The Night Listener : A Novel

within a matter of nights. I would lie in Jess’s arms, wincing and laughing at the horror, as the traps snapped away in the darkness, sometimes two at a time.
    How had I let it get so bad? And who was this sweet, volatile man who had come out of nowhere to slay my dragons? He’d taken care of me all right, and I’d loved every minute of it.
     
    FOURTEEN

    STRANGER AND STRANGER

    ASHE FINDLAY, POOR SOUL, could never have guessed how bad his timing would be when he called the next morning to update me on the progress of The Blacking Factory . I think he must have wanted some reassurance that my doubts had subsided, so he could proceed with Pete’s book without further anxiety. What he got, thanks to the state of my heart, was a cranky antagonist, desperate for a resolution of any kind.
    I guess I was provoked by his blithe description of the book’s cover design. They were featuring a photo of Pete, he said—”an utterly charming shot”—but they were altering his face, naturally, to protect the boy’s privacy.
    “Is he wearing a sweatshirt?” I asked, wondering if this was the same shot Donna had sent me.
    “Yes. I believe so.”
    That seemed evasive, as if I couldn’t be trusted with such ticklish information. My response was glacial. “You believe so?”
    “Well, it’s back with the art department now. I only had a quick glance at it.”
    “Were his eyes green? An unusual shade?”
    “Not that I remember, but of course they’d altered it by then.”
    “But you must’ve seen the original?”
    “Yes. I did. I think they were green, yes. Now that you mention it.
    Very striking.” His well-bred voice was positively writhing in discomfort.
    “I must tell you,” I said. “This whole thing is sounding stranger and stranger. And a little unprofessional on your part.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” the editor replied soberly. “You seemed fine about it last time. Would you like to reconsider your blurb?”
    “This isn’t about my blurb, Ashe. I need some answers here. You got me into this, and you’re gonna have to get me out. I’m tired of being jerked around.” This sounded a lot like a threat, I realized, and a not-so-veiled one at that. I started to soften it but changed my mind. A threat might be what it would take to get some action.
    “Has something else happened?” the editor asked.
    Has it ever, I thought. My life, I realized, had been reduced to a loose confederation of uncertainties, and I was sick to death of it. I wasn’t inclined to unload on this constipated Yankee, so I offered him only the hard facts: my invitation to visit Pete and its unceremonious withdrawal.
    “I believe I warned you,” Findlay said. “She’s extremely wary of him meeting people.”
    “So why didn’t she just say that to begin with? Why would she give me all that crap about her chili and let me make plans for several days, if she never intended for it to happen?”
    “I couldn’t tell you that.”
    “Well, I can. She did it because she wanted me to think it was possible. She wanted me to believe there was actually someone there I could visit.”
    “Gabriel, my friend, you’ll only make yourself crazy if you continue to dwell—”
    “Please don’t call me crazy, Ashe. I don’t think I’m the one who’s being crazy here. I think I’m being very sane, in fact. And very reasonable, under the circumstances.”
    Another silence, even longer. “What would you like me to do?” he said at last.
    “I don’t know. Poke around, at least. Be a little more aggressive about authenticating it. You’re in a position to do that. I’m not.”
    “Do you want me to say that you’re having—”
    “No! God, no! Leave me out of this. This is between you and one of your writers. If there’s anything left to salvage between me and Pete, I’d like to be able to do it.”
    “I understand.”
    “And get back to me, please. As soon as you can.” I spent the rest of the day in bed, inert and powerless. My only visual was Jess’s apartment building, suspended in the bedroom window. Its edges were blurred by swirling fog, and there were times when it disappeared completely, then magically rematerialized, as the moon can do. Unlike me, Jess dreaded the fog. It depressed him when it lasted too long, closing him in with his demons. He was up there right now, I imagined, staring out at this infinite grayness, feeling the sad fallout of our fight. I wanted so badly to call him, but I knew there was