The Night Listener : A Novel

you’ll just turn the page.” The prospect of taking action, any action, after so many days of frustration was undeniably appealing. But I didn’t trust the fire Jess was trying to light in me, or the peculiar tingle I felt when I thought about shaping this story for my own purposes. It seemed too much like fun, and therefore totally inappropriate for the subject matter.
    “This isn’t some Hardy Boys mystery, you know. We’re talking about a sick kid who could be dead in a month.”
    “Exactly! So why are you just sitting here? You’ll never get any answers if you don’t go out and find them. Look…if Donna called tomorrow to say that Pete had died, would you even know what to think? You wouldn’t, babe. You wouldn’t know whether to feel heartbroken or totally fucked over. You wouldn’t have a clue. You’d be in limbo for the rest of your life.” He was right, of course, and such a ghastly moment was not at all beyond the realm of possibility.
    I sighed. “I keep hoping it’s temporary.”
    “What?”
    “This…silence. Maybe they went unlisted because they needed a breather. That wouldn’t be unreasonable. Pete’s really weak right now and depressed about the cancellation. Maybe they just needed some quiet time.”
    “Why wouldn’t they call and tell you that?” Good question. Was Donna pissed off at me? Had Findlay really left me out of it as promised, or had he revealed my doubts to Donna as a way of lending support to the cancellation? That would certainly explain my sudden exile. Or maybe Pete himself had finally told Donna of his own suspicions about the cancellation, and they had concluded that I was part of it. But Pete had been so trusting the last time we talked. Wouldn’t he want to hear the truth from me first, before shutting me out of his life forever?
    I gave Jess a desolate look. “I can’t handle this much longer.” He took my hand in his. “I don’t mind watching Hugo.”
     
    EIGHTEEN

    A CONVENIENT PSEUDONYM

    THE WOMAN ACROSS the aisle from me had been casting exploratory glances since we’d passed the Rockies, though she didn’t strike me as a fan. Seventyish and plump, relentlessly permed and pantsuited, she seemed more like a member of Oprah’s audience than of mine.
    Which is not to say that such people don’t listen to my show; I just don’t expect them to recognize me on airplanes. This woman, I figured, was just lonely and cruising for a little conversation, so I tried to oblige her: “Comfy, isn’t it?”
    “Oh, yes,” she said, flashing a row of way-too-perfect teeth. “These seats are just wonderful. I’ve never flown first class before.”
    “Same here,” I said. “I’m usually crammed back there in steerage, eating my eight peanuts.” This wasn’t true—at least not lately—but I wanted her to feel at ease with me. I was already trying to charm her, I realized, a knee-jerk reaction I’d learned from my father.
    Despite his vast catalog of prejudices the old man could be lovely with strangers, and no less gracious to a cleaning lady than he was to a visiting banker. It was his duty to be nice to people he didn’t know; it was how he proved his goodness to himself.
    “My daughter sent me this ticket,” said the lady. “I always come out for Christmas, but this year they wanted to do something special for me.”
    “How nice.”
    “Mmm. Even got me my own suite at the Pfister Hotel.” A consolation prize, I thought. Up until now she’s stayed at her daughter’s house, but her son-in-law has finally put his foot down, paying dearly for the privilege. I imagined the lady knew this on some level, and therefore sorely needed me to confirm her great good fortune.
    “The Pfister is marvelous,” I told her. “Huge high-ceilinged rooms and hallways. Very pretty.” I stopped short of saying that I’d stayed there once on a book tour, since I knew where that would lead, and I didn’t feel like trotting out my dog-and-pony show. This trip had already been a sort of out-of-life experience, and I wanted to keep it that way. Someone else could be Gabriel Noone for a while. I would be anyone this woman imagined.
    “Do you live in Milwaukee?” she asked.
    I shook my head. “Here. I mean, there.” I pointed behind the plane with a smile. “The Bay Area.”
    “Same here. Walnut Creek.”
    “Ah.”
    “Nice and warm there.”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “So you have family in Wisconsin?”
    “Yes,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation.