. Either way, both of them had heard The Hum for months, and suffered in isolation. Like most of us, they were initially reticent to adopt Howard’s theories wholesale, but gradually became some of the most active participants in our exchanges.
The Listeners Page 14