The Night Listener : A Novel

to me last week when I rented a Cadinot porn movie called Hot on the Trail , in which a dozen French
    “scouts”—most of them at least twenty—tramped across the coun-tryside and enjoyed each other’s company. The film spent a lot of time on preliminaries: wrestling and swimming, tempting bulges in loose khaki shorts. It understood the essence of that youthful longing, the exquisite ache of anticipation and denial. And this, I have to say, is what still excites me, after all these years of license and exploration; this is why I liked it best when Jess left his Jockey shorts on.
    It’s hell to lust for your tormentors, to know from the beginning that your deepest need can only betray you, only expel you from the tribe. So when you grow up, you find a tribe of your own, with guys just like you, to keep from feeling that way ever again. Only you do sometimes, as I had done that morning at Pasqua, seeing Jess among the leathermen, wondering what they could offer that I could not. That age-old pain came roaring out of nowhere to remind me that I’d never be strong enough, never be handsome enough, never be young enough, to really be a man among men.
     
    TEN

    THE MONKEY WRENCH

    I CAN PINPOINT the day the bottom fell out. It was the day Matthew Shepard died, because that was the reason Donna Lomax called—”to hear a friendly voice,” as she put it, to sort out her feelings about the latter-day crucifixion that had hit so close to home everywhere in America.
    “What is it?” she asked. “Are people getting meaner?” I told her this kind of cruelty had always existed, that only the circumstances around it had changed. Matthew Shepard had been openly gay, after all, and his parents had never been ashamed of him. For once there was no reason to hide the cause of his death, so the truth could be examined in full. And that was progress, I suggested, as grim as it might be.
    “He was so little ,” she said, ignoring my political analysis. “I think that’s what got to me. I know it’s what got to Pete. He hates bullies more than anything. He’s been a mess about this for days.” I told her I knew that.
    “Did he call you?”
    “No. But Jess talked to him right after it happened.”
    “Really? You mean… your Jess?”
    How I loved the sound of that possessive pronoun. “Yeah,” I said, feeling warmer toward her than ever. “I thought it might be good for Pete. Jess has done so well with his own treatment.”
    “That was sweet of you.”
    “Actually, I thought they’d both enjoy it. And I wasn’t wrong, as it turned out.”
    (Never mind Jess’s talk about jewelling the elephant; he would just have to get over himself.)
    “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