The Whole World Over

by Julia Glass

  When the door opened, Saga and the vet were discussing the next round of shots. This visit was free, he said; next time, he would do it for the cost of the vaccine. Could she or Stan come up with that?

  She was about to answer when she saw Alan. “Oh! Are you still here? I’m sorry, I was so involved, I didn’t think to say thank you. Thank you!” She smiled broadly—on one side, at least—and Alan noted (another guilty diagnostic appraisal) that her teeth were all there and in decent shape.

  She turned to the vet. “Stan has to give you that answer. He’s the only one who knows about the money.”

  “I’ll pay for the shots,” said Alan. “I could pay you up front, now.” Had he really said this? But Saga’s look of asymmetrical astonishment pleased him. The vet, who hadn’t acknowledged his presence till now, named a price higher than Alan had expected, but he took out his wallet.

  “No, wait,” said Saga. “Stan wouldn’t…”

  “I don’t mean to insult you.”

  “Oh insult, no!” she said. “I just can’t predict the future. Stan might have the money, it depends on donations, and I wouldn’t want you to spend your money before the fact, you know?”

  “All right. I’ll give you my number and you can call me. I mean it. I’d like to help. I would.”

  Now it was Saga who seemed to be assessing Alan, staring at him in a friendly but penetrating fashion. “Walk me out,” she said. Once again, she handed him the box. She took a few small packets from the vet—worming pills—and stuffed them in the pockets of her jacket. She shook hands with the vet and thanked him again.

  Outside, the midday sky had darkened luminously. The passing clouds of half an hour before had pulled in a thunderhead; its mountainous form glowed yellow at the edges. The rumblings were still far off, somewhere over New Jersey. Alan hesitated in the doorway, but Saga said, “Let’s hurry!” and without asking where, he followed her down the street. A block later, the rain did not fall so much as collapse from the sky, as if a great tank of water were being dumped on a forest fire. Gusts of wind carried it sideways.

  Saga took off her jacket and draped it over the box. “There!” She pointed across the street to the awning of a bookshop. Already three people stood against the window, waiting it out. “We’ll fit, come on!” She dashed across.

  Under the awning, their fellow refugees moved aside grudgingly. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Saga, Alan thought he could detect the smell of mildew. A few minutes later, the rain had not let up; two of their companions had left, resigned to a drenching. The puppies began to whine. Saga shivered.

  “They must be terrified, poor things,” said the one remaining stranger, a woman in a green silk suit. “You shouldn’t have them out here.”

  Alan was about to tell her to mind her own business when Saga said, “You’re right, you know? But we were caught unawares, the same as you in your pretty outfit.” Her voice shook with her shivering, but she smiled.

  The woman in green silk said nothing.

  When the storm showed no intention of abating, Alan leaned toward Saga and said, “Now it’s your turn. Follow me.”

  Saga held on to his arm. “No. I can’t go out in that.”

  Looking at her, he saw that her shivering might be dread, not a chill. She scanned the sky, as if a squadron of bombers might appear. “Trust me,” he said.

  At a clap of thunder, she tightened her hold on his arm. She shook her head vehemently.

  Was she unstable after all? Schizophrenic, hearing voices in the thunder? For God’s sake, he admonished himself, a fear of thunderstorms was perfectly normal. Alan would have put an arm around her shoulders if he had not been holding the box. “Two blocks, that’s all,” he said. “Otherwise these guys will get soaked.”

  That convinced her. “Okay,” she said. “Ready when you are.”

  He waited until the traffic light at the intersection turned, then dashed across the street and around the corner. He ran carefully, eyes clenched against the downpour, and looked back only once to make sure she was right behind him. He was thinking, I’ll make us tea. I’ll let her take a shower. I’ll find something in Greenie’s closet, something clean and warm and dry.

  “GORDIE HAD THIS PHENOMENAL DREAM ,” said Stephen. He was sitting on one end of the long, soft couch; deliberately, Gordie had seated himself at the opposite end. The cushions rose up like a small black hill between them. But this did not stop Stephen from leaning across to squeeze his partner’s knee. “Tell him!”

  “I didn’t think it was that remarkable,” said Gordie.

  “Tell it anyway. Let Alan be the judge,” said Stephen. He looked at Alan. “You know, we have this huge double shower in our bathroom. It’s like being at a spa. Cost a fortune, but it was worth every penny. In the morning, every morning, we talk about our dreams while sudsing up.” Stephen’s expression, so often deferential or even fawning toward Alan, turned briefly hard. Was he looking for Alan’s reaction to the image of this shower, of the two naked men “sudsing up”; checking for homophobic disapproval, envy or admiration? And why had he mentioned the cost? Did he suspect—well, in this office meant to be a bedroom, who wouldn’t?—that Alan could never afford such a thing?

  “Do you want to tell the dream, Gordie, or is something else on your mind?” asked Alan.

  “Fine, fine, I’ll tell it,” said Gordie. He crossed his arms. “There’s this store below our apartment, it’s like a fancy newsstand–tobacco shop. In real life. But in this dream, I go downstairs one day and it’s turned into a clothing shop that sells pants, I mean only pants. I go inside and it’s mostly jeans—like, every kind you can imagine, in every color. And I’m really happy about this—which is surprising because, actually, I never wear jeans, I can’t stand how stiff they are. But in this dream I’m…” He shrugs, with a baffled, self-conscious smile. “I’m glad the store is there.”

  Alan waited for him to continue.

  “That’s it. That’s the whole dream. Or what I remember.”

  Stephen said, “But the point is, jeans make him happy when they didn’t before. I mean, look at the pun; aren’t dreams famous for puns, Alan?”

  Alan nodded, but before he could say anything, Stephen said, “G-e-n-e-s, that kind of genes! And in a space that’s holding up our building, holding up our home! Good God, how symbolic can you get? The strength of men and their continuity through their children—”

  “There were women in that shop, too,” Gordie said to Stephen. “And there were jeans with sequins and flowers, pink jeans…And whose genes are we talking about here anyway? I thought you wanted to adopt.”

  Stephen leaned forward and raised his hands in exasperation. “God but you’re literal when it suits your purposes. And pink jeans—well obviously those are girls! Who says we couldn’t raise a girl?”

  “Guys, let’s not race too far ahead,” said Alan. “Last week we’d just started talking about what it might be like if—if,” he emphasized to Gordie, “you were to go with Stephen’s wishes. What you imagine it would be like.”

  Stephen stared pointedly at Gordie. This was the predictable dynamic in this type of counseling; apparently, gender made no difference. In the first session or two, Alan tried to get to know the individual members of the couple, then draw out their history as a couple, then listen to their respective sides of the “story.” But once that was taken care of, once the battle lines were drawn, the one who wanted something cataclysmically new—children, marriage, a move, more sex—nearly always assumed that Alan was his or her automatic ally (the agent for change was generally female).

  “Gordie,” said Alan, “you said that you do like spending time with children. You love your brother’s kids, you enjoyed the visit from your friend Jill’s daughter—”

  “Which I now wish I’d never agreed to.”

  “It’s painful to find out what you’ve been missing!” Stephen blurted out.

  “One week. She stayed with us one week. And she’s twelve, practica
lly an adult! That is so not what parenthood is all about, Stephen. And based on that—on that, I admit, perfectly fabulous game of house we got to play, and all because Jill’s mom was dying an awful death—because of that you decide we must have a baby!”

  “Gordie, I am not a cretin,” said Stephen. “It’s just that…as you know, I always wanted this, but I put it aside, I gave it up for you—I don’t mean to sound the martyr here, because maybe in those days I just didn’t think it was possible. I was a coward, but now…and then, when I saw you with Skye—that night you were doing her math homework with her—I mean, you were a natural. And it just…it reawakened things. Because times have changed! Look at Eric and Roberto!”

  “Eric is a social worker.”

  “So? Like that makes him more nurturing than we are? Or because my job is raising money, I can’t raise kids as well?”

  “No!” said Gordie. “Of course not! But that child practically fell in their laps! They were already a part of the system.”

  “Well, I want to be a part of the ‘system,’ too, Gordie. The system of life.”

  There were tears in Stephen’s eyes, and anyone could see that Gordie was deeply affected by this. Alan leaned forward. “Stephen, I know how passionate you feel, but I want Gordie to talk now, and I want you to listen. Remember Fran Lebowitz? I don’t know what’s become of her lately, but my favorite thing she ever said is that the opposite of talking isn’t listening, it’s waiting your turn.”

  Stephen smiled weakly. “Guilty as charged, I fear.”

  “So, Gordie, what are you afraid of—or, no, what do you object to most about having a child? Is it how drastically your life would change—because it would,” Alan said, looking briefly at Stephen. “Or is it the responsibility? Or something else entirely?”

  Gordie sighed. “Can it be just everything?”

  “Okay, but give me the details of everything.”

  “Like parties—we give these great parties. Which are crucial to Stephen’s work! I mean, look, Stephen, can you imagine us giving that black-tie thing with Beverly Sills and that guest tenor and…and with a baby crying in the bedroom you’ve proposed we turn your study into? Like, ‘Oh, excuse me, Bev, please help yourself to the gravlax while I go change Junior’s diaper and warm a bottle.’”

  “We’re rich, Gordie! We can afford live-in help if we want, we can—” He stopped when he saw the chiding look on Alan’s face. “Sorry.”

  “You so don’t get it! It’s not playing house; it’s being house,” said Gordie. “You can’t return a baby like that table you decided was all wrong after we’d had it for two months.”

  “You make me sound so superficial and shallow—oh, I am sorry, Alan.”

  “I want you to talk to me, Gordie, okay? Not to Stephen,” said Alan. “Just for now.”

  “Look. It’s true I like kids, and sure, I’ve had pangs, or probably we wouldn’t have been together so long, would we? It’s not just great sex and compatible furniture or shared fear of plague. We’re envied by just about everyone we know, and I would hate to see that change.”

  “I assume you don’t mean the envy,” said Alan, then realized that teasing was all wrong. His instincts had been thrown off since Greenie’s departure; at his worst moments now, he felt like an imposter when it came to the work of reconciliation.

  “No! What we’re envied for,” said Gordie, looking offended. “For sticking together because we want to, never mind the rough times, for thirteen years! You know, I hate being a know-it-all, or sounding like a broken record here, but Stephen is an only child, whereas I was the oldest of seven, and so I know what babies and kids are like, the stress they make, how they can turn even something like going shopping into a major expedition, how you’re never on time again anywhere, ever, how tired the parents always are. And we don’t have jobs where we can be exhausted all the time!” He glanced at Stephen, who looked as if he might cry again. “I don’t mean to sound cold, but these are the facts.”

  “Well, in part, they’re the facts of your childhood,” Alan said carefully, “as you felt them. Or they seem like facts, but they’re really impressions, colored a great deal by how your parents ran things. Remember that one kid is a long way from seven, Gordie, that your parents did get divorced, and that they didn’t have money. Stephen’s right about one thing: money can make a big difference when you have children. But, Stephen, you should hear what Gordie’s saying about how wonderful your life is now, as it is. I can tell you guys have a rich history, incredible commitment—or you wouldn’t be here—but to have a child, no matter how much you love each other or how long you’ve been together, is to trade up for an even more profound commitment. Don’t take for granted that being good at one will make the other a piece of cake.”

  Alan looked at the two men on the couch before him, both well kept, well dressed, and in their late thirties. They lived in the neighborhood, and before meeting them, Alan had noticed them more than once: in the expensive wine store, in the video store, just walking down the street. In public, they were talkative and affectionate. Now, getting to know them, he marveled that they had been together longer than most straight couples Alan and Greenie knew, longer even than Alan and Greenie. And both men wore rings. When Greenie and Alan had been planning their wedding, she had been disappointed when Alan told her he was sorry but he just didn’t feel comfortable wearing jewelry of any kind. Why had he been so stubborn, so prissy about it?

  Alan took a deep breath. “Gordie, like it or not, Skye stayed with you, and she brought up something for Stephen that was probably going to come out soon no matter what. The two of you are here because of what we call a logjam. Ordinarily, I hate jargon, but I like this term. This is as hard and real and turbulent as a river choked with logs, and right now it seems impassable. What we have to do is break it up. I can’t predict which way the current will flow when we do it, but do it we will.” Or do it he hoped they would. This referral, which baffled him, had come from a restaurant owner down the street who knew Alan only as Greenie’s husband. When Stephen had said, “Walter says you are the best,” Alan had to guess that the referral came out of pity, that Greenie had told her client about Alan’s financial woes.

  “I’m going to be honest here,” he said. “I’ve never tackled this problem with two men—I mentioned that before—but perhaps the only obvious difference is that neither of you has a biological clock to tick.” He saw Stephen open his mouth to protest. “But—but there’s such a thing as a stage-of-life clock, too, and if you want to be considered as candidates to adopt—and despite the change in the times, Stephen, it isn’t going to be easy—I think you’d do best to start investigating your options. Let me tell you, these days it’s not even easy for straight couples.” He let them absorb this for a moment, and then he told them that he wanted them to sit down together for at least an hour, unplug the phone, and make those old-fashioned lists of pros and cons. They could talk about the lists if they both wanted to—but only if they could do so without fighting. If they began to argue, they had to promise to put the lists away and change the subject. Either way, they were to bring them to their next session with Alan.

  AFTER SEEING GORDIE AND STEPHEN ON THEIR WAY, Alan called New Mexico to speak with George, something he had done so far nearly every night. A sad silver lining of the literal distance between them was the two-hour time difference; if George had been at home in New York, Alan would have missed saying good night because of the late therapy session.

  “I have a new friend,” George said right away when he came on the phone.

  Alan asked the new friend’s name.

  “He’s Diego. Do you know what he has?”

  “What does he have?” asked Alan, expecting to hear about toy armies and guns, things that western Republican parents would have no qualms about giving their little boys in ample quantity.

  “A squirrel.”

  “A real squirrel?”

  “Yes, Dad,” said George, in a tone that p
rophesied his adolescence.

  “Wow, a real squirrel. That’s amazing. Is it a gray squirrel or a red one—or do they have flying squirrels out there?”

  “Dad, squirrels don’t fly. It’s brown. It comes on his roof and it eats things Diego puts out the window. Diego can touch it and put the food in his hand so it eats from his hand. It likes peanuts and string cheese. Mom let me take some cookies she said got scale.”

  “Does it live in the house?”

  “No, Daddy. It’s a squirrel. It lives in a tree. There’s lots of trees. The house is into the woods. There’s a barn with horses and three dogs. The dogs live in the house. Daddy, can we get a dog when you come here? Our house is in the city part here, so I know we can’t get a pony, and we don’t have a tree like Diego’s tree, or a roof like that, we don’t really have a roof because we’re not in a house with a upstairs, so we can’t get a squirrel, but could we get a dog? Please?”

  “Well, that’s an idea. It’s certainly an idea for us all to talk about.”

  “Is it a good idea?” asked George, sometimes too careful a listener.

  “We’ll see,” said Alan. He smiled at his son’s understanding of this distinction, but he was furious at Greenie (how little it took, at such a distance, with such provocation!). He wondered just how sharp a picture she had painted of his moving out west. Still, he had to be happy that George had offered conversation of any kind.

  Unlike a lot of children his age, George had no attraction to the phone. One time, while Alan waited to speak with his son, he had heard Greenie whispering fiercely, coercively, “It’s Daddy. Daddy wants to talk to you. Daddy misses you!” Another time, George came on the phone and said, at lightning speed, “HiDaddyhiDaddyhiDaddy, Irodeinastretchtoday, That’sallIhavetosay, goodbyehere’sMommy!” Alan hadn’t spoken a single word to his son, and George had refused to return to the phone after handing it back to his mother. She’d explained that the governor’s chauffeur took George for a ride in a limousine and let him push all the buttons in back. Greenie said, “He told me there are stars in the roof you can turn on and off, and terrible me, I didn’t believe him. But George—I mean George the chauffeur, that’s his name, too—said that George, our George, was right. Can you imagine that? Stars on demand?”