The Night Listener : A Novel (12 page)

And once he asked me to fasten his chaps when he was going out for the evening. I had never even
seen
those fucking chaps before.

And another time I accidentally opened one of his letters…”

“Accidentally?”

“Yes. It looked like a flyer or something, and it was this leather club holding its big annual brunch. They were confirming his choice of an entrée. That’s how I knew it wasn’t just some random thing: he’d picked the chicken over the beef.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“Oh, yeah. He tried to laugh it off. He said one of his friends probably signed him up, until I pointed out the entrée thing.” I paused for a dyspeptic laugh. “I know how that sounds, believe me.

Betrayed by brunch.”

“No…go on.”

“That’s all there is. I still can’t believe it. I was more sure of him than anything I’d ever believed in. My parents…my work…Christmas.”

“Christmas?”

“Yeah. Jess hated it, so we pretty much scrapped it. I could see his point, actually: why should one time of year be officially more happy than another? Christmas was just a contrivance next to what we had. Jesus, what am I babbling about?”

“Hey, I’m with you. Roberta Blows, remember?”

“Let’s stop talking about me, okay?”

“Why? You have a right to your feelings.” That phrase was significant, I realized. Pete had been through months of psychotherapy—some of it with Donna, presumably—and the language of the couch had obviously colored his own. It touched me to hear him doling out some of the wisdom he’d already received.

I had never been to a shrink, but I was beginning to understand the value of a generous listener. And what harm could there be, really, in playing the patient for him?

“The thing is,” I said, “Jess was my only certainty. I hate the thought of losing that.”

“What sort of certainty?”

“Oh…just something you feel sometimes. Like at night when you’re driving somewhere, and it’s dark and the lights of the highway are streaming past, and you’re not even talking, and one of you reaches out and holds the other one’s leg for a while. It’s the truest moment in the world, Pete. And all it says is: There you are, and here I am, and we’re here together. You get it in airplanes, too, when the lights are out and you’re the last people awake. Or even in the middle of a bad party when your eyes meet across the room. It’s the only miracle we get, I think.”

“Did you ever have that before Jess?”

“Not long enough to believe in it. It takes time and a lot of work.” Pete hesitated. “Do you still love him?”

“Oh, yeah. I can’t imagine not.”

“Then you must be more certain than ever.”

“Yeah, but…”

“So go with it, man. Hang on to it.”

“It has to work both ways.”

“Says who? Glinda the Good?”

“What?”

“She had it totally wrong, you know. That was really crummy advice she gave the Tin Man. The heart
is
measured by how much you love, not by how much you are loved by others. Fuckin’
Hitler
was loved by others.”

“Yeah, but…”

“And you’re one lucky motherfucker if you already love somebody that much. So just keep loving him. Love him across the city, if you have to. It doesn’t leave room for the fear and anger and the rest of that shit. When my mom adopted me, she loved me for months before I could love her back. And I wasn’t even human until I learned how to do that. It really is inside, man. The whole thing. It’s just something you do yourself, not something you get. Nobody’s love ever saved anybody else.” I was at a loss for words.

“Anyway,” Pete added, “you know that.”

“I do, huh?”

“It’s in your stories, man.”

I heard a low crooning sound in the background. “What’s that?”

“Just Janus. He heard me talking and came in. He wants to know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“And your mother’s gonna be asking soon.”

“Nah, man. It’s cool.”

I could actually
feel
the indigo calm of 511 Henzke Street, the soothing lullaby of that darkened room, and I had no wish to disturb it further. “You should go to bed, kiddo. Get your beauty sleep.”

“My
what
?”

I chuckled. “My mother used to say that.”

“You’ll have to tell me about her,” Pete said.

EIGHT

DON’T EVEN GO THERE

I FELT SO MUCH better the next morning that I called Pete to thank him for listening. After six rings I reached Donna’s answering machine—that bourbon-and-honey voice in its professional mode—so I left a message. He hadn’t called by the time I’d left for the gym at four o’clock, and there was nothing on my machine when I returned two hours later. Nor did the phone ring for the rest of the evening.

A day passed. Then another.

And I began to obsess on the possibilities: Maybe Donna had intercepted that
Playboy
when it arrived at Henzke Street. Maybe she’d been so appalled that she’d ordered Pete not to call me back.

Or maybe Pete had been so compromised by the arrival of the magazine that he was angry with me now and had
chosen
not to call me back.

Or
—and here it got much worse—maybe the boy had finally had a talk with Jess and knew things now he didn’t have the heart to tell me. Like the whole truth about Jess’s motorcycle buddy.

There was another possibility, of course—a far more likely reason for Pete’s silence—but I was too lost in my own pain to think of it.

The call came at two in the morning, waking me from a stony sleep, just as the previous one had.

“Gabriel, listen, I’m sorry. I know how late it is, but could you pick up, please, if you’re there?”

I fumbled my way to the bedside phone. “Donna?”

“Oh, good. You’re there.”

Where else would I be? I thought.

“I was afraid you might have unplugged your phone.”

“Oh. No. I don’t do that. Is something the matter?”

“I don’t mean to scare you,” she said. “But Pete’s been having a rough time of it. We’ve been in Milwaukee at the hospital for the past two days.”

My first reaction—I’m loath to admit—was profound relief. Pete didn’t hate me, after all; he’d just been very sick. It took me a moment to gather my wits and muster an appropriate response: “Is it his lungs again?”

“Yeah. They’re just not draining the way they should be.”

“Shit.”

“We’ve been through this before, so he’ll probably surprise us again, but I would never forgive myself if I didn’t…it’s just that the doctors aren’t sure if he’s strong enough to…Gabriel, I
know
what an imposition this is, but the little dude gets ideas in his head, and I have to respect them if…”

“Donna, I’m lost.”

“I’m sorry.” She uttered a strangled laugh. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Oh. Well…I’d be glad to. Sure. I was actually wondering what had happened to him.”

“I should have called. It’s just been a madhouse around here.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“God knows he wants to talk to you. He’s been on me about it for hours. And you’re the
only
one he’s asking for. He’s got it in his noggin that he won’t wake up tomorrow.” It took a while for this to register. “God, Donna…is that a possibility?”

“We don’t know. His doctor says it’s hard to call when they’re this young. Like I say, we’ve been through this before and he’s pulled through fine. It’s just that he’s so weak right now, and it’s gotten worse all night. So it’s…you know…his lungs could just…call it quits.” She let me absorb that, then added: “I want to be straight with you, Gabriel. You’ve been so sweet to him.” No, I thought. Mostly it’s been the other way around.

“If this is too heavy for you, just say so, okay?”

“Donna…”

“No, really. He has plenty of support. My friend Marsha is here and she adores him. He’s one popular guy. So I can tell him I couldn’t reach you, if you don’t feel up to—”

“Donna, don’t be ridiculous. Put him on.”

“Oh, God, you’re so nice.”

“Please. He’s the easiest kid in the world to be nice to.”

“It may take a while. He’s in his tent with the tubes and all…”

“I’ll hang on.”

“You gotta come see us, okay? Let me cook my chili for you.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Hold on, okay?”

So I held on.

Three or four minutes later:

“Are you still there?” His voice was tiny and ragged, his breathing irregular.

“I’m here, Pete.”

“Hey, dicksmoker.”

“Hey, you little turd.”

He giggled, though now it was more like the squeak of a tiny animal. “Back in the slammer again.”

“They’ve got you in a tent, huh?”

“That’s me. Big Top Pee-wee.”

I chuckled.

“Sorry to wake you up, man.”

“Hey. Cut it out.”

“No, really. I know you need your beauty sleep.” I marvelled at how quick-witted he could be, even under these circumstances. “No sweat,” I replied. “I’m beautiful enough already.”

“Sure thing, Sherlock.”

A silence followed that neither of us could fill. Who do we remind me of? I wondered. And the answer came quickly enough: my father and me, hiding our true feelings amid a flurry of jokes and jolly insults. Don’t do this, I ordered myself. Say what you mean before it’s too late.

“Look, buster. You better not be checking out.”

No reply.

“I just want you to know, you can’t. There’re too many people here who need you, sport. Way too many of us. So don’t even go there.”

More silence, then several quick intakes of breath. He was crying.

“I’m scared, Gabriel.”

“I know.”

“I heard ‘em talking this morning. When they were draining me.”

“Who?”

“The doctors. They talk about me like I’m deaf or something. Like I’m not even there.”

“What did they say?

“One of ‘em sighed real loud when he saw me. And the other one said: ‘Yeah, I know. Makes you wonder if it’s worth it.’ It was like they were lookin’ at roadkill or something. Like there wasn’t even a person there.” I was angry for Pete, but not especially surprised. Jess had told me plenty of horror stories about the body-shop mentality of hospitals. “Does your mother know about this?”

“Oh, hell, no. She’d bust their asses.”

“Maybe you should let her.”

“No. It would just upset her. She’s got enough on her mind.”

“You know those guys are idiots, don’t you?”

“Maybe not.”

“No, Pete. They are. They’re looking at symptoms and not the person. Even
I
can tell how much life there is in you.” He began to weep again, bringing the conversation to a halt.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last.

“For what? Cry all you want.”

“I try to be strong, but sometimes I just can’t.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, Pete, you don’t. You can lean on the people who love you.

You never really know if love is there, unless you let it carry you sometimes. This is one of those times, sport. Just lean on the rest of us. You don’t have be brave or smart or anything.” Another silence, and then: “Could I do that now?”

“You bet. That’s what I’m saying.”

“No, I mean…put my head on your shoulder?” Children are such literal creatures, and Pete, of course, was still a child. While I’d been speaking figuratively, he’d been imagining the real thing: the warmth and reassurance of a father’s arms, while it was possible. “Sure,” I told him, struggling with my embarrassment. “Go ahead.” The odd thing was, I could feel it. The heat of his head against my shoulder, the faint cedary smell of those dark curls, his hand resting lightly on my chest. It was as if there’d always been an outline there, the suggestion of a child that had finally—miraculously—been colored in.

“Feels nice,” said Pete.

“Good.”

“Are you afraid of dying, Gabriel?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“A lot?”

“More than anything, I guess.”

“Why?”

I thought for a moment. “It’s got something to do with not being the center of attention anymore.”

A tiny laugh. “I mean, for real.”

“That is for real. Sort of.”

“Do you think there’s a heaven?”

“Well…yeah. But I think this is pretty much it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just being close to somebody else. That’s certainly a kind of heaven. It’s the only one I’m going for anyway. Because you get to enjoy it while you’re alive. And later on you can
really
live forever.

In the hearts of the people who love you.”

“What about when
they
die?”

I chuckled. “Well, at that point…I guess our books will have to do it. That’s another reason to stick around, by the way: publication day. You’ve got lots of glory coming, son.” He was quiet for so long that I began to worry. “You don’t believe me?” I asked.

“No. Not that. I was just wondering why you called me that.”

“Called you what?”

“Son.”

“Oh…” I laughed uneasily. “Just a throwback to my youth. In the South back then, grownups always called you son.”

“Even if they weren’t your parents?”

I chuckled. “Especially if they weren’t your parents. Did that bother you?”

“No. I liked it.” He waited a moment, then asked: “Could I call you Dad sometimes?”

I was so embarrassed that all I could manage was flippancy. “As opposed to Dicksmoker, you mean?”

Pete remained thoroughly serious. “I’d really like to.”

“Okay, then…sure. Whatever.”

“I’ve never called anybody that.”

“Not even…” I censored myself, wary of opening that door.

“The sperm donor?”

I laughed nervously. “Is that what you call him?”

“Why not? That’s all he ever did. Why should I have a name for
him
when he never called me anything?”

“What do you mean?” My flesh was crawling for reasons I couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“He never used my name,” Pete explained. “And neither did…you know, his wife. Sometimes their customers called me Little Boy Blue, but those two never called me anything. Just ‘Hey, you’ and shit like that. I didn’t even know my name until I went to school and the teacher read it out during roll call. I couldn’t believe it when Mom started using it.” I was thrown for a moment. “Oh…Donna, you mean?”