The Night Listener : A Novel

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