The Night Listener : A Novel

whatsoever?”
    “God, Gabe, name me a reason why we should! The last time he was in front of cameras it was because a lot of sick grownups wanted to get off. Do you think I’d put him through that again? Make him sing for his supper? Turn him into some poor little pederast poster boy, just so they can—”
    “But if you let that guy come out…”
    “What guy?”
    “The PR person. Whoever. Maybe that person would…you know, obviate the need for any other publicity. Maybe one interview would take care of it. And you could control it completely, make it as short and easy as you want. There wouldn’t even have to be cameras there.”
    “That’s what Findlay said.”
    “Well, don’t you think maybe…”
    “Look, Gabe. There are times when I wonder if Pete is gonna make it another day. He’s weak as hell and very fragile emotionally and very self-conscious about the way he looks. I just can’t let some stranger in here to pump him about the gory details. It’s too risky in every way.”
    “Did you tell Findlay that?”
    “Of course!”
    “And?”
    “He was completely unbending. He just kept saying, ‘I’m terribly sorry, but these are our requirements.’ He was a total asshole about it. It was like he was a different person. Like he’d already made up his mind.”
    “I’m sure he’s just…” I didn’t know how to finish this, so I didn’t try.
    “Just what?”
    “Who the hell knows? He’s one of those repressed Yankee types.
    I’ll talk to him, though. Maybe there’s something I can say.”
    “What could you possibly—”
    “I don’t know. But I’ll try, okay? I’ll do my damnedest. This isn’t a bit fair.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “Is Pete there now?”
    “In the other room. He hasn’t even eaten since we heard.”
    “Fuck.”
    “He won’t even talk to me. He’s being as stubborn as Findlay. He just rolled up in a little ball and faced the wall.” This image so haunted me that it took a while to form words. “Do you…uh…think he would talk to me?”
    “Oh, God, Gabe, I don’t know.”
    “Would you ask him?”
    “You won’t be hurt if he doesn’t…”
    “No. Just ask him, though, would you?”
    A loaded pause, and then: “Hang on.”
    There’s a term we use in radio called room tone that came to mind in the anxious moments that followed. Room tone, put simply, is the sound of ordinary silence. When you’re recording, say, a radio play, this sound is required in the editing process to make the background into a seamless whole. That’s because a silent room is never the same as the total absence of sound, and no two silent rooms are ever exactly alike. There are subtleties that are almost undetect-able to the ear: atmospheric oddities, the exhalation of a heating duct, the distant drone of traffic or plumbing. The sound of nothing can be cacophonous, in fact, when weighed against the cold polished chrome of Absolutely Nothing.
    What I heard while I waited for Pete was the teeming silence of room tone. A void that said more than any sound, a living entity that could mold itself into shapes and colors and flesh itself, speeding me across a continent to a room I might never see, a boy I might never hold.
    “Dad?”
    “Yeah, Pete. I’m here.”
    “She told you, huh?”
    “Yeah. She did.”
    “This is so fucked, man.”
    “Yeah, it is. It is fucked.”
    More room tone, then a tiny squeak that told me he was crying.
    “Oh, Pete…”
    “It’s okay.”
    “No. It’s not. I’m gonna talk to Findlay. See what we can do.”
    “Won’t do any good.”
    “Don’t be so sure. Findlay listens to me when he has to.” Does he ever, I thought. The squirrelly bastard.
    “Forget about it,” said Pete.
    “Why?”
    “Because it won’t do any good.”
    “Look, Pete, this is just about their silly publicity requirements. I think we can offer them a compromise that would give them what they want and still…protect your privacy. Don’t give up hope yet.
    You’re gonna be an author if it’s the last thing I—”
    “You don’t think this is about publicity, do you?” I felt a tightening in my chest. “Well…yeah…sure.”
    “They would cancel a whole book just because of that?”
    “Maybe. It’s all about sales these days.”
    “What about those guys that never do publicity at all? Like…you know, Thomas Pynchon or somebody?”
    “Well…there are always exceptions, I’m afraid. Especially if you’re that famous. You can demand anything