The Night Listener : A Novel

ARMISTEAD MAUPIN
    question were actually inside. “They’re grownups,” she said, “and they can do what they want. I just don’t think in his case…oh, never mind.”
    “C’mon? What is it? He’s too young? What?” She shrugged. “My brother Edgar used to have those when he was twelve.”
    “Then why on earth shouldn’t I…”
    “He used to do porn, didn’t he, this boy? He was in all those videotapes, right?”
    That stopped me cold for a moment. “Well, yeah, but…this isn’t remotely like that. That was hardcore and violent, and it was kids, and they were doing it against their will. This is just glossy fantasy stuff. It’s not that much racier than the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated or…hell, he could download a lot worse off the Internet.”
    “I just thought the idea of it might…you know, bother her.”
    “Donna?”
    “Yeah.”
    “She’s not like that. She knows what the difference is. She’s a shrink, you know…and sort of an old hippie, I think.”
    “Does she open his mail?”
    “I can’t imagine that she would. The first thing she promised him was his privacy.”
    “But if she’s trying to protect him…”
    “Oh, okay, fine.” I reached for the package, but she pulled it away.
    “No,” she said. “I’ll mail it. I was just asking.”
    “It’s just sort of a guy thing. I thought it would make him feel like he had…you know…a big brother.” I had almost said father, until I remembered Anna’s misgivings about such a responsibility.
    Anna turned the package over in her hands, squeezing it once or twice. “Why is it squishy?”
    I explained—with some embarrassment—that I’d wrapped the Playboy in a Noone at Night T-shirt.
    She didn’t remark on that. She just stuffed the package into her shoulder bag, thereby closing the discussion, then removed another bundle and handed it to me. “I brought up the mail.”
    “Oh, thanks.” I perused the usual oddball array of correspondence: a bank statement, a flyer from the Seattle gay chorus, an announce-ment of a PEN meeting at a Guatemalan poet’s house in Berkeley, a catalog from my publisher in Sweden, and a hand-delivered notice informing me that Juanita and Gail of the Church of the Savior’s Suffering had stopped by briefly, without invitation, to pray for my house. I handed the latter to Anna, who received the news of our benediction with a beguiling smirk.
    “Gee,” she said dryly, “that’s good to know.”
    “Isn’t it?”
    “There’s letter there for Jess, too.”
    I shuffled the mail again and found it. The return address was 312 Ebenezer Church Road, Leesville, Alabama. It was apparently from Jess’s father—not exactly an everyday occurrence.
    “I could take it to him,” said Anna, “if you want.” I mulled that over, then amazed myself with my reply: “That’s okay. I’m gonna see him myself.”
    This had been coming for a while. Jess and I had been separated for almost a month, and I knew it was time to connect again. Some of my friends (the straight women mostly) had warned against it. Cold turkey was the only way to go, they said, if I really wanted him back.
    How else could he feel the full weight of what he might be giving up? If I hung around like some love-starved puppy, he’d only have his cake and eat it too. For wasn’t that what men wanted anyway: total freedom and total security?
    I wasn’t as sure as they were. For one thing, it’s impossible to generalize about what men want if you’re a man yourself. Men know what a conflicted species we are, how many emotions can war in our heads at any given moment. So even in the depths of my pain I could imagine Jess’s pain, and every part of me wanted to soothe it.
    He was alone and confused; this was no time to cut him off. He needed to know I was still on his side, still his comrade, even in the midst of chaos. And I guess I needed to know that from him, whatever the outcome might be. I could part with our romantic life—for the time being, at least—but not the balm of our friendship.
    And there was something else: I wanted to share Pete with Jess.
    I was certain the two of them would get along beautifully, given their scrappy temperaments and their common HIV status. They could discuss drug protocols and gripe about insurance companies and swap tales of their shitty childhoods. Pete’s unshakable faith in Jess and me might somehow rub off on Jess, or at least give him a fresh perspective. Pete could be