The Night Listener : A Novel

“My son lives there.
    With his mother.”
    She bit her lower lip and frowned with concern, nodding slowly.
    “I get to see him on holidays,” I told her.
    “Well, that’s nice.”
    “It is, yes. I can hardly wait.”
    “How old is he?”
    “Thirteen.”
    “Oh…nice age.”
    The hell it is, I thought. It’s a terrible age. It’s the worst fucking age of all.
    “Do you have any pictures of him?”
    I couldn’t help grinning. It’s hard to say which I found more preposterous—her June Cleaverish question or the Father Knows Best answer I was able to provide: “As a matter of fact, I do.” I reached for my wallet like any overproud parent who’s been given such an easy opening.
    She studied the snapshot soberly for a moment, pursing her lips.
    “Oh, my goodness,” she said. “Just look at those eyes.”
    “Yes. They’re something, aren’t they?”
    “He has your nose and chin, though.”
    “Does he?”
    “Oh, yes. I’m sure you’ve been told that.”
    “Well…” I shrugged modestly and looked away. A passing flight attendant—male and cute in his brisk, bubble-butted way—locked eyes with me for the briefest of moments. This time the look was unmistakable.
    “What’s his name?” asked the woman.
    “What?” I turned back to my interrogator with a start.
    “Your son. What’s his name?”
    “Oh…Pete. Pete Lomax.”
    She looked at the snap again, as if to link the name with the face, then handed it back across the aisle. “Well, he’s very handsome, Mr. Lomax.”
    “Thanks.” I returned the snap to my wallet, blushing furiously, amazed at how rapidly I’d become such a fraud.
    “My name is Vera, by the way.” The lady held out her chubby, ring-encrusted hand.
    “Oh…hi…I’m Peter.”
    “Aha,” she said, beaming. “He’s named after you, then. That’s sweet.”
    I summoned a sickly smile.
    “I have a granddaughter who’s named after me. They don’t call her that, it’s just her middle name, but still…it’s nice to have another little version of you out there in the world.” I was on the verge of changing the subject when that bubble-butted flight attendant did it for me.
    “Excuse me,” he said, kneeling in the aisle between me and Vera but addressing only me. “I saw your name on the passenger list, and I hope this isn’t too pushy, but…well, I just want to say that I really appreciate everything you’ve done…you know…for us.”
    “Thanks,” I said, as sincerely as I could. “That’s really nice. It’s been my pleasure, really.”
    He regarded me a moment longer with great solemnity, then patted me on the shoulder and hurried off.
    Vera was watching me, slack-mouthed. “You’ve done something for flight attendants?” she asked.
    I ended up telling her I was “kind of a labor negotiator,” though I preferred not to discuss it, since I was travelling incognito. I was horrified at my ready-made mendacity and how quickly it had gotten out of hand. I imagined that any moment the flight attendant would come scurrying back with one of my paperback editions, earnestly requesting an autograph, and I’d be compelled to tell Vera that I sometimes wrote when I wasn’t busy negotiating, and that Gabriel Noone was just a convenient pseudonym. But the flight attendant kept a respectful distance for most of the flight, approaching only for official duties and a brief, furtive offer of extra ice cream, an event which wasn’t lost on the ever-more-fascinated Vera. Her sweet conspiratorial smile seemed to be saying: “Don’t worry, Mr. Lomax.
    Your secret mission is safe with me.”
    This pointless little charade was closer than I’d come in years to impersonating a heterosexual, though I assured myself it had nothing to do with some lingering fear of public exposure. I had already proven that on an airplane, in fact, on a painfully long flight to Europe six or seven years earlier. Determined to beat jet lag, Jess and I had been following a program that required us to eat a carbo-heavy dinner at our normal time, then dress comfortably for bed and go immediately to sleep, regardless of what the rest of the plane was doing. So we repaired to the head and reemerged minutes later in our black satin eyeshades and long cotton nightshirts—blue for him, pink for me—to be greeted by waves of laughter and a respectable smattering of applause. When someone shouted across the plane to ask admiringly where we’d bought the nightshirts, Jess yelled “San