Read The Whole World Over for Free Online Page A

he liked
her company as well as her cakes. Perhaps a shade melodramatically, he
thought of her as an orphan; two years ago, not long after they met, her
parents had died in a ghastly accident, plummeting off a cliff while on
vacation. When she told him the news, so unnecessarily stoic, so contrite
about the missing cheesecakes and Boston cream pies, he'd confided
that his parents, too, were in a fatal crash. Walter was thirteen, but
even though he'd been so much younger than Greenie, in other ways the
accident had been less tragic, for Walter's parents had driven themselves
just about literally, willfully, to their deaths.
    But really now, did this perfectly successful, obviously confident
woman need anyone's protection? Of course not. The one thing that
did surprise Walter about Greenie—and worry him a little—was the
husband, whom he'd met the few times they came to the restaurant as
ordinary customers. On the surface, Alan was more than suitable: fine-looking
and shamelessly brainy in that Ivy-nerdy way, if a drab, very
hetero dresser (oh, those cuffed and pleated khakis). Tall and dark, of
course, made up for so many shortcomings. But as for suitability of sentiment,
Walter had his doubts. The hint of discord was the affection that
the man lavished on his son . . . and did not appear to lavish on his wife.
Walter saw the small caresses, the gestures of love and reassurance
Greenie gave to Alan—unreciprocated, all of it.
    So Walter, no pussyfooting, asked outright. About a year before,
alone with Greenie in her kitchen, he said, "Now that husband of yours,
does he treat you like the queen you are?"
    She'd laughed and said, "You mean, the kind with the crown and the
corgis? Or the kind with size-thirteen high heels?"
    "I'm asking you a serious question," he said brightly.
    She blushed and all at once, to Walter's alarmed satisfaction, looked
miserable. She said, "The simple serious answer is no. Not recently. But
that's the nature of marriage, wouldn't you say?"
    "Lovey, you tell me."
    "Walter, there are hills and valleys, you know? Or maybe you're
lucky not to."
    So he had pried, and he had tried to be an ear, but in the end, what had
he accomplished? Could he challenge the ingrate to a duel? Show up in
the guy's office and have a man-to-queer talk? Imagine the oblivious
khaki-wearer caught in those headlights.
    After hearing Greenie's concerns about money, about how this husband
of hers was losing patients (significant pun?), Walter had concluded
that either the man was losing his knack or he hadn't had much
of a knack to begin with. After all, this was New York City, playground
of the rich and narcissistically needy, of the overly pampered whining id.
(Whenever Walter saw that ubiquitous sign on the door of a club, VALID ID REQUIRED ,
he'd think, Oh yes indeedy. ) Who could want for psychic
fodder in a place like this?
    "Want a look?" The bartender pushed a pile of credit card slips
toward Walter.
    Walter pushed them back. "Tomorrow. And tomorrow . . ."
    Ben held up a single, admonishing finger. "Shakespeare got his last
call an hour ago."
    "Cloak?"
    "Wearing the very item."
    "I missed him?" said Walter. "Please tell me he's applying to law
school by now. Sam Waterston's got nothing on that guy."
    Organically, over time, Walter and Ben had developed a shorthand
for their favorite and least favorite regulars, especially at the bar. Out-of-work
actors were, for Walter, the worst. The poor devils made him
shudder, since there but for the grace—the maliciously arbitrary grace—
of God went his truly. Cloak and Dagger personified the two ends of
that humiliating spectrum: one of them certain that his turn at Hamlet
was just around the corner, the other one bitter and paranoid. (According
to Dagger, Spielberg, the Weinsteins, and Tom Hanks ruled a second
evil empire.) When the two showed up together—especially if Cloak
wore his eponymous Zorro-esque cape—Walter had to avoid looking
Ben in the eye. If he did, the