The Night Listener : A Novel

I can tell.” She was talking about his shit, I realized, and it gave me a twinge of remorse to have invaded her privacy so completely. I myself had paid similar compliments to Hugo—and unashamedly—but I would not have looked kindly upon eavesdroppers.
    “Okay,” said Donna. “Let’s go.” With that they were off again, moving faster than before. The blocks were shorter here and the streets more mazelike, so I knew I would have to keep pace or lose them completely. I decided to trail her from the other side of the street, where I would look a little less like a stalker. I made myself promise not to lose my nerve.
    Then I heard a voice coming from a house.
    “Hey,” it called. “You’re gonna miss him.” It was a woman’s voice—one that Donna obviously recognized.
    “Oh, hi.” She brought the dog to a halt. “Miss who?”
    “C’mon now. Who would you miss at eleven o’clock?”
    “Really? Is it that late?”
    I stopped behind a tree and pretended to kick snow off my shoes, an unconvincing charade intended only for this unseen woman. I was fairly sure she hadn’t spotted me, but I wanted to look innocuous in case she had. There was no quicker way to forfeit my invisibility.
    “What are you doing in this mess?” said the woman.
    Donna sighed. “I just had to get out for a while. I like this, anyway.
    It’s so peaceful without the traffic. Is it really eleven o’clock?”
    “’Fraid so. You wanna come in and listen? I could make us some cocoa.” There was something about her tone that seemed unusually tender and solicitous—even for someone speaking to a blind lady in a snowstorm.
    “That’s sweet, Pat. But I’m beat.”
    “You sure?” coaxed the woman. “Should be a good one. Jamie’s eccentric uncle gets back from his hunting trip tonight.”
    “I’ve heard that one already,” said Donna. “These are all reruns, you know. He hasn’t done anything new for ages.” Then it hit me: they were talking about me. Or at least about Noone at Night . Donna’s voice, while remaining civil, seemed to have a dismissive ring to it, as if she wanted no part of this woman’s fan-dom.
    “Well, go home, then,” said the woman. “Tuck yourself in.”
    “I hear you,” said Donna, putting a fresh spin on that late-twentieth-century cliché. She had heard me for years, after all. She had only heard me. Like other sightless radio listeners, she had built a teeming three-dimensional world from the sound of my voice alone.
    Judging from the letters I received, that intimate aural connection could be far more potent than anything the eyes could contain. But if Donna had once known that experience—and shared it with her son—she seemed to have lost it now.
    I heard a door close solidly as the woman went back inside. Then Donna and the dog went on their way, and the knot in my chest loosened a little. I waited until they had rounded the corner before continuing my bogus stroll. At that moment, a clock began to toll gravely in the distance, offering proof of the eleventh hour. I half expected to hear my own voice coming from one of those houses, intoning the intro to my show: “I’m Gabriel Noone and this is Noone at Night …” But there was only the clock, and the sound of a faraway train as it screamed through the frozen night.
    At the end of the next block I heard the jingle of keys and realized that Donna was almost home. Still watching from across the street, I kept my distance as she stopped in front of her house. The place was nearly—though not exactly—what I’d imagined. It was set back on the lot, but there were no trees to speak of, just a huddle of overgrown shrubbery against the windows. And the house, while compact, wasn’t a bungalow at all but an L-shaped brick ranch from the sixties with a cluttered carport to one side. The aluminum-framed windows afforded a partial glimpse of a still-lighted Christmas tree.
    Still lighted, no doubt, for the benefit of the neighbors.
    Or the benefit of someone other than Donna.
    The implications were both heartening and terrifying. After all my reckless sleuthing, I was suddenly paralyzed with indecision.
    This was clearly not the time to confront this woman, much less force a meeting with an ailing boy. It would be better to return in the morning when Donna wouldn’t feel so cornered and I could pretend that I’d found their address through legitimate means. I could bring them some flowers, perhaps, or a nice Christmas present,