Whole World Over

by Julia Glass

  “That one I’m not giving up. I’m not sure I could replace it.”

  Greenie laughed nervously. She lifted another rock. “Tierra del Fuego,” she read. “Where haven’t you been?”

  “Lots of places,” said Charlie. “I’m one of those people who can’t stop searching my way around the world.” Abruptly, he returned to the kitchen.

  George played with several of the rocks, lining them up, stacking them, talking to himself about their qualities, while Greenie stood in the kitchen with Charlie. He took a dipper and, with water from the barrel, filled a plastic basin in the sink. He put their plates and cups in to soak.

  “You wash dishes in that?” she said. “Water from your roof?”

  “And from my salad spinner. I try to scrub them off without soap. Then I rinse them with hot water from the tap. That’s enough. I’m not running a restaurant.”

  “And you take two-minute showers.”

  He smiled. “Three minutes. Every three days unless I go running.”

  Greenie laughed. “Charlie, you may be this big world traveler, but you’ve grown into such an old lady!”

  George, who was suddenly beside her, clutching his large pink rock, said, “He is not an old lady, Mom. He is a guy. He is a man.”

  “That’s right.” Charlie did not take his eyes off Greenie. “I am a man.”

  Greenie tried to meet his level, superficially pleasant gaze, but she couldn’t. George, who had not been so talkative in months, said, “Charlie, can I change my mind? Can I keepen the one from the volcano instead? The one with the little holes all over?”

  “Absolutely,” said Charlie, though Greenie was sure the pumice from Sicily, like the skipping stone from Maine, was irreplaceable.

  “Thank you. Thank you a whole, whole lot!” exclaimed her glowing boy as he traded up, something large and shiny for something small and cunningly dark.

  CHARLIE BROUGHT ANOTHER ODD PRESENT to Greenie a few nights later, though this time he called before dropping by. George was fast asleep.

  Once again, she was fooled by the appearance of the gift, a small rectangular box that suggested a bracelet or earrings.

  “Don’t get excited,” said Charlie. “You know me by now.”

  The bar of soap Greenie took from the box was brown, oval, and speckled like an egg. It smelled of almonds. “Nice,” she said, embarrassed by her disappointment. “Though I hope you don’t mean to imply that I’m not clean enough.”

  Charlie stood by her kitchen sink. He picked up the bottle of liquid soap she kept there for washing hands. “No,” he said, shaking his head for emphasis.

  Greenie laughed. “No what?”

  “No antibacterial soaps.” He went on to explain to Greenie how these soaps, just like an improper dose of antibiotics in the human body, flowed out into the streams and oceans, creating new and stronger bacteria, supergerms.

  “But then why does George’s doctor have that very soap in his office?”

  “Two words: free, samples.” He smiled forlornly. “Charlie, the world is full of shortsighted people.”

  By now, Greenie understood that to Charlie, an idealist almost by instinct (could you be a knee-jerk idealist?), this human failing was a monstrosity, a tragedy that made him chronically anxious. But she also understood that he was telling her, whether he meant to or not, that she could trust him with anything, because he was someone who, unlike Greenie, thought things entirely through, saw the consequences of actions and inactions both, their long trajectories through time. The gifts he had given her were signs of his very self: that he was as solid and square as the brick, as wholesome as the soap, as unassuming as those wide-eyed daisies. But now all she said was “And that’s why you do what you do.”

  “I suppose so, yes, in a nutshell.”

  Greenie put the bar of soap where the quietly evil bottle had sat. “What’s that?” she heard Charlie say. He was pointing at a cake stand.

  “German chocolate,” she said.

  “I’ll have a very big piece,” he said. “Please.”

  As she watched him dig into her cake, she saw the earnest boy in the man, and she understood something else, or two things at once: that she wanted Charlie to make a pass at her and that he never would. If that was how he wanted her—and did he?—he would leave it up to her, because she was the one with so much at stake.

  As soon as he was gone, Greenie called Walter. “Oh Walter, something terrible is happening,” she said when he answered. “I’m falling in love.”

  “Good for you, baby,” Walter said softly, instantly. “Falling in love is never terrible, never.”

  Greenie said, “Walter, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “It just depends on what you do with the love into which you have fallen.”

  “That’s too complicated for me,” said Greenie. “I’m desperately in need of simple. Simple, simple, simple.” She heard summer thunder, all the way from New York City. She thought of Alan: We do it without any sensible motive. It always involves pain.

  “Darling, simple is the childish prayer on everyone’s lips,” said Walter. “But here’s what’s crucial: does he love you back, this mystery man?”

  “I’m afraid he might. Back to the time we were barely old enough to drive.”

  “Oh my heavenly stars.” Walter let out a laughing, wrenching sigh, which was followed immediately by another, louder crack of thunder. Then Greenie could actually hear the rain fall outside Walter’s apartment, pelting hard on the roof over Walter’s head, the roof over Alan’s head, roof after roof in the city where Greenie finally knew that, whatever else might happen, she would never make her home again.

  ELEVEN

  “WELL, EVERYBODY, we have some big news. I’m pregnant.”

  They were eating the main course of Thanksgiving dinner—Saga’s turkey stuffed with corn bread, Pansy’s mashed potatoes with too much garlic, Frida’s Asian yam salad and brussels sprouts in cider. Pansy’s new boyfriend had just asked if someone would pass the cranberry relish (the one thing that wasn’t homemade). That’s when Denise made her announcement.

  Michael sat next to her, fully attentive; he hadn’t been on the phone once since arriving. He took his wife’s right hand with his left, between their plates. His thick wedding ring sparked in the light from the candles.

  Pansy’s face seemed to whiten. For an instant, she looked more anxious than glad and stole a glance at her boyfriend, who smiled blandly, the way one does at the good news of strangers. She laid her hand on the tablecloth, perhaps hoping the boyfriend would take it. He didn’t.

  Frida was the first to speak. “Oh Denise, that is so wonderful. Michael! Congratulations to you both.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to you, new mom.”

  “She’s going to be the best,” said Michael.

  Uncle Marsden’s smile wasn’t much more personal than that of Pansy’s newcomer boyfriend. His eyes were dry as he murmured, “You bet she will.”

  “How far along?” said Pansy. She put her unclaimed hand back in her lap.

  “Oh, about a minute,” said Denise. “We just found out yesterday. I know it’s soon to tell anyone, but since we’re all together…” She looked at Michael, who beamed at her.

  To Pansy, he said, “No reason to think we’ll have problems. First checkup was totally normal.”

  “Oh no!” said Pansy. “I never meant to imply you would!”

  In her head, Saga counted carefully, twice before she was nearly certain. “August?” she said quietly. “Wow. A baby in August?”

  The entire family looked at Saga: an unfamiliar sensation. Had she said the wrong thing? But Denise was smiling wholeheartedly at her, even gratefully. “August first, as a matter of fact. I can’t imagine what I’ll look like in a bathing suit by then.” Again, she and Michael exchanged their starry look.

  “August,” said Uncle Marsden, “is when they’re threatening to break ground for those blasted condom
inia. Unless the bird people pull themselves together. So don’t get too smug about beach plans just yet.”

  Frida frowned at her father. “Dad, did you hear Denise? She just said she’s going to make you a grandfather.”

  There was a hint of annoyance in the smile Uncle Marsden directed at Frida. His eyes were closed slightly—a little like a snake, thought Saga, surprised by the treachery in this image. He said calmly, “I heard the splendid news, my dear. I’m not a bit deaf.” He turned to Michael and Denise. “That is splendid news, in case I didn’t shout it from the rooftops. I shall have to dig up the cradle my father made. I think your mother kept you girls in it; Michael, I seem to remember you did not like the motion. You wanted your little bed on solid ground. That’s you all over, isn’t it? Well, may your little one find his bit of solid ground as well.” He chuckled and raised his glass.

  “Or hers,” said Frida as she joined the toast.

  “And now I need more of Saga’s fine stuffing. Pass it on over,” said Uncle Marsden. He set down his glass and made a summoning gesture toward the dish, which sat at the far end of the table, near Pansy’s boyfriend.

  Remarkable, thought Saga, how no one said another word about it for the rest of the meal—well, herself included. But if your own sisters and dad didn’t want to talk about the first of a new generation—wonder about names, things like that—wasn’t something wrong? Or was it that Denise wasn’t their sister and daughter? Pansy was clearly envious. Look at Michael, though: he did seem softer, happier. He seemed, for a change, in the moment, not preoccupied by speculations, investments, trades. Maybe a lot of his crankiness over the recent years had been about this: worrying that they wouldn’t have kids. Saga could understand that. And she could understand the wash of joy when that worry was behind you, like a wash of bright sunny blue watercolor brushed across a pencil drawing. Or she could imagine it.

  Dessert was pumpkin pie made from a can by Saga and pear-ginger crumble made from scratch by Frida, served with Uncle Marsden’s favorite food in the world: hard sauce with brandy. They talked about The Perfect Storm; everyone had seen the movie except Uncle Marsden and Saga. Pansy was upset that someone had exploited the tragedies of real underprivileged people who would never see a penny of what those actors and producers were getting. Denise said she thought the author had set up some kind of scholarship fund.

  “Well, I read that he opened a hipster bar in New York City with his take of the loot,” said Pansy.

  “Maybe he did both,” said Frida.

  “The scholarship fund should be for the families of those rescue divers from the Coast Guard,” said Michael, “who sacrifice their lives for spoiled, ignorant people on yachts. Did you read that part of the book? It wasn’t in the movie. About that rich imbecile who sued the Coast Guard for forcing him off his boat? They should have left him to drown.”

  “Aren’t those spoiled, ignorant people with yachts some of your biggest clients?” asked Pansy.

  Michael gave her a brief hard glance, an “Oh please” sort of expression.

  “Frankly,” said Uncle Marsden, “I am not interested in watching a movie where you know from the start that you will see the main characters drown. Unless they’re murderers or former Gestapo, perhaps. And big waves—we’ve seen plenty of those right here, no special effects needed. What’s the hoopla?” That brought the conversation to a halt.

  Saga took orders for coffee; over her objections, Pansy’s boyfriend insisted on helping.

  “You have a nice family. Mine can’t get through a meal without a big fight,” he said as he measured coffee grounds and water. While they waited through the coffeemaker’s burblings, he gave her the dinner plates one by one so she could rinse them. They had eaten off Uncle Marsden’s Yale plates because those could go in the dishwasher.

  “That’s too bad,” said Saga as she rinsed off Harkness Tower, then Woolsey Hall and the arch that led to the athletic fields. Funny how, from washing their images on dishes, she knew these places by heart when so many others, places she’d really been to, were hard to retain. “We do okay here; we’re pretty high on the scale of family niceness. Most of the time.” Had she just said “we”? Saga wondered if maybe, tonight at last, she was feeling accepted by her cousins. And she wondered what Pansy had told the boyfriend about her.

  He said, as if reading her mind, “Pansy says you’re looking for a job in animal welfare.”

  Saga ran a sponge across the counter. “I do volunteer work. For now.”

  “I run a career counseling service in New Haven,” he said. “Pansy said maybe I could help you out. Nonprofit might be a good place for you.” He held out a business card. She put it in the pocket of her apron, Aunt Liz’s apron.

  “Thanks.”

  He said, “I know you have…”

  She looked straight at him. “Disabilities.”

  “That shouldn’t discourage you. Obviously you—”

  “Let’s go have more of that yummy crumble,” said Saga. “I’ll call you.” She stared into the cupboards, hoping he would take the hint. For a minute, she wasn’t sure she would recognize the coffee cups, know them from soup bowls or ramekins. I know all these words, she reassured herself as she reached for the saucers. Ramekin: a sturdy cube of a word, spinning in the air like a juggler’s ball. Maroon.

  She knew she was stacking the cups too loudly on the tray. Slow, she told herself. Calm.

  The boyfriend said, “Please, let me—”

  “Oh yes,” said Saga. She put the cream and sugar on the tray and handed it to him. “Put this on the sideboard. We’ll serve ourselves.”

  When he had left the kitchen, she walked through the mudroom onto the side porch to feel the shock of cold air. She took a deep serrated breath, almost a sob. The boyfriend was nice; it was Pansy who’d put him up to that nasty little mission. Or was it thoughtful? Maybe Pansy did care for Saga, about Saga’s life.

  The unseen waves were loud, almost as loud as thunder, slamming the beach. A fine snow was falling, flakes as tiny as dust motes but sharp and distinct when they hit your face. She leaned out from the overhang and looked up. How thick were the clouds tonight? She walked down the steps and away from the house. No, there was the moon, murky yellow, half lit, a thick potato wedge. Hello. Hello, dear friend.

  There was the falling snow, visible only in the light from the dining room windows. There were Michael and Denise, perhaps the only ones in the room now, kissing. There was the house. House: a word as big and gray as a summer storm cloud, but flat, solid, quiet. House. Ramekin. Boyfriend (china blue, Yale blue). Baby (white as the innards of a milkweed pod). Four delicious words.

  SHE HAD GROWN TO LOVE THE BOOKSTORE, and it had become as vivid a place in her mind, and in her memory, as her room at the top of Uncle Marsden’s house. The bird prince let Saga come and go as she pleased, and he welcomed her modest help. She’d started with the garden and moved her way in. After planting the window boxes, she’d put pachysandra along the fence and a rugged moss between the flagstones. She consulted Uncle Marsden’s books, choosing things that were easy to grow. She copied down their names, and Fenno bought them. In the early fall, she planted daffodil and tulip bulbs in a patch of sun, hostas among the pachysandra. She loosened the hard soil around the magnolia tree and weeded, weeded, weeded. Sometimes the parrot kept Saga company, watching with those strange black eyes, tilting her head every which way as if she could never get a clear impression of Saga. Just who are you? she seemed to wonder. Will I know if I look at you this way? This way? How about this?

  In October, Fenno had asked Saga if she’d like to help him do a reshelving project. He warned her that there would be a lot of carrying, upstairs and down. Could she do that? He also told her that he would not allow her to continue doing anything if she would not accept payment. “Oneeka gets paid, you should get paid.” Oneeka was his real assistant, though she wasn’t there all the time.

  Saga now tried to go to the city a few times a week. Stan’
s frosty behavior bothered her less and less. She brought him a litter of kittens she found in a box when she went for a walk along the Hudson River, putting up flyers asking for donations and volunteers. Fenno let her put Stan’s flyers right on the sales counter in the bookstore.

  Sometimes, as she walked around the Village doing Stan’s footwork, she would pass the Italian restaurant, “her” little courtyard, and feel a jolt of longing. On one of the last warm afternoons in October, she’d taken a table there and ordered a piece of cake. These days, she spent all her nights in her own bed, even if it meant taking a rush-hour train, standing up for several stops, clinging to a pole as she struggled to keep her hard-won balance. She did not want to show up for Fenno looking anything but clean and neat.

  She’d had a glimpse of Fenno’s private life the first time she went down into the basement of the bookstore. Half of the low space was taken up by shelves—mysteries, science fiction, and horror stories—the rest by stacks of boxes, a desk, a rocking chair, a dog kennel, a folded baby stroller, and a bike. The bathroom was down here, too. It wasn’t much more than a cubbyhole with a toilet and tiny sink, but its walls swarmed with information.

  Next to the mirror over the sink hung a bulletin board. Tacked to it were notices of readings around the neighborhood, a pamphlet claiming to list the hundred best books of the twentieth century, a water-stained handwritten sign that read PLEASE: NO REFUSE IN TOILET, and a photograph. Here was Fenno, sandy hair blowing, eyes crinkled up in a smile, standing in a field that stretched away like a green and stormy sea. A moor, she thought. Moor: a long word, a purple word, a dark satin ribbon of a word.

  In the photo, Fenno knelt on the ground enfolding a child in each arm: a boy and a girl, though you could tell this only from the way they were dressed. Both had short, fine blond hair and wide pink cheeks. He was a father! Saga felt unexpectedly strange at this discovery, excited yet also unhappy.