I continued to lean against the table, the lines resounding in my head.
Out of this universal feast of death—may it be that Love one day shall mount?
I knew these words. Perhaps they had entered me after all, as I slept. I imagined, for a moment, Kyle’s eyes arriving at those final words, like summiting a mountain, and wondered what had passed through his mind as they did. And then the lines disappeared, the book, the mountain, and I was left with only his eyes. And then those too, I put aside.
Before I make my toast, I will have a shower, I decided. And I will put my hair up in the way Paul likes, and I will get dressed in something nice. Maybe my green turtleneck. As I crossed through the living room, the morning light filled the house and, like a prism, I saw the life I had lived within its walls refracted back to me in a thousand different shades. Ashley will stay for dinner tonight. I felt it in my heart. Tonight I will eat lasagne with my family. And tomorrow, Paul will cook us waffles. We will spread the Sunday paper out over the kitchen table, the radio playing in the kitchen, Ashley on her phone, the three of us sharing space, sharing time.
I reached the staircase, put my hand on the wooden banister, and made it up to the fourth step—when I stopped.
I heard something.
Not the leaves, or the fridge, or the air conditioning, or my stomach. I held my breath and stood very still. I brought my hands slowly to my ears and covered them. I pressed my hands hard against my head, and created a seal with my sweaty palms against the sides of my face, a vacuum of silence—and then lifted them off. It was there. It was not in my head. Much fainter than before, but unmistakable. I gripped the banister. I felt as if my knees might give out. I thought I had made such progress. Maybe I had only willed myself not to hear it. Maybe it was easier to believe it was gone. What if it was there all along, below it all, and never left me? What if it never would?
I began to laugh. Or was I crying? I was overcome—but with what? Relief? Terror? How was it possible I did not know? But I did not. I did not know.
There was so much I never did know.
POSTSCRIPT
I CANNOT SPEAK TO THE SEXUAL ASSAULT ALLEGATIONS that have been levelled against Howard by several former students of his at Virginia Tech, in part because, at the time of writing this, the matter is still before the courts, and also because it feels too painful for me to wade into. I have chosen, for my own mental health, not to apprise myself too closely of the details of the case. I was not aware of these allegations at the time of my association with Howard, as they emerged in the wake of the tragedy on Sequoia Crescent and the attendant media scrutiny. What I will say is that it takes immense courage for anyone to step forward with experiences of sexual assault, and I would not want, for a moment, to dismiss or diminish these women’s allegations. I cannot help but feel an immediate and profound sense of solidarity with them. It is for their sake that I have felt most conflicted about writing this book, as I would hate to be seen as an apologist for Howard’s previous actions, whatever those might have been. I have done my very best to represent my experience of events as faithfully as possible, without letting subsequent developments or revelations colour my account. The media’s portrayal of Howard as a Svengali ringleader doesn’t, for instance, accord with my recollection of events, but then I have been made to second-guess so much of my experience of those months, given the state I was in. Ashley and Paul have suggested that the way I have portrayed Howard and Jo in this book is only evidence of the efficacy of their manipulation of me. If Nora or Emily or Shawn, or any of the other members of our group, wrote their own account of The Hum and Sequoia Crescent, they might have a very different take to offer. I hope, in time, they find the strength and resolve to do so.
My life has returned to some semblance of normalcy. Paul and I have settled back into familiar routines. Ashley is entering her second year of university. I have lost touch with virtually all my friends from before, but I have made a few new ones. I have a steady job that satisfies me. I have grown quite accustomed to this new-found quietude, and the thought of the renewed media interest in, and scrutiny of, my story that this book will prompt has caused me some anxiety. Nevertheless, I feel the potential benefit, to myself and hopefully to others, of telling my story outweighs the drawbacks. Inevitably the question everyone wants to ask me is whether I still hear The Hum. I have found the easiest answer is no.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The text from Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain is from H. T. Lowe-Porter’s 1927 translation, as printed in the 1999 Vintage Classics edition. Simone Weil’s quote comes from Arthur Willis’s 1952 translation of Weil’s Gravity & Grace, as printed in the 1997 Bison Books edition.
I would like to express my profound appreciation to Jennifer Lambert and Noelle Zitzer at HarperCollins Canada, and Nicholas Pearson at 4th Estate, for so skilfully midwifing this book into being; to Jane Finigan for seeing potential in me and this story, and pushing me to realize it; to Imogen Sarre and Elinor Burns for their wisdom and steadfastness; to Brian Lobel for his friendship, and for inspiring the character Shawn; to Deborah Pearson for lending this story her voice more than once; to Patrick Eakin Young and Alice Kentridge for providing a home away from home while writing; to Emily McLaughlin and the New Work Department at the National Theatre for nurturing an early version of this story; and to the Canada Council for the Arts for vital support in completing a first draft. I am grateful for all that public arts funding makes possible, and to live in a society in which it exists.
My enduring love and gratitude to my mother and father, my brother, and my grandmother. To my boyo, Alistair. And my extraordinary friends, especially Jennifer Warren, whose voice I hear throughout this novel.
Finally, and above all, I offer my heartfelt thanks to James, for sustaining me through every stage of this book, for reading draft after draft, and proffering so many insights. Thank you for always believing in this story and these characters. This book would not exist without you. And I would not be the writer, nor the person, I am without the years of love, wonder, and adventure we shared.
About the Author
Jordan Tannahill is a Canadian playwright. Two of his plays have won a Governor General’s Literary Award, Canada’s highest state honour for literature. He has published one previous novel and lives in London.
About the Publisher
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United Kingdom
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United States
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The Listeners Page 25