The Whole World Over (56 page)

"It has to happen, I guess. It's just . . . so much more agony."

Charlie leaned toward her. "Would you take the divorce," he said,
"and then marry me? We could have George live with us here, at least
for the school year. I know we could make that happen. I promise you it
wouldn't be ugly."

Greenie felt as if she had touched an electric fence. "Oh Charlie."

She tore open the envelope. Inside it, without a note, was another
sealed envelope, addressed to her in New York, from one of her cousins
in Boston. Except for Christmas cards, she hadn't been in touch with
any of her cousins since shortly after her parents' funeral. The letter was
typed on the cousin's law-firm letterhead; bitterly, she laughed at the
irony.

"Oh," said Greenie after she finished reading. "Oh my."

"What?"

"My cousins are wondering if they can buy me out of my share in the
house on the island."

"Is that good news?"

Greenie folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. "I haven't
thought about that house for a long time. I mean, not as part of my
future." She blushed, but Charlie did not appear to share her memory.

She sighed. "It seems so far away. Well, it
is
so far away."
She realized that she had all but ignored his marriage proposal, shoving
it aside for a real-estate proposal. She opened her mouth to turn
back the conversation, but Charlie was paging through a clothing catalog.
He looked worn out.

IF THE TEMPERATURE GOES ABOVE NINETY-FIVE TODAY
, I will
marry Charlie. If the phone rings before ten, I will get to have George
again. If the butter in the skillet melts before Maria returns from setting
the table, Charlie and I will have a baby of our own.

Claudia was easy to work with because she knew exactly what she
wanted. She'd been through a wedding before and remembered all the
mistakes she had made ("other than saying 'I do' to that S.O.B.").

"A completely grown-up wedding," she told Greenie. "Except that
reporters will be present." One photographer from each of the New
Mexico and Colorado dailies would be allowed to take pictures between
the ceremony and the reception. The entire affair would take place on
the grounds of the mansion.

McNally's presence in the city kitchen was nearly comic. Against the
polished beige surfaces, he looked like an outtake from a colorized western:
his face too harshly red, his clothes clumsy in bulk and shape. They
sat on stools at the center island, listening to Claudia go through her
lists; Greenie could feel the vibration as McNally swung his short legs
back and forth, leaking nervous energy. Every so often, he'd catch himself
reaching up to pick his teeth, force his hand back into his lap. Looking
meek and claustrophobic, he deferred to Claudia as "ma'am,"
waiting a full beat before answering any of her questions or making
comments. Greenie realized that any necessary amendments to Claudia's
plans would have to come from her.

Claudia had changed her mind about the ribs. She had decided on
filet mignon, the beef to come from the affianced ranches, to be grilled
out in the open. She went to the window and pointed to a place where
she believed the grills could be placed so that the cooking smoke would
be blocked from the reception area behind the mansion. Greenie had no
idea what direction the wind, if any, was likely to come from. She
looked pointedly at McNally—surely he had an indigenous sense for
such matters—but he was gazing at Claudia (or her back) with undisguised
sorrow.

Like Mary Bliss, McNally was not happy to see his boss getting married.
Greenie should have figured this out the minute he arrived in her
kitchen; never mind that, like Greenie, he had seen it coming. Ironically,
now that their earlier prediction had proven true, they were powerless
to predict anything further. When it came to Ray's wedding, McNally
would follow Greenie's orders, but he would take no initiative. He was
too fearful of losing his job.

Greenie joined Claudia at the window. She liked this woman, but at
the moment she felt piercingly alone, as if her life were an open prairie,
bright with sun but far too wide and empty. She felt as if someone had
handed her an edict informing her, with cosmic authority, that she was
entirely, absolutely, unforgivably in charge. Of weddings, of hearts, of
fates, if only a few. A small-time monarch, that's what she felt like as she
stood in the smallest of kingdoms, a kitchen, peering at the world
beyond its walls.
Be very, very careful what you wish for,
said the edict.

AUGUST PASSED IN A SCORCHING BLUR
, a rippled vision like a
desert mirage. Ray was out of town for two weeks, and Greenie would
gladly have gone to New York, borne its mean urban heat to be with
George, but Alan said he'd rather wait, as they had agreed, till George
was well settled in first grade. Alan would stay with them in the city for
a few days, so George could be with his parents together, and then Alan
would go to San Francisco. His sister was planning to adopt a baby, had
he told her that?

They exchanged their news, concisely and politely, by e-mail. Though
Greenie phoned New York twice a day, Alan now gave the phone
straight to George. Or George himself would answer. "It's me!" he'd
shout against the mouthpiece, sounding more exasperated than eager.
George was going to "camp" at his old nursery school. The little campers
played in the classrooms and up on the roof, where an awning sheltered
a wading pool, a fleet of tricycles, and a flower garden planted in
bathtubs. Dutifully, Alan had described the particulars in June, going
through the motions of including Greenie in the decision of how George
would spend his summer.

They went on field trips, George told her. They had been to the Union
Square farmers' market and the nearby museum with the toy soldiers,
but they had also been to Coney Island and to the merry-go-round in
Central Park. When Greenie commented on how far from his school
these places were, he informed her cheerfully, "We have special T-shirts
with the camp name, for if we get lost on the subway." Greenie tried not
to envision such a mishap.

For the first time in months, Charlie ventured farther away than
Albuquerque. He went to California, to meet with lawyers who worked
for the Sierra Club. He would be gone for several days. Greenie spent
her free time wandering the sunstruck town. Shoulder to shoulder with
summer tourists, she browsed through galleries filled with colorful blankets
and baskets. She sat quietly one afternoon in the Santuario de
Guadalupe, inhaling the scents of resin and incense, trying to understand
the story told in the church's cameo paintings. Had a cloakful of
roses become a radiant image of the Virgin, was that it? Greenie felt
tears begin to gather. This happened so easily now, at both ends of the
emotional spectrum.

She did not drive anywhere except to the mansion, and there was little
reason at all to do that. Mary Bliss, who had gone home to Nashville
to look for another job, urged Greenie to take a week off and leave the
city.

On the day before Charlie's return, she stood gazing at a red couch in
the window of a stylish furniture store on Marcy, wondering how you
could recognize a certain kind of beauty as Italian, when she noticed, in
the window's reflection, that a woman had stopped across the street and
was staring in her direction. When Greenie turned around, the woman
started to hurry away.

"Wait!" Greenie called after Diego's mother.

Theresa allowed her to catch up. Her expression was aggressively
neutral.

"I don't know what to say," said Greenie. "I've been meaning to call
you, but I haven't, I'm sorry. I guess you know George went back to
New York."

Theresa nodded.

"He misses Diego, you know. He adores Diego." She had nearly said
"adored" or "still adores," as if the affection had to be a thing of the past.

Theresa nodded again. She was a broad woman, but she was pretty,
with a youthful, coppery Mayan face and lovely dark eyes. The expression
in those lovely eyes, aimed steadily at Greenie, might have been
contemptuous or simply aloof. Greenie tried not to look away.

"I didn't handle that evening well at all," she said.

"It doesn't matter," Theresa said quietly. "It's in the past. Diego is not
allowed near the horses now, and we do not talk about it. He is gone
away for the summer. He works for my sister at her house in Albuquerque.
He comes back when it is time for school."

"Is he . . . is everything okay with his father?"

Theresa shook her head, not to say that things weren't okay but to
brush off the question. "I have more children than Diego. Diego is a
part of the family, and if he is doing his chores and his schoolwork, this
is all we ask now. I did not think the friendship a good one. That was the
trouble." She spoke fiercely, inflicting the wound she had intended.

"George is a good boy. He did love Diego," Greenie said.

"He was too curious, this was the trouble. A nice boy, but too many
questions. Too many questions lead to trouble. When you are a mother
longer, you will understand this."

In the silence of her own embarrassment, Greenie thought of Diego's
placid nature. Was this the intangibly peculiar thing about Diego, that
he rarely asked questions? Had he been taught not to ask questions? She
felt herself scowling at Diego's mother.
It could have ended far worse,
she was tempted to say.
Be grateful we got off as well as we did.
But the
conversation was finished.

"Take care," said Greenie as Theresa started on her way. She could
not be sure, because the woman's back was turned, but she thought
Theresa might have laughed.

Greenie turned the corner and leaned against a shaded wall. Its
rough, cool surface calmed her. From there, she walked into the nearest
shop. A woman beamed at her from behind a luminous jewelry case: the
familiar confectionary array of turquoise in its many hues; corals in
orange, scarlet, even purple; lapis lazuli, malachite, obsidian.

"Shopping for a gift?" said the woman. "Everything for men is half
off today."

Greenie saw a row of silver bracelets, some sleek and slim, others
broad and braided; men's bracelets. "Yes," she said when the woman
asked if Greenie would like a closer look.

She left the store with a box that contained, on a wafer of cotton, a
clipped oval of silver, narrow but inlaid with a long straight channel of
old green turquoise. Charlie's proposal had hung over both of them, like
a pine bough weighted with snow, for nearly a month. Why hadn't
she accepted? What was she waiting for—everything to turn out just
right, everyone to love her, the charming, gregarious, talented Greenie
Duquette, all over again as if she had never done anything wrong? That
was the root of her superstition: the fear that whatever pain she inflicted
must earn her pain, and much more of it, in return. But the world, as
Small George already knew, was never just.

SCOTT AND SONYA NO LONGER WENT OUT
on the town every
night. Now they had taken to hunkering down in the apartment, a
hipster version of the old married couple, eating takeout at midnight
while listening to incomprehensibly jarring music on Scott's CD player
and then, until two or three in the morning, composing songs of their
own. Walter, in turn, had taken to wearing earplugs when he went to
bed, though he hated blocking such a vital alert system before entering
the defenseless land of nod. For more than a week now, they had been
working on a song called "Purple Tarmac Blues," which pondered
(abrasively) the many colors and textures of asphalt and the likeness
of love to tar itself, how it would ultimately trap you like the poor
creatures fatally mired at La Brea.
Behold the dinosaurs of passion, the
fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-futile fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-FOSSILS of love!
was one line
Walter kept hearing loud and clear, even with his door closed and the air
conditioner turned up full blast, because it seemed to be the song's wailing
climax. Their hour-long efforts to find a rhyme for
violet
(apparently
the color of upper-class suburban macadam—which they rhymed
with
Mill Valley madam
and, if Walter's ears could be trusted,
smokin'
señoras lemme at 'em
) finally drove Walter out in search of a club, the
sort of outing that had lost its luster ever since the fizzling, yet again, of
his relationship with Gordie. Walter understood now that when Gordie
had proposed a "separation," he'd known there would never be a
reunion. Yes indeedy, if love was tar, then Walter had been royally tarred
and feathered. Still, however cowardly Gordie might be, at least he was
discreet.

Now Walter walked the streets of the Village—blessedly balmy, as
they had been for most of August—and reassessed his determination to
be just as magnanimous and tolerant to Scott as Granna had been to
him. Writing songs, however bad (though who was Walter to judge
modern music?), was an art. Scott might not be talented, but he was not
dealing drugs. Walter delighted in continuing to flummox his brother by
keeping the boy out of trouble; what were a few lost hours of sleep next
to proving that you were superior to the older brother who had left you
in the lurch when you needed him the most?

Werner, Tipi, and the suddenly buxom fifteen-year-old Candace had
come east for a visit over the Fourth of July. They took a suite at the
Plaza, on a high floor with a view of more than one fireworks display.
Almost shamefully, Walter was impressed, for he had always made it a
policy to escape New York on this particular holiday; how loathsome,
he'd always maintained, that real estate should render the celebration of
populist power such an elitist occasion. (Candy Kinderman, cell phone
addict, seemed
un
impressed, disappearing into the master suite to talk
to her friends back home.)

Walter had arranged to take time off so that he could squire everyone
to the Ellis Island Museum, the Guggenheim, and a classical guitar concert
at the Winter Garden. For meals, he'd planned on oysters at Blue
Ribbon, sushi at Tomoe, and classic Italian at Da Umberto. (Scott suggested
an evening at the Knitting Factory, which Walter answered with
an are-you-out-of-your-
mind
smirk.) How silly not to have guessed that
Werner had made plans of his own: a Mets game, drinks at a revolving
bar, dinner at Windows on the World (which Walter skipped; what overpriced
déclassé fodder), a chartered boat from South Street Seaport
(okay,
this
was fun), shopping at Barneys and at the weary, sclerotic
galleries remaining in SoHo. Werner had also finagled five insanely
expensive tickets to
The Producers
(how wickedly Walter wished that
they could have gone to
Naked Boys Singing
or
Hedwig and the
Angry Inch
).

For the week of his parents' visit, Scott seemed to have the surprisingly
canny instinct to minimize the presence of Sonya. Thanks to a suspiciously
coincidental meeting, she did show up once, just in time to join
them for the private cruise. Candace spent most of the cruise yakking on
her phone, and Werner and Tipi were too busy playing with their new
digital camera, taking pictures of the skyline from the water, to pay
much attention to their son's punksterette pal. Walter realized that, to
Scott's parents, this year away from the life they wanted him to lead was
just an insignificant hiatus, like a stop on the highway to grab a burger,
use the rest room, and fill up on gas.

Walter had counted on making a visit to his apartment as inconvenient
as possible—though he needn't have bothered—and instructed
Scott on compliance with the plan. "If your dad sees how we are living,
the close quarters, he is sure to call the vice squad." Scott uttered a predictable
"Copa, dude." Walter's real reason for hiding the apartment,
however, was pride. If Werner saw how modestly he lived, it would reinforce
the elder brother's superior standing.

The only gap in Werner's choreography was the final night of the
visit. "You surprise us with a favorite restaurant of
yours.
Except, of
course"—chuckle, chuckle—"for your place, which we know and love."

So, on that blessedly final night, as they sat in Union Square Café,
Werner poured out a bottle of champagne (overruling the waiter's
efforts to do so) and raised his glass. "To Stanford," he said, directing a
leonine smile at his son.

Tipi smiled more timidly, while Candace gulped down her glass, concentrating
on the luxury of booze condoned by her parents. She was
wearing a pink cashmere sweater, which Walter thought much too tight
for her age, and had painted her nails the very same color.

"Yeah, long may it wave," toasted Scott. "Yale and Harvard too.
Masters of the universe, unite! You got nothing to lose but your scalps!"
He laughed carelessly.

Werner ignored the jest. "Rourke tells me admissions has a spot for
you in September."

Oh this will be more delicious than the meal,
thought Walter.

"Whoa, Dad. That's like dropping the boom."

"That's telling the facts, son. You've had a great year with your
uncle." He nodded reverently at Walter. "For which your mom and I are
endlessly grateful. You needed to get a fresh perspective, and I'm sure it
will serve you well."

"Yeah, but like, I'm practically off the waiting list for this amazing
workshop and really finding my voice. I'd never, like, even considered
the blues as a plausible art form till now."

Werner's confident smile bore just the hint of a threat. "You'll be
singing more than the blues without a solid education."

Across the room, Walter watched the host seat Julianne Moore and
her scruffy-adorable boy-man, along with that tall blond actress who'd
clearly been born with a harelip (Laura Linney? Diane something?). He
whispered in his niece's ear and pointed. She looked both tipsy and
awestruck.

"Dad, I can always get a college education. I can't always seize the
moment of inspiration. I feel like it's totally now or never with my
music."

Walter watched
never
flash across his brother's face.

Tipi blinked, doelike, at Scott. "Honey, they have plenty of music at
Stanford. It's not the army."

"Even the army has music," said Candace. "Do you know how much
the government spends on military bands? Like more than they do on
public education." As she spoke, her eyes scanned the room for other
celebrities.

"Nobody said anything about the army, for God's sake," said Werner.
"Let's not exaggerate here. Your mother is right. I'm sure they have
bands and orchestras and things like that. Some colleges even have their
own . . . cabarets. Radio stations. You could be a deejay on weekends."

"Perhaps you could have a minor in music," said Tipi. Werner
flashed her a let-me-handle-this scowl.

Scott was stacking his silverware, looking down and slowly shaking
his head. Suddenly, he pinned his gaze on Walter, a piercing plea across
the table.

Walter cleared his throat. "Werner, Scott is learning the ropes in a
sophisticated, potentially quite lucrative business. Where's the harm in
another six months or so? It's not like he's lounging around strumming
the banjo and smoking weed. He's not a Beatnik. You never know—he
could grow up and be the next Danny Meyer." He realized Werner had
no idea who Danny Meyer was. "Or Colonel Sanders."

"Very funny," said Werner. He turned to Scott. "What aspects of the
business have you learned thus far?"

Scott shrugged. "Like, lots of running-the-kitchen stuff, and like . . ."

Walter broke in. "He's been helping me go over the books. He's been
learning about the division of labor in a professional kitchen, soup to
nuts." He smiled. "Or should I say stew to sorbet. Garde-manger. Booking
reservations. Compliance with health regulations."

"Like washing your hands after going to the bathroom?" said Candace,
who'd poured herself the last of the champagne. "Duh."

Werner was not distracted. "A very narrow range of skills."

"Keeping the books is practical," said Tipi.

Werner ignored her. "Of little use if he wakes up one day and wants
to be a doctor. Which happens far more often than you'd guess. My dermatologist
majored in
philosophy,
but at least he had that B.A. when he
needed it.

"You are now nearly twenty years old," he said to Scott, attempting
to sound more conversational than autocratic. "When I was twenty, my
parents were dead and I had no cushion to fall back on. I was on my
own. You are a lucky young man."

You had Granna,
thought Walter.
You were headed for Haight-Ashbury,
all expenses paid.
He clamped his lips together.

Yearningly, Candace followed Julianne Moore's elegant trajectory
toward the ladies' room. Walter had also spotted Dame Edna, but none
of his white-bread relations would have known—or wanted to know—
who
she
was.

"So you're, like, going to disown me or something if I don't go to
Stanford like
right away
? Wow, Dad. Wow."

Surprisingly, Werner seemed to have no ready answer.

Walter raised his hands, the benevolent traffic cop. "Werner, listen to
me. Chill a teensy bit, will you? Twenty these days is young—and I
admit, I'm jealous too! But I am willing to take responsibility here. Let's
say I raise the bar for Scott, make him take on more challenging work.
Maybe he could take a class in business accounting. You know, I've been
thinking of starting a second restaurant. He could be very helpful there."
Had he been thinking of this? Why in the world was he so keen to hang
on to Scott? How nice it would be to have the apartment—even The
Bruce—all to himself once again.

Tipi looked at her husband and then at Scott. "Sweetheart," she said,
"do you really love this work? Is there a possible career for you in this? I
mean, one that will support you in the manner to which you are accustomed?
The music just isn't likely to do that."

Werner snorted faintly, but he had lost the spotlight.

Scott shrugged. Walter glared daggers in his direction, forcing him to
straighten up and declare, "Mom, I'm not a liar. The restaurant is cool,
it's a cool place, cool work. But it lets me be on for my music, too. It's
like a ripe combination. The right job at the right time. Dad, I am not
going to morph into some kind of deadbeat, okay?"

Werner shook his head with dismay, but Walter could see that Scott,
for now, had won. "So much for the Taittinger," said Werner, and
flagged the waiter to order a more modest, less celebratory wine.

Instinctively, Walter watched to see how quickly the waiter would
respond—and looking in that direction, he saw Stephen enter the dining
room. Not with Gordie, saints be praised, but with a middle-aged
woman. Still, Walter did not want to make eye contact with him. Yet
why in tarnation should Walter feel guilty? Alas, the host led Stephen
right past their table. He saw Walter and looked away. Walter wondered
if Stephen knew that he, too, had been dumped by Gordie—forgotten
more than cast aside. Yet how could Walter even
think
of such a comparison?
He had never lived with a lover at all, never mind a lover who
became, over more than a decade, a mate. When his attention returned
to the table, Werner and his family were discussing Julianne Moore.
Candace had just said how amazing she was in
Boogie Nights;
from a
twitch on Candace's face, Walter could see that she realized, too late,
she ought not to have mentioned this movie.

Tipi looked at Werner. "I think we missed that one. Is it out on DVD?"

Scott covered his mouth, trying to hide his laughter. When Walter met
his eyes, they lost control in unison.

Tipi smiled. "May I ask what's so hilarious?"

"Oh," said Walter, "that movie is kind of like a remake of
The Sound
of Music.
But it's not well done. You can give it a pass."

"Yeah," said Scott, "like Julianne Moore, Julie Andrews—same diff."

"Can Julianne Moore really sing?" asked Tipi.

Walter and Scott were now laughing so hard that tears ran down
their cheeks. Candace, blushing scornfully, excused herself.

Stephen, seated two tables away, stared right at them all with such
menace that Walter became instantly sober. "But seriously," he said, his
voice low, "you have got to see her in
The End of the Affair.
Her accent
could have used some extra coaching, but does she ever have gorgeous
breasts.
Werner, would you pass that sinfully exquisite bread?"

THAT NIGHT, ONLY A MONTH BEFORE
, had been a high point in Walter's
connection to his nephew. It did not take Dr. Freud to interpret
Walter's longing for that connection as much more than family feeling.
Walter knew he was grasping at youthful straws (now that he was grecianizing
his hair), pathetically hoping that Scott's loose-limbed ways
and callow sense of immortality might rub off on him just a little, lending
him that peerless sheen.