Free The Night Listener : A Novel by Armistead Maupin

accuse the world of unnecessary hysteria. He had done that the night my mother died in ‘79, when I’d been summoned to Charleston from California for reasons that were gruesomely obvious to everyone.
    “She’s a whole lot better,” he whispered, pulling me aside at the hospital. “These damn doctors are a bunch of nervous nellies.”
    A decade later, when Josie found a lump in her breast, the old man had attempted a pathetic variation on the same theme. “You know,” he told me. “Your sister’s always been excitable.” I was sorry I’d provided another escape hatch. “A lot of people can’t use the cocktail,” I told him. “I know a thirteen-year-old who can’t.” This made Darlie frown, then put down her spoon. “Who has AIDS, you mean?”
    “Sure.”
    “From a transfusion or something?”
    “No. The usual way.”
    “My God.”
    “This town,” muttered my father.
    “It wasn’t here,” I said with a trace of righteous satisfaction. “It was out there in Amurrica. His father had been screwing him since he was four.”
    “Jesus,” said Darlie.
    “Can we talk about something pleasant?” said my father.
    But Darlie wanted to hear about it, so I assembled the story for her, sparing nothing as I gave it shape and color. I told her about the pedophile ring and the videotapes that had convicted Pete’s parents and the single mother who had come to his rescue when all hope seemed lost. I told her about a little straight boy who had felt like such an outcast that he had finally found fellowship in a ward full of AIDS fags. It gave me perverse pleasure to mess with the mythology of the nuclear family in my father’s presence. And I couldn’t help feeling proud of my role in Pete’s life, proud that someone so extraordinary had seen me as father material.
    “All because he heard you on the radio,” said Darlie.
    “It’s much more powerful medium than people think.” Pap’s discomfort was palpable. “I’d be careful if I were you.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “How many times have you talked to him?”
    “I don’t know. Six or seven, maybe. Why?”
    “Does his mother know you’re calling him?”
    “Of course. She arranged it. What are you getting at?” My father tore off a chunk of bread. “Well…you’re a middle-aged man, and he’s…well, people could get the wrong idea, that’s all.”
    “Like what?” I had caught on finally, and I was bristling.
    “I think you know.”
    “No, Pap. Tell me. What wrong idea will they get?” Darlie had stopped eating entirely and was watching us with a look of slack-mouthed alarm.
    “For God’s sake,” said my father, “use your damn head. The boy was abused by gays.”
    “He was abused by pedophiles. Have you been listening at all?”
    “They were men, weren’t they?”
    “Yeah. Straight men.”
    “How could they be straight, if they were messing with a boy?”
    “Because they called him a faggot while they were doing it.” Pap recoiled as if he’d been struck. For all his manly swagger, he was not about to venture into that territory. “Jesus,” he murmured.
    “You can make anything disgusting, can’t you?”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said with the driest sarcasm I could muster. “Is that what I did? Let’s get back to something pleasant. Like killing Japs.”
    “C’mon, guys.” Darlie looked at her husband, then at me. “Be nice now.”
    “Somebody’s gotta tell him it’s not cute anymore.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?” My father’s face was aflame.
    “All this nigger and Jap shit. It doesn’t make you a character, you know. It just makes you an asshole.”
    “Hey,” said Darlie mildly.
    “Do you think your children want their children to hear that kind of talk? They don’t, Pap. That got old a long time ago. Billy dreads it every time he brings his kids over, for fear you’ll be pulling that racist shit again. Talk about a lousy influence on children…” My father’s eyes narrowed.