The Listeners

by Jordan Tannahill

  Hi, Rory. How are you?

  I’m good, yeah.

  Did you enjoy yourself at prom?

  Yeah, it was good. Sorry again about the clock. I don’t know if Ashley mentioned.

  He was lucky he had found me in such a blithe mood. I asked him if he had seen Kyle recently. He shook his head.

  We’re not really talking much at the moment.

  He then swallowed and looked back at his till, as he swiped through my Greek yogurt. Are you? he asked.

  I pretended not to hear his question over the bleep of the scanner, and he didn’t ask it again. And I pretended not to know, or care, that he had probably had a hundred conversations with his friends about Kyle and me, and that he would pull out his phone to message them all the moment I walked away. I paid for my groceries and wished him a good summer. The sliding doors whooshed open as Damian and I stepped out of the aggressively air-conditioned supermarket into what felt like a physical wall of heat.

  We began walking through the parking lot, the smell of baking asphalt and Damian’s cologne somehow both nostalgic, when he turned to me, and said—I know I sound paranoid to you. I can tell by the way you look at me sometimes, that you think that.

  No, I—I don’t really think so, I lied, feeling caught out.

  But I have been on the inside of it, okay, he said.

  We slowed to a stop as a uniformed teenager pushed a giant conga line of shopping carts past us into the outdoor dock.

  I was a drone operator in Nevada for five years, he said, squinting against the sun. Sitting in a bunker under the sand. Hitting convoys of jeeps in Syria. Or some house in, you know, northwest Pakistan or wherever.

  He glanced at me to gauge my reaction. Just taking people’s lives because that was the intel, he said. I didn’t know the first thing about who these guys were. Most of them probably just boys, running around on rooftops.

  We began to walk again. You watch and watch and watch these guys, he continued. You see them talking with their wives. High-fiving their friends in the street. And then you … you know. He stuck his pinkie finger in his ear and swivelled around. You can see them hear it coming too, he said. Just a second before.

  We slowed our pace to allow a black sedan to back out of its parking spot ahead of us.

  After I had Elijah, I just couldn’t anymore, he said. I’d be throwing up. And having these dreams. And so after that I started working in military intelligence, for a contractor. I know, you wouldn’t think to look at me. He winked and tapped his temple—Me and intelligence.

  No, c’mon, I said, forcing a laugh.

  But seriously, if you knew the shit they could do, Claire, you wouldn’t sleep at night. The shit they know about us, he said, shaking his head. And I just saw the tip of the iceberg.

  We arrived at Damian’s large white pickup. Through the windshield I noticed Crystal and Elijah both sitting in the cab, Crystal buried in her phone, and Elijah sucking on a long blue freezie. Damian dropped his grocery bags down on the ground and looked at me—You may not like him, but lemme tell you, I’m glad Trump’s cleaning out the FBI and the CIA. Those are sick places.

  Damian turned and called Crystal’s name. She looked up, smiled, and gave me a little wave. He motioned for her to come out, and she climbed down out of the cab. Damian introduced me as a friend from his ‘study group.’

  So you do exist! she said with a laugh. He’s been so secretive about it.

  She said, ever since he started going to our meetings however, she had noticed ‘a real turnaround in his attitude.’ Talking to Crystal felt like twisting the cap off a bottle of pop, as all the bubbles rushed to the surface. She told me she worked part-time as a manicurist, but wasn’t getting the hours she wanted, and then pointed out her salon in the cluster of stores on the far side of the parking lot. She looked up at Damian and scratched his goatee, as he scrunched up his face. The more the three of us chatted, the more it struck me that he hadn’t told her about The Hum. I wondered what he had told her about our group. From the way they were both talking, it felt like he had represented it as some kind of Bible study. I suppose we all had to find a way to suture the realities of our old and new lives together, in whatever way we and our loved ones could handle. But it seemed strange for him to have kept The Hum secret, convinced, as he was, that thousands more people could hear it. But then it occurred to me, looking at Crystal, and Elijah in the cab with his blue-stained lips, that perhaps Damian had kept this from them for a reason. Like so much else in his life, no doubt. As miraculous as The Hum had revealed itself to be, I would have shielded Ashley and Paul from it too, had I somehow been able to. Perhaps they would still be in my life if I had. Not being able to hear The Hum, when your loved one does, must be a special kind of confusing agony. After a minute or so of pleasant chat we parted ways, but not before Crystal offered me a friends and family discount at Infinity Nails.

  As I drove home, I felt the same effervescence from earlier, though Damian’s words lingered with me. Coasting through the neighbourhood, it felt difficult to square the pristine yards, children’s basketball nets, and family minivans with the threat of surveillance and infiltration. I reminded myself that beautiful things didn’t always need to feel fleeting or endangered. I tried to refocus my energies towards savouring this strange post-tuning lightness of spirit. As I did, I found myself picturing an iridescent film of oil on the surface of a puddle. The puddle was black and bottomless, so perhaps it was a lake. A lake of pure sensation. And the oil slick—what was that? Was that me? My life? How did one merge with the lake, or was I only destined to contaminate it? I slipped so deep into this image that I nearly ran a stop sign. An elderly woman walking a terrier shot me a death stare. I held up my hand in apology, which she didn’t acknowledge.

  I spent the rest of the morning in the back garden, among the fuchsia coneflowers, yellow tickseed, and silver-green lamb’s ears. I had been neglecting the garden terribly, and it was almost beyond redemption, but it felt grounding to put in the hours. I was hidden from view by the backyard’s fences; only neighbours in their second-floor bedrooms could glimpse me, but I doubted any would be up there in the middle of the day. At one point I sank my hands into the hot earth. I closed my eyes, and I could have sworn I actually felt The Hum thrumming ever so subtly through the ground. I got lost in the sensation, and let time slowly slip past me. Worms roiled through my fingers as I sank deeper into the pulse. Bugs alighted on my neck, and scaled my arms. I let myself become their landscape. I pressed myself down into it. Merged with it. I began to feel loose, like my soul could slip right out from my skin, like a shirt sloughing off a wire hanger. But as the minutes passed, this looseness, this immaterial feeling that felt so liberating earlier in the morning began to intensify, as The Hum seemed to grow louder, until, in a quiet panic, I wondered—Was it overtaking me? Was I disappearing into it?

  I walked back into the house, unsteady, and washed my hands in the kitchen sink. I tried calling Kyle, but it went straight to voicemail, which meant he still hadn’t charged his phone. Was he feeling the same sense of slippage, of disappearance? I told myself to snap out of it. I was fine. Maybe just a little overheated from the sun. I poured myself a glass of water. I gripped the kitchen counter. I found its sturdiness reassuring. I pressed my fingers against its cool surface and the sensation seemed to confirm that I was still there, corporeal, interacting as a single body within the physical world.

  Once I had gathered myself, I considered walking down to the park to check in on Kyle. I even considered calling Child Services—but on behalf of a seventeen-year-old? No. That would only complicate things, and he would never forgive me for it. I debated calling Jo to ask for her guidance about Kyle’s situation, but then she would have an obligation to tell the authorities. I’d also be betraying Kyle’s confidence. If he needed me, he would be in touch. I felt hot rage when I thought of Brenda kicking him out—and after putting me through the goddamn ringer. She excoriated me for showing a bit of kin
dness and attention to her son, and then threw him out on the street.

  As I finished my glass of water, I tried to remind myself again of the joy I had felt earlier in the morning, but I found it seeping from me. I found myself missing Ashley’s mordant laugh. The sound of her moving about in her room upstairs. Her books left tented on tables around the house. I found myself missing the timbre of Paul’s voice. His smell in the sheets. His little touches, on my shoulder, on my back, to let me know he was there behind me, as I was cooking, or brushing my teeth. I took out my phone and hovered my thumb over Ashley’s number. I imagined her scrolling through her phone, as Paul put a frozen pizza into the microwave oven for them. Surely she couldn’t bear to live with him in that studio apartment on a pull-out couch for the entire summer. Maybe she had already begun crashing with friends. Focus. I was having what Jo called ‘a wobble.’ A moment of despair, of doubt, of missing my old life, but I couldn’t go back. I needed to push forward. I needed to focus on the unfolding miracle of now.

  I slipped my phone back into my pocket just as the doorbell rang. I glanced out the living room window and, to my shock, saw Cass’s red Toyota Prius parked in the driveway. I was stunned for a moment. I couldn’t possibly imagine what she was doing there, and why on earth she would show up like that unannounced. I rushed to the door, hesitated, and opened it. Cass was standing there wearing a characteristically bright and billowy yellow blouse with one of her signature chunky statement necklaces. She broke into a big, easy smile. I smiled back, out of reflex. It was dizzying to consider how much my life had changed since I had last seen her, backing out of my classroom with that strange look on her face. How much I had lost. How much I had gained.

  Cass.

  Hi, love, she said, extending her arms. I let her hug me, but I was caught completely off guard by her presence, after not so much as a text message in months. When she finally pulled away, I told her that I was slightly mortified at the thought of her setting foot in the house, which I hadn’t much reason to keep clean anymore. She told me not to worry in the slightest, though I registered her subtle disapprobation as we walked through the door and into the kitchen. She told me it was just an impulse, her stopping by on her way home from church. I still had a bunch of groceries left on the counter from my morning shop, which I began to put away to clear space. As I did, we made small talk, mostly about her summer plans, and who won Drag Race in the end, and the endless back and forth with the school’s administration about doing Kinky Boots in the fall. She asked about Ashley’s graduation and the prom party, which I glossed over. She then asked me how Paul was doing, and I told her she would have to ask him herself.

  We’re not really talking at the moment. Not since Ashley moved out.

  Cass looked shocked—What? Ashley’s gone too?

  Yup.

  She’s living with Paul? she asked, and I nodded.

  Cass stood there watching me as I put the last of the vegetables into the crisper, and a couple of boxes of crackers into the cupboard. I’ve been really worried about you, she said.

  Have you, I replied, chilly.

  Yes. A lot.

  I thanked her, and I told her that I could have used that worry a couple of months ago, but now it was misplaced. I’m in a good place now.

  Are you really though?

  I am, I say, packing the reusable shopping bags into their holder under the sink.

  Love, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t think you are. I mean look around. Paul is gone. Ashley is gone. You’ve lost your job. Your friends—

  My friends, what?

  Well we’re all extremely—

  My friends love and support me, I interrupted. And I see them three or four times a week.

  Cass nodded—I’m glad to hear it.

  I found it difficult to gauge just how much she knew. I wouldn’t be surprised if Paul had texted Aldo at some point, or one of the other book club husbands.

  The truth is, Claire, I didn’t feel comfortable reaching out while school was still in session. It felt wrong somehow. Like I would be betraying the school, or betraying Kyle. I felt like I was in a really tough position.

  I wanted to laugh, and tell her she didn’t know the first thing about how tough this had been. I was not sure why I should be surprised; it was just like Cass to make all of this about her and her feelings somehow. I was just about to ask her to leave when she touched my shoulder and told me that she wanted me to know that she was there for me. She tried to make meaningful eye contact, but I wasn’t ready to accept it, so I looked up at the ceiling. She then apologized for not doing more before now.

  To be honest I just didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how I could be useful.

  She said she knew that she had failed me, and it had been eating away at her. I looked down and met her gaze. I really am sorry, Claire.

  We began to talk a little about The Hum, mostly in generalities as I didn’t get the sense she was able or willing to handle specifics. As we spoke, I prepared some tea and pulled out some digestives from the back of the cupboard. I told her about my struggles with isolation and depression after being fired, and I could tell it pained her to hear it. With the comfort of old friendship, and years of knowing my kitchen, she set out the teacups and saucers, and prepared the milk and sugar without asking. Once the tea was ready, we relocated to the sofa in the living room. As I spoke, I felt Cass really listening, which was something of a rarity for her, the natural-born talker. But she was listening, and I began to relax and open up more, as we inched our way back to our former intimacy. She then related to me her own struggles with loneliness and despair when she was going through chemo. I don’t think I had appreciated, at the time, the extent of her feelings of alienation from Aldo, and her friends, and our colleagues at school. I was just about to tell her about my new-found lightness when, like a hawk swooping down on its prey, she asked—Have you considered inviting God into your life?

  I stiffened. I felt like I had been Trojan Horsed. Infiltrated by an agent of God under the guise of concerned friendship. I had an image of Christ, like a virus, entering through a mucous membrane and replicating through my bloodstream until my defences were overwhelmed and I was converted. I cleared my throat and told Cass that no, I had not considered this invitation. Never, in our eight years of friendship, had she ever asked me this question. I understood, in that moment, that some dynamic between us had forever shifted, forever broken, for her to be doing so now. And I realized that she must see me now as being in a place of weakness that she had never seen me in before.

  I want to tell you that I lit a candle for you after the service this morning, she said with tenderness. I’ve been praying for you.

  I looked down into my cup, and took a deep breath. Do you not see how your prayers and candles deny me agency over my own condition? I asked.

  She said no, she didn’t see that at all. She told me prayer was actually about reclaiming agency in our lives.

  I looked back up at her. Say I was to tell you that I was happy now, I said. Truly happy. You would say that was God’s doing, and once again a man would get all the credit for my hard work.

  She laughed a little at this. I told her that I didn’t see suffering as a test, or a punishment, or a destiny to be fulfilled. I told her that I had found an unparalleled sublimity in The Hum; a pure and rapturous transfer of energy between the Earth and myself, my body, which she might call God or grace or the divine, but which for me needed no label or language. A mystery that I was only just beginning to grasp.

  She nodded but I could tell she was perturbed. As I looked at her sitting across from me on the sofa, it struck me that this would likely be our last conversation for a very long time. Perhaps ever. It also struck me that perhaps Cass and I had never been more aligned. I suddenly recognized myself in her faith and conviction. And this should have repelled me, would have once repelled me, but somehow it didn’t in that moment. I saw the ecstatic chord that had been plucked in her, and that
had compelled her to share the gift of divine revelation with those she cared about; compelled her to drive over to my house on a Sunday afternoon in her red Toyota Prius to salvage my soul. In that moment I could almost see it as a generosity of the heart. I wondered, as I looked at her, if I would ever feel that same conviction one day, to share The Hum with others. Was this embedded in the genetic code of revelation; that it must be shared, multiplied, disseminated?

  I suddenly imagined a hundred, a thousand people tuning together. City parks filled with tuning circles. Conference rooms. School gymnasiums. Stadiums. The entire human race rediscovering the primordial frequency with which we had fallen out of synch; entwining ourselves again with the Earth at a time when it needed us the most, when our continued survival as a species depended on it.

  We finished our tea with quiet briskness and I walked Cass out. As I opened the door, the sun felt as bright as a camera flash. The street was quiet; even the neighbourhood dogs were too hot to bark. After hugging me goodbye in the doorway, Cass pulled away and, with a grave look, asked—It’s not really true, is it? What they’ve been saying?

  What who’s been saying? I asked, the words snagging in my throat.

  Everyone. The other teachers, our friends.

  She looked at me confused.

  You don’t know what they’ve been saying? she asked.

  Who would tell me if not you?

  She squinted against the sun, and brought her hand up above her eyebrows—They’re saying you’re a rapist, Claire.

  I felt the blood drain from my limbs—What?

  In the statutory sense.

  Oh good, I said, bitterly. Just a statutory rapist.

  Unusually for her, Cass seemed to be at a loss for words.

  And now’s where you tell me that you disabused them of that, I’m assuming, I said.