The Night Listener : A Novel

by Armistead Maupin

  “C’mon, Dad, that’s just a protective thing. It’s natural to—”

  “So why can’t I do it now? Why can’t I take this golden opportunity to spread my wings and meet new people?”

  “You will.”

  I didn’t want to hear that. I wanted him to tell me that Jess would be coming back.

  Him, not her. Wanted him to tell me that.

  At dusk I walked Hugo up to the edge of the forest in an effort to clear my head. And something troubling occurred to me: that my relationship with Pete bore a distinct resemblance to the one I’d had with Jess. In both instances I had split myself into two personalities, one of whom was capable of fearless, unconditional love, while the other, braced against the prospect of imminent loss, warned me not to surrender completely.

  So who was the multiple now?

  FIFTEEN

  ROOM TONE

  THE NEXT FIVE OR SIX DAYS—the ones that mattered, ironically enough—have dropped from memory. Nothing so grand as amnesia, just a run-of-the mill blank spot in the life of a writer unable to write.

  I’ve checked my appointment book for clues as to my state of mind but found only the usual evidence of an ordered but uneventful journey to sleep:

  Gym.

  Eileen—2 P.M.—teeth cleaning.

  Laundry ready.

  Screening at Castro?

  I’m pretty sure I never made it to that screening, whatever the movie was, since Jess and I still weren’t talking, and I would have dreaded the thought of sitting alone in that theater, of all those in-quisitive queens whispering behind their hands about the solitary state of Gabriel Noone.

  I’m pretty sure, too, that Pete didn’t call, though I must’ve wondered why he didn’t. Maybe I thought I’d finally overloaded him with my shitty life. That’s entirely possible. And maybe that’s why I didn’t call him: to give him a break from all that rampant self-indulgence.

  It’s strange to think that I might have altered the course of everything had we spoken even briefly during that time.

  It was Donna who answered when I did call. Her voice was so col-orless that I knew in my gut something terrible had happened.

  “It’s Gabriel, Donna.”

  “Oh…hi.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Not really. No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Those bastards at Argus have cancelled Pete’s book.”

  “What? ” My response was only partially phony. I was shocked to hear the news all right, but in no way confused about what had precipitated it. Every nerve end in my body was already screaming with guilt.

  “They’ve cancelled his goddamn book,” she repeated. “He worked on it for two years and they’ve just changed their minds.”

  “Was this Findlay?”

  “Who else?”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Sort of. It doesn’t make any sense, but…oh dammit, Gabriel, they are such slimy bastards. I should have known not to trust…”

  “Tell me what happened, okay?”

  She paused to catch her breath. “Sorry. I’m really wired right now.

  Things are pretty awful around here. Pete is barely talking to me.”

  “Oh, Jesus…”

  “Poor little dude. If there were any way in hell…”

  “What did Findlay say? Did he give you an explanation?” Oh, please, God, no, I thought. Don’t make me answerable for this.

  “He wanted to send some PR guy out here.”

  “For what?”

  “Background material! Is that a crock or what? He gave them a four-hundred-page manuscript that’s nothing but background material. What more could they possibly need?” I tried my best to sound annoyed but, at the same time, reasonable about the requirements of publishing. “Oh, hell. You know what that is, Donna? That’s just their tired old way of doing things. Publishers are nothing but factories these days, and they don’t turn off the machinery even when they’ve got a special case like Pete. It’s just a matter of routine, really. I’m sure if you—”

  “Fuck their routine. I’m not jeopardizing Pete’s health for their routine. Not to mention dredging up all that hurtful shit again. Pete’s put his pain down on paper and he’s not gonna do it again. He’s not gonna be their trained monkey, no matter what they say. It’s taken too long to get him as far as he is. I can’t do that to him. I just can’t!” I had never heard her so impassioned—or so out of control. “Did you tell Findlay that?”

  “Damn right. He said he’d have to get back to me. Then he called back yesterday and said the whole thing was off. Just like that.

  Without a word of discussion. Can you fucking believe it?” I murmured my outrage, my heart racing faster by the second.

  “Of course I’ve got it figured out,” she added darkly.

  Now my heart seemed to stop altogether as I held my breath.

  “Somebody upstairs has just realized that they won’t get to send this one off to Maury Povich or Jenny Jones or whoever the fuck they were planning on selling him to. They can’t milk him for publicity, so he just isn’t worth their precious time and money. It’s as simple as that, and it’s so callous it makes me want to…Jesus, I still can’t believe it.” I thought for a minute she was going to cry, but all I heard was the sound of her breathing. I chose my words with care, knowing there was still a chance for compromise if I could just angle her into the right frame of mind. “So…you didn’t plan for Pete to do…any publicity whatsoever?”

  “God, Gabe, name me a reason why we should! The last time he was in front of cameras it was because a lot of sick grownups wanted to get off. Do you think I’d put him through that again? Make him sing for his supper? Turn him into some poor little pederast poster boy, just so they can—”

  “But if you let that guy come out…”

  “What guy?”

  “The PR person. Whoever. Maybe that person would…you know, obviate the need for any other publicity. Maybe one interview would take care of it. And you could control it completely, make it as short and easy as you want. There wouldn’t even have to be cameras there.”

  “That’s what Findlay said.”

  “Well, don’t you think maybe…”

  “Look, Gabe. There are times when I wonder if Pete is gonna make it another day. He’s weak as hell and very fragile emotionally and very self-conscious about the way he looks. I just can’t let some stranger in here to pump him about the gory details. It’s too risky in every way.”

  “Did you tell Findlay that?”

  “Of course!”

  “And?”

  “He was completely unbending. He just kept saying, ‘I’m terribly sorry, but these are our requirements.’ He was a total asshole about it. It was like he was a different person. Like he’d already made up his mind.”

  “I’m sure he’s just…” I didn’t know how to finish this, so I didn’t try.

  “Just what?”

  “Who the hell knows? He’s one of those repressed Yankee types.

  I’ll talk to him, though. Maybe there’s something I can say.”

  “What could you possibly—”

  “I don’t know. But I’ll try, okay? I’ll do my damnedest. This isn’t a bit fair.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Is Pete there now?”

  “In the other room. He hasn’t even eaten since we heard.”

  “Fuck.”

  “He won’t even talk to me. He’s being as stubborn as Findlay. He just rolled up in a little ball and faced the wall.” This image so haunted me that it took a while to form words. “Do you…uh…think he would talk to me?”

  “Oh, God, Gabe, I don’t know.”

  “Would you ask him?”

  “You won’t be hurt if he doesn’t…”

  “No. Just ask him, though, would you?”

  A loaded pause, and then: “Hang on.”

  There’s a term we use in radio called room tone that came to mind in the anxious
moments that followed. Room tone, put simply, is the sound of ordinary silence. When you’re recording, say, a radio play, this sound is required in the editing process to make the background into a seamless whole. That’s because a silent room is never the same as the total absence of sound, and no two silent rooms are ever exactly alike. There are subtleties that are almost undetect-able to the ear: atmospheric oddities, the exhalation of a heating duct, the distant drone of traffic or plumbing. The sound of nothing can be cacophonous, in fact, when weighed against the cold polished chrome of Absolutely Nothing.

  What I heard while I waited for Pete was the teeming silence of room tone. A void that said more than any sound, a living entity that could mold itself into shapes and colors and flesh itself, speeding me across a continent to a room I might never see, a boy I might never hold.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah, Pete. I’m here.”

  “She told you, huh?”

  “Yeah. She did.”

  “This is so fucked, man.”

  “Yeah, it is. It is fucked.”

  More room tone, then a tiny squeak that told me he was crying.

  “Oh, Pete…”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No. It’s not. I’m gonna talk to Findlay. See what we can do.”

  “Won’t do any good.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Findlay listens to me when he has to.” Does he ever, I thought. The squirrelly bastard.

  “Forget about it,” said Pete.

  “Why?”

  “Because it won’t do any good.”

  “Look, Pete, this is just about their silly publicity requirements. I think we can offer them a compromise that would give them what they want and still…protect your privacy. Don’t give up hope yet.

  You’re gonna be an author if it’s the last thing I—”

  “You don’t think this is about publicity, do you?” I felt a tightening in my chest. “Well…yeah…sure.”

  “They would cancel a whole book just because of that?”

  “Maybe. It’s all about sales these days.”

  “What about those guys that never do publicity at all? Like…you know, Thomas Pynchon or somebody?”

  “Well…there are always exceptions, I’m afraid. Especially if you’re that famous. You can demand anything you want.” (Could a thirteen-year-old—even one this bright—know about Thomas Pynchon?)

  “You know what I think?” Pete said.

  “What?”

  “You have to promise me you won’t tell Mom.” Bewildered and extremely wary, I considered the ramifications of such a pact. If there was even a remote chance I was dealing with a multiple, was it wise to start taking sides, to conspire with one personality over the other? “Are you sure you want to do that?” I asked him finally. “Secrets are not very healthy things, you know.

  Especially in families.”

  “Yeah, but this would really upset her. She’s way too worried about me already, and I don’t wanna make it worse. I know how she is, Dad. She takes things too hard. She’s not as strong as she looks.”

  But I don’t even know how she looks, I thought. I could walk right past her in broad daylight and never know she was there. She would just be one more of those strangers who smile at me oddly at stoplights and on elevators, recognizing my face from a book jacket. Should I be keeping secrets from someone who had that kind of advantage over me?

  On the other hand, what choice did I have?

  “Okay,” I told Pete. “This is between you and me. Tell me what you think.”

  I heard him take a breath, as if to steel himself for the moment. “I know why they wanna send out that PR guy. It’s to prove that I exist!”

  I had not expected this somehow, but there it was—so unadorned and unaddressable that I was the one who turned into the fraud.

  “Oh, c’mon, sweetie. That’s crazy. What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you get it? They’ve never seen me or anything, so they want proof before they publish the book. That’s the only reason they’re doing this! The fuckers don’t even believe me!” He began to sob now, a terrible animal wail unlike any I’d ever heard from him.

  “I knew this would happen! I knew they would never believe me if I told the truth!”

  “Oh, sweetie.”

  “Hold me, Dad, will you?”

  “I am holding you. I’m doing that right now.” The sobbing continued, then trailed off into sniffles. I could feel his wet cheek against my shoulder, the hothouse warmth of his breath.

  “This is too hard, Dad. I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Do what?”

  A pause, and then: “Any of it.”

  “Oh, c’mon now,” I said softly, unable to manage anything else.

  “I mean it, Dad. It hurts too much.”

  “You mean…physically?”

  “Every way. I’m really tired all the time. I got shingles now and I ache all over and I can’t even breathe half the time. We just keep going to the hospital…and I just wonder…what’s the point? Even the doctors think that. They start sighing real loud as soon as they see me coming.”

  “To hell with ‘em. Tell ‘em to do their job.”

  “They are, Dad. It’s just not working.”

  “It is working. You’re alive and…you’re creating and there are people who love you, Pete…”

  He began to sob again.

  “Oh, sweetie, I am so sorry…”

  “It’s not your fault. You’re the only good thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “No, I’m not. Don’t say that. You have lots of good things. You have Donna and your friends and…lots of things.”

  “My book was the only part of me that I liked.”

  “Oh, Pete, you don’t mean that.”

  “I do, Dad. Before my book I was so ashamed of myself I wanted to die.”

  “Ashamed? What do you have to be ashamed of?” I caught a quick flash of that grisly shed where Pete’s father had fucked him while his mother had wielded the video camera. Then I saw those other monsters, faceless and numberless—unaccountable—who had ordered this child off the Internet, like a cheap ring or a Beanie Baby.

  “You were just a little kid, Pete. There was nothing you could do. It wasn’t under your control at all. C’mon, I know you know that. I’m sure Donna’s told you that a thousand times.”

  “Yeah. But I didn’t believe it until I wrote it down.”

  “And it’s still written down. I have it right here on my desk. The whole thing. Nothing has changed, Pete.”

  “But they don’t believe me.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “I do. I can feel it. They think I made it all up.”

  “Well…look…I’m gonna talk to Findlay and—”

  “You never doubted me, did you?”

  And with that the boy in my arms twisted his head to gaze up at me, those beach-glass eyes growing wider with urgency and need.

  He blinked at me several times, still holding tight, bracing himself for my answer.

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Never?”

  “Oh, Pete, why would I doubt you? What reason could I possibly have? I’m a writer myself, remember? I know how hard it is to tell the truth in print. Don’t you think I would respect that?”

  “I guess,” he said softly.

  My face was afire now, my stomach queasy with deceit. I knew I couldn’t sustain this sanctimonious charade a moment longer.

  “Okay,” I said briskly, “here’s the plan. First, I’m gonna talk to Donna about how we can—”

  “No!”

  “Why not? I’m just gonna propose a plan.”

  “What kind of plan?”

  “Just a way we can…satisfy their requirements at Argus.” He was silent for a moment. “You won’t tell her what I said, will you? About them thinking I’m a phony?”

  “No,” I said guardedly. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  “You
can’t. She’ll totally flip out. She hates it when people don’t believe kids. It sets her off more than anything.” Which could be useful, I thought. An irate mother on the rampage might put Findlay on the spot in a way that I would never be able to do. Then again, what if things got so hot that the editor felt compelled to defend himself, to say who had planted his doubts in the first place? Or at least reinforced them. Findlay had left me out of it so far—as far as I knew—but I would certainly be pushing my luck if I provoked Donna.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll just talk to Findlay. And if he goes for it I’ll talk to your mom.”

  “If?”

  “Well, I think he will. I’m pretty sure, anyway.”

  “You’re not gonna tell me what it is, huh?”

  “Sure. In a day or so. Just let me do my stuff, okay?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  He’s counting on me, I thought. His old feral terrors are back again, no longer contained by his writing, free to prowl and maim at will.

  And he needs his old man to make it all better.

  SIXTEEN

  THE SANDBAR

  THE TERRORS OF MY OWN childhood were petty next to Pete’s, but they’re really the only measure I have: I would get hysterical in department stores whenever I heard the sound of those old-fashioned pneumatic tubes—the ones that once carried money and paperwork from place to place. To me there was something deeply disturbing about them: the way they would scream and swoop overhead like the Wicked Witch of the West. And when those canisters finally dropped in front of me with a creepy thud, my panic was not negotiable; the only remedy was retreat into my mother’s arms and her solemn promise—tearfully extorted—that we would never return again.