The Night Singers (17 page)

“Out?”

“About James.” He appeared to be asking advice. “I mean it's developing into a real relationship now and they're my best friends,” Lou sighed, quickly adding, “best friends along with my sidekick.” He draped a long arm over my left shoulder.

I flushed. “Whatever you think.”

They waved to us from a corner table outside the theatre.

I never noticed before how alike they looked—although Kate was white and Dennis was black—skinny, mid-forties intellectuals with rimless glasses and intelligent eyes. Tonight they wore matching blue shirts and khaki slacks.

Lou broke the news after pouring each of us a glass of his favourite Pinot Grigio.

Dennis raised a toast to his happiness.

Kate grew animated. “So. Tell us about him. What does he do? What does he look like?”

“Five foot-nine, slim, fair,” he smiled at the mantra, “dark hair, no beard, brown eyes.”

I could tell the picture hadn't arrived.

Lou leaned over the round marble table. He was wearing a new, lemony cologne.

“I have an advance apology. I have to bow out of supper after the show. We have a 10 o'clock date.”

“Oh, right then,” stumbled Dennis. “You must be devoted if you phone every night.”

“Actually,” Lou's green eyes widened. “James suffers from preternatural shyness. We stick to the keyboard. He doesn't feel ready to talk in person yet.”

Kate looked quizzical.

“Besides,” Lou revealed, “we're having too much fun as it is.”

By autumn, our dinners dwindled to once a week. Usually at my place on Sunday unless I had a matinee. Tensions with the conductor had eased. I felt vaguely unsettled in my new life, but why? I had a great job, real friends, a lovely apartment. Amy stayed in touch. In truth, I shared more with Lou—genuine discussions about our favourite novelists; animated political debates—than I ever had with Amy. And I was learning about a whole new ecology in this green, green place. Already, I had read half of Cobb's
A Field Guide to Ferns
. Who could have imagined so many varieties of fern?

My grilled salmon had a perfect tender, but firm pink texture. And the wild rice was a miraculous success given the new recipe. I tried to summon the mellowness of our summer evenings with a canary yellow table cloth and a vase of white roses.

Lou relished the lightly chilled white zin. He had splurged on an apple
galette
, my favourite dessert.

“I have news.” He barely contained his grin.

“Yes?” My palms were sweating. Why the over-reaction? Had they finally spoken?

“Well, uh, it's a bit surprising.”

I studied his face for stress. No, he simply looked eager, excited as he delivered the latest dispatch.

From outside my window, I was distracted by the sound of dried leaves rustling down the sidewalk. I loved how they whooshed together along the road, looking like crowds of people running for cover from sudden rain. You rarely noticed this in New York unless you went to the Park.

“Andrea, are you listening?”

“Sorry; go on.”

“And then he told me that he's a parent.”

“The guy is married?” I blurted, revealing my looming suspicion about the precise timing of their chats and the refusal to give a phone number. Probably some fat old Miami executive toying with my friend's heart. I felt like Chekov's Lopahin, desperately unequipped to save someone I loved from disaster.

“No, no,” he turned solemn, fiddling with the hem of the yellow table cloth. “Petie is his sister's kid. She disappeared shortly after his birth.”

“So
that
explains the chat schedule?” I automatically helped myself to another piece of salmon. I'd planned to eat it cold the next night; I always liked something simple after returning from a concert. Suddenly I felt depressed remembering Lou hadn't attended a concert all fall. He used to come to all my performances. The phantom James had anchored him at home.

“He's a cute little guy, at least in the photo.”

“Is James in the picture?” I was relieved by visual evidence. Curious.

Lou sipped his wine. “No, it's just a snapshot of Petie. He scanned it into the computer. James says the kid looks just like him.”

“That's nice,” I noticed how much earlier dusk came now. I dreaded the end of daylight savings time. Last year winter had arrived early and I didn't know what I would have done without Lou during some of those dark, snowy nights. Often we lounged in his living room, the fire blazing, eating micro—waved popcorn and watching Woody Allen movies on his big screen TV. Maybe one reason we bonded was that we were both only children, whose parents lived far away—mine in San Diego, his in Dallas—
farther
away once we'd come out to them.

“He's told Petie about me,” Lou beamed.

“What?” I woke from the nostalgic reverie. “
What
did he tell him?”

“Don't get hysterical,” he waved those sonata fingers. “Just that he logs on with Uncle Lou each night.”

I digested the idea of “Uncle Lou.”

“Uncle, I know, it's kind of weird. But for a kid whose mother disappeared,
family
is important. And he asked James why he spent so much time at the computer.”

“Let's hope he doesn't have his uncle/father's password.” I didn't intend to sound hostile.

Lou paused before responding. “James is a very conscientious person. A good person.”

I nodded and cleared the table for Lou's
galette
. Weird was the word, alright, but my pal wasn't in the mood for friendly concern. He wanted a cheerleader. Or silence.

“You wouldn't be the teensiest bit jealous?” Lou called into the kitchen after me.

I should be minding my own business, concentrating on myself. I could start installing those Dutch tiles around the sink tomorrow. Jealous, hmmmm, I was just distracted. Distracted from my own life for too long by worries about Lou. He was an adult; a smart guy. I should just be happy for my friend's good fortune.

“Don't be ridiculous,” I set out the dessert forks and the little Wedgwood plates I'd found in May when Lou and I went antiquing.

“Well,” he waved his left hand dramatically, “you never go out. Maybe you have a little relationship envy. Why do you refuse to meet this absolute cutie in my office?”

“Amy's coming up next weekend.”

He looked hurt. Of course I should have told him. But whenever we got together lately the subject jumped to James, James, James.

He sliced the pastry adroitly, serving us each a generous slice.

“Oh, Amy, that should be fun. A weekend with moribund you-can't-see-the-Flatiron-Building-from-here-Amy.”

“You don't even know her,” I snapped.

“I know that you loved her, that she didn't even try to fit into your life here. I hate to see you hurt, Andrea,” He reached for my hand, but I drew away.

I said, “It's almost 9.30.” My voice was strained with grief and an unaccountable anger. “You don't want to miss your date with James.”

Lou winced, then nodded. “Thanks for the feast. My turn on Wednesday.”

He'd forgotten the orchestra was performing in Quebec on Wednesday. Lately Lou had trouble keeping track of things.

Dennis drummed his fingers on the ancient table. We'd all be waiting for Lou at the Grille and Tavern for 45 minutes. It was a pleasant old place, with a big wood stove, framed photos of Clapton in the mid-1800s and a menu just pricey enough to keep away the college kids. Outside the window, our first snow was falling. I stared at the coloured leaves reaching up through the whiteness—red, gold, pink. A few green ones too.

I'd been spending a lot of time with Dennis and Kate. Made several other good friends through them. As Dean of Faculty, Dennis hosted plenty of gatherings and it was satisfying to get invited to parties without Lou's patronage. Kate and Dennis were smart, witty people. Yes, I was settling in, being valued for myself. But damn, I missed Lou's company. We all did. He'd stopped going to parties, movies. Members of the town chorus still grieved the loss of his strong, clear tenor. Mayor Glendenning said he was sure Lou's absence accounted for their defeat at the Music Festival. Clapton had held first prize for five years running.

Kate brought a second round of drinks to the scarred pine table. “I'm worried about Lou.”

“Oh, he's often late,” Dennis sipped his Scotch and soda.

“No, I don't mean that,” Kate sank into the overstuffed chair. “I'm concerned about this internet obsession.”

“The ‘obsession' does have a name,” Dennis shook his head reproachfully. “
James
. And Lou is
in love
.”

“In love with
what
?” Kate fanned her palms. “With someone he's never met, never talked to, never even seen a picture of. I think it's getting creepy. This—James—is some kind of fantasy lover.”

“So are you, dearest,” winked Dennis. “That's the best kind.”

Kate exhaled heavily, annoyed with her husband's tendency to lighten the mood. “And now Lou's sending the ‘son' Christmas gifts. Maybe he kidnapped the boy. Maybe Lou will get arrested as some kind of accomplice-to-the-crime-thing.”

Clearly Kate was going over the top here. I sloped back into my big chair wondering if I should remind her that she'd missed the last two sessions of our meditation class. Nevertheless I was comforted by her anxiety about James, intrigued that her worries were even more elaborate than mine.

Dennis rolled his eyes. “Lou is a
lawyer
and of all the people I know, least likely—well, present company excepted—to unwittingly be caught up in criminal behaviour. He's a very sensible guy.”

“
Was
,” Kate sniffed.

“Was what?” Dennis demanded.

“Oh, you'd do anything to defend your squash partner,” she sighed.

“Here he
is,
” I declared, spotting him in the doorway. He was knocking snow off his Merrills.

We all waved.

Lou had looked drawn and tired lately—from long nights on the computer. He'd been skipping the early morning gym routine because a body required
some
sleep. The squash games with Dennis were his only exercise. Tonight, however, his face was ruddy, his eyes glowing.

“Big day,” he nodded, jutting out his lower lip.

We waited.

“Someone sent me a picture.”

Dennis clapped.

I leaned forward. What monster or angel would be revealed?

“So buddy, let's see.” Dennis was the most eager, the least equivocal.

Lou scanned our full glasses. “I need a drink first. Anyone want a refill?

I shook my head impatiently.

The others waved him on.

Finally, Lou relaxed next to me and took a long gulp from his glass. “Sorry I'm late. I had trouble downloading it.”

He pulled out a picture of a lithe, handsome young white man on a soccer field. The guy didn't look like a sociopath.

“James April, of course,” Dennis muttered. “He's quite a famous kicker.”

Lou shrugged happily. “See, that's why it took so long to send this. He wanted to make sure I loved him and not his reputation. Of course I didn't confess my complete ignorance of soccer.”

“Oh, man, this is rich,” laughed Dennis, who had got hooked on soccer during graduate school in England.

“But,” Lou winked, beside himself with joy, “this is absolutely confidential. Obviously he can't be
out
on the team.”

“
Obviously,
” I mumbled audibly.

Kate sat up straight. “Well, this makes me feel better. There he is, with real arms and legs. Nice face. He doesn't
look
like a criminal,” she teased.

“What?” asked Lou.

Lou had been on the mark about Amy. The first trip was OK, but on her second visit we had one rotten time. Oh, she wasn't the villain Lou imagined; but she still refused to understand why I couldn't return to New York.

“OK,” she said one afternoon as we walked in the park. “Even if we're ‘just friends,' I miss you! Don't you crave the pulse of the city? All these
ferns
make me nervous.”

I laughed.

Then she accused me of being in love with Lou. I didn't bother to remind her that I was a lesbian and Lou was a gay man. I just filed this with her fears of smouldering witches and threatening flora. Once upon a time I had fallen in love with her wild imagination.

After that last visit, Amy and I occasionally phoned, but the relationship dwindled. I felt sad, yet OK. After sixteen months in Clapton, I was happy. It had taken a while to swim away from San Diego, but I had finally discovered home. I slept better here. Felt more relaxed. I earned a decent living. The orchestra valued my work. I was happy
and
a little lonely. But, I reminded myself, that Kate and Dennis and my new friends were fun.

Lying in bed one cold February night, I admitted how much I missed Lou. For the first six months of his internet affair, I kept thinking the intensity would wane. Now I had to acknowledge that James was more than an email address. He was a real person, a lover. People in previous centuries carried on torrid epistolary romances. Why was I so upset? Lou owed me nothing. He was just my landlord. No, of course that was wrong. He had been a friend, a close friend. Was he still? Friendships metamorphosed over time. I missed our cultural excursions, his witty commentaries, our walks home together from town. Now we shared dinner twice a month at most.

One night in early April, I was pleased when he phoned to suggest we take in
Some Like It Hot
at the Film Revival Society.

He had even had time for dinner afterward at Paolo's.

“What about your chat with James?” I'd been afraid to ask about James until we had privacy at our corner booth.

“Oh, he has to visit his mother for a couple of days.”