The Night Listener : A Novel

by Armistead Maupin

  “By the way,” said Donna, “I hope I’m not out of line, but Pete said that you guys are…sort of…”

  “Yeah. We’re apart for a while.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. We’re hanging in there.”

  “You guys are still talking, though. That’s good.” I chuckled ruefully. “I don’t know who else to talk to.”

  “Well,” she said. “I’m here, if you need me. I know a thing or two about this stuff. My ex-husband was a couples therapist.” I laughed at the absurdity of that, then caught myself. “Sorry. I know that wasn’t meant to be funny.”

  “Oh, yes it was,” she said.

  Now she was laughing with me.

  “We learn this shit however we have to,” she added.

  And then the door buzzer sounded.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “A visitor. Probably the gas man. Could you hold for a sec?”

  “Sure.”

  I bounded downstairs to the intercom where I discovered that the visitor was Jess. I buzzed him up, thrilled about his serendipitous timing, then waited as he climbed the steps through the garden.

  “I’m on the phone,” I told him at the door. “With Donna Lomax.”

  “Who?”

  “Pete’s mother. Why don’t you say hi?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “C’mon. Just for a minute.” I picked up the extension by the sofa.

  “Donna, there’s someone who wants to meet you.” Jess gave me a frosty glance as he accepted the receiver. I sat down on the sofa and watched him with an expression of proud propriet-orship.

  “Hi,” he began, turning his back to me. “This is Jess.” Their conversation must have lasted twenty minutes, but I was present for only the first five. They seemed to be getting on so well that I retreated to my office to allow for greater intimacy. The part I did hear began with a discussion of treatment options but soon relaxed into more folksy, personal stuff: movies they loved, politicians they hated, the limitations of small-town life. Jess grilled her about everything with obvious interest, like someone on a blind date that has turned out far better than expected.

  I knew the call was over when the light on my office phone went off.

  So I went back down to the living room. Jess was standing by the French doors, staring out at the city. He didn’t turn around as 136 / ARMISTEAD MAUPIN

  I approached, or even speak to me. He just stood there, looking oddly distracted.

  “How did it go?” I asked.

  His silence lasted a moment longer. Then he turned and faced me.

  “You’ve never even noticed, have you?”

  I felt uneasy without knowing why. “Noticed what?”

  “It’s the same voice, Gabriel.”

  “What is?”

  “Pete and Donna have the same voice.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s that flat Midwestern thing. Not very pretty.”

  “No. I mean it’s the same person.” Very slowly, my jaw went slack. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “How much plainer do I have to make it? His voice is exactly the same as hers. It’s just a higher-pitched, more childish version. The rhythms are the same and the…intonation or whatever you call it.

  It’s really obvious once you listen for it. That’s why I stayed on the phone so long. To make absolutely sure. Somebody’s been jerking your chain, sweetie.”

  I tried to absorb this, but I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I couldn’t even reconstruct Pete’s voice—or Donna’s, for that matter—as recently as I’d heard them both. “This is absurd,” I said feebly.

  “You haven’t noticed it, then? The similarity?” I shook my head absently. “No. Not particularly. Except the accent, of course, which must be what you’re—”

  “Have you ever heard them talking at the same time?” Had I? I couldn’t remember. I remembered that Donna had woken Pete once, so he could talk to me. I remembered her calling his name, and the sound of that tiny Bart Simpson voice, struggling out of sleep…

  “Look,” I said. “There are dozens of people who know them both.”

  “Name some.”

  “Well, his doctors, for one thing. And everybody at the hospital.”

  “You don’t know that. You’ve just been told it.”

  “All right, then. What about Ashe Findlay?”

  “Who?”

  “Pete’s editor. From Argus House. You met him at the ABA in Las Vegas.”

  “That old preppie guy with the dandruff?”

  “Yes. He’s publishing his book, for God’s sake. Nobody does that without knowing—”

  “Did he ever go out to Wisconsin?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure he must have. Jesus, Jess, what possible reason could anybody have to do something like this?”

  “I haven’t gotten that far,” he said.

  No, I thought, you haven’t. You just want to deny the reality of this heroic child. For some reason, it’s too much for you to handle.

  Could Jess be jealous, I wondered, resentful of someone else with AIDS who had won my admiration? Had Pete simply stolen his thunder?

  “How much are they getting paid for this thing?” he asked.

  “What thing?”

  “His book.”

  I could feel the blood rising in my face. “Oh, buckets,” I said. “Six or seven figures at least. There’s a lucrative market out there for abused-kids-with-AIDS books. It’s a real publishing bonanza!” Sarcasm was never a wise thing with Jess. He snatched his briefcase off the coffee table and headed for the door. “Fine,” he said, “I was planning to do some work in the office, but fuck it!”

  “Wait a minute. Just hang on, please.”

  “I don’t need this shit.”

  “Look, Jess, you can’t just throw out some crazy conspiracy theory and expect me not to....”

  “Why can’t I? If that’s what I’m thinking. Why can’t you respect that? Why can’t you just deal with things as they arise?”

  “All right, okay. I’m dealing.” I gestured toward the sofa. “Sit down. I’ll get us some coffee. Let’s talk about it.” He hesitated a moment, then sat down. I sighed audibly, relieved to have averted a fight at such a dangerous time.

  Everything in my life seemed so perishable now.

  When I returned with the coffee, Jess was cooing softly to Hugo, who had come down from the bedroom at the sound of his other master’s voice. The old cur was on his back, his mouth open, his tongue lolling blissfully to one side, while Jess rubbed his stomach.

  The sight of them together again overwhelmed me. It was Jess’s compulsive sweetness toward animals that had helped me fall in love with him, once upon a time.

  He looked up as I set down his coffee mug. “He’s getting really decrepit, isn’t he?”

  I nodded.

  “Aren’t you, beastlet? You’re a decrepit old thing.” He picked a speck of crud out of the dog’s cloudy eye, then gave me a weary smile. He had shed the force field of anger that had surrounded him minutes earlier.

  “I could be wrong,” he said, shrugging.

  I tried to be generous. “Their voices are similar. I can see how you might think that if…”

  “How did this all get started, anyway?”

  I explained how Ashe Findlay had sent me Pete’s galleys.

  “Did they ask for them to be sent to you?”

  “Who?”

  “Pete and Donna.”

  “Well, yes, actually. And Pete talks about listening to my show in the book, so Findlay must have thought it was a natural choice.”

  “How did you end up talking to Pete?”

  “I asked Findlay if I could do it.”

  “It was your idea, then?”

  “Yes. Completely.”

  He seemed to ponder that as he stroked the dog’s chin. “So how did Findlay get the manuscript?”

  “Umm…” I thought hard. “Somebody at Argus House knows Pete’s HI
V counselor. A guy named Warren.”

  “Have you ever talked to him?”

  “No. But he’s reachable, I’m sure.” I sat on the sofa and began to scratch Hugo’s matted rump while Jess continued rhythmically with the dog’s chin. It was something of a surrogate experience, but it was wonderful how this broken-down old creature could pull us into a circle of familial affection. “And we could always call Findlay,” I said.

  Jess looked up at me.

  “Right now,” I said, “if you’d like.”

  “It’s late in New York.”

  “He works late.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” I said. “If it puts your mind at ease.” I went up to the office and brought back the phone book. I dialled the number in front of Jess, then waited while it rang repeatedly.

  Finally, a peevish female voice answered—the kind you get so often in New York. Ashe Findlay had been at a sales conference, she said, and wouldn’t be back that day. I left my name and asked her to have him call me tomorrow.

  When I hung up, Jess said: “What about that Warren guy?”

  “I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t even know his last name.”

  “Oh, well.” Jess went back to massaging Hugo’s stomach. “So much for putting my mind at ease. Huh, beastlet?” His flip tone annoyed me, and I could feel a headache coming on.

  I was suddenly tired of catering to his chronic distrust. “I think I’ll take him for a walk,” I said, indicating the dog. “Let you have your time in the office.”

  The walk lasted an hour and a half. Hugo and I went all the way to Tank Hill and back while I tried to make sense of the monkey wrench Jess had just thrown into my life. I was mostly embarrassed for him, I think, since his wild speculation had only shown how far he’d go to sabotage something that didn’t fit his skeptical vision of the world.

  Or was it just the fact that this miracle had happened to me? It would have been different, I decided, if Pete had first made friends with Jess, if Jess had been the one gathering the facts and telling the story, the one in control. But this was just brokenhearted, bejewelling me, far too needy and vulnerable right now to know a hoax when it stared me in the face.

  When I got home, Jess was gone. He had tidied up the office, prioritized my correspondence, and posted a list of Things to Do on the bulletin board. That would have given me a sense of well-being, I suppose, had I not also seen that he’d acted on our earlier discussion.

  Both the computer and the computer table were gone, leaving a hole in the room that might as well have been in my heart.

  ELEVEN

  A LITTLE LIKE GOD

  IT’S HARD TO SAY NOW what I expected from Ashe Findlay when he called back the next morning. Mild amusement would probably have topped the list, followed by bewilderment, then righteous indignation. I was ready for anything, given the lunatic nature of my inquiry. I spent a minute or two issuing disclaimers and covering my tracks—or ensuring that they would be covered—once the whole silly thing had been laid to rest.

  “I’m hesitant even to ask,” I told the editor. “If anyone were to hear about this…especially Pete…”

  “Please,” he said quietly. “You have my word. This is strictly between us.”

  “Okay, then. Do you know anyone who’s actually met Pete Lomax?”

  The line was so quiet I thought we’d been cut off.

  “Ashe?”

  More silence and then: “Hang on a minute. I have to close the door.”

  What can I tell you about that moment? It was beyond unsettling; it shook me to my very core, then left me standing on quicksand, holding my breath. It must have done the same to Findlay, because he was gone much longer than it would have taken to close a door.

  “Gabriel?”

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “First of all, let me say I know exactly what you’re going through, because I went through it myself three months ago.” Don’t say a word, I thought. Just let him talk.

  “It’s important to remember how dedicated Donna is to the protection of this child. Pete went through things that aren’t even hinted at in his manuscript. Terrible things. Donna’s a total professional, but she’s also a mother, and that makes her a tigress when it comes to shielding Pete from strangers. And the poor kid has such low immunity right now that even the mildest flu bug is potentially threatening to his—”

  “Ashe?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d really like an answer to my question.” He waited a moment, then said, “No,” in the most subdued tone imaginable.

  “You don’t know anybody who’s ever met him?”

  “No. Except her, of course.”

  “What about his AIDS counselor? Warren something.”

  “Warren Bloch.”

  “Yeah. What about him?”

  “Well…he’s nice fellow. Dropped by the office last month.”

  “Then you do know someone!” The relief I felt was so profound that I almost laughed. “Warren and Pete used to listen to my show together all the time! One of them must’ve mentioned that to you.”

  “Actually…they both did. But you’re making an assumption, Gabriel. As natural as it is.”

  He had lost me.

  “They listened to your show on the phone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They listened to it at the same time. While they were on the phone with each other.”

  “Surely, at some point, they must’ve…”

  “No. Warren did all his counseling on the phone.”

  “But… why? ”

  “As I was saying, Donna has been very circumspect about who meets the boy at this stage of his recovery.”

  “But surely a therapist…”

  “It’s just another person, Gabriel. Pete trusts voices more than he can ever trust a face. That’s why your show was so humanizing for him. He could invent faces that didn’t threaten him.” I remembered reading as much in Pete’s galleys. I just hadn’t guessed how thoroughly the concept had invaded his life. With a sudden shiver I recalled how I’d once remarked to Pete that life wasn’t radio. In his case, it seemed, that was pretty much all it had been.

  “Tell me something,” said Findlay. “How did…these issues…arise for you?”

  I told him that Jess had been skeptical about the high melodrama of Pete’s life, and that he’d later noticed similarities between Pete’s voice and Donna’s. Once he’d passed these thoughts to me, a tiny, troubling doubt had begun to inhabit me like a virus.

  The editor sighed. “I’ve been down the same road, my friend.”

  “You’ve noticed it, then? Their voices?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And you didn’t think…”

  “No. It’s just that Wisconsin thing. There’s a sort of hokey music to it that’s quite distinctive.”

  “That’s what I told Jess!”

  “You betcha!”

  I laughed at his impersonation of Marge Gunderson in Fargo, though Pete and Donna sounded nothing like her. I laughed because I desperately needed the release, and because I wanted to regain the purity of my relationship with Pete. I laughed because I wanted my son back.

  “Look,” said Findlay. “It’s easy enough to build a case for a hoax until you have to provide a motive. There’s simply no reason for her to do this. To invent a child and impersonate him for well over a year and write a book in his name. They’re getting a minuscule advance, I can assure you. And we both know that this little memoir will never reach a huge audience. Not to mention the fact that Donna is a decent woman who is thoroughly dedicated to her profession.” I said that she certainly seemed that way.

  “You’ll feel that even more so when you meet her.”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “Oh, yes.” The editor chuckled to himself. “Stupid of me. I should’ve mentioned that first. She came to New York for some sort of psychological conference last summer. We had a long and v
ery pleasant lunch together. No horns or fangs visible anywhere.”

  I laughed, feeling better already.

  “I must say, she was…extremely helpful.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, it’s a little personal, so I won’t go into detail, but…my wife and I were having…difficulties at the time and Donna had some very useful insights to offer.”

  Free professional advice, I thought. Hardly a reason to trust a virtual stranger.

  “I know how that must sound,” said Findlay, reading my mind,

  “but I had a good feeling about her, and I’m fairly adept at reading people.”

  And who doesn’t think that? I thought.

  “It all comes down to trust,” he added. “Or faith, I suppose, to be perfectly accurate. I ended up telling myself that Pete is a little like God. No visible proof to speak of, but more than enough circumstan-tial evidence.” This was no comfort to me, and I told him so.

  “Not the religious sort, eh?”

  “Not when it comes to voices on the phone.” A pause and then: “May I ask what you’re planning to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you intend to go public with…this theory?” This had never occurred to me, and I was shocked at the suggestion. “God, no,” I said. “I just wanted some sort of resolution, and I thought you could help. Pete is very important to me, Ashe.”

  “Well…I know, but…I remembered how you feel about that outing business. You obviously have a penchant for full disclosure.” Perhaps because Findlay had pronounced penchant the French way, his tone suddenly struck me as irritatingly prissy. He was referring to an incident the previous year when I’d publicly criticized a famous actress for narrating a film on homophobia while refusing to talk to the press about her own sexuality. Old-line liberals like Findlay had dismissed my behavior as just plain bad manners.

  “Everyone” knew this woman was gay, so why should she have to proclaim it to the world? Didn’t I know that well-placed closet cases could accomplish a lot of good behind the scenes?

  “It’s not the same thing,” I said flatly.

  “Well, I don’t understand these distinctions.”

  “It’s not that difficult, Ashe. If there’s major hypocrisy involved, I get peevish. If an established movie star is playing both ends against the middle and acting ashamed of something that I regard as perfectly normal, I might have something to say about it. I tend to be a little more lenient with dying children. I’m funny that way.” This outburst surprised us both. “I’m sorry,” said Findlay. “It wasn’t my intention to offend you.”