The Night Listener : A Novel

That’s why you got signalmen.” I turned to my stepmother. “He found out about me that way, you know.”
    Darlie looked puzzled. “That you were gay?”
    “No,” I said with a brittle laugh. “That I was born.”
    “Christ.” My father flinched in delayed reaction to that word .
    “He was on his minesweeper in…where was it, Pap?”
    “Guadalcanal. Well…no, Florida Island, Tulagi…”
    “Anyway, he got word from the flagship that I’d been born. And they had to use semaphore to do it.”
    “No kidding,” said Darlie.
    I always loved the romance of this: the blue water and blazing heat, a strapping young signalman in his white sailor suit, brandish-ing flags with the news of me. It was the South Pacific of Nellie Forbush and Mr. Roberts , a showbiz entrance if ever there was one.
    “What was the message?” asked Darlie.
    “Hell,” said my father. “I don’t remember.”
    “Yes, you do,” I said. “‘Baby born, mother and son fine.’”
    “Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”
    I wondered if I’d embarrassed him with the mention of my mother; he rarely brought her up around Darlie. For years, I think, he’d felt guilty about remarrying after Mummie’s death, judging from the number of disclaimers he made to his children. “You know,” he would tell us, “this doesn’t change how I feel about your mother.” We understood that perfectly, and we approved of Darlie—age difference and all—in a way that much of Charleston did not. Pap was high maintenance, after all; we were just glad that someone young and vigorous had committed to the job.
    I changed the subject by inviting my father’s nostalgia. “It must have been a hell of a time.”
    “Oh, yeah,” he said, shaking his head.
    “Did he tell you about the billboard?” asked Darlie. She had taken the old man’s arm with easy affection. They really do love each other, I thought.
    And the sight of their obvious coupledom stung in a way that I hadn’t expected. Was it possible that they’d outlasted me and Jess?
    I did remember that billboard, but I pretended otherwise, just to give him some material to work with. “Don’t think so,” I said.
    “What billboard?” asked Pap.
    Darlie squeezed his arm. “In the harbor. You know.”
    “Oh.” My father chortled at the memory. “Damnedest thing you ever saw. The fleet commander was this tough ol’ son-of-a-bitch who knew how to get the job done. Named, uh…damn, what the hell was his name?”
    “We don’t care, hon.” Darlie was inspecting her lamb flatbread.
    “He was somethin’, though. A real kick-ass ol’ cuss. Had the Seabees build this enormous billboard at the entrance to the harbor at Guadalcanal. First thing we saw when we came sailin’ in. Said:
    ‘Kill the bastards, kill the bastards, kill the yellow bastards.’” I kept my expression blank. “An idealistic sort o’ guy.”
    “Hell, it was war.”
    “It was war,” I echoed, exchanging a wry look with Darlie.
    “Can’t hear that story too much,” she said.
    “Oh, go to hell, both of you,” said my father, and he plunged into his butterfly prawns.
    We were all a little high on wine by the end of dinner. Pap was the first to show it.
    “You know what, son?”
    “What?”
    “I’m damn proud of you.”
    “Well…good.” I tried to look into his eyes, but it was almost impossible. For both of us.
    “I mean it.”
    “I know.”
    “You’re gettin’ rich, I guess.”
    “Well…comfortable.”
    “ Comfortable? Your books are all over Harrods.”
    “I know, but there’s a lotta folks to pay.”
    “I hope you’re puttin’ some away. Not spendin’ it like a nigger, like you usually do.”
    “Jesus, Gabriel. Give it up.” Darlie shot me a sympathetic glance.
    “You don’t know,” my father told her. “Son-of-a-bitch bought a London taxicab when he was at Sewanee. Cost him more to ship the damn thing home than he paid for it. Broke down all the time, too.” He winked at me rakishly to convey his harmlessness.
    “I’m a little more careful now,” I said.
    “That boy’s keepin’ you in line, I hope.” He meant Jess, who had been cast as the Responsible One in our household. I had actually promoted this, since it was largely the truth, and it gave Pap an excuse to respect, however marginally, the funny fella who was sleeping with his son.
    “He’s pretty conscientious,” I said.
    “I’m sorry we missed him.” Pap connected with me briefly to show what he really meant: