The Listeners Page 8

  Along with a somewhat uncomfortable-looking Scandinavian couch, and two matching, scooped armchairs, there were four smooth white kitchen chairs arranged in a loose semicircle on the far side of the coffee table. I took in the rest of the room—the large abstract oil painting with heavy impasto, the hand-carved stone vase on the teak end table, the wine-coloured Moroccan rug; every object felt considered and placed in specific relation to one another by a discerning eye. Even the subtle but pervasive scent of sandalwood felt curated. The vaulted ceiling ascended upward into a large skylight, bathing the room in a soft, late morning glow. Opposite the bay window was a wall lined with tall bookshelves and a sliding wood ladder. The bookcase ladder felt like an affectation, but I was into it.

  Howard was a bit of a bookshelf ladder himself—a walking, talking intellectual affectation you couldn’t help but admire and delight in, somehow fusty and charismatic at the same time. He was a retired geophysicist who spoke with a warm, honeyed baritone, like the narrator of a nature program who betrays no emotion as wild game are eviscerated by apex predators. If I was someone who sometimes used my intelligence as a shield, Howard wielded his like a sword, brandishing doozies like ‘When I was doing field research in Mauritius …’ As he talked, I couldn’t help but smile—when I was a girl, I used to tell my friend Jennifer that I had an eccentric millionaire uncle who travelled the world ‘collecting specimens,’ who would one day come back and take me on his expeditions. Howard was eccentric millionaire scientist uncle out of central casting, except perhaps a little more effete than I’d have imagined as a girl; a little more wine decanter than pith helmet.

  At some point, I succumbed to the gravitational pull of the bookshelves and let myself wander over, as Howard followed. Besides dozens of novels, the shelves were lined with thick art books, from the Renaissance and Flemish masters, to books on Dadaism, the Bauhaus, and numerous individual architects and artists—Corbusier, Zaha Hadid, Eva Hesse, Joseph Beuys, Rachel Whiteread. Howard pulled out a monograph on Albrecht Dürer, and as he slowly leafed through the pages, we spoke about Dürer’s woodcut of the rhinoceros he had made without ever having seen one. In their quiet way, these books communicated to me that Howard was my kind of person. Someone who wanted to feel part of the conversation; the immortal conversation of words and images that began with the first humans, and would continue long past our deaths, perhaps even past our extinction as a species, carved on the sides of cliffs, and beamed through outer space. As a girl growing up, eating baloney sandwiches for dinner while my mother worked the night shift, a desire to enter that great, thunderous conversation was a desire to liberate myself from the silence of poverty. The silence of a one-bedroom apartment without books. The silence that comes, not from any lack of intellect, but from the lack of time and means to nourish it.

  After a few moments, Howard’s much younger partner, Jo, walked over to us. Jo felt as calm and deliberate as calligraphy. She was a yoga instructor who spoke without a single unnecessary or unconsidered word. As I rambled about switching to decaf, and arguing with the phone company that morning, she listened as if excavating layers of meaning in my words that I wasn’t even aware of, nodding and hmm-ing like a therapist. For some reason I didn’t find this annoying, perhaps because it seemed to come so naturally to her, and I actually began to find the effect strangely calming. I later watched her interacting with others in the room and wondered what it must feel like to move through the world with such an effortless grace, like a swimmer in a calm, cool lake.

  By contrast, when I sat down on the couch, I got locked into conversation with Leslie, a woman in her mid-forties wearing an expensive-looking cashmere sweater who broke into frequent little insecure laughs. Everything about Leslie seemed sharp—her features, her voice, her anxiety. She was fiercely intelligent and uncertain, like so many women our age. Probably a college-era eating disorder. Definitely on LinkedIn. She talked to me about her cocker spaniel Toby, who had spent the morning puking his guts up all over her carpet. All I was really dying to ask her about was the hum, but she didn’t let me get a word in. The vibe I got from Leslie was that she was successful and unhappy. I could picture looking over in slow traffic on the highway and seeing her talking away on Bluetooth in the regulated micro-climate of her SUV. Though I’m sure she was powerful, professionally, financially, I immediately felt a certain empathy towards her; even a kind of protectiveness.

  When Leslie got up to use the washroom, I noticed a man sitting by himself on one of the kitchen chairs by the coffee table, so I went over and sat down beside him, a handsome but taciturn former soldier named Damian. For reasons he didn’t elaborate on, he had been off on disability for the last few years; long enough for him to grow a truly regrettable goatee and ponytail. It was a testament to his natural good looks that these self-sabotaging features didn’t override the rest. He reminded me of a roadie, wrapping up mic cables after a Kid Rock concert. I was fielding some pretty strong toxic masculinity vibes from him, but I tried to be generous; I was sure Damian had been through a lot and seen more than his share of horrors. I asked him a few questions about the hum—when he’d begun hearing it, what it sounded like to him—but he seemed embarrassed and evasive, like I was asking him about some dark fetish. Eventually I abandoned the effort, and he seemed all the more relieved for it.

  Beside us, on one of the armchairs, sat Nora Delgado; a heavy-set, soft-spoken woman in her mid-forties with deep acne scars. She was the mother of Kyle’s friend Julian, and I suppose the reason why Kyle and I had ended up in that living room. I leaned over and introduced myself, and we exchanged a few polite words. I didn’t mention that I used to teach her son. And I certainly didn’t mention that though this was our first time meeting, it wasn’t the first time that I had thought about her. Julian once wrote a short story for my class, about a Guatemalan woman who crossed the Mexican American border with her infant son, and began life as an undocumented migrant, living out of a motel in Texas. The woman worked at the motel as a cleaner, in exchange for accommodation, and had to fend off the sexual advances of the motel owner. When I asked Julian about the story, he denied it was autobiographical. And yet, there was something about the mother in the story that felt so specific and vivid, I couldn’t help but feel she contained some residue of truth. Either way, I gave him full marks, despite the story being about half of the requested word count.

  Standing next to us was a young woman with an easy smile named Seema, who, I overheard, was a medical resident at the General. She had a cherubic face, a boyish haircut, a neck tattoo, and a gold nose stud. I admired the casual transgression of her style, in a suburb where black skinny jeans stood out. As she spoke, Seema hid her hands inside the sleeves of her roomy flannel shirt, and sometimes tucked her mouth behind her shirt collar while listening; not in a shy way, but like a cat playing with an empty bag, full of excess, restless energy. She was the youngest in the room, after Kyle, and the two of them had naturally drifted into conversation with one another. They seemed to be comparing notes on the hum, sharing timelines and theories. I wanted to join them, but I got the sense that Kyle needed some space.

  He was wearing a baggy black t-shirt with a picture of Heath Ledger’s Joker on it. His conversation with Seema had allowed him to avoid making any eye contact with me, right up until Howard convened the meeting and suggested we all take a seat, and even then, Kyle barely managed a glance in my direction. It seemed like an eternity since we had last spoken, and I had felt the absence like a physical ache. I wondered what lie he had told Brenda before leaving home that morning; or if she had even noticed. He looked worn down. But then, we all did. There was a palpable sense of exhaustion in the room. We were a circle of broken spirits, animated with the faint hope that perhaps, at last, we were on the brink of some shared catharsis.

  Howard essentially began the meeting by saying, Look, I know you have all been struggling with this noise, and it’s confusing, but I know exactly what it is, and you have nothing to worry abou
t. And frankly, though that seemed like a bit of a ludicrous thing to say, it was exactly what I wanted to hear right then and there in his mahogany voice. The easy confidence with which he made that overarching claim made it almost seem plausible. He then began guiding us through a kind of thought experiment.

  How many times do you think lightning strikes the Earth in a given day? he asked smiling, obviously enjoying presiding over this small captive audience. Anyone?

  Damian shrugged and broke the silence by guessing twenty-three.

  I think it’s higher than that, Seema said.

  What would you say then? Howard asked her.

  A few thousand maybe. Say five thousand?

  Five thousand, okay. Anyone else?

  Leslie said she thought five thousand sounded about right. Howard asked Kyle what he wagered.

  Five thousand five hundred, Kyle replied, which made the group laugh.

  What is this, The Price Is Right, Seema joked. Five thousand five hundred and one!

  Howard waited a moment for any last-minute guesses, and then said—So it’s actually eight million times a day, which elicited more laughter. Which works out to about a hundred times a second, he continued.

  Twenty-three, Damian repeated to himself, chuckling.

  I was like twenty-three, Seema said, I’ve seen twenty-three bolts in the same storm.

  So that’s about three billion times a year, Howard continued, and so as you can imagine—He suddenly looked up and stopped. Oh, hello.

  Everyone turned to see an elderly couple standing in the entryway to the front hall. With no sound of knocking or the doorbell, it was as if they’d been conjured from thin air.

  Please, come in, Jo said, waving them into the room.

  Sorry we’re late, the man replied, stepping forward. He wore a baby-blue dress shirt and seemed athletic for his age, like he might be a member of a tennis club.

  Howard rose from the couch to shake the couple’s hands. No, no trouble at all, he said.

  The door was unlocked, the woman said with a coy smile, burrowing her neck into her shoulders.

  We got a bit turned around, her husband added.

  He keyed ‘Sierra’ into the GPS and I said I think it’s Sequoia, but—She raised and dropped her arms, laughing, but clearly not yet over the irritation. Jo reassured them that it was easy to get turned around in this area.

  We were just talking about lightning, Howard said.

  Lightning, okay, the woman said, as Jo took the couple’s matching fleece jackets from them. Lightning in what way?

  I take it you’re Dr. Bard, the man said, before Howard could answer his wife’s question.

  Yes, but please—call me Howard.

  The man introduced himself as Tom, and then introduced his wife, Emily. Hello, she said, with a little wave to everyone. Her glossy manicure suggested migrant labour, but her haircut suggested a Republican voting record. She leaned in towards Howard, and motioned to Jo in the entryway—And sorry, can you remind me your daughter’s name?

  Jo’s not my daughter.

  Oh, pardon me, Emily replied, stricken.

  Please, Howard said, gesturing to the empty chairs.

  Leslie rose to greet Tom and Emily. I’m Leslie, she said, shaking their hands. Tom cocked his head slightly and said she looked familiar. I’m a real estate agent, she replied, with a stretched smile.

  Ah. I’ve seen your lawn signs.

  Yup, she said, with a little trilling laugh. I get that a lot.

  Jo returned from the front hall as the rest of us introduced ourselves, in turn, to Emily and Tom. To make myself useful, I poured out a few glasses of water from the pitcher on the coffee table and began handing them to anyone who looked like they wanted one. I poured some water into Kyle’s empty glass of ice, and he thanked me without meeting my eyes.

  We also have coffee or tea if you’d like, Jo offered.

  No, water’s just fine thanks, Emily replied as she took her seat.

  I wouldn’t mind a coffee, if you’re offering, Tom said. Just black. Jo nodded and headed for the kitchen.

  Oh don’t make her, Emily muttered, you just had one.

  Please, that doesn’t count. Tom looked at the rest of us, and, leaning in as if confiding, said Emily kept a French press filled with coffee on the counter for days, and then just heated up cupfuls in the microwave.

  It’s very practical, she said with an open face.

  It’s savage.

  Tom and Emily obviously enjoyed performing the hapless couple. I’ve always wondered about couples who argued and teased each other in front of others. It almost struck me as a perverted form of affection. Mostly, I found it embarrassing.

  So. Three billion lightning strikes, Leslie said, slapping her thigh.

  I liked Leslie. Where would the world be without A-type women slapping their thighs, keeping things on track?

  Howard ran his index finger along his brow. Yes, so I was just saying—three billion lightning strikes a year, all over the world. A hundred every single second. That builds up a huge electromagnetic charge in the atmosphere. And this atmospheric charge resonates. And by resonates, I mean that it creates an actual sound wave. A very, very, very low hum at a frequency of 7.83 hertz.

  You’re saying lightning is causing the atmosphere to hum? Seema asked.

  Essentially, yes.

  She lifted her feet off the ground, to sit cross-legged on the couch. And this is, like, accepted science? she asked.

  Howard laughed. Yes, absolutely.

  Well you never know. There’s a lot of bullshit out there.

  Okay, I liked Seema too.

  It’s called the Schumann Resonance, Howard said. We’ve known about it since the early fifties.

  And it’s just, like, humming all the time, or—?

  Exactly, so—Howard extended his arm towards Seema to apologize for cutting her off—you have these constant global electromagnetic resonances generated by lightning strikes in the cavity between the Earth’s surface and the ionosphere. Have you ever blown across the mouth of a bottle? he asked, addressing the question to Seema.

  Uh, yup.

  So just as the space inside a bottle has a specific resonant frequency, which you can hear when you blow across it, lightning, in the Earth’s case, is like the breath over the bottle. And the Earth’s resonant frequency is 7.83 hertz.

  Tom raised his hand—I’m sorry, I know I came late to the conversation, but what the heck are we talking about here? Are you suggesting this is the sound we’re hearing?

  Well I suppose that’s the controversial bit.

  Tom frowned. Uh-huh.

  Anything much below twenty hertz usually just drops off for humans, Howard said. I glanced at Kyle, but he didn’t turn my way. Below that range, we mostly just feel sound waves as a kind of physical pressure, Howard continued. Some mammals like whales can hear as low as seven hertz, but for humans to hear 7.83 hertz is—

  Impossible, Tom said.

  Most would say so, yes, Howard said, but there are some folks, myself included, who suggest it’s not. Just—exceedingly rare.

  So hold on. Tom reached out into the middle of the circle like he was stopping traffic. This, this thing—and I’m sorry if I missed this—but is this something you read about in an article?

  I was the dean of Virginia Tech’s Department of Geosciences for eighteen years, Howard said. I’ve published many articles about this.

  This resonance?

  Yes.

  Oh wow, Emily murmured.

  Howard’s a famous scientist, Leslie said, without irony.

  Howard chuckled. Well I wouldn’t go that far but I—

  Are there famous scientists? Tom asked. I don’t think I could name you one.

  Emily rolled her eyes. Of course you could.

  Don’t think so.

  Stephen Hawking, she offered.

  Yeah, but he doesn’t count, he’s dead. Obviously, I can name famous dead scientists.

  Jo
returned with Tom’s coffee on a little saucer—Ah, thank you, thank you.

  Elon Musk, Damian said.

  Tom snorted. Hardly.

  I should mention that Jo was actually a former grad student of mine, Howard said, smiling at her.

  Jo closed her eyes, a moment longer than a blink, as she wiped a strand of hair from her face. Yes, well, she said, I eventually realized academia wasn’t going to nourish my soul.

  Looking around the room, there was something I found a bit creepy about sitting in a circle with other strangers. It reminded me of the Quakers, or an AA meeting. My discomfort was probably rooted in a disdain for religion and self-help and group therapy, which I knew was rooted in my own arrogance. And maybe in my fear of being vulnerable. That’s just how I was raised. I inherently mistrusted people seeking to be healed or helped or enlightened. Or maybe I just have a natural aversion to groups. To group dynamics, group think, group activities. I’ve always been wary of shared, collective experience. That said, there was something about Howard’s erudition and professorial charisma that somehow put me at ease.

  I tried once more to catch Kyle’s eye. I wondered what he was making of all of this. I was conscious of him being a child in a room of adults. Not that he came across that way, though; he held himself with a subdued and mature confidence. I was sure that he would have some very funny insights about this group. I smiled, thinking of the impressions he might make of Damian, or Leslie. Tom and Emily were definitely a bit OK boomer. Personally, I felt myself sort of drowning in the conversation. It was the first time in days that I’d been surrounded by so many people; so many voices.