The Whole World Over (57 page)

Now, as he walked brazenly along the Hudson River at two-thirty in
the morning, something else occurred to him. All Walter really wanted
(well, not all, but quite a lot of all) was to be genuinely, uniquely needed.
He had believed, falsely, that the risks Gordie took to be with him in the
beginning were sure proof of such a need. The greater the risk, the
greater the need; wasn't that logical? And though Scott had never conveyed
anything but a sense of independence, Walter had believed that
his nephew's gratitude would grow into a yearning that paralleled his
own. But now, if there was anyone Scott needed, or believed he needed,
it was probably Sonya.

"Of all people," Walter said aloud, "I've been robbed by Spiderwoman."
He laughed quietly. He wished he had brought The Bruce
along, not for protection but to look up at him when his own lame jokes
broke the surface of his lonely, opinionated psyche. Well, T.B. needed
him. That was nothing to sneeze at.

The towers that defined the city's skyline remained bright even at this
ungodly hour, like punch cards coded with fluorescent light. Were all
those illuminated offices empty, or were bankers and traders still up
there, alongside the janitors tending to trash cans filled with the documentation
of yesterday's monetary tides? Walter sighed as he turned
back east on Christopher Street. He had a much nicer life than any of
those
people, no matter his measly troubles.

When he entered the apartment, it was, as he had hoped, silent. It
smelled of pizza, and half of Sonya's grisly garb festooned the couch—
but at long last it was silent. He went to the kitchen for a glass of water.
On the way, he realized that his right shoe was sticking to the floor.

Green chewing gum: Sonya's trademark substitute for conversation
with grown-ups. Walter threw it in the sink, where it landed on a long
tomato-stained knife laid across a stack of plates. The pizza box protruded
from a garbage bag that ought to have been trussed up, taken
downstairs, and replaced. Walter resolved to have a paternalistic word
with Scott. Again. Sonya's gum would give him a more than justifiable
entrée.
It's her or me!
flashed through his mind. As if.

When he filled his glass, he noticed a small slip of paper adhering to
the bottom of the water pitcher. He peeled it off. It had been folded several
times, and the ink was waterlogged and blurry, but the message still
stood out, as legible as it was blunt:
BIG HARD PRIMED TO FUCK
YOUR DAYGLO BRAINS OUT MAKE YOU EXPLODE LIKE A TANK
UNDER SIEGE.

Walter gasped and dropped the note. He knew this language well—
no Tipi Kinderman,
he
—but in his own kitchen, right under Granna's
demure samplers, written out boldly, no qualms whatsoever . . . Was
that Scott's handwriting? Sonya's? It was unnaturally tiny and cramped,
though the intentions expressed were anything but.

Walter crumpled the message and pushed it deep into the garbage,
past the pizza box. When he pulled out his arm, there was grease on his
sleeve.

DURING THE LAST WEEK OF AUGUST
, Walter accepted an invitation
to Fire Island. Scott would play host at the restaurant, with Ben looking
over his shoulder. "I warn you, Ben will let me know if you are so much
as a nanosecond late," said Walter. "And if you get in over your head,
you can always call me. I don't think we'll have a full house, even on
Saturday, so reservations shouldn't be a problem, and Hugo's a genius at
guessing how much of everything we need. Really, the place should run
itself."

T.B.'s eczema had flared up again, as it always did after prolonged
exposure to heat. That was another good excuse to get out of town.
They'd be staying in a huge glass house shared by two wealthy couples,
and the parties promised to be dense with beefcake. In one fell swoop,
Walter would renew his sorry tan and his moribund libido. And heaven
only knew, maybe he'd
meet
someone.

On the morning he packed, the phone rang. For the first time in
nearly a month, he heard Greenie's voice.

"Dear stranger!" he exclaimed. "You very nearly missed me! I'm off
to the land of no cars and way too much sex."

"I can't say I'm envious," she said. "I'm too tired for way too
much sex."

"How are you?" he said, sitting down on his bed. "How's that glistening
man from your past?"

The pause that followed was so long, Walter expected the worst.

"Walter, I think we're going to get married." Her voice was soft,
almost resigned, and it took him a moment to understand.

"Bless my jaded soul," he said. "But could we sound a little less blue?"

"I feel . . . I'm like an outlaw these days. I've lost touch with so many
people—entirely my fault, I know they wouldn't judge me, but suddenly
it's like I'm this pioneer woman off in the desert, severed from everyone
I knew before."

Walter knew all about the child and his misbegotten prank. Greenie
had called Walter during that mess, and twice in the past month he'd
spotted the boy on Bank Street. He rode on his father's shoulders, grasping
at branches, laughing as if his little life were perfect. Alan looked
happy too, though more quietly so. Once, seeing Walter, he'd lifted a
hand from George's sandaled foot to wave. Walter waved back, but they
had not spoken.

"So when will I meet him, this Galahad?"

"You'll have to come out here," said Greenie. "You can have my
house, throw parties, do whatever you like. Basically, I live at Charlie's."

"A house to myself in Santa Fe? Honey, count me in."

"But I'll see you soon anyway. I'll be back there in a month."

"I can't wait to see you, sweetie," he said. "But if you don't have
much time for me, I'll understand. And business promises to soar, so I
may not have a
life.
Is the good governor jumping on this all-eggs-no-toast
bandwagon?"

"Walter, he's practically driving. But it's not a diet, it's just his innate
sense of immortality."

"Talk about comebacks," said Walter. "First John Travolta, then
Tony Bennett, now What's-His-Face Atkins. Bacon is the new bok choy!
Hugo's made enough omelettes this summer to sink the
Titanic
all over
again." Walter sighed. "But you know, I liked it better when I was the
countercuisine. I've got these customers who talk to me now like I'm
their nutritional guru. All these neo-carnivores raving about
ketosis
—
frankly, I wouldn't know ketosis from halitosis."

Greenie laughed. She sounded more like her old self. If Walter was
good for one thing, it was amusing people out of a funk. No small talent,
though he would rather have charmed them into commitment.
Greenie's life right now wasn't one to be envied—but still. This was the
second
man whose heart she'd won over completely.

Walter told her he had to fly but that he'd call her when he returned.
He packed all his most flattering pale-colored clothes, including a vintage
dinner jacket à la William Holden that he hadn't worn in three
years, along with a toilet kit monopolized by an optimistically thick
accordion of condoms and a large plastic bottle of T.B.'s eczema cream.
He taped the cap to the bottle, to be sure it wouldn't burst inside his
suitcase. Odd miniature disasters seemed to lurk in wait for Walter these
days, so he took whatever precautions he could.

THE WEEK ON FIRE ISLAND
was pleasant but predictable. Predictability
was a great relief at times, but on this occasion it felt vaguely sad to
Walter. There was plenty of fine beach weather, and he saw everyone he
expected to see, whether by design or happenstance. Along the boardwalks,
he had that funny sensation of spotting one familiar face after
another—only to pass them and realize, from the mirroring of his own
baffled geniality, that he recognized them from the restaurant. These
encounters were satisfying—especially when someone nodded or greeted
him in such a way as to express approval—yet each time a twinge of
loneliness passed through Walter, the transient fear that he knew everybody
a little bit and nobody all that well.

He regaled his friends and new acquaintances with tales of what it
was like to be the surrogate parent of a rock 'n' roll teenage boy, while
The Bruce made time with a new crowd of pooches, mostly upscale
purebreds. T.B. had more success on the romantic front, stealing the
soul of their host's Rhodesian ridgeback—while Walter had more success
in the zipless department. What was it about the ocean that made
you think of nothing but sex, sex, sex? Did salt draw lusty fantasies
from your reptilian brain the way it drew moisture from flesh?

Walter had hoped to meet someone he'd see again, in the city,
through the fall and winter, when lying against another person, night
after night, the whole night through, mattered most of all. Once again,
wishing for love had kept it at bay. No matter: by the end of the week,
thanks to sex and sun (and sleeping late), Walter could look in the mirror
and see, no small consolation, that he glowed.

Ben had called Walter just once that week, to double-check on their
credit with a vendor. When Walter asked how Scott was holding up, Ben
had said, "Needs a haircut, but no complaints." Thus believing that
everything was "copa," Walter could not have anticipated the state of
his own apartment when he walked through the door that Labor Day
afternoon.

Granted: Walter did not often see the place in full sun. Right away,
the veneer of dust dismayed him. But dust was insignificant next to the
clutter of clothing, musical instruments, dirty dishes, empty beer and
soda cans, and used
ashtrays
—that is, dishes used as ashtrays. Scott did
not smoke; not even Sonya smoked—or did they? Walter dropped his
bags and examined the ramekin-ashtray on the coffee table: nothing illegal,
at least.

Some kind of speaker (amplifier?!) stood under the dining table.
Black cords meandered and coiled beneath the furniture to join to it a
guitar and an odd-looking flute. Two other guitars leaned against the
couch, over which drooped a couple of T-shirts and a denim jacket
encrusted in rhinestones.

"Holy smokes," he exclaimed. He laughed aloud at his prissiness.
The amusement was brief. Here he was in the middle of a frigging
opium den (well, not quite) and he was talking like Anita Bryant. "Jesus
Christ!" he said for good measure. Which, automatically, redirected his
eyes toward the kitchen wall. Corner to corner, the glass that covered
the sampler with the little dog was cracked.

Dishes filled the sink and covered half the counter. (
There vuz a
party?
Like, was George W. Bush the goddamn court-appointed president?)
Out of curiosity, Walter opened the dishwasher. In the bottom
lingered a pool of brackish water. "That explains
something,
" he muttered.
But then he saw the two wineglasses, stems snapped, balanced
atop half a dozen liquor bottles in the recycling bin.

Walter walked in the front door of Walter's Place just behind a family
of tourists looking for an early dinner (for whom he held the door).
Scott greeted them—and then saw his uncle, along with his uncle's
expression.

"Show them a table," Walter said through his clenched smile. T.B.
made a beeline for the front hearth and stretched his plump body on the
cool brick floor.

While Scott escorted the family to one of the rustic booths and
handed them menus, Walter went to the bar and greeted Ben. Ben welcomed
him back as if he'd been absent for two hours. Walter glanced
over a copy of the evening's menu.
Heirloom tomatoes grilled with blue
cheese. Hudson Valley corn on the cob with maple butter.
The catch of
the day was stuffed bluefish.
Some
things did not fall apart. Walter took
a deep breath as Scott came slowly back toward the bar, stopping at
empty tables to straighten place settings.

"Scott!" Walter pointed back toward the kitchen.

As they passed through, toward the office, Walter waved at Hugo
and said, "I owe you my firstborn. You are responsible for my sanity.
What remains of it, that is!"

The minute Walter closed the door behind them, Scott said, "Okay,
man, I know you're pissed. I'm really, really sorry about the mess. I
thought you'd be taking like the last bus back."

"Well, at least you didn't blame it on a poltergeist. Just when, may I
ask, have you found the time to turn my nice neat apartment into a
lowlife nightclub? Oh—at
night.
Silly me. Have I been served an eviction
notice yet?"

"Look. Really. I'm totally sorry," said Scott. Walter could not tell if
he looked genuinely contrite or simply terrified. "Like, we did have a
couple friends over to jam, but we kept it pretty low. I promise! We're
totally in this momentum you wouldn't believe, and I guess I lost track
of time and I figured I'd clean up when I got back tonight, and really,
man, you wouldn't have noticed a thing."

Walter wondered whether it would have made a difference only to
suspect
that the place had been trashed in his absence. Should he maintain
something like the army's don't-ask-don't-tell protocol on queers?
Out of sight, out of mind? "And these 'friends,' they, like, smoked up a
storm?"

Scott looked sheepish. "You never said no cigarettes, Uncle Walt."

"Right. And I never said no pottery kilns, no prostitution, no . . . let's
see, off-track betting? Use your common sense, Scott! Do I smoke? No.
And what's with the dishwasher?"

"Sorry. Like I had no idea who to call. For repairs." Scott was looking
at his shoes by now—a pair of orange high-top sneakers. Had Walter's
dress code for Scott's week as boy maître d' even specified shoe
restrictions? Probably not. Maybe orange high-tops were fine. Don't get
hysterical, Walter warned himself.

He sighed. "I'll take care of that. Appliances break. But
listen.
" He
told Scott that he would take over for the evening while Scott went back
to the apartment and cleaned both the kitchen and the living room, top
to bottom. "I'm going to ask for a moratorium on the music this entire
week. Doesn't Sonya have a place of her own where you can practice?
Never mind. Just give it a break. I am going to have to gauge how angry
the neighbors are. And frankly, I wouldn't mind a break from Sonya
herself."