The Whole World Over (33 page)

Scott, for all his effortless youth, seemed to understand that he was
walking along the edge of an invisible ravine. He sat down on the couch.
"Well . . . he told me how your dad had like post-traumatic war stress
and stuff. Like how 'Nam wrecked his life and there wasn't much help
in those days. And like how your grandmother didn't get it. How she
was so cold and drove him so hard. Dad says he wouldn't have drunk so
much if she . . ." Seeing Walter's expression, he giggled nervously. "Yow.
Pretty heavy stuff, I guess."

"Heavy stuff indeed," said Walter with disgust. "Sorry. I'm not angry
at you, but your father has it all wrong. Or part wrong. All Granna
did—besides put a roof over our heads—was try to help your grandfather
get back on his feet. Which if he had managed to
do
might have
meant that he could have known you. Never mind
us.
"

"You and Dad are like pretty different guys," Scott said. "So I guess
you'd see things different ways. Like me and Candace. She is just totally
Valleyed out."

"Scott, your father and I lead very different lives, but this . . . this bit
of history, I believe, is not up for dispute."

"You guys've never talked about this stuff?" said Scott.

"Your father isn't one for serious talks." Walter tried not to sound
bitter.

"Yo. Five on that." He put down his hand after he realized Walter did
not plan to reciprocate the gesture. "It's like golf, tennis, the Dow Jones,
and how I'm fucking up my future are his favorite topics when I'm
around. In that order."

"Don't you worry about your future, you are doing fine," said Walter,
deciding to ignore the expletive. "And I am running late. After the
paddywagon comes for T.B., why don't you take the morning off. I'll see
you at noon."

From weight lifting to menu check, the morning went smoothly for
Walter, but in the back of his mind he was seething at his brother. Was
his take on the way they'd grown up really so different? They'd never
spoken much about what went on in the years after August returned
from the war—the majority of Walter's childhood—and now the little
chat with Scott had put a different, malevolent spin on Werner's attitude
toward everything in Granna's house, his urge to heave it all out when
she died. It had little to do, after all, with Werner's glib taste or generic
lack of sentimentality.

Just before noon, Walter went out front to nip the dead buds off the
geraniums and petunias in the window box. It was hotter than Hades,
with the terrace in its brief midday bath of full sun, and he did the job as
quickly as he could. He used nail scissors; you did not greet guests with
a molecule of dirt on your hands. He did have time, however, to notice
the familiar van parked across the street and to see that in the front seat
two people were making out with a teenage vengeance. The two people
were Sonya and Scott.

WALTER NOW UNDERSTOOD WHY SCOTT
was so cheerful and
worked so hard. He was having sex. Everyone in the world was having
sex except for Walter. It was August, and lust was in the air—at least for
those who had not fled the city. Maybe his problem was that he had too
much dignity, that he rode too high a horse. So on a night when the heat
had broken and the air felt crisp as a water cracker, after asking Scott to
take the dog home, Walter left the restaurant and walked along beneath
the lovely swishy murmur of the leaves until he reached the building
where Gordie now lived. His name was right there, inside the foyer on
the buzzer beside number seventeen.

"Oh for crying out loud, just get it over with," Walter muttered to
himself, and then he rang, the briefest touch. In all likelihood, Gordie
would be out of the city, like any self-respecting power queen. But still
Walter stood there until, stunningly, Gordie's voice crackled through the
intercom: "Who is it?"

"Oh my stars," said Walter, a hand to his blushing face.

"Walter, is that you?" said the intercom.

"Oh who else," he said, his lips nearly touching the steel box.

"Well, come up then," said Gordie. "I'm on five."

And I'm on
fire,
thought Walter when the buzzer released the lock on
the door.

RAY HAD MADE TIME TO INVITE THEM
to the mansion for
dinner. Maria cooked the meal, her chicken with mole sauce and a
vegetable rice casserole.

To eat in the dining room where Greenie's meals were served every
day yet where she herself never ate, this was odd enough; but now Alan
was present, as well as George, who sat high on a plump cushion borrowed
from a couch, his short legs swinging and clumping against the
chair legs. This was the first time Greenie had seen a child at this vast
formal table. That it was George made her want to laugh every time she
looked across at him. Mary Bliss sat next to George. She'd made him a
paper cootie-catcher; quietly, they took turns telling each other's fortunes.
"You will fall in love with a hairy goblin," Greenie heard George
whisper loudly. "Ooh, I hope he loves me back!" Mary Bliss replied.

"The food here is amazing," said Alan, after complimenting Maria's
sauce. "In this city, I mean. When you come from New York, you forget
that you don't have the market cornered on good restaurants."

Ray said, "You do not. Although"—he looked at Greenie—"seems I
had to go there to import my chef. My
irreplaceable
chef."

Mary Bliss looked up from choosing yet another fate. "I thought he'd
gone off the deep end when he fixed on that notion. But sometimes he
gets these devilish brilliant hunches." She winked at her boss. Greenie
knew what was going on here. Alan was about to be outflanked.

"So now the question is," said Ray, "how do we get you out here, Dr.
Glazier?"

"Alan," said Alan. There was a nervous sheen on his forehead.

"Same question, Alan," said Ray.

In the candlelight against the stylishly stippled salmon walls, Alan's
face looked as smooth and pink as a cameo. The shadow of a mounted
cowboy, a bronze Remington on the sideboard, wavered gently behind
him, as if the pony were loping home after a long, hard day on the range.

"Right now," said Alan, "I have a few patients I couldn't abandon."

"Well, maybe they can be weaned onto someone else, so to speak,"
said Ray. "Calves have a hard time of it, beller for their moms a night or
two, but they manage—and they got to do it cold turkey. No phones, no
e-mail, no nothing."

Alan forced a laugh. "Psychotherapy patients aren't calves. Or
turkeys."

"No indeed," said Ray. "All the same, thought I'd give you these, and
you can run with it." He passed a small packet of business cards across
the table. "Mental hospital directors and the like. People whose funding
depends on me, if I may put it bluntly. Most of the time I do." He
grinned at Greenie. This was the side of Ray she liked least: the charm
that was so conspicuously oiled.

"I've given them all the heads-up," said Mary Bliss.

Alan flipped quickly through the cards. "I appreciate it. Thank you.
I'll . . . make a couple of calls." Watching him closely, Greenie knew that
he did not appreciate it much at all, that he found it demeaning. She
tried to smile at him. To be sharing meals with her husband again was
both wonderful and worrisome. This was their sixth day together here
and still it seemed surreal. Their entire shared life had been framed by
New York, its tensions and tall buildings, its crowded geometry, the
shade and scents of its leafy, well-watered trees. Here, as they walked
down the streets, the air tinted by red dust, the astonishing ocean of sky
overhead (just as Ray had promised), she felt as if they were explorers
on a voyage together, with no familiar landmarks to navigate by. As if
Alan also felt the need for an anchor, he held her hand nearly everywhere
they went, something he had not done much after they married.

George said, "Ex-ca-yooz me, but I am full. Can I wear that mask on
the wall there?"

Greenie was about to tell him no—the mask was a Hopi artifact on
loan from a museum—when Ray said, "It's kind of big and heavy for
you, Small, but let's have a closer look." He crossed the room and took
the mask off the wall. He held it up with both hands so that he and the
mask were face-to-face. "What the heck," he said, turning it around and
holding it against his face. Leaning toward George, he began dancing in
place, as if he were standing on hot coals. The feathers affixed to the
brow of the mask fluttered lightly; one of them drifted to the floor.
George squealed.

"Oops," said Ray. "I could be in biiig trouble."

"You
are
in big trouble, mister," said Mary Bliss.

"Well, Mary Bliss, one of your jobs is to keep my secrets, am I right?"
Ray hung the mask back on the wall, handling it now with exaggerated
care.

"That's raaahhht."

Ray picked up the stray feather and tucked it into a bowl of glass fruit
below the mask. Looking at George, he placed a finger to his lips.

"Mr. McCrae, you are a goofus," said George.

"Back atcha," said Ray.

Alan looked beyond uncomfortable now. He looked disapproving.
"George," he said gently, "you should address him as Governor
McCrae."

"Oh sheep manure. Too much of the world calls me that, and not
with a whole lot of respect these days, I might add."

"Diego's house has masks," said George.

"Like this one?" Greenie asked.

"Sort of. But not yellow. And not feathers. They're black, with big
googly eyes. Actually, I used to suppose they were pretty scary."

"They sound like old masks. I hope you don't handle them without
permission."

"Diego's allowed," George said defensively. "So it's okay for me, too."

"Just as long as his mom knows," said Greenie.

"Diego says they can make us invisible if we want."

"Maria, that mole was stupendous," said Ray as she brought in a
dessert of Greenie's, a ginger cake with tangerine icing. "After this, how
about you take that boy home to bed, Greenie, and I give your man a little
tour. Mary Bliss, you work too many nights. Head out and have
some fun, for God's sake."

Both Alan and Mary Bliss looked, for an instant, disconsolate. It was
Mary Bliss who wanted to be alone with her boss, Alan who would have
preferred to flee. Greenie had begun to understand, though Mary Bliss
had never fully confided in her, that she was smitten with Ray, that her
dedication was the deepest of pleasures. More than a workaholic, she
was a bossaholic.

As for Alan, Greenie had no intention of rescuing him. She wanted
there to be a chance, any chance, for Alan to understand why she liked
this place, why she lived happily with the governor's flamboyant, even
pompous manner because it came with the largesse of his heart, why she
felt safe here.

"Is there time for a video?" George said. "Actually, I want
Black
Stallion.
"

"We'll see," said Greenie. George had seen the movie at Diego's
house. He had made Greenie check it out so often at the video store that
she had finally bought it. There were sinister, even terrifying scenes,
especially when the ship carrying the boy and the horse caught fire and
sank (a scene that had crept into one of Greenie's recent dreams, something
she wouldn't tell Alan).

Ray took only two bites of dessert, but Greenie knew the cake was
not to blame. Not since the Cerro Grande fires had she seen his appetite
diminish the way it had in recent weeks. Nor had she seen him look at
his reflection so often and with such obvious anxiety. It had become
clear to her that Ray was falling in love (and not with Mary Bliss). But
for McNally's "high noon" speech, Greenie might not have noticed. Ray
went to the ranch nearly every weekend now; much more often than
before, he mentioned matters of animal husbandry in casual conversation.
To Greenie, over breakfast one morning, he'd rhapsodized about
the natural beauties of Colorado.

GREENIE HAD GONE TO BED
by the time Alan returned from the Governor's
Mansion. He came into the bedroom followed by Treehorn, who
had waited for him beside the front door. When George had been disappointed
that the dog wouldn't sleep in his room, Greenie explained
about dogs and their loyalty, how Treehorn would grow to love George
as much as she loved Alan, maybe more.

As Alan undressed, Treehorn sniffed loudly at his body. Greenie wondered
why the dog seemed so intrigued by Alan; she laughed when he
climbed into bed beside her. "You do not smoke cigars!"

"That's right. But I do not say no to that man," said Alan. "I do not!"
he bellowed in Ray's cocksure tone. He stroked Treehorn until she lay
down on the floor beside the bed. "The weird thing is, I found it completely
impossible to hate him, even while having a tour of his stuffed
elk busts and his Indian arrowheads dating back to the rape of the West.
There was a whole wall of cavalry sabers in his dressing room. He
admitted they weren't too PC, but he didn't want to offend the historical
society, so he just moved them out of the living room." Alan's left hand
rested, beneath Greenie's nightgown, in the crook of her waist.

"You didn't bring up the fires, did you? Or tell him he's an ecofascist?"

Alan looked into her eyes for a long moment, smiling. "You've been
hovering over George too long. We did not talk politics, Greenie. We
talked you. Your talents and virtues. Your assets, as the governor
called them."

"Did you volunteer any, or did they all come from my boss?"

"I named plenty, believe me, Greenie. The first two I named were
your breasts." His hand moved up from her waist.

"Be serious."

"I can't be, not right this minute! I've been shacked up with a goldfish
the past four months."

"Did you like him, even a little?"

"Sunny?"

"No, Alan.
Ray.
Just a minute here." Greenie laughed. She held his
wrists away from her chest.

"Greenie, he's a politician. Read: an emotional mannequin. I can see
that he's charming, and he sure as hell thinks you are the Bengal tiger's
pajamas. He told me how he starts off his day in your kitchen. 'Like a
guaranteed sunrise,' he said, or something to that effect. If he gets voted
out of office next term, he's a shoo-in at Hallmark. So how can I hate
the guy when he loves the woman
I
love? But have
you
caught a glimpse
of this man as a person?"

"Several glimpses," she said. But had she? She knew details of his
story, interesting details, and they had debated this or that political
issue . . . but all of it could be a front. "What exactly do you mean by 'a
person'?"

He answered without hesitation. "Someone acting or speaking without
motive."

She thought this over. "But we always have motives, don't we?"

"No, I don't believe that," said Alan. "Falling in love, for instance—
that's not a sensible thing to do at all. Whatever the outcome, there's
always pain involved, always separation." He kissed Greenie's mouth.
"We don't need to have this conversation. Not now at least."

She let go of his wrists. She said quietly, "Sometimes, you know, I
wonder if what we do need is another child."

Alan's body, against hers, responded with a jolt of surprise. "Wow.
Talk about something we shouldn't be discussing
now.
"

"Why
not
now? How old are we, Alan? Is there much more time, if
any? Maybe this would make all the difference in the world."

"That's what you said about moving out here."

Greenie sat up. "And I was wrong? You sound sure of that."

"Well, we're not living together, and I'm not living with George, and
those facts hardly amount to what I would call a
positive
difference in
the world. My world, at least. If my world counts."

"This afternoon, in that church, you told me you thought this place
was amazing!"

"There's amazing and there's practical," said Alan. "And there's also
not feeling coerced."

"Tell me you never coerce anyone in your work."

"I never do. I persuade, and I elicit, and I guide."

"Well saintly, superior you." She meant this half in jest, but in the
dark it did not come across that way.

Alan, who was also sitting up by now, turned to her and sighed. "Oh
Greenie . . . do you need to hear that I love you? I do, I've never
stopped." He pressed his hands against his eyes. He lay down. "Let's
go to sleep. Let's have a civilized breakfast. George and I have to get
an early start." He pulled her close, her back to his chest. He kissed
her neck.

"I like that," she said.

"I do too," he said. "I've missed it."

They made up in their usual physical ways, and in others. Quite
unlike himself, Alan fell asleep right away.

When Greenie woke up, George was still asleep, but she could smell
breakfast. From the kitchen doorway, she watched Alan remove bread
from the oven and tenderly fold it into a napkin. When he saw her, he
said, "I'm sorry about last night, that I got so belligerent," but this was
all the intimate conversation they were allowed until he returned three
days later—and by then everything had changed. The everything was
private, invisible to everyone but Greenie. She could only have described
the sensation as that of a large glass vessel cracking deep inside her,
releasing a flood of something dark yet delicious, viscous and warm,
through all her arteries and veins.

For their "guy weekend," Alan drove George and Treehorn south
and then west, out Route 66 to see Acoma and Chaco Canyon. They
would stay in a corny old-style hotel in Gallup where the rooms were
named after movie stars who'd camped there when westerns were
filmed in the real West. Mary Bliss had arranged for them to stay there
with Treehorn. "I think we're in the Gene Autry suite," Alan told
Greenie. "Dale Evans was taken."

The night after she saw them off, Greenie's doorbell rang at eight
o'clock. She was home, reading Marcella Hazan. Ray was in Taos for
dinner.

She had not seen much of Other Charlie since the weekend on the
ranch. For the second time, she answered the door to be startled by his
face, this time behind a handful of daisies. "Is this too rude? I saw your
lights on."