The Listeners Page 6

  Paul stopped. For fuck’s sake, he muttered, a drop of sweat sliding off his brow onto my cheek.

  Sorry.

  Can’t you turn it off?

  I turned over and glanced at the texts. My stomach plunged.

  Who’s messaging you at eleven at night?

  I brought the phone close against my body to block Paul’s view of the screen. It’s Cass, I lied. She and Aldo are going through a rough patch. Paul asked what the trouble was, and I shook my head as I read through the texts. Sorry, I’ll tell you later, I said, I just need to call her. She’s in a state.

  Well maybe you can tell her we’re in a bit of a state ourselves.

  I’m sorry, I said, rising from the bed, and pulling on my nightgown.

  We’re having sex for the first time in a century, and she’s making you take a fucking call.

  He lay back in bed like a hot dog dropped from a bun.

  I know, I’m sorry, I said again, tying the sash around my waist, and making for the door.

  You have all goddamn day to talk with each other at school.

  I’ll be five minutes!

  And what, I’m supposed to just sit here and keep the engine running, he said, dolefully stroking his erection.

  Five minutes, I repeated, closing the door behind me.

  I slipped out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the dining room, my phone the only illumination in the darkness, as I sat down on a chair and dialed the number. As the call rang through, I thought of Paul and his penis upstairs, that sorry scene. I heard a click, and then breathing on the other end of the line.

  Hello?

  Hey. Kyle’s voice was clipped and tight.

  What’s going on, are you okay?

  I just needed to talk to you.

  I closed my eyes. We agreed you’d only message in an emergency, I said.

  I know, but—

  You can’t be sending me texts at midnight.

  —this is an emergency.

  I asked him where he was.

  I went for a walk, he said.

  Where?

  Just around the neighbourhood. I couldn’t call from home.

  I heard the scrape of his shoe kicking a stone along asphalt.

  Listen, are you somewhere private? he asked.

  Sort of, I replied, under my breath.

  We could meet in the park. Near the school.

  No, I can’t do that.

  Just for five minutes.

  I knew something must be wrong, but it was hard to gauge the severity of the problem from his voice.

  I can’t come out, I said. Just tell me what’s going on.

  He was silent for a long moment. I asked him if he was still there.

  There’re others, he said quietly.

  What do you mean?

  Others who can hear it.

  I took a moment to process what he was saying. How do you know? I asked.

  There’s a guy I play basketball with, Julian Delgado?

  I know Julian, I said. I had taught Julian two years ago.

  We were playing earlier tonight and I told him.

  My breath caught in my throat. What?

  Just—

  About us?

  No, no, about the hum, he could tell something was up with me, and then he told me his mom suffers from it too. It gives her headaches. Keeps her up at night.

  Lots of things do that, I said, not hiding my anger. Until now, we had been fastidiously discreet.

  No, trust me, she really hears it, he insisted.

  How do you know it’s the same thing?

  Because I talked to her, he said, as my heart sank even deeper.

  You talked to his mother?

  I’m telling you she can hear it. She described it to me exactly. And then she told me she works for this couple on Sequoia Crescent, and apparently they can both hear it. And this couple? They know of others who can too, and they’re organizing a meeting.

  I struggled to take in everything he was saying. What … what kind of meeting? I asked.

  To talk about it. To figure out what it is.

  It was clear he was dazzled by the news, but I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t even sure how I felt about the prospect of there being others. I had grown accustomed to having a single, secret interlocutor. Our meet-ups made me feel awake to the possibility of wonder and mystery in a way that I hadn’t in years. I found myself preoccupied throughout the day with thinking about our next mission; about what leads we had not yet followed up on, or clues we might have missed. During class, or the lunch hour, I made little mental notes of things I wanted to share with him, and sometimes even had the impulse to text him to gauge his reaction. But of course I didn’t. In class, I made every effort to hide our bond—which resulted in my more or less completely ignoring him. I avoided any eye contact, and no longer called on him like I used to, which effectively meant he never spoke.

  Are you still there? he asked.

  Yeah.

  It’s the Saturday after next, 12 Sequoia Crescent, noon. She wrote it down on a piece of paper for me.

  I repeated the address, trying to visualize where in the neighbourhood it was, and then asked him what he thought we should do.

  Well obviously we have to go.

  I told him it didn’t feel so obvious to me. What if there’re people who recognize us? I asked. Julian’s mother, for instance.

  It doesn’t matter.

  Of course it does, I can’t be seen with you out of school.

  But—

  In a stranger’s house on a Saturday afternoon, I mean how—

  This is what we’ve been waiting for, he interjected. There might be someone there who actually knows.

  As Kyle spoke I considered how, initially, all I had wanted was for others to validate my experience, and offer up answers. But that was before the strange bliss of complicity I had found with him.

  Aren’t you curious? he asked.

  Of course I am, that’s not the point.

  Then what are we doing? If we can’t take the next step, we’re just wasting our time.

  I knew he was trying to hurt me with this comment, and he succeeded. I told him that he should just go himself; I couldn’t stop him.

  What if I arrive first? he suggested. And if there’s an obvious red flag I can text you not to come. But if the coast is clear, then I’ll text you a thumbs-up. You don’t have to sit beside me or let on anything about us.

  He went quiet for a moment. I heard a car drive past him. I can’t go alone, he said. I need you there.

  I felt like a branch being carried by the quick black stream of my own life. I made a small circle with the palm of my hand on the smooth darkness of the dining room table, and sighed. Okay.

  Thank you.

  And you’re sure you didn’t tell Julian or his mother about us?

  No.

  I told Kyle that we were navigating dangerous territory, and he said that he was aware. I looked out the picture window at the dark-grey of the front yard, and the faint glow of the street beyond. I tried to imagine what I would do if I saw Kyle standing out there, talking to me on his phone. I honestly wouldn’t have put it past him. There was a wild unpredictability about him. He had the soul of a poet, and the brain of a teenager, full of whimsy and bad impulse control.

  No more texting me in the middle of the night, okay?

  Okay.

  Now, try to get some sleep.

  You too, he said. And then after a moment, he added—Good night, Claire.

  I felt a jolt at the sound of my name. It was the first time he had ever said it. But then for him to call me ‘Miss,’ now, would have felt ridiculous. I was suddenly struck by the fact that it had never once come up in any of our chats after class. I wondered how long he had been waiting to say it, or whether he had even given it a thought before now. Before I could say good night, I sensed a shift in the room. A presence behind me. I turned and gasped, and jumped up from my chair, dropping the phone. Jes
us Christ—

  A shadow leaned against the doorway to the kitchen. Wearing an oversized t-shirt, like a nightdress, and holding a glass of water.

  I was parched, Ashley said, taking a languid sip. You could cook an egg on her vocal fry. I put my foot over the bright screen of the phone, hiding the name of the caller as fast as I could. But was I fast enough? My mind raced back over the last five minutes.

  Were you just standing there, listening to me?

  Who was that?

  I suddenly felt hot pressure all over, like my skin couldn’t contain me. I crouched down to the floor, grabbed the phone out from under my foot, and pressed the red button to end the call.

  Why were you listening to my conversation?

  Who were you taking to?

  Cassandra.

  Oh really, she replied, drolly.

  She’s been going through a hard time, and I’ve been trying to—

  Are you having an affair?

  I laughed, though it sounded more like wind being knocked from my lungs. Ashley reached for the dimmable light switch, and turned up the chandelier over the dining table, just enough to see one another’s face.

  Is it a woman? she pressed.

  What?

  I heard you say ‘I can’t come out.’

  I forced a chuckle, but I couldn’t tell if she was being serious. I’ve always thought you were a little dyke-y, she said.

  That’s not funny, I replied, fixing her with a look.

  Is it Mr. Gaddis?

  What? No. God no.

  I can’t be seen with you out of school, she said, parroting me.

  She had been listening forensically. I really didn’t see any other way out of this. I tried to listen for any movement upstairs, or on the stairs. The last thing I needed was Paul overhearing us.

  You have to promise you won’t tell anyone.

  She cocked her head to the side. Why would I make that promise? she asked.

  Because I could lose my job.

  Jesus Christ, she muttered. So it is a teacher.

  I held the back of my chair and bowed my head. It’s not an affair, I said, and it’s not a teacher.

  What, a student? she asked, with a snicker. The smile suddenly dropped from her face. Oh my god it is.

  You have to promise me that you’ll keep this between us.

  She put her glass of water down hard on the table. What the actual hell are you telling me? she asked.

  There’s nothing inappropriate happening between us.

  Oh my god you’re having an affair with a student, she said, her mouth dropping open.

  No, I’m not.

  I bet I can guess who it is.

  Ash, this is not a joke.

  She crossed her arms, smirking. Is it Luke? she asked.

  I lowered my voice to a vicious whisper—I need you to shut up and listen to me, all right? This could destroy me. I need you to promise I can trust you with this. Please.

  She fixed me with a stare, like a genie waiting for my third and final calamitous wish. Fine, she said.

  Kyle Francis can hear the hum.

  Her eyes darted across my face, the hint of any smile now gone. Kyle Francis? she asked.

  I told her how he came to me unprompted, how it caused him the same symptoms, how he’d been in a dark place, and had no one to talk to, and how I was worried about him, so I gave him my number.

  I know a few girls who would literally kill you for those digits.

  What?

  Even though he’s, like, a stoner and looks vaguely unwell.

  Ash—

  And a bit white trash.

  Enough.

  And is maybe a homo, though who knows.

  What?

  Can you imagine, a sensitive fag who plays basketball, no wonder everyone’s obsessed with him.

  Don’t—don’t use that word.

  It’s fine, I’m one too, I can say it.

  You can say you’re queer, but don’t use—

  No I’m a fag, I’m a gay man, Mom, that’s literally my sexuality.

  I was too tired to unpick that right then, so I just nodded. I was usually the preferred teacher for kids to come out to, probably because I directed the school musicals, though in the last couple of years a new, fluid vanguard of sexuality was emerging that challenged even my finely honed gaydar. Kyle would certainly be a case in point.

  Who knows, but he once sent this video of himself jerking off to Pierre-Antoine Defreine, and he um, Pierre-Antoine, sent it to Emma, who sent it to a bunch of us, and honestly, Mom—this video? Like. I mean I’m not going to show you obviously, but it’s legendary.

  She then asked me what his midnight emergency was about. Did he run out of pot or something?

  I made a little disapproving cluck, which made me feel about seventy years old, and it suddenly struck me that, despite the hours we had spent together over the past while, I still knew very little about Kyle or his reputation among other students. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear him referred to as a stoner, or as white trash, or even as someone over whom adolescent girls might ‘literally kill,’ though I was, on all accounts. Ashley crossed her arms, and shifted her weight—Well?

  He was calling to tell me that … there’re others who can hear the noise. And they’re meeting a couple of Saturdays from now.

  She exhaled sharply and shook her head, like an exasperated parent. She asked me if we spoke often, and I confessed that we did sometimes, after class, but then students came to me with problems all of the time. A lot of difficult issues got brought up in class, through the books we studied, and sometimes students were triggered, or a discussion would cause them to open up to me afterwards, in private. Ashley pursed her lips, frog-faced, in rebuke of my weak defence. Of course these students weren’t calling me at midnight.

  Sounds like you two have a pretty special connection, she said. I affirmed this with silence. I mean he’s smart, she added.

  Yes, very, I replied. And very perceptive.

  She looked at me with a certain understanding. A gentle concern. I felt something thaw between us, and it suddenly seemed that the possibility of a small reopening might exist in which she and I could speak candidly again with one another, without judgement.

  Being able to talk to him … I can’t even tell you. It’s true, what we have is very special. He’s my confidant, and I’m his. And I know from the outside it looks—

  Fucked up, she said flatly.

  I nodded, realizing I had misjudged, and proceeded with caution. You can see why I’m nervous, I said.

  Yeah it’s uh … it’s pretty fucked up.

  I dug my nails into my palm. I shouldn’t have let my guard down like that. I suddenly felt stripped by her gaze. This is why I need to trust you with this, I said.

  I don’t want to be trusted with this! I don’t want to have any part of this, and you shouldn’t either. This isn’t cool, all right? And I don’t want you fucking up your life with this. And my life. Have you even thought about—? Kyle is a friend of mine, like a friend of all my friends.

  I know, it’s complicated.

  No, it’s not, she said, eyes wide, it’s actually totally simple. Stop. Stop seeing Kyle or anyone else who thinks they can hear your fucking hum.

  In that moment, for the first time in my life, I felt afraid of Ashley. I felt an almost dizzying loss of status. When had that shift occurred? I suppose it was just another thing the hum had stripped me of. Or maybe it had been a more gradual attrition over the years, perhaps ever since she started high school when I began to feel a certain slackening of our psychic bond, but I had always felt that was natural, even healthy. It had never alarmed me before. But now, suddenly, this distance felt dangerous. A chasm to fall into.

  I think it would be a good idea if you didn’t mention this to your father, I said.

  She took a sip of water. And what makes you think you can ask me that?

  I’m just telling you—

  I kno
w what you’re telling me, and here’s what I’m telling you—stop. Her eyes bored into me as she picked up her water glass. Just—stop, she said. And we can forget about everything. The choice is yours, Mom.

  And with that, she walked out of the dining room, and up the stairs. I stood there in the half-light, bracing myself against the table, until I heard the door to her bedroom bang shut, like a gun firing a blank.

  6

  BEING WITH KYLE WAS TO FEEL A LITTLE LESS ALONE, A LITTLE less scared, and a little less like some messed up Lars von Trier heroine. It was to feel proactive about my own condition, and to refuse victimhood. It was to feel believed. But every mother reading this will understand when I say—when your child asks you to stop, you stop. There wasn’t a question. Doing something that caused Ashley hurt or distress was basically the single greatest fear I had lived with since I pushed her slimy, screaming body out of mine. Nothing was worth risking our connection, or her well-being, even if it meant remaining mired in the headfuck of the hum forever. So I left for school that morning with the plan to pull Kyle aside, at the end of class, and tell him that we couldn’t continue—except, he didn’t come to class.

  At lunch, Cass and I were eating disappointing sandwiches at my desk and diagnosing a persistent sex dream of hers about Alfred Molina, when there was a knock at the door, and Valeria strode into the room, followed by a compact woman with leathered skin and blond hair faded to the colour of dishwater. Kyle had shown me a photo of this woman before. Her name was Brenda, and she was his mother. A bank teller, probably my age. I always felt a kinship for fellow young mothers. We’d all been through the shit in one way or the other. I could always pick one out in a crowd. Too few years stretched over too much living. Kyle trailed behind both women, eyes to the floor.