The Whole World Over (70 page)

Greenie closes and tapes up a second box. Walter sprays disinfectant
on the counters, the drawer pulls, the faucets. "How is Saga?" she asks
him. Saga is staying in Walter's apartment, taking care of The Bruce.

"One thing's for sure," he says. "She's got to stay in New York. The
uncle's going into some kind of home, one of those morbid assistance
condos, and the huge, incredible house where they lived together has
become this female family fortress—sisters, widows, babies; something
out of Ingmar Bergman. Except that Saga's been shut out. She doesn't
seem all that sad, but Fenno says not to be fooled. He's keeping an eye
on her." Walter looks up and smiles at Greenie. "He's good at that."

Greenie carries the boxes into her office, where she has already
packed up her books and files. Glancing around, she sees, on the windowsill,
nearly hidden by a curtain, the flat stone from Circe, the one
Charlie placed there the day he came in from lunch and surrendered to
her. She clasps it tightly in one hand, then puts it in her pocket.

Back in the kitchen, she takes the spray bottle away from Walter.
"Enough. It's too lovely to stay in here."

They silence Rex Harrison and go back through the empty dining
room; two hours ago, it was filled with uninhibited dancing. The French
doors stand ajar, admitting a pine-scented breeze and the bright prospect
of Ray's plush, well-watered lawn. Remarkably, nearly everything's been
cleared away: tables and chairs, television cameras, flower arrangements.
Beneath the tent, all that remains is a grand piano. Greenie and Walter
carry the piano bench into the sun. They sit, facing the mountains.

Walter is still talking about Saga. "She's going to work for Fenno
part-time, and he's going to help her put out a newsletter for that militant
animal group, which is going legit. Scott's vixen works for them,
too—though let me tell you, T.B.'s days in her clutches are over. Like,
man, so totally over. As she would say if she could ever stop snapping
her gum."

"Walter."

"I know. I promised not to get bitchy. I promised to even be
civil
to her."

"Once Scott comes back, you'll have to be."

"Unless they break up! Don't you know any nice little pâtisserie
mademoiselles?"

"Don't let her bother you, Walter," says Greenie. "She's nothing
more than a restless middle-class girl dolled up as a punkster princess."

"In case she hasn't heard," says Walter, "Halloween lasts for just one
day a year." He stands up to stretch. "I think I have a name, by the way.
It came to me last night, walking around under this gorgeous sky. Blue
Yonder. No 'wild' because I think we're both past wild by now."

"Do you think references to the sky are a good idea these days?"
Greenie remembers that Wild Blue was the name of the fancier restaurant
at the top of the towers—but she will not mention that now. She
looks up; the actual sky above them is fading, passing through the soft
linen colors of late afternoon.

"Oh, listen," says Walter. "The blooming sky will be there when the
planet has been burnt to a raisin thanks to no more ozone layer. And
maybe
blue
is a word for the times. How about Greenie's Blue Yonder?
How do you like
that
?"

"A clever way to keep me from backing out."

"You won't. You're mine now. I know it in my aging bones."

Greenie would tell him not to joke about possessing her, but she
doesn't want to talk about possession. For now, she wants to be owned
by no one, not even her son. She says, "That's sweet of you, Walter. Let's
figure it out when we get back."

Walter reminds her that they need to get cracking. He wants to open
the new restaurant well before Thanksgiving. He wants a name, so that
word of mouth can spread even before they finish the storefront. He
longs to commission a sign, to dream up a look for the menu.

She tells him it will be a success, no matter what they name it. "You
decide," she says. "I trust your instincts far more than my own right
now."

Walter strokes her back. "Your instincts are just fine," he says.

They look straight ahead at the view, as if they're attending a concert.
In its own way, the landscape does rival a symphony. Three mountain
ranges—the Sandias, the Sangre de Cristos, and the Jemez—enclose a
valley, cities and villages built along a river. Steadfast against the tentatively
colored sky, they give the illusion of witnessing and sheltering the
lives of those who see them every day. Greenie feels the stone in her
pocket and holds it fast, like a secret. If Charlie were here, he might
remind her that the mountains are indifferent. Well, of course they are—
but they are stirring, even comforting, all the same. It is Alan, though, to
whom she will replay this vision, along with everything else: the wedding,
the cake, the drunken dancing, the pompous toasts; the way Walter,
with his wry, playful authority, made it run so smoothly. Suddenly,
she cannot wait to tell him.

"Walter, do you know what I've never asked you?" She looks directly
at him. "What exactly did you say to Ray?"

"I said, 'Congratulations. May you have a hootenanny of a married
life together and a caboodle of little Roys and Dales.' "

"I mean in New York, way back when he ate at your restaurant."

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

"I told him you were a monstrously talented cook. I told him you
sang like an angel. I told him you were looking for a change to shake up
your life. He said, 'Sings like an angel?' He thought that was funny. I
told him about your show-tune mornings, how I liked to walk by your
kitchen and eavesdrop."

"You did not."

"Eavesdrop? Oh yes I did. And will again. I won't even have to sneak.
Because there you'll be, working beside me every day."

"Walter, you did not tell him that."

"Does it matter?"

"Walter."

"Do you know what my beloved nephew has tried in vain to teach
me?" Walter says. "Live in the here and now. So here and now, I have to
ask, is there more of that amazing cake? I'm hungry again already."

Greenie's consent is a murmur. As she stands, someone calls out their
names from the house. Walter rises quickly, turns around, and waves
energetically. "Hello, you!" he exclaims. He remains beside Greenie, but
she can feel his emotions, his tenderness and excitement, radiating as
tangibly as heat.

Fenno waves back as he steps from the French doors and crosses the
grass. "Hello to both of you!" he calls in return. "How did it go, your
grand event?"

A grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, a fellowship at the Radcliffe
Institute for Advanced Study, and membership in the Writers Room of
New York City enabled me to complete this book more quickly and under
more privileged circumstances than I would have been able to afford on my
own; my deepest thanks go out to these generous institutions.

I thank Barbara Burg and Pamela Matz of Harvard's Widener Library for
their terrierlike detective skills; Ann and Charlie Harriman for the twin
inspiration of their island retreat and their epic rivalry at cribbage; Bette
Brown Slayton for calving tales; Larry Olson of Wiley & Sons for culinary
texts; Dr. Andrew Wilner for early counsel on the effects of head trauma;
Lucy White for the porcupine lamp; Archie Ferguson for the rare combination
of a brilliant eye and an open ear; Shelley Henderson for life-changing
conversations; and my sons, Alec and Oliver, for enriching my work far
more than they interrupt it. For help with crucial details, especially in the
final stages, I thank Millicent Bennett, Joanne Brownstein, Matthew Iribarne,
Margot Livesey, Maria Massey, Ann Marie Romanczyk, Katherine
Vaz, and Joan Wickersham.

The political New Mexico that I portray in this novel—its governor, the
workings of his household, and his professional challenges—is pure invention,
though for helping me ground the virtual in the actual, I am indebted
to Lorraine Rotunno, director of the Governor's Mansion in Santa Fe,
docent Florence Lloyd, and First Lady Barbara Richardson, who graciously
welcomed me into the real-life mansion. My dear friends Lisa Wederquist
and Larry Keller also supplied much local color. For background on the
2000 Cerro Grande fire, "The Shape of Things to Come," by Keith Easthouse,
was most helpful, while Marc Reisner's astonishing book
Cadillac
Desert
opened my eyes to the western water crisis. On both fire and water,
articles in the
New York Times
and the
New Mexican
provided more timely
details.

Ten years of reading to and with my sons have reawakened me to the
stimulating language and vision of children's books, some of which I have
folded into this story. Over my entire life, few authors have given me as
much delight as the peerless Dr. Seuss, whose books need no special mention.
I would, however, like to cite, in admiration, a few less celebrated
books to which I refer:
The Important Book,
by Margaret Wise Brown;
The
Selkie Girl,
a legend retold by Susan Cooper;
Mordant's Wish,
by Valerie
Coursen;
My Life With the Wave,
by Catherine Cowan (inspired by Octavio
Paz);
The Shrinking of Treehorn,
by Florence Parry Heide;
Album of
Horses,
by Marguerite Henry;
Bronco Busters,
by Alison Cragin Herzig;
Roar and More,
by Karla Kuskin;
Wee Gillis,
by Munro Leaf;
Owl at
Home,
by Arnold Lobel; and
Me and My Amazing Body,
by Joan Sweeney.

My good fortune as a writer over the past few years I owe to much more
than my own abilities. I owe it to the enthusiasm of my readers, many of
whom have come to readings, written me perceptive and moving letters—
even stopped me on the street—and to the loyalty, wisdom, and kindness of
my agent, Gail Hochman; my publisher, Janice Goldklang; and Deb Garrison,
my incomparably talented and generous editor. Thank you all.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint
previously published material:

CROWN PUBLISHERS
: Excerpt from
Me and My Amazing Body
by Joan
Sweeney. Copyright © 1999 by Joan Sweeney. Illustrations copyright ©
1999 by Annette Cable. Reprinted by permission of Crown Publishers, an
imprint of Random House Children's Books, a division of Random House.

HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS
: "I have no life but this" (poem 1398) by
Emily Dickinson, from
The Poems of Emily Dickinson
edited by Thomas H.
Johnson (Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University
Press). Copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows
of Harvard College. Reprinted by permission of the publishers and Trustees
of Amherst College.

RANDOM HOUSE CHILDREN'S BOOKS AND DR. SEUSS ENTERPRISES, L.P.
:
Excerpt from
The Cat in the Hat Comes Back
by Dr. Seuss. TM and
copyright © by Dr. Seuss Enterprises, L.P., 1958, renewed, 1986. All rights
reserved. Reprinted by permission of Random House Children's Books, a
division of Random House, Inc., and Dr. Seuss Enterprises, L.P.

SCOTT TREIMEL
: Excerpt from
Roar and More
by Karla Kuskin. Copyright
© 1956, 1990 by Karla Kuskin. Reprinted by permission of Scott
Treimel.

VIKING PENGUIN
: Excerpt from
Wee Gillis
by Munro Leaf, illustrated
by Robert Lawson. Copyright © 1938 by Munro Leaf and Robert Lawson,
renewed copyright © 1966 by Munro Leaf and John W. Boyd, Executor of
the Estate of Robert Lawson. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of
Viking Penguin, A Division of Penguin Young Readers Group, A Member
of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, N.Y. 10014.

Julia Glass

Three Junes
is a novel about how we live, and live fully, beyond grief and
betrayals of the heart, and how family ties (those that we make as well as
those that we are born into) can offer redemption and joy.

'
Three Junes
almost threatens to burst with all the life it contains. Glass's
ability to locate the immense within the particular, and to simultaneously
illuminate and deepen the mysteries of her characters' lives, would be
marvellous in any novelist. In a first-time novelist, it's extraordinary.'
Michael Cunningham, author of
The Hours

'Like . . . Michael Cunningham's
The Hours
, which won the Pulitzer,
Three
Junes
won its own prize (National Book Award) and deserves it . . . a highly
accomplished and sensitive novel, all the more remarkable for being
Julia Glass's first.'
Sunday Telegraph

'Glass seems to relish depicting her characters' struggles and confusion, after
which she skilfully negotiates them through the emotional wilderness as they
live, love and grieve. The result is an impressive and moving debut. It's a great
read, and yes, the accolades are deserved.'
Time Out