The Whole World Over (13 page)

Alan sat down on an orange plastic chair. He looked around and
laughed. He could have described this episode to Jerry and passed it off
as a dream; he felt that off-balance, that disembodied. This was just the
sort of room you encountered in dreams—in dreams about to morph
into Alice in Wonderland nightmares. An urban rabbit hole, this place.
"All right, so I'm dreaming," he said aloud, to hear his own voice,
something familiar. From behind the closed door, he continued to hear
the pups getting their shots, each one comforted loudly by Saga. Was
that her real name? Perhaps she'd been the child of early hippie parents,
the people who so thoughtlessly gave their offspring naïve or grandiose
names like Storm, Sequoia, Moonbeam, Cosmos. Right before Greenie,
Alan had dated a younger woman named Truce, whose parents loved to
brag about how many times they had been arrested for demonstrating
against the Vietnam War. They claimed to have conceived her while in
jail. They
told
her this.

When the door opened, Saga and the vet were discussing the next
round of shots. This visit was free, he said; next time, he would do it for
the cost of the vaccine. Could she or Stan come up with that?

She was about to answer when she saw Alan. "Oh! Are you still here?
I'm sorry, I was so involved, I didn't think to say thank you. Thank
you!" She smiled broadly—on one side, at least—and Alan noted
(another guilty diagnostic appraisal) that her teeth were all there and in
decent shape.

She turned to the vet. "Stan has to give you that answer. He's the only
one who knows about the money."

"I'll pay for the shots," said Alan. "I could pay you up front, now."
Had he really said this? But Saga's look of asymmetrical astonishment
pleased him. The vet, who hadn't acknowledged his presence till now,
named a price higher than Alan had expected, but he took out his
wallet.

"No, wait," said Saga. "Stan wouldn't . . ."

"I don't mean to insult you."

"Oh
insult,
no!" she said. "I just can't predict the future. Stan might
have the money, it depends on donations, and I wouldn't want you to
spend your money before the fact, you know?"

"All right. I'll give you my number and you can call me. I mean it. I'd
like to help. I would."

Now it was Saga who seemed to be assessing Alan, staring at him in a
friendly but penetrating fashion. "Walk me out," she said. Once again,
she handed him the box. She took a few small packets from the vet—
worming pills—and stuffed them in the pockets of her jacket. She shook
hands with the vet and thanked him again.

Outside, the midday sky had darkened luminously. The passing
clouds of half an hour before had pulled in a thunderhead; its mountainous
form glowed yellow at the edges. The rumblings were still far off,
somewhere over New Jersey. Alan hesitated in the doorway, but Saga
said, "Let's hurry!" and without asking where, he followed her down
the street. A block later, the rain did not fall so much as collapse from
the sky, as if a great tank of water were being dumped on a forest fire.
Gusts of wind carried it sideways.

Saga took off her jacket and draped it over the box. "There!" She
pointed across the street to the awning of a bookshop. Already three
people stood against the window, waiting it out. "We'll fit, come on!"
She dashed across.

Under the awning, their fellow refugees moved aside grudgingly.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with Saga, Alan thought he could detect
the smell of mildew. A few minutes later, the rain had not let up; two of
their companions had left, resigned to a drenching. The puppies began
to whine. Saga shivered.

"They must be terrified, poor things," said the one remaining stranger,
a woman in a green silk suit. "You shouldn't have them out here."

Alan was about to tell her to mind her own business when Saga said,
"You're right, you know? But we were caught unawares, the same as you
in your pretty outfit." Her voice shook with her shivering, but she smiled.

The woman in green silk said nothing.

When the storm showed no intention of abating, Alan leaned toward
Saga and said, "Now it's your turn. Follow me."

Saga held on to his arm. "No. I can't go out in that."

Looking at her, he saw that her shivering might be dread, not a chill.
She scanned the sky, as if a squadron of bombers might appear. "Trust
me," he said.

At a clap of thunder, she tightened her hold on his arm. She shook
her head vehemently.

Was she unstable after all? Schizophrenic, hearing voices in the thunder?
For God's sake, he admonished himself, a fear of thunderstorms
was perfectly normal. Alan would have put an arm around her shoulders
if he had not been holding the box. "Two blocks, that's all," he
said. "Otherwise these guys will get soaked."

That convinced her. "Okay," she said. "Ready when you are."

He waited until the traffic light at the intersection turned, then
dashed across the street and around the corner. He ran carefully, eyes
clenched against the downpour, and looked back only once to make
sure she was right behind him. He was thinking, I'll make us tea. I'll let
her take a shower. I'll find something in Greenie's closet, something
clean and warm and dry.

"
GORDIE HAD THIS PHENOMENAL DREAM
," said Stephen. He was
sitting on one end of the long, soft couch; deliberately, Gordie had
seated himself at the opposite end. The cushions rose up like a small
black hill between them. But this did not stop Stephen from leaning
across to squeeze his partner's knee. "Tell him!"

"I didn't think it was that remarkable," said Gordie.

"Tell it anyway. Let Alan be the judge," said Stephen. He looked at
Alan. "You know, we have this huge double shower in our bathroom.
It's like being at a spa. Cost a fortune, but it was worth every penny. In
the morning, every morning, we talk about our dreams while sudsing
up." Stephen's expression, so often deferential or even fawning toward
Alan, turned briefly hard. Was he looking for Alan's reaction to the
image of this shower, of the two naked men "sudsing up"; checking for
homophobic disapproval, envy or admiration? And why had he mentioned
the cost? Did he suspect—well, in this office meant to be a bedroom,
who wouldn't?—that Alan could never afford such a thing?

"Do you want to tell the dream, Gordie, or is something else on your
mind?" asked Alan.

"Fine, fine, I'll tell it," said Gordie. He crossed his arms. "There's this
store below our apartment, it's like a fancy newsstand–tobacco shop. In
real life. But in this dream, I go downstairs one day and it's turned into a
clothing shop that sells pants, I mean only pants. I go inside and it's
mostly jeans—like, every kind you can imagine, in every color. And I'm
really happy about this—which is surprising because, actually, I never
wear jeans, I can't stand how stiff they are. But in this dream I'm . . ."
He shrugs, with a baffled, self-conscious smile. "I'm glad the store is
there."

Alan waited for him to continue.

"That's it. That's the whole dream. Or what I remember."

Stephen said, "But the point is, jeans make him happy when they didn't
before. I mean, look at the pun; aren't dreams famous for puns, Alan?"

Alan nodded, but before he could say anything, Stephen said,
"G-e-n-e-s, that kind of genes! And in a space that's holding up our
building, holding up
our home
! Good God, how symbolic can you get?
The strength of men and their continuity through their children—"

"There were women in that shop, too," Gordie said to Stephen. "And
there were jeans with sequins and flowers, pink jeans . . . And whose
genes are we talking about here anyway? I thought you wanted to adopt."

Stephen leaned forward and raised his hands in exasperation. "God
but you're literal when it suits your purposes. And pink jeans—well
obviously those are girls! Who says we couldn't raise a girl?"

"Guys, let's not race too far ahead," said Alan. "Last week we'd just
started talking about what it might be like if—
if,
" he emphasized to
Gordie, "you were to go with Stephen's wishes. What you imagine it
would be like."

Stephen stared pointedly at Gordie. This was the predictable dynamic
in this type of counseling; apparently, gender made no difference. In the
first session or two, Alan tried to get to know the individual members of
the couple, then draw out their history as a couple, then listen to their
respective sides of the "story." But once that was taken care of, once the
battle lines were drawn, the one who wanted something cataclysmically
new—children, marriage, a move, more sex—nearly always assumed
that Alan was his or her automatic ally (the agent for change was generally
female).

"Gordie," said Alan, "you said that you do like spending time with
children. You love your brother's kids, you enjoyed the visit from your
friend Jill's daughter—"

"Which I now wish I'd never agreed to."

"It's painful to find out what you've been missing!" Stephen
blurted out.

"One week. She stayed with us
one week.
And she's twelve, practically
an adult! That is so
not
what parenthood is all about, Stephen.
And based on that—on that, I admit, perfectly fabulous game of house
we got to play, and all because Jill's mom was dying an awful death—
because of that you decide we must have a baby!"

"Gordie, I am not a cretin," said Stephen. "It's just that . . . as you
know, I always wanted this, but I put it aside, I gave it up for you—I
don't mean to sound the martyr here, because maybe in those days I just
didn't think it was possible. I was a coward, but now . . . and then, when
I saw you with Skye—that night you were doing her math homework
with her—I mean, you were a natural. And it just . . . it reawakened
things. Because times have changed! Look at Eric and Roberto!"

"Eric is a social worker."

"So? Like that makes him more nurturing than we are? Or because
my job is raising money, I can't raise kids as well?"

"No!" said Gordie. "Of course not! But that child practically fell in
their laps! They were already a part of the system."

"Well, I want to be a part of the 'system,' too, Gordie. The system
of life."

There were tears in Stephen's eyes, and anyone could see that Gordie
was deeply affected by this. Alan leaned forward. "Stephen, I know how
passionate you feel, but I want Gordie to talk now, and I want you to listen.
Remember Fran Lebowitz? I don't know what's become of her
lately, but my favorite thing she ever said is that the opposite of talking
isn't listening, it's waiting your turn."

Stephen smiled weakly. "Guilty as charged, I fear."

"So, Gordie, what are you afraid of—or, no, what do you object
to most about having a child? Is it how drastically your life would
change—because it would," Alan said, looking briefly at Stephen. "Or
is it the responsibility? Or something else entirely?"

Gordie sighed. "Can it be just everything?"

"Okay, but give me the details of everything."

"Like parties—we give these great parties. Which are crucial to
Stephen's work! I mean, look, Stephen, can you imagine us giving that
black-tie thing with Beverly Sills and that guest tenor and . . . and with a
baby crying in the bedroom you've proposed we turn your study into?
Like, 'Oh, excuse me, Bev, please help yourself to the gravlax while I go
change Junior's diaper and warm a bottle.' "

"We're rich, Gordie! We can afford live-in help if we want, we can—"
He stopped when he saw the chiding look on Alan's face. "Sorry."

"You so don't get it! It's not playing house; it's
being
house," said
Gordie. "You can't return a baby like that table you decided was all
wrong after we'd had it for two months."

"You make me sound so superficial and shallow—oh, I
am
sorry,
Alan."

"I want you to talk to me, Gordie, okay? Not to Stephen," said Alan.
"Just for now."

"Look. It's true I like kids, and sure, I've had pangs, or probably we
wouldn't have been together so long, would we? It's not just great sex
and compatible furniture or shared fear of plague. We're envied by just
about everyone we know, and I would hate to see that change."

"I assume you don't mean the envy," said Alan, then realized that
teasing was all wrong. His instincts had been thrown off since Greenie's
departure; at his worst moments now, he felt like an imposter when it
came to the work of reconciliation.

"No! What we're envied
for,
" said Gordie, looking offended. "For
sticking together because we want to, never mind the rough times, for
thirteen years! You know, I hate being a know-it-all, or sounding like a
broken record here, but Stephen is an only child, whereas I was the oldest
of seven, and so I know what babies and kids are like, the stress they
make, how they can turn even something like going shopping into a
major expedition, how you're never on time again anywhere, ever, how
tired the parents always are. And we don't have jobs where we can be
exhausted all the time!" He glanced at Stephen, who looked as if he
might cry again. "I don't mean to sound cold, but these are the facts."

"Well, in part, they're the facts of your childhood," Alan said carefully,
"as you felt them. Or they seem like facts, but they're really
impressions, colored a great deal by how your parents ran things.
Remember that one kid is a long way from seven, Gordie, that your parents
did get divorced, and that they didn't have money. Stephen's right
about one thing: money can make a big difference when you have children.
But, Stephen, you should hear what Gordie's saying about how
wonderful your life is now, as it is. I can tell you guys have a rich history,
incredible commitment—or you wouldn't be here—but to have a child,
no matter how much you love each other or how long you've been
together, is to trade up for an even more profound commitment. Don't
take for granted that being good at one will make the other a piece
of cake."