The Whole World Over (61 page)

As she stood by the garden door, letting Felicity prod and tease at her
hair, Saga began to listen to the radio. A plane had flown into the Pentagon.
In New York, hundreds of firefighters might be dead. The president,
on his private plane, was being hustled from hither to yon, from
yon to hither, and there were people calling him a coward. Then there
were people who claimed this was no time for talk like that. Someone
with a thick accent was talking about Saudi Arabia. Someone else was
talking about an attack on a ship, a bomb. An attack on an embassy in
Africa. Was this the start of a world war?

"Is there a war?" she blurted out.

Walter had stopped crying, but he kept his face behind his hands.
Fenno was suddenly nowhere in sight.

"Likely as not," said the curly-haired man.

"Oh sweet heaven no," said Walter. "Oh no."

"I think you jump to conclusions," said the man in white to the curly-haired
man. "But how terrible this is, we cannot yet know." He was
foreign;
I sink,
he said.
Ziss iss.

Now the mayor spoke. He told everyone to stay home, to keep listening,
to be alert. The air force was guarding the city. Home was the safest
place to be.

Startled, Saga turned toward the radio. Felicity nipped her ear.

Was Uncle Marsden at home now? Had he taken Aunt Liz's radio out
of the closet? Was he listening? How would he
know
to listen?

Fenno came in the front door carrying three bottles. "Emily, do you
know where I keep those cups downstairs, the ones we use at the
readings?"

As Saga passed Fenno, Felicity leaped to his shoulder.

When she came back up from the basement, the bottles were standing
on the counter by the register. Scotch, club soda, fizzy lemonade. Fenno
introduced her to Ben and Hugo. Behind them, she could just hear Walter
whispering, "I've lost him.
I've lost him.
" Saga wanted to ask Fenno
why Walter was so upset, who it was he thought he'd lost, but she didn't
want Walter to overhear her and grow even more hysterical.

She asked Fenno if she could use the phone to call her uncle.

Once again, she was greeted by the machine. "Uncle Marsden," she
said, "I'm still in the city, but I'm not at Stan's. I'm at the bookstore. I'm
okay. I guess you might be out somewhere, at someone's house with a
TV? I'll call you later. But I'm fine, I just thought you'd want to know."
She did not hang up. Was there something else she should say? Should
she give him the phone number there, at the shop? But the machine,
allowing no silence, clicked off.

She tried Sonya's cell phone. She got a busy signal.

Ben handed a glass to Walter, who looked up at Saga. "I'm so sorry,"
he said. He turned to Hugo. "I'm so mortified. I'm so . . . I can't believe
I let him go like that. I lost it over—what? Vulgar love notes?"

Hugo began, "Walter, what are the chances—"

"Stop talking to me about statistics and probability!" shouted Walter.
"I haven't heard a word from him! He would have called! He may
have driven me crazy, but he doesn't hate me! And I certainly do not
hate him!"

"Called where?" said Hugo. "Not here, he would not."

Walter pulled a phone from his pocket and shook it. "Here!" Again,
he began sobbing. Saga noticed Fenno watching Walter from across the
room. Fenno had tears in his eyes.

"We already know most lines they are not working," Hugo said in his
awkward English. "Most regular phones I have tried to call, here in the
city they are busy."

Saga wondered if she should leave, to let this poor man grieve among
his friends, but where would she go? The radio had announced that no
trains were running; she might be stuck in the city for days. She thought
of the animals at Stan's. She should never have left them alone.

"Walter," said Ben. His voice was calm yet sharp. He held something
out in his hand, a very small box.

"Drugs?"
Walter shouted. "Ben, who do you think you are talking
to here?"

"It's just Valium. You're not yourself," said Ben.

Walter took a tiny pill from the box and held it in his palm, just staring
at it.

Ben poured a glass of soda. "Take it, will you?" Walter did as he
was told.

Fenno went out to the garden. Saga saw him search the sky; the small
area visible through the treetops was blue as a baby blanket, smooth as
a china plate. Saga joined him. He said in a low voice, "Walter's nephew
left to catch an early flight to San Francisco. They had a row. He thinks
it has to be one of the planes that was hijacked. One was bound for San
Francisco, but I can't believe . . ." Fenno sighed. "He's . . . well, just
imagine. There's not a bloody thing I can say."

"I'm glad he's with you," said Saga. "You're someone good to be
with when things get crazy."

Without smiling, he looked grateful. "You, too, Emily." Before going
back inside, he touched her lightly on one cheek.

Over the next hour, Walter sat listlessly as Ben, Hugo, and Fenno
talked with one another about the attack, what it might mean in the city
(would everyone flee, now and then for good?), how the hothead president
was sure to want instant revenge. Walter nodded off in the armchair.
Using Fenno's phone, Saga tried again and again to reach Sonya.
Between these attempts, she stood by the front window, watching people
pass.

Finally, Hugo and Ben told Fenno they had to go, to check on the
restaurant and close down the kitchen, but they would be back to look
after Walter. They waved politely, forlornly, to Saga.

At last Sonya answered her phone, shouting, "I am stuck in the
mother of all traffic jams!" But the traffic jam (Saga secretly rejoiced)
was in Brooklyn. Sonya agreed to head for Stan's; she might stay there if
she couldn't make it back to Manhattan. Stan had called her, too.

"Is he mad at me for leaving?" Saga asked her.

"He didn't know you weren't there. Phone's been busy all day. You
can call out, but you can't call in. Like jail. Stan just wanted to know
you were okay. So you are, right?"

"Yes," said Saga, though something else began to nag at her, a sense
that she had forgotten something crucial, something beyond the animals,
beyond the problem of how she'd get home.

"Good. Gotta go," said Sonya.

Fenno went out on the sidewalk to speak with friends who had waved
at him through the window. They embraced him before they went on
their way. He came back into the shop looking worried and sad.

So this was tragedy true and large. Saga had known tragedy personal
and small, but this . . . "Where is Oneeka?" she asked.

"She's at home, a long ways uptown. She couldn't make it in," said
Fenno, "and I'm glad. She would've been stranded here, away from
Topaz."

He excused himself and went to the basement, returning with a blanket.
He knelt beside Walter's chair and tucked the blanket around his
legs and chest. Carefully, he removed the cell phone from Walter's loosening
grasp. Fenno then went to the front door and locked it. "Emily,
I'm going to go upstairs and try to call the airline from there; I don't
think it'll do much good, but I'll try. Would you mind hanging about in
case he wakes? Answer the shop phone if it rings—and this one as
well?" He handed Walter's phone to Saga.

Walter slept on, sometimes breathing in shallow gasps. Saga placed
his phone on Fenno's desk. She opened a book displayed on a table
nearby. It was filled with pictures of beautiful gardens.

Uncle Marsden. Saga realized that two hours had passed since she'd
left her second message on their answering machine. She closed the book.
She went to the counter, to the store phone, and punched in the number
again. So loudly that Saga had to hold the receiver away from her ear,
Pansy said, "Hello?" Her voice was urgent, as if she'd been terribly startled,
yet Saga's first feeling was relief: Uncle Marsden had company.

"I'm glad you're there," said Saga, speaking softly, to keep from waking
Walter. "It's so awful, isn't it? Did you get my message? I'm okay. I
might spend the night at the bookstore here."

Pansy uttered a short, ugly cry. "Saga, we are waiting to hear from
Michael! Have you given a single, solitary thought to
Michael
?"

Saga held the receiver farther from her ear; Pansy's voice was so
shrill.

Michael? Saga gasped. This was it, the thing she'd forgotten. Michael's
office was in one of those towers.

"Of course not!" said Pansy before Saga could speak. "Of course not!"

"Pansy?" Saga said. "Can I please talk to Uncle Marsden?"

"We need the phone free right now, Saga. We're just praying like hell
that Michael is all right, that he made it out of there."

"Can I give you the number where I am?" said Saga.

"No! We don't need your number! You are
fine
!"

Saga heard Uncle Marsden's voice in the background but couldn't tell
what he was saying.

"Saga, you have to call later. I have to go," Pansy said. "Dad isn't
talking to anyone now. He is very upset." She hung up, just like that.

Saga held the phone for a moment. Was Saga simply "anyone"?

In the garden, the sun had just passed beneath the roofline. Birds
went about their business in the big tree above her. Saga felt the instinctive
jab of fear, but really, she could no longer pretend that trees were a
menace.

Michael used to talk about his amazing view of the harbor. Why on
earth hadn't she thought of him, realized the danger he was in? Because
she'd never doubted that Michael would always be fine, that Michael's
life simply
had
to follow its sunlit path, with never a detour, never a
pitfall.

How unfair of her to think that only she could fall prey to catastrophe.
How meanly selfish. How almost convenient her forgetting began
to seem, how lazy. Had her flawed memory become an excuse for
remaining outside the pain of other people? Had she become
irresponsibly
forgetful?

When she went back inside, Fenno was sitting at his desk, talking
quietly with Walter. Walter's chef had returned, no longer wearing his
uniform.

"I have to call my brother," Walter said. He sounded close to calm
now. He looked up at Saga. One of his cheeks was ruddy and scored
where it had been pressed against the chair. "Are you all right?" he
asked her. "Do you need a place to stay?"

"I'm fine.
I
am," she said. "How are you?"

Walter simply shook his head, but his eyes were dry. Fenno went to
him and leaned over, lifting the larger man to his feet from the chair.
"Come then. You'll be a mite unsteady on your feet."

When Walter stood, he threw his arms around Fenno, holding him
tight. Saga thought at first that he had lost his balance, but then she realized
they were hugging each other out of commiseration and comfort,
their eyes closed. "I never knew you were such a friend," she heard
Walter say.

"Here I am," said Fenno.

Walter made a muffled sound, a groan. "Not that I deserve your
friendship, or anyone else's, right now."

Fenno, his head resting on Walter's shoulder, smiled. His eyes were
still closed, so Saga could take in that smile and just what it meant.
What right had she to be jealous?

When the two men released each other, the chef held out an arm to
Walter. "Come back with me. I have made us a little meal, steak and
beans. You can call from your desk. We will take you home later. Come."
He turned to Saga. "Do you want to come with us? We must not forget
to eat. Eating, we will keep our wits about us."

She thanked him but said that she had to go.

"I'll be right here," said Fenno. "If anyone needs me, I'll be here or
upstairs in the flat. I should ring my family." Saga felt disappointed, as if
it were Fenno's job to worry about
her.
Of course it wasn't; that was
nobody's job but hers.

Fenno kept a hand on Walter's back as Hugo led his boss to the door.
Saga followed them out. On the sidewalk, she saw Walter straighten up
from his old-man stance. "Come over," he said to Fenno. "Please?"

Saga slipped away quickly, before they could notice her departure.
Walking west, she had to shade her eyes to see. The sun faced precisely
down the center of the street. Her shadow, when she looked backward,
was long and elegant; what she could see of the world was undisturbed,
lit up golden as a flower. A few people passed, and though the trees and
fences and buildings hadn't changed, the people had, Saga right along
with them. Exactly how, that part remained to be seen.

Saga looked all around for the moon; had it risen yet? The night
before, getting up after midnight to check on the animals, she had seen
it through Stan's bedroom window: low, newly risen. A half moon, a
wedge of honeydew, white as the papery snow that would fly from the
towers.

Oh Michael.
She thought of their lunch together, which had begun so
bitterly for her yet ended on a far less certain note. Was the cousin she'd
thought the most self-involved in fact the most concerned about the family
as a whole—a family she had not made the effort to properly join?

When she crossed Hudson Street, she saw the smoke, high and thick
as ever, to the south. How impossibly long the day had been; how
deeply her legs ached. But she would rather walk, anywhere—where did
not matter—than be in any particular place. She could not bear the
company of those men in the store, all so much kinder than she was:
kind to their families, kind to one another, kind to people they hardly
knew. At kindness—kindness to other human beings—had she faltered?
Was she turning into just another version of Stan?

She found a pay phone without a line of people waiting to use it. She
fished in her knapsack for the change purse filled with quarters. Before
Saga could even ask whether there had been news, Pansy flew into a
rage. It was panic, Saga knew, and probably guilt, but this made little
difference. "Stop calling every minute like this!" yelled Pansy. "Stop acting
like Dad's your father, like Michael's
your
brother, like our house is
your house! Stop making Dad pretend he needs you and get a life of
your own for a change!"