The Whole World Over (8 page)

TWO MONTHS WENT BY BEFORE WALTER
ran into Gordie on the
street, just after Valentine's Day. Walter was hurrying because of the
cold, looking down so as not to stumble on the buckled antique flagstones
that paved his way to work (treacheries of the past, just waiting
to trip you up). He was passing the bookstore when he heard the bell on
the door as it opened and then a soft "Walter." He saw the feet before he
saw the man. When he exhaled sharply in sweet, pained surprise, his
breath exploded in a cloud.

"It's good to see you, Walter," said Gordie with a tenderness that
sounded almost desperate.

"The fiscal undertaker himself. Hello there."

The Bruce sniffed at Gordie's expensive leather boots.

Gordie looked miserable. He leaned down to stroke the dog.

"Sorry," said Walter. "How are you?"

"Okay. Okay." Though it sounded like he was anything but.

"You're fabulous. Be honest, don't insult me."

"Say no if you want, but can I stop by for a drink at the bar sometime?
I hate the way we left things."

"Oh you do?" Walter laughed harshly: another white explosion in
front of his face. "Well, how about now?" It was five o'clock, on the
cusp of dark. Gordie would make an excuse, and that would be that.

"Now's fine," said Gordie. "That would be great."

The path through the snow on the sidewalk was narrow, so Gordie
walked behind Walter and The Bruce. They did not speak until Gordie
had checked his coat, Walter had gone to the kitchen to speak with
Hugo, and they were seated at a table in the back of the dining room.

Gordie ordered a Scotch; Walter ordered soda with lime, though his
heart was clamoring for something far stronger. More than anything
(well, except to look at Gordie, to have that face to himself), he wanted
to keep Gordie on edge.

"How's business?" Gordie asked.

"Thriving. Hugo did a dinner last month at the James Beard House.
Pennsylvania Dutch. He got a standing ovation."

"Which he deserves," said Gordie. "I'm so glad."

"I'm glad you're glad."

"Walter—"

"Yes, Gordie?"

"Walter, it would be cruel to say I miss you, because that would
imply . . . and the problem is, you know, Stephen and I have this very
complicated life. It's like a web."

"So then, I guess I didn't hear you say it?"

"What?"

"That you miss me."

"Oh Walter . . ."

Walter leaned suddenly across the table and touched Gordie's hand. It
was so wonderfully warm. Physically, Gordie was always warm, out to
the tips of his fingers and toes. Just a touch made Walter ache. He said
gently, "This really isn't the place, you know. And please don't 'Oh Walter'
me. We could've been together, and I could even, I bet, have fixed
up Stephen with someone perfect for him . . . but that was then, as
they say."

"I know. Maybe we—"

"Stop. I don't want to hear your maybes. Turn them into certainlys
and then you can talk till the moon turns green." Walter wanted to
hear every last one of those maybes, but oh how they would dither with
his head. Now he laughed lightly, calling up his very best thespian skills.
"But you know, I'm really fine about everything now. Once I thought
about it, I realized that the last thing I'd want to have on my head is
breaking up a monument like you guys."

Gordie took a deep breath: the relief of reaching the surface, not having
drowned. "The irony is, Stephen and I are going through some
pretty heavy stuff, and we may have to take a break. I just wanted to be
the one to tell you, in case that's what happens."

"You're breaking up?"
Careful, you vool.

"No. But there's this issue, something I never thought would come up
between us in a million years—I'm sorry, I promised Stephen I wouldn't
talk about it to other people." He finished his Scotch. "This is ridiculous,
isn't it? I just saw you and wanted . . . your company, I guess. This
is selfish."

Walter sat back and looked at Gordie as he imagined a loving parent
might. "You don't have to tell me anything. I like your company, too—
as you know." For emphasis, he laughed the artificially carefree laugh
again. And then, as he watched Gordie looking awkward, bereft, clearly
wanting to confide, he had a diabolical idea. "You know, it's none of my
business, and please feel free to bite my head off, but I have a good
friend whose husband is supposed to be a fantastic . . . counselor. You
know, for couples. He's right in the neighborhood."

Gordie groaned. "That's exactly what Stephen wants. For us to 'see
someone.' Work things out like that. I grew up in Montana, though.
That's not how you solve problems in Montana."

"No," said Walter, "but I don't see you driving a truck with a gun
rack. And"—Walter looked pointedly at Gordie's lovely corduroy shirt—
"I'm not sure how many guys in Butte wear purple."

Gordie's smile was a scold to Walter's memory. "Bozeman. And I bet
you could find at least three guys there who wear purple. Purple socks,
at least."

"Under their cowboy boots and spurs."

"Yes." Gordie smiled at Walter, as if remembering something he'd
forgotten. Forgotten and
missed.

"I'll get you this guy's number. I'll leave it on your machine at the
office."

Gordie's expression lightened, and he regarded Walter for a moment
as if Walter had fixed things already, made things right in his life.

Walter took in the world beyond their table: three couples had been
seated, older people who liked eating out when they could have a conversation
without turning up their hearing aids. He stood. "Time to
schmingle."

Gordie stood as well. He placed a twenty-dollar bill under his empty
glass.

"Oh please." Walter picked it up and thrust it back at him.

Gordie took it. "Thank you. I'm glad we . . ."

"Buried the hatchet?
Didn't
kiss but made up nonetheless?"

Deliberately solemn, Gordie held Walter's gaze. "You don't have to be
so witty all the time," he said. "I was just going to say I'm glad we saw
each other, I'm glad we're in a better place, that we can talk without . . ."

Scenes.
Walter smiled. "I agree. Now follow my advice, go be with
him
and try to make it work. Sitting on fences does not become you.
Even if you did grow up on the range."

WHEN WALTER WAS THE FIRST ONE IN
, he'd switch on the lights to
find the place just as he'd left it the night before—three rows of tables
like children waiting to be dressed, chairs above, floor below, long bar
beckoning from deep in the shadows—and The Bruce would shove past
him to bolt for the kitchen, where he knew his master would find him a
treat. Following his dog, Walter would think, I'm here for
life:
always a
moment of deep pleasure, always interrupted by barking. "Patience!"
Walter would shout at The Bruce, though fondly.

Today, he found a note from Hugo on the butcher block saying that
he was out at the meat market.
Veal Oscar?
Hugo had written. "Oh
goody," said Walter as he went to the nearest Hobart to see what Hugo
had set aside for T.B. Sometimes it was a bone, sometimes a handful of
giblets.

Once The Bruce was contentedly, boorishly gobbling down leftover
bacon, Walter went to the desk in his tiny back closet of an office and
ripped the previous day off the calendar. And kaboom! Here was March,
the sneaky month. "In like a lion, out like Richard Gere will never be,"
he muttered happily, and then something less entertaining occurred to
him: Werner's birthday.
Obserf all your family's special occasions, even
venn you'd rather not.

He sat down and looked at his watch: just after six in California. Rising
early was a Granna virtue that Werner did happen to honor, though
it had to do with something like markets in Tokyo or Lagos, some sort
of globalized money voodoo, not with emulating his wool-spinning,
log-splitting forebears. Werner liked to brag about still seeing stars in
the sky when he got up. He went running at dawn and ate some gargantuan
but überhealthy breakfast, laced with brewer's yeast or seaweed,
before the rest of his family had even begun to stir.

Werner picked up on the second ring.

"Happy birthday, brother dear."

"Well. Hey. Is this the annual reminder from the bureau of 'Don't forget
you're aging'?"

"Hey yourself. This is someone thinking of you nearly halfway
around the world. Not so long ago, that wasn't even possible."

"Thank you," Werner said (attempting warmth, to give him credit).

"So? News?"

"It's sixty-five degrees already today, and the jasmine's in full bloom.
I can smell it right here through the open window. We've had a spectacular
week—and out at Tahoe they're still skiing."

You couldn't avoid it: every conversation with his brother began with
a prelude that Walter called The Weather According to Werner. You
could practically time it: two full minutes, at least, just to remind you
that northern California was Shangri-ladeeda. Walter held the receiver
out to The Bruce and let him lick it as Werner gave a full report on windsurfing
conditions.

Walter reclaimed the phone in time to hear Werner say, "Eating your
breakfast?"

"Eggs and ham," Walter lied.

"My omelets are whites-only now, and even turkey bacon's off limits.
It's the sulfites that'll get you."

"Don't worry, you'll outlive me even if you don't give up the cocktails,"
Walter said. "How's Scott?" He added quickly, "And Candace?"

"Candy—God, she's dating, Walter. My baby is . . . Jesus, I don't even
want to think about it. But the guy she's going out with owns a tie or two,
I'll give him that. Has a good handshake and looks you square in the eye.
Tipi says I've been muttering in my sleep again; little wonder there!"

"And Scott?"

Werner groaned. "Scott—get this. Scott now has this notion of not
going to college next fall, of—he
says
—taking a year off. Which I'm
horrified to say his mother's fallen for hook, line, and sinker. My buddy
Rourke—remember Rourke? You met him on the tennis court last year?
My buddy Rourke already put in some muscle for the kid at Stanford.
And for what? So Scott can say no thanks and go start a rock band with
the losers who won't get in anywhere? Please. He gave me this speech
about how college is a waste of money if you don't know what you want
to 'do' with your life."

"That makes sense, don't you think?" Walter massaged the folds of
skin below T.B.'s jaw.

"Did I know what I wanted to 'do with my life' back then? Did you?
Please. For Christ sake, all I had in mind when I was seventeen was finding
the best weed, crankin' up the Stones, and screwing every blonde in
sight! I did okay on my grades, took a little of everything—but a major?
That was a babe with breasts the size of volleyballs. A master's? That
was a golf tournament. And look at me. I did more than fine."

Your bank account's done more than fine, thought Walter. Your broker's
done more than fine. As will your wife's plastic surgeon a few years
from now.

"College is about structure," Werner continued, "about
not
doing
other stuff you'd live—or wouldn't live—to regret."

"Oh, I don't think a little music would ever be regrettable. Or life-threatening."

Werner laughed. "Music? Man, are you ever not the parent of a
teenage boy. I'm more sympathetic with our parents than I ever thought
I'd be."

"As if they paid enough attention even to disapprove. We could've
joined the Symbionese Liberation Army and they'd have thought it was
Boy Scouts." Not to mention that they had been dead for most of
Walter's teenage years.

He had to let The Bruce lick the receiver again while Werner gave the
you-couldn't-possibly-imagine speech about being a father, but he wrestled
it back when he heard, "The kid's even threatened to go east and
work for
you.
Will that win me a little sympathy?"

Walter looked at the picture of Scott he kept on his desk: the poor
boy had a large red zit on his chin, and his hair looked primeval in its
lanky filth, but how happy he looked as he hugged his big shiny black
guitar. Joy like the top of a Ferris wheel lit up that boy's face.

"I'd take him in with open arms, as a matter of fact."

This earned Walter a rather satisfactory silence.

"You would, huh?" Devilish chuckle.

"I would, and
huh
to you." Would he? But poor Scott; in Walter's
mind, he was at the head of the class for domestic refugee status. If spiritual
growth could be stunted, he had just the parents to do the job.

Now Werner laughed a long yuk-yuk sort of laugh. "Walter," he said
to his wife, who had just come into the room and asked for caller ID.
"He says he'll take Scott off our hands. What do you think?"

"Hi, Walter!" Tipi called out in her best wifely falsetto. "Watch out
for that brother of yours, he's a sly one!"