The Night Listener : A Novel

my mind. “You know,” he said eventually. “Your mom was just trying to protect you.”
    “Yeah…I know. But she passed her fear on to me. And that was the last thing in the world I needed.”
    “But you would have gotten that anyway. From somebody else if not from her.”
    “I know. I’m not blaming her.”
    “You shouldn’t. Things were a lot different back then.” It was a simple observation that could easily have been gleaned from almost any book or movie about the fifties. The mores of the midcentury are a well-established cliché in the culture, one that a clever boy of thirteen could certainly invoke without ever having lived through the era. But somehow the phrase seemed pregnant with personal experience. It stayed with me all afternoon and into the night, crowding out everything else, like some ghastly repetitive jingle you’re trying too hard to forget: Things were a lot different back then .
     
    THIRTEEN

    ROOM FOR DISILLUSIONMENT

    PETE CALLED BACK EXCITEDLY the next morning to say that Donna had approved my visit, so I spent the next few days in preparation.
    There was very little to do, actually—or un do, for that matter, since my calendar had become a wasteland after Jess had left. This little odyssey to Henzke Street would be a healthy act in every regard: something that would not only lift my morale but promote my self-sufficiency. I splurged on a first-class ticket to Milwaukee, then splurged again, reserving a big boat of a Buick for the long drive to Wysong.
    There was only the issue of Hugo. He had never been boarded in a kennel, and this was hardly the time to start, given his age and health. Jess and I had always relied on house-sitters, but the usual candidates were unreachable that day, and I didn’t want to unsettle the dog with strangers. The logical choice was Jess. He would love spending time with Hugo, and I loved the idea of him being here, sleeping in our bed. So I called and asked if he might be available for a few days.
    “Sure. I guess. What’s up? Where are you going?” Was that worry in his voice? Did it disturb him that I might have plans of my own?
    “Pete has asked me to come visit,” I explained.
    A pause, and then: “When did this happen?”
    “A few days ago.” It felt awkward exploding Jess’s hoax theory in such a casual manner, but I’d already resolved not to make an issue of it.
    “Are you planning to stay with them?” he asked after a silence.
    There was a distinct note of re$$$icence in his voice.
    “No. Pete gave me the name of a motel.”
    “That’s good.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You don’t know these people, babe.”
    “You’re right,” I said grimly. “They might make me into a lamp-shade.”
    Jess didn’t rise to my sarcasm. “Do what you want, then. I just think you’d better have an escape hatch if it turns out to be tedious.
    Don’t forget those dykes in Hermosa Beach!” His shorthand made me laugh. I remembered that nightmare all too well. At the bitter end of a thirty-city book tour we’d been virtually imprisoned by a women’s collective: forced to nap in their “guest room,” submit to a tedious tarot reading, sit in a bookstore for hours on end while a handful of women in pastel sweats straggled in from the beach. It drained every last ounce of charm from me, but even in my wretchedness I found comfort in the fact of Jess, that sharp, loving eye I could catch across the room.
    “Please,” I said. “Nothing could ever be that bad.” Jess chuckled at the memory with an affection that belied how apoplectic he’d been at the time. “Jesus, remember that huge one who rode on a mattress in the back of her lover’s minivan?”
    “Oh, hell. The channeller. She channelled a nineteenth-century slave!”
    “And I asked her lover if she’d ever channelled in bed and she said, ‘Oh, no, she doesn’t do it unless you pay her.’” Laughing, I dredged up the shamelessly un-PC catchphrase we’d invented for the occasion: “‘Inside every fat white woman there’s a fat black woman struggling to get out.’”
    “Hey,” Jess blurted. “Maybe that’s what’s happening on Henzke Street. Maybe she’s channelling that kid.” This was just a comic variation on Anna’s “multiple” theory, but I didn’t say so. It was time for this game to be over, and I suggested as much as nicely as I could.
    Jess was contrite. “I didn’t mean to make light of it. I’m glad you’re doing this, in fact.