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A Novel
by Julia Glass
In their first years together, she had loved the wakefulness they shared late at
night. After sex, Alan did not tumble into a callow sleep, the way most men
claimed they could not resist doing. Like Greenie, he would be alert for another
half hour or more. They would talk about their days, their dreams (both sleeping
and waking), their notions on the fate of mankind. When it came to worldly
matters, the voice of doubt would be Alansmourning or raging that genocide
would never end, that presidents would never be moral, that children would
always be abducted by men who would never be caughtbut he was invariably
passionate, and back then, Greenie saw hope in that passion. He loved Greenie
expressively, eloquently, in a way she felt she had never been loved.
When they had been sleeping togetheror not-sleeping togethernearly every night
for a month, she asked, Why do you suppose were like this? Why cant we just
go to sleep, like the rest of the exhausted people around us? They were lying
in Alans bed, in the never-quite-dark of a city night.
He said, Me, I think too much. Not a good thing.
Why? Why is that not good?
It wears down your soul. Its like grinding your spiritual teeth, he said.
Dreaming is the healthy alternative. Even nightmares once in a while. Sometimes
a nightmare is like a strong wind sweeping through a house.
Greenie had noticed early on that first thing every morning, often before
getting out of bed, Alan wrote his dreams in a leather book the size of a
wallet. What about me? she said. Do I think too much?
Not you. He pulled her closer against his side. With you, I can only imagine
that some part of your waking soul just cant bear to see another magnificent
day in the life of Greenie Duquette come to an end.
Thats very poetic, said Greenie, but its malarkey.
When Im with you, he said, I love not getting to sleep. He kissed her and
kissed her, and then they did fall asleep. The next day, on the phone with her
mother, she said shed met an incredible man, that she had fallen in love. Her
mother teased her that it wasnt the first time, and Greenie said yes, this was
true, but she had a hunch it would be the last.
Consistent with all the evolutions and revolutions of married life, their
wakeful late-night musings came to an end when they had George. In those early
months, starved of sleep, their thinking selves would plummet toward oblivion
once they lay down. But Alan still slept so lightly that he was nearly always
the first to rise and comfort George when he cried. By the time Greenie stumbled
to consciousness, there was her baby, in his fathers arms, being soothed until
she was ready to nurse. Alans only complaint was that waking up so often and so
urgently made it hard for him to remember his dreams. Along with so many other
habits once taken for granted, the little book went by the wayside. Now Greenie
wondered if Alan had needed it more than she understood.
Greenie could not point to a specific moment when Alans sober but passionate
view of the world might have tipped into a hardened pessimism, and she reminded
herself that he was still a loving, patient fatherbut what if that pessimism
was genetic? Could it lie dormant in George?
When the loaves and cakes she had baked sat cooling on racks, Greenie filled the
larger sink with all the loaf pans and whisks, cups and spoons and mixing bowls.
Sherwin would show up later to wash them, but Greenie wiped down the counters
herself, several times a day. She had made this placean old boiler room in the
basement of a nondescript tenement buildinginto her private kingdom. Around the
perimeter, the walls and cupboards were white, the countertops made of smooth,
anonymous steel, but the linoleum tiles that Alan had helped her lay on the
floor were gladiola red. The only windows ran along the ceiling at sidewalk
level: wide yet narrow, like gunports in a bunker. Sometimes, organizing bills
or tinkering with recipes, Greenie sat on a stool at the butcher-block island
and watched the ankles passing by these windows. Now and then a dog pressed its
face between the bars against the glass, spotted her and wagged its tail.
Greenie would smile and wave before the dog was yanked along on its way. She
came to recognize the neighborhood regulars: the aging black Lab with the
heavily salted muzzle, the twin pugs with their Tammy Faye mascara, the Irish
setter who marked the windows with his wayward tongue. Sometimes dog faces were
the only ones she saw for hours. Even toddlers were visible only up to the hems
of their shorts or jackets. Walter was the one person who would lean down, knock
on a pane, and give her an upside-down grin, The Bruce right there beside him.
Excerpted from The Whole World Over by Julia Glass Copyright © 2006 by Julia Glass. Excerpted by permission of Pantheon, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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