The Whole World Over

by Julia Glass

“He wasn’t coerced. I saw him with that boy. George was fully, joyfully involved in their games. Did you ever look at their games, listen to what they were doing? Were they practicing this escapade the whole time they were playing with those model horses? This is how teenagers end up on drugs; their parents pay no attention to the details of how they’re living their lives.”

  “Alan, that’s not fair.”

  Alan said nothing. He did not want to think about justice.

  “I don’t believe Diego is a bad child or even a bad influence,” Greenie said. “He got carried away with his imagination. There are much worse crimes than that. But George will never see Diego again, I promise.”

  “Of course he won’t, Greenie. Because as soon as we deal with the police and the people who own the ranch, I’m taking George back to New York. Honestly, I don’t even give a damn about Diego or his parents.”

  There was no traffic to hold them up and no exit looming, but the car began to slow. Greenie pulled into the breakdown lane. She put the car in park and stared at Alan. “Please, don’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Take him. Oh Alan.”

  Alan closed his eyes and tightened his jaw. How could he be in this tawdry place? How? He’d heard couples exchange deadly threats from opposite ends of the couch in his office, vile threats involving homes, pets, friends, and yes, not infrequently, their own children. Sometimes, after they had left, he’d felt shamefully smug and lucky, knowing that he and Greenie, whatever their troubles, would never be forced into such extreme places.

  When he did not respond to Greenie’s plea, she began to sob loudly. “You can’t do that. You know he belongs here, he needs to be here with me. I’m his mother! He has another two months of school! To change his life all over again would be disastrous, I know it would. He would be sure it was a punishment!”

  “Would it be a punishment,” Alan said quietly, “to return, with his father, to a neighborhood he’s always known, with his old friends, the places he still remembers as his ‘real’ home? You heard him at Christmas. And send him back to school here? He will be certain that everyone knows what happened, what he did—and you know what? They will.”

  “Please, Alan—”

  “Look, Greenie, there’s no reason for me to move out here now. Would I be correct in saying that? Though the irony is that, as of today, I am seeing precisely two patients. I would have seen one of them for the last time this very afternoon!” He pointed at Greenie. “You—you can always come back to New York, even if we’re not together. You could start another venture and—”

  She gripped the steering wheel, as though Alan were threatening to take the car. “Why did this have to happen?”

  Which thing? Alan nearly asked. Greenie teased out the one crumpled napkin she had been using to soak up all her tears. She blew her nose, stuffed the napkin in the breast pocket of her shirt, and put the car in gear. Alan noticed that she wore clothes he had never seen, that her yellow shirt fastened with snaps, even the cuffs, which were rolled up to her elbows. She had lost weight since Christmas (the sweet wasting of passion, he thought bitterly), yet she looked more, not less, substantial. In her leanness, she looked more serious, experienced—more burnished by the sun, as if she’d become a mountain climber when Alan wasn’t looking. By contrast, he felt as pale and shapeless as a city snowbank. There had always been great differences between them, differences they liked to acknowledge with pride and pleasure, but the contrasts he saw now seemed like those of people destined always to clash.

  THE TV WAS ON. George watched, laughing at cartoon buffoonery. Consuelo was on the phone, speaking rapidly in Spanish.

  As soon as they walked through the door, Consuelo said good-bye and hung up. George remained riveted to the television a few moments longer. Only when he heard Alan’s voice did he look away from the screen.

  Consuelo was embracing Alan, and try as he might, he couldn’t freeze her out. Greenie was right; Consuelo was faultless. She was a kind, grandmotherly pillow of a woman who saw her job as cuddling, nurturing, and taking this little boy from place to place—not disciplining him, spying on him, or second-guessing his motives. “George’s Daddy, we are so glad to see you!” she said.

  “I’m glad to be here,” he said. What else was there to say? It occurred to him, as she pulled away and smiled at him, that of course she had no idea Greenie was dumping him. She might not even have met this Charlie fellow.

  George had not moved from the couch. “Hi, Dad,” he said. “Daddy, did you bring Treehorn?”

  Alan sat next to George and put an arm around his shoulders. “No, guy.”

  “You could have putten her in a suitcase.”

  “You have to make special arrangements. I didn’t have time. A friend of mine will take good care of her while I’m gone, and then…” He faltered. Greenie was staring at him with desperation. She had seated herself on the opposite side of their son. Consuelo busied herself in the kitchen.

  Over George’s head, Alan gave Greenie a pointed look. The look was meant to convey that they mustn’t crowd George and that it was Alan’s turn to speak with him, but she did not, or did not want to, understand. She pressed her cheek against George’s hair. “Have you had dinner, sweetie?”

  Without looking away from his cartoon, he shook his head. Alan took the remote and turned off the TV. George looked up at him in wordless protest.

  “Show me what’s new in your room while your mother makes dinner,” said Alan. The look he gave Greenie this time fell just shy of a threat.

  In George’s room, Alan was shocked to see the row of horses on top of the bookcase below the window. Shouldn’t they have been swept away by now? Hidden—vaporized?

  “I see your collection is larger than when I was here before.”

  “Yes,” said George. He rushed forward and picked up a black horse. It was rearing up, as if in defense. “This one’s newest. He’s an Arab.”

  Alan took the horse. To hold it, now, felt like holding a toy revolver. He pretended to examine the horse, then put it back in its place. He sat on the bed. “I’m so happy to see you, George. I’ve missed you so much. But you know why I’ve come right now, don’t you?”

  George nodded. He looked his father straight in the eye, his expression shaded with defiance, not shame.

  “I love you, George, but I’m upset about what happened with Diego. Can we talk about that?”

  George held a plastic Appaloosa. Casually, as if he were alone, he made it gallop along the mattress toward Alan’s thigh. “You can talk,” he said furtively.

  Alan lifted George to sit on the mattress beside him. He turned sideways to face his son. “You let those horses go. You scared them into running away.”

  George said, with a confidence that impressed Alan, “We let go the ones they were breaking. They were making them wear the saddles. They were making them be rided when they didn’t want to be rided. We knew they didn’t. We saw them. Diego can read what they feel in their faces.”

  “You thought they were unhappy.”

  George nodded with passion.

  “Did you know that horses are a lot like dogs, George? What I mean is that they aren’t wild animals. They are meant to live with people. They wouldn’t know what to do without people to take care of them. And they learn certain things so that people can be closer to them. They learn to be ridden just the way a dog learns to walk on a leash. Sometimes it’s hard to learn, but they do.”

  “Daddy, there are wild horses.”

  “Yes, but not on that ranch, guy.” Gently, Alan took the toy Appaloosa from George. “You know that what you did was wrong and that you put the horses in danger, don’t you?”

  George nodded.

  “Didn’t Diego know the horses might run into the road? They might even have panicked and hurt you by mistake. Horses are very strong animals.”

  George shook his head. “They would never hurt us, actually. We are friends. Diego said they would go to the m
ountains, to their rightly home. He said our masks would send them in the right direction and then they would find their way, like cats who know how to get home from far away when they get left behind. Like The Incredible Journey.”

  “Their home is that barn. And George, those horses belong to the people who own the barn.”

  “Diego’s dad owns the barn.”

  Alan could see how George might believe this, how perhaps even Diego might think that his father, spending all day in the barns, caring for the horses, must have a say in their fate. “Diego’s dad has a job in the barn,” Alan explained. “That’s different. He’s responsible for the horses, but they are not his.”

  “Is that why the police came? They thought we stole the horses?”

  “No, George. But one of the horses was hurt. It’s going to be all right, but it was hit by a car. It was scared, and its leg was bruised.”

  George reached for the Appaloosa. Alan let him take it. Was it too painful for George to accept the harm he’d inflicted, at least indirectly, or was there something sinister in his refusal to apologize? Alan felt a flash of anger.

  “George.” Greenie stood in the door. “I made pig-in-a-poke. With the tiny tomatoes you like.”

  George smiled at his mother. Alan raised a hand. “In a minute,” he said. If he had to be the bad cop, he would. There would be so much time to make up for it now. “George, did Diego ever ask you to do…did you ever make plans like this together before?”

  “Daddy, we love the horses. We wanted the horses to get free from the ranchers and the cowboys. Actually, we wanted them to be happy. So they could play games. We only let the baby horses go. Diego says they’re only one year old. That’s too young for riding, I know it.”

  Alan nodded. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s go find your dinner, and some for me too. I’m very hungry.” I could eat a horse, he thought, as George dropped the Appaloosa on the bed and rushed from the room.

  AFTER GEORGE HAD FALLEN ASLEEP, the phone rang. Greenie listened solemnly, talking very little, for the first few minutes. Alan began to wonder if it was Charlie, if the man had enough nerve to call when he must know Alan was right there. He was restraining himself from snatching the receiver when Greenie said good-bye. “Thank you, Officer,” she added.

  She told Alan that the policeman who had answered the call about the horses had good news and bad. The good news was that the ranch owners, who had been fond of Diego as well as his father, were willing to forgive the whole incident if the veterinarian’s bill was covered. Somehow, the indirect connection with the governor seemed also to have impressed and possibly mollified them, the policeman confided in Greenie. But the woman whose car had sideswiped the horse, she was out for blood. Her car had sustained only minor damage, and she hadn’t suffered so much as a broken nail, but she claimed that she had been so traumatized she doubted she would be able to drive again without extensive therapy. She might be looking into suing someone, the officer suggested to Greenie. He knew the type all too well.

  “This is exactly the sort of thing I was afraid of,” said Alan.

  “I’ll deal with it,” she said. “I’ll talk to her, and I’ll deal with it. This is a very small town. Maybe I have a connection to her somehow.”

  “Guess you have a lot of connections now, don’t you?” Alan spoke quietly, wearily, and when Greenie did not reply, he said, “I’m just too tired to stay awake any longer.”

  He went into the bedroom. To his surprise, Greenie followed him. She had already insisted he sleep in her bed. No doubt this was for George’s benefit.

  Hastily, as if he were suddenly modest, he stripped to his T-shirt and shorts and went to bed first. Greenie undressed with her back to him, her every movement exuding resignation and sorrow.

  Alan did not bother with a book, nor did she. She stood beside the bed and pulled the chain to start the ceiling fan, then switched off the lamp. As she turned back the covers to join him, Alan noticed the print on the sheets, a scattering of tiny blue flowers that she would never have chosen when they were living together; the moonlight invading the room made the flowers stand out brightly.

  Alan and Greenie lay awake a long time, careful not to touch. How bitterly he thought of the shared wakefulness they had savored when they fell in love. One night she had said, into the silence of their patiently waiting for sleep in the dark, “Do you think our parents forgot to teach us how to go to sleep? Do you think it’s a life skill they skipped by accident, the way my parents never told me the facts of life because they knew my school taught sex education? Maybe they thought we got sleep education too.” This had delighted Alan. “Interesting theory,” he’d said, “but don’t you hate those people who snore the minute their heads touch the pillow?” Greenie had agreed. “And I pity them. They miss out on so much fretting. All that extra time to think about unpaid bills and invisible tumors. Birthday cards you forgot to send.”

  Now, as he longed to be one of those despicably somnolent citizens, he waited for her to start pleading her case, the case to keep George, but she didn’t. Above them, the fan made a shushing sound, like futile consolation.

  ALAN PRETENDED TO SLEEP when he heard Greenie rise before dawn. She did not linger in the house but dressed, without showering, and left for work. Alan got up as soon as he heard her drive away. He went into the kitchen. Oddly, there was no coffee. In New York, Greenie had relied on coffee, every day without exception, to get herself out the door. He had to search the refrigerator thoroughly before he found a bag of beans, shoved to the back behind a dozen jars of mustard, chutney, and jam. The coffeemaker seemed equally forgotten, exiled to a cupboard below the counter.

  He ate an orange from a bowl of fruit. He watched the back garden lighten from incandescent blue to milky gray. As he began to hunt for a newspaper or a decent magazine, anything for distraction, George came into the kitchen. “Daddy, where’s Consuelo?”

  Alan extended his arms, inviting George onto his lap, but George chose a chair of his own. “She’s taking a day off, guy. You’re with me.”

  “You’ll take me to school?”

  Greenie had agreed to keep him out of school for the time being—but soon, she said, he should go back as if nothing had happened. His parents would solve whatever legal and logistical problems his folly might have engendered.

  “No school today,” Alan said.

  “Why?” asked George.

  Alan wished he could pretend that everyone had this day off. “Well, for one thing, I’m here and I’ve missed you very much.”

  George smiled at his father. Alan wondered, again, if there was any kind of manipulation here, if he and Greenie had been underestimating their son’s awareness of nearly everything. George was not a horse or a dog, to be treated like a deaf and dutiful bystander. Even if he couldn’t eavesdrop, he could probably read between the emotional lines.

  “Okay,” said George. “So let’s have breakfast and go see what Mommy’s cooking today. Actually, the cereal is there.” He pointed to a cupboard.

  Alan fetched the cereal, the milk. “Breakfast was my idea, too, but after that let’s…” He was going to say drive somewhere, but then he realized that he did not have a car. George waited for him to finish his sentence.

  “Let me call your mother and see about her plans.” Other than leaving him for another man.

  Greenie answered on the second ring. She told him her car was still there, at the house. She told him where to find the keys and the road maps. “Do anything you like,” she said. “Just, please, can you be back by six? I think I can make it home by then. I could come back for a couple hours after lunch, if you want, but I thought you might rather—”

  “Yes,” said Alan, “you thought correctly there.”

  “Alan, are you all right?”

  “Of course not!” He spoke cheerfully, for George’s ears. “We’ll see you later.”

  So she had been picked up that morning. By Charlie? Alan would rather that she had driven h
er car and left him in the house all day, two days, three days, any amount of time that would allow him to deceive himself into thinking that she was with no one other than Ray and the rest of his staff.

  HE TOOK THE NEAREST WAY OUT OF THE CITY. The signs told him they were heading for a place called Galisteo, though the only destination he had in mind was New York.

  He did not have the conviction to forbid George from bringing two of his horses; really, what was the point? For the first fifteen minutes of their drive, Alan listened to George, in the backseat, fabricating a whispered dialogue.

  You are going over the blue hill?

  I am going to the cave.

  I’ll go too.

  But the cave is scary.

  I’m not scared of the cave. I like the cave.

  My brother is waiting for us at the cave. He has the secret message. He has the magic stones from the volcano. It’s the cave of treasures.

  They passed small, opaquely windowed churches that looked as if they might crumble apart and clatter to the ground at any minute. They passed the occasional donkey, the occasional vaudeville cactus.

  So insistently that the words felt as urgent to expel as his own breath, Alan wanted to tell George that he would be returning to New York with his father, to their old home, in just a few days.

  He wanted to ask George about Charlie.

  He wanted to tell George that Diego might have been a fun friend, but he had not been a good friend, because good friends did not get you in trouble or put you in danger. He wanted to ask George—no, not George, and not Jerry, but someone impartial—whether he deserved to be left by Greenie, whether his crimes were unpardonable, or whether she was probably telling the truth when she said that Charlie had nothing to do with Marion, nothing at all. How had their childhood longings caught up with both of them, pulled them up short from behind, whipped them around and yanked them apart?

  “George, do you like enchiladas and burritos?” he said.

  “Yes! The cheese kind,” said George. “With the not-spicy salsa. With the chips, but not the purple ones. I don’t like the purple ones. I like guacamole, but not if it has chunks or the red stuff in it.”