The Whole World Over (58 page)

If Scott was annoyed, he didn't dare show it. "Was your vacation
cool?" he asked Walter, as if he wasn't sure he should ask.

"Just dandy," said Walter. "Now vamoose. And take T.B. He needs a
long walk. That, too, if you please."

Scott saluted.

"Don't test my sense of humor," Walter said. "And—not so fast—get
a haircut. Tomorrow morning. I will have your great-grandmother's
sampler reframed, but you will reimburse me."

After Scott left, Walter checked his reflection in the mirror and was
comforted to see that the island glow had not yet faded. It was back-to-school
time now, auspicious season for all things new—but to hope too
far along that avenue would lead him to yet another dead end.
Vork, it
must be your daily anchor.

Out at the bar, theatrical deadbeat Dagger was on his first drink,
warming to the subject of Gwyneth Paltrow as the perfect example of
nepotism unbridled.

PEACE AND CALM RULED FOR NEARLY A WEEK
. Never before had
the last days of summer made the city feel like a place of such privilege.
By day the air was almost dry, the sky ever blue. Nights felt clean, even
chilly; often there were stars to be seen. A few leaves were fooled into
turning at their tips, flashing like gold sequins in the perpetually soothing
breeze that blew from the harbor.

As ordered, Scott went to the barber. "Your ears are quite handsome,
you know" was Walter's only response. The boy still wore his orange
high-tops to work; Walter decided to ignore the issue of footwear. At
closing time several nights running, Sonya showed up and lurked by the
door. On Friday, Walter softened and told Ben to give her a glass of
champagne. He tried not to be annoyed when he caught sight of her
rolling her eyes at Scott in what he assumed was a mockery of his gesture.
Whatever did Scott see in that arachnid creature? Was it simply
that she was older, was that the allure? Walter tried to amuse himself by
imagining Tipi taking Sonya for lunch at her country club.

On those nights, Scott went off with Sonya—Walter never asked
where—and, as in the old, pre-Scott days, Walter and T.B. walked home
by one circuitous route or another. Walter fell asleep alone in his own
bed, but with the windows open to the velvety air, no earplugs, no need
for Granna's firm hand to keep his cool. Even the car horns sounded
softer.

And then came Sunday. First, a child threw a plate of waffles on the
floor, splashing maple syrup onto a pair of expensive purple suede
pumps at the adjacent table; Walter soothed the wearer's conspicuous
indignation by picking up her tab. Another customer complained loudly
that the Scottish salmon on his bagel had gone bad (it most certainly
had not). Thereafter, no one ordered salmon in any form. By one, Walter
was tempted to have a drink. He ate a piece of chocolate cake instead.
This made him think of Greenie; but for his big mouth, she would still
be there, nearly next door. What had he been thinking?

With Walter's permission, Scott left early, in the lull between brunch
and dinner, to go to his "guitar workshop." Minutes later, Ben asked to
have a word with Walter in his office. A case of wine had gone missing,
and though he couldn't be sure, he had to suspect that it had been
pinched by Sonya (which had to mean Sonya in cahoots with Scott).

"She's a bad influence, that's my firm conviction," said Walter. "But
theft?"

Ben shrugged. "Just a suspicion. Needed voicing."

"Have you ever seen Scott behind the bar?"

Another shrug. "Wouldn't think twice if I had."

"Ben, this is my nephew."

Ben gave Walter a bland, impenetrable smile. "Just a suspicion."

"Ben! Articulate, please! I love the way you never talk my ear off, but
I need a little more to go on here. And please don't do that what-the-heck
thing with your shoulders again!"

"If I had evidence, I'd show you," said Ben. "I don't want to have a
suspicion, not raise it now, then have you come to me later asking why.
Whole story."

Walter groaned. "Whole story. Great."

Ben rose to go. "I'll keep an eye out."

"You do that."

Walter laid his head on his desk. What should he do, install nanny
cams at home and at work? How long ago had he last checked the shelf
in his closet where he kept Granna's silver flatware? When, in fact, was
the last time he'd had occasion to use it? Whatever happened to entertaining
at home?

The Bruce nudged his thigh.

"Here you go." Walter took one of T.B.'s well-masticated phone
receivers out of a lower drawer. Immediately, The Bruce curled up at
Walter's feet and began his ritual of licking and gnawing at the plastic.

"That does look like a good way to relieve stress," said Walter as he
stroked his dog's neck, massaging the warm folds of skin around the collar.
As he did so, he felt a small nub of something foreign at the edge of
the leather. Probing with two fingers, he withdrew a tab of chewing gum
and a minute rectangle of paper.

After flinging the gum into the trash, he held up the paper. It had been
folded many times, down to the size of a thin matchbox, to be hidden
inside T.B.'s collar, fastened there with the gum. (Another probing
brought forth a second rubbery wad.)

"What in tarnation," said Walter as he unfolded the paper. He
thought of desperate pleas enclosed in bottles, flung out to sea. Were old
people at T.B.'s nursing home being held prisoner against their will?
(
Anywhere
in the Bronx would be prison to Walter.) Was this a cry for
rescue?

Apparently not.

"Christ Almighty," he said when he read the note.

Slick and all aquiver, Miss Urchin waits like a rainflower, You Boy
Cock Red Lava God. Slave to your mountainous rumbling. She says
pluck my petals NOW she says DRINK MY NECTAR till I am a prune,
a dry hag, a she-shark in your molten ocean!

An extremely tiny pink photograph adhered to the paper. Walter held
it close to his desk lamp. A vagina, an actual, wide-open, devil-may-care
vagina.
Walter groaned and dropped the note in the trash, then
fished it out again. He stuffed it in his pocket. He bent over and pulled
T.B.'s collar around his neck, feeling under its entire circumference.
T.B. dropped his phone and looked up at Walter, concerned. Walter was
hyperventilating.

"It's okay, boy," he said, though his tone was not consistent with the
statement. How he would get through the evening without an aneurysm
or a shriekfest, Walter had no idea, but get through it he would. And
then, once Scott showed up at his apartment, well let the chips fall
where they fucking might.

"
YOU HAVE BEEN USING MY DOG AS A
, what, a porn conduit?"

Scott looked dumbstruck. It was six in the morning, and he had just
walked in. Walter had slept very little the night before, finally surrendering
to his rage by taking a very long, very hot shower, dressing for the
gym, and eating a large bowl of Grape Nuts. The heavy chewing was
almost cathartic.

Scott leaned his guitar case against the wall. Nervously, he laughed.

"
This
is not funny. Or
I
don't find it funny." Walter held out the four
sex-slave messages, all resembling eviscerated origami, that he had
found by scouring the sea of clothing in Scott's room. (He had almost
hoped to find drugs; why not shoot the moon?)

Scott was clearly holding a private debate. Finally he said, "Those
are totally private, Uncle Walt. Like you thought I was a virgin or
something?"

"Please don't insult me." Walter threw the messages onto the coffee
table. "Do you really have no idea how . . . repellent and perverse
this is?"

"The dog can't read." Arms crossed, Scott had struck a sullen pose. If
there had been a moment to choose repentance over defiance, it had
passed.

"Listen, nephew of mine. I have put up with a lot here. Maybe I
didn't know what I was getting myself into, sharing my place with a
Mick Jagger wannabe—" Walter heard Scott's faint snort of derision.
"All
right.
"

Scott waited for a moment. "All right what?"

"I am just about fed up. I mean, I am fed up! How dare you laugh at
me. I am suddenly feeling mighty sympathetic with your father!"

"Hey, man, I'm sorry we offended you, okay?"

The
we
put Walter over the edge. "That is
it,
" he growled. "You are
out of here, young man. I will keep you on at the restaurant—though we
will be having a good talk about that, too—but I want you to find your
own place. Move in with Morticia Addams if you please, but forget
about using poor T.B. as your envoy of lust. I simply cannot believe your
lack of respect. Shame on you."

T.B. cowered at the sound of his name in such an angry speech. He
slipped down from the couch, retreating to Walter's bedroom.

Scott stared at Walter, and then he sighed. "Suit yourself, man. We
were just having the bit of harmless fun. You are one hypersensitive
dude, you know that? I mean, I appreciate everything you've done for
me, really, man, but you need to like, I don't know, get laid more often
yourself."

Walter's heart was beating with the cadence of a polka. He spoke not
a word, went to the coatrack, and took down T.B.'s leash. "Come, boy,"
he said quietly, aware of the ironies in his command. He would drop
T.B. off at the restaurant and go to the gym from there. He picked up his
workout bag, refusing to meet Scott's eyes. Scott did not move from his
post near the door.

"Are you actually going to, like, leave?"

To get out the door, Walter was forced to speak once more to his
nephew, if only to say a courteous, cold
Excuse me.
"Take today and
tomorrow off. You can leave your stuff in your room until you find
another place to stay."

The boy looked utterly deflated, though it might have been nothing
more than an aftereffect of all-night sex with the repugnant Miss
Urchin. On his way out, Walter read what he hoped would be the last
idiotic T-shirt he'd ever have to face so early in the morning. On magenta
cotton spandex, it read
THE SWEDISH WOMEN'S VOLLEYBALL TEAM SLEPT HERE.

Charming as ever,
Walter was tempted to say as he opened the door,
but Granna warned him to hold his tongue. He had said more than
enough for one miserable Monday morning.

At the gym, he increased his weights. At his office, he tackled several
money matters he had been postponing. In the kitchen, he offered Hugo
a modest but unexpected raise.
For effry dark deed, trade a light one.
After last call at the bar, he took T.B. for a marathon walk down to Battery
Park City. At the marina, T.B. made no protest when Walter sat on a
bench to listen awhile as the yachts conversed at their moorings. As they
walked back north, the warm tranquil lappings of the river against the
piers and the wooden rim of the city itself soothed Walter as much as
anything could. When he arrived back in his apartment at two a.m., he
found a note from Scott saying that Sonya would be taking him to
Newark first thing in the morning, to catch a flight to San Francisco. He
was heading home to "chill" for a couple of weeks before returning to
New York. He'd get the rest of his stuff then.
If you decide to fire me,
that's totally fair, but this whole thing just makes it clearer what my
future is really about. I think you kind of get it, too, Uncle Walt, and I
forgive you for blowing off the steam. I'm sorry I said that lowly thing
about you not getting laid. I hope we'll stay friends. High five to the
B-man. I'll call from Camp Werner if I survive the deprogramming
stuff.

Walter was sad but not surprised. In fact, he suspected that Scott
would
not
survive the "deprogramming stuff" to return to New York.
Still, Walter would have rooted for Scott. Really, had mash notes under a
dog's collar been reason enough to evict the boy? In the end, Walter knew
nothing about what it was to be a parent, let alone a grandparent who
had to do it all over again because her own child had failed at the job.

He called Sonya's number but (thankfully) got her machine. Channeling
Granna, he wished Scott a safe trip and told Sonya she could pick up
T.B. at the restaurant after taking Scott to the airport. Walter would rise
early and work like a madman.

He slept heavily and got up at six. From the window near his bed, a
forgiving, reinvigorating breeze swept through the room. Walter dressed
and gave T.B. a hasty brushing. On the way to the restaurant, they
stopped to share a bagel under the sumptuous greenery by the playground.
"Let's get fat, my friend, what the hey," Walter said to The
Bruce as they relished their respective halves of schmear.

The wide-plank floors of the restaurant had been newly waxed the
day before; they gleamed softly when Walter turned on the lights. He
opened every window, to admit the extraordinary morning, and turned
on Hugo's radio, opting for jazz.

Almost to Walter's surprise, Sonya showed up. He turned his dog
over to her without a word. He did not even meet her eyes. She was persona
non exista to him, but he would not give her the satisfaction of
mentioning Scott or of breaking his promise to the old folks in Spuyten
Duyvil just because he wished she would fall through a hole in the
ground.

When the first plane hit the north tower of the World Trade Center,
Hugo was writing lunch specials on the blackboard. Oddly, Ben was in
as well; like Walter, he had awakened early, filled with energy and a
sense of purpose. He had decided to recheck his wine inventory. So there
they were, all three men, in the kitchen together, Ben having just confessed
to Walter that he might have made a mistake about the missing
case of pinot grigio. He realized now that a large bridal shower, which
took up half the restaurant on Saturday night, had asked him to set
aside an entire case, so they wouldn't have to order by the bottle. Man,
but those girls had whooped it up. They'd tipped him like a king.