Read Online The Night Listener : A Novel by Armistead Maupin - Free Book Online Page B

way that much of Charleston did not. Pap was high maintenance, after all; we were just glad that someone young and vigorous had committed to the job.
    I changed the subject by inviting my father’s nostalgia. “It must have been a hell of a time.”
    “Oh, yeah,” he said, shaking his head.
    “Did he tell you about the billboard?” asked Darlie. She had taken the old man’s arm with easy affection. They really do love each other, I thought.
    And the sight of their obvious coupledom stung in a way that I hadn’t expected. Was it possible that they’d outlasted me and Jess?
    I did remember that billboard, but I pretended otherwise, just to give him some material to work with. “Don’t think so,” I said.
    “What billboard?” asked Pap.
    Darlie squeezed his arm. “In the harbor. You know.”
    “Oh.” My father chortled at the memory. “Damnedest thing you ever saw. The fleet commander was this tough ol’ son-of-a-bitch who knew how to get the job done. Named, uh…damn, what the hell was his name?”
    “We don’t care, hon.” Darlie was inspecting her lamb flatbread.
    “He was somethin’, though. A real kick-ass ol’ cuss. Had the Seabees build this enormous billboard at the entrance to the harbor at Guadalcanal. First thing we saw when we came sailin’ in. Said:
    ‘Kill the bastards, kill the bastards, kill the yellow bastards.’” I kept my expression blank. “An idealistic sort o’ guy.”
    “Hell, it was war.”
    “It was war,” I echoed, exchanging a wry look with Darlie.
    “Can’t hear that story too much,” she said.
    “Oh, go to hell, both of you,” said my father, and he plunged into his butterfly prawns.
    We were all a little high on wine by the end of dinner. Pap was the first to show it.
    “You know what, son?”
    “What?”
    “I’m damn proud of you.”
    “Well…good.” I tried to look into his eyes, but it was almost impossible. For both of us.
    “I mean it.”
    “I know.”
    “You’re gettin’ rich, I guess.”
    “Well…comfortable.”
    “ Comfortable? Your books are all over Harrods.”
    “I know, but there’s a lotta folks to pay.”
    “I hope you’re puttin’ some away. Not spendin’ it like a nigger, like you usually do.”
    “Jesus, Gabriel. Give it up.” Darlie shot me a sympathetic glance.
    “You don’t know,” my father told her. “Son-of-a-bitch bought a London taxicab when he was at Sewanee. Cost him more to ship the damn thing home than he paid for it. Broke down all the time, too.” He winked at me rakishly to convey his harmlessness.
    “I’m a little more careful now,” I said.
    “That boy’s keepin’ you in line, I hope.” He meant Jess, who had been cast as the Responsible One in our household. I had actually promoted this, since it was largely the truth, and it gave Pap an excuse to respect, however marginally, the funny fella who was sleeping with his son.
    “He’s pretty conscientious,” I said.
    “I’m sorry we missed him.” Pap connected with me briefly to show what he really meant: that he liked Jess just fine, that he was glad I had company on the journey, just like he did. He was giving us his blessing at last, now that it could do nothing but hurt.
    “He’s okay, isn’t he?” Darlie had that expression some people use when they’re talking about AIDS.
    “Oh, yeah, very much so. The cocktail seems to be working.” The old man frowned. “Cocktail?”
    “You know about that.” Darlie scolded her husband with a glance.
    No, he doesn’t, I thought. He may have been told, but he didn’t bother to store it, because it didn’t matter to him that much. “It’s a combination of drugs,” I explained. “So far it’s been fairly effective against the virus.”
    “I knew they’d find something,” said my father. “Nobody believed me, but I said so all along, didn’t I?”
    “It’s not a cure,” I told him.
    “Well, just the same…”
    Pap’s approach to mortal illness was to deny it outright, then