Read Online The Whole World Over by Julia Glass - Free Book Online

side, Walter stole a concentrated look at Gordie's face; it
was so . . . kind. All its lines, still subtle, seemed to bookmark the places
expressive of joy. Greet the morning early and with joy: Granna had
embroidered that wisdom on a cushion. Walter leaned against it in bed
when he watched the nightly news—never mind that, given the choice,
he'd always rather sleep late.
    He edged slowly closer to Gordie, till he sensed their sleeves just
touching. Close enough to tell that Gordie did not wear cologne. Walter
hated phony scents as much as he hated phony tans.
    Gordie turned away from the window and reached out to shake Walter's
hand. "I like this—having really met you. It makes the city feel nice
and small," he said. "Stephen makes fun of me, but I'm someone who misses that part of living in the boonies."
    "Well, you're in the minority there, dude—as my nephew would
say—but you may be the wise one among us." If he'd been honest, Walter
would have agreed with Gordie, but he decided it wasn't the note to
end on, not this time. The calculations had begun.
    When he left, he walked slowly, half dizzy, his brain buzzing like a
hive, through the farmers' market. The dancers had vanished. He examined
the flowers and the yarns and the pumpkins up close, as if to make
sure they weren't all part of a heady dream. At one point, he looked up,
just a furtive glance, to locate Gordie's window, to see if he was being
watched. He was stunned to see eight or nine stories of windows just
like Gordie's and could not remember which floor he'd been on. Up
there, looking down, he'd felt as if the two of them were remote and
alone, in a tower.
    WHILE WALTER DYED HIS HAIR at the bathroom sink, The Bruce sat
on the mat and watched. Funny how a dog could look puzzled (or angry
or elated or grieving or guilty—all the same shades of emotion a person's
face could reveal). This was only the third time Walter had done it,
so he was still nervous about the results. His hair remained thick and
basically blond, but a few months ago he'd noticed that the color was
looking a little dusty alongside his ears. He'd just turned forty-four, so
this seemed fair—but still.
    He was surprised how much he liked this new task, how the tinted
water swirling down the drain made him feel as if he were purging
himself—washing something away, not covering something up. He only
hoped that, sometime in the future, he would recognize the point when
the lines on his face began to mock his hair, shriek at the vain deceit.
You should age with dignity, not denial: Granna had not said or stitched
this, but she might have. Before she died, her face had been nothing but
folds and creases; to Walter, it looked like the topographical map of
some mystical place, like a terraced mountain in Tibet.
    He assessed his newly gilded hair in the mirror. So far, so good. Perhaps
the dregs of winter, however dreary, wouldn't be so lonely after all.
    "Now your turn," he said to The Bruce. The dog trotted briskly back
to the bedroom, vaulting his stocky frame up onto the bed. Walter sat
beside him and took the soft brush and the currycomb out of his nightstand.
Like so many purebreds, The Bruce had a few chronic maladies;
the worst was his eczema, for which Walter had creams and shampoos
and special grooming utensils. Probably because he itched a good deal
of the time, the poor dog loved all this close attention. "Does that feel
good, lovey?" Walter crooned as he pushed the currycomb through
T.B.'s short coat. The hair was a uniform grayish beige, but his skin
resembled the hide of a pinto pony, pinkish white with patches of black.
As Walter brushed him, the dog grunted vaguely—a canine purr—and
drooled onto the towel Walter had placed beneath his head.
    Walter had adopted T.B. as an older puppy. The shelter volunteer
who helped him make his choice was a girl around Scott's age who wore
lipstick the color of pot roast. (Was there nothing attractive left to be
cool? Had fashion tripped