Set This House in Order

by Matt Ruff

  Then we were on Olympic Avenue, outside Julie’s apartment, and she seemed to run out of words. She stood there silently for a moment and then leaned in to me, put her arms around my neck, and asked me if I’d come upstairs and tuck her in. We went up, Julie leaning on me heavily now. In the apartment, she didn’t turn any lights on, just guided me back into her bedroom. She scrabbled around in the dark for a box of matches, and lit a candle on the steamer trunk beside her futon. And then, as I stood dumbly by, Julie got undressed right in front of me. Completely undressed. Naked, she rummaged through her clothes closet for what seemed like forever; finally she drew out a gauzy white nightgown and slipped it over her shoulders. She came back over to me, put her arms around my neck again, and kissed me full on the mouth.

  “Yeah, she kissed you,” Adam said later. “But she didn’t kiss you and ask you to stay; she kissed you and told you to be careful walking home. Notice the difference?”

  Yes, I noticed. But after that night I started noticing other things, too, things that Julie did or said that seemed to have hidden meanings. Like the week after Thanksgiving, when she had a huge fight with her landlord, and came and told me she was thinking about breaking her lease, and then said, kind of offhand, “You know, we ought to get a place together”—and when I hedged, saying that it sounded like a nice idea, but that I wasn’t sure if I was ready to move out of Mrs. Winslow’s, Julie replied, “Oh, I think you’d have a lot more fun living with me than with Mrs. Winslow…” Or the week after that, the morning Julie’s car wouldn’t start, and she had to walk to the Factory through freezing sleet, and she came into my tent stripped down to her underwear, trying to dry herself with a hand towel, and said to me, “Andrew, will you run away with me to Hawaii?” and I said “Um…” and she sat in my lap and laid her head on my shoulder, so that her damp hair pressed into the hollow of my neck, and said, “Please, Andrew? Please take me away from here?” Or a few days later, when Dennis was teasing me about an idea I’d had for a demo, saying, “One thing you’re always good for is a ridiculous suggestion,” and Julie remarked in passing, “I bet that’s not the only thing Andrew’s good for…”

  I know, I know—probably I was reading way too much into all this. But at the time…at the time I was sure Julie was sending me signals, Adam’s skepticism be damned.

  Then it was Christmastime, my first Christmas ever, and Julie insisted on going in with me on a tree. Mrs. Winslow already had a tree for the Victorian, an eight-foot plastic perennial that she’d owned since before she got married, but Julie argued that that wasn’t a real Christmas tree. “You’ve got to go out and cut down a live one,” she said. “It’s tradition.”

  “You do that every year?” I asked her.

  “Well no, actually, I’ve never done that. But it’s still tradition. It could be our tradition…” Naturally, the thought of establishing a tradition with Julie sold me on the idea immediately.

  She got her uncle to drive us to a tree farm in Snoqualmie. He picked us up in his truck one evening after work. Julie, who’d been in a bubbly mood all day, introduced me as her “soul mate.” Her uncle, a grizzled older man with one of the raspiest voices I’d ever heard, stuck out a hand and said, “Thrilled.” It was the last thing he said for a while; Julie talked pretty much nonstop on the ride out. During the course of her monologue, which concerned the latest goings-on at the Reality Factory, I noticed that she was saying a lot of complimentary things about me—how creative I was, how hardworking I was, what a good person I was—which should have been flattering, but mostly just unsettled me. Many of the compliments seemed exaggerated, and a couple were flat-out lies (I’m not “musically gifted”; the only soul in the house with any musical talent to speak of is Aunt Sam, and even she’s not that good). Once again I found myself wondering whether there was a hidden message here: was Julie telling her uncle something, or was she trying to tell me something?

  The Snoqualmie tree farm offered precut pine trees in all sizes, but Julie, set on following “tradition,” insisted that we borrow a saw and go into the fields. Having selected a tree as far from the farm’s parking lot as possible, Julie assumed a purely supervisory role during the actual felling. While her uncle and I took turns with the saw, she alternated between cheering us on, teasing us for our slow progress, and throwing snowballs. The snowballs were all aimed at me.

  When we got back to Autumn Creek, Julie thanked her uncle profusely—“You’re the best, Arnie, just the best”—and invited him up to her apartment for a drink; but he declined, saying that he had another errand to run. Climbing into the back of the truck, he uncovered a mound of cardboard cases that had been concealed beneath a pile of furniture pads. He opened one of the cases and pulled out a bottle of scotch for each of us. “Happy holidays,” he rasped, and Adam up in the pulpit crowed cheerfully: “Look ma, no tax stamps!”

  Julie in turn gave her uncle a tightly rolled-up brown-paper bag. I don’t know what was in it, but it made him very happy. “All right, then!” he said, zipping his gift into an inside pocket of his coat. He chucked Julie under the chin and clapped me on the shoulder. “You two stay out of trouble!” With a last wink at Julie, he climbed into the truck cab and drove away.

  After the truck was out of sight, I offered Julie my bottle of scotch. “Merry Christmas,” I said. “I’ve got another present for you too, but—”

  “Yeah, I’ve got one for you, too,” Julie said. “But let’s get this tree inside first.”

  We hauled the tree up the stairs and into Julie’s bedroom. Then she took the scotch and went into the kitchen to make eggnog, leaving me to set up the tree in a stand she’d bought. This was trickier than I expected, but I had it pretty well balanced by the time Julie came back, carrying a mug in each hand. “Cheers,” she said, handing one to me.

  “Cheers.” I took an experimental sip…and frowned, tasting liquor in with the eggs and cream. “Uh, Julie…I think you forgot, I don’t—”

  “Shh,” Julie said, pressing a finger to my lips. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  It wasn’t a question of telling or not telling, of course; hiding a drink from my father would be like hiding a manicure from my fingernails. But I took another small sip, just to be polite, and then discreetly set the mug aside. “So, do we exchange gifts now?”

  Julie shook her head. “Not yet—we’ve got to finish decorating the tree first.” She hauled a big box of Christmas ornaments out of her closet and took out two gnarled strands of Christmas-tree lights, handing one to me. “Start by untangling this.”

  We set to work, chatting idly as we picked at the knots in the cords. I asked Julie where she’d bought the eggnog mix.

  “Mix!” Julie scoffed. “That’s homemade, thank you very much.”

  “Really?” I glanced over at my mug. “I thought the basic eggnog stuff—you know, except for the scotch—I thought that just came in a carton.”

  “Actually, it comes from eggs,” Julie teased, “which come out of a chicken. Also from cream, which comes out of a cow.”

  “You milked your own cow?”

  “No, Andrew…” Julie started to look annoyed, then realized I was teasing, too. “All right, all right,” she admitted, “so the cream does come out of a carton—but I mixed it and the other ingredients together myself.” She beamed proudly. “One of the many useful skills I picked up at Lulu’s Mexican Kitchen in Phoenix, Arizona.”

  “You served eggnog at a Mexican restaurant?”

  “Around Christmastime we did. The guy I worked the grill with taught me his secret recipe.”

  The guy I worked the grill with… Something about the way Julie said that made me ask: “Was he your boyfriend?”

  Julie’s brow furrowed; she seemed to concentrate a little more intently on the strand of lights she was holding. “Yes,” she said, and Adam up in the pulpit warned: “Don’t do it.”

  But I did, asking haltingly: “Did you…do you ever think of me that way? As a boyfriend, I mean.”


  The furrow in Julie’s brow deepened, but she went on untangling the lights as if she hadn’t heard me. She didn’t reply for so long that I began to wonder if I’d forgotten to ask the question aloud. But finally she looked over at me and said: “You remember me telling you about that physical therapist I used to live with?”

  “Sure,” I said. “The one you worked for before you started the Reality Factory, right?”

  She nodded. “Worked for, lived with, everything…Since we broke up, I haven’t seen him or spoken to him once. I don’t even know if he’s still in Seattle. And it’s the same story with the guy in Phoenix…and the guy in Eugene, and the guy in Las Vegas, and the guy in Yellowstone, and the guy in New York, and the four guys in Boston. It’s always been that way with me: when I’m lovers with somebody, and it ends, they disappear from my life. And I wouldn’t ever want that to happen with you, Andrew—I want you in my life, not a stranger.”

  “Oh,” I said, both flattered and disappointed. But the disappointment was greater, and after a moment I suggested hesitantly: “What if…what if it didn’t end, though? What if—”

  Julie smiled sadly at me. “Love affairs always end,” she said. “Don’t you know that?”

  No, I didn’t know that—I didn’t believe it, either, though I was in a very poor position to argue. Stumped for a rebuttal, I went back to untangling Christmas lights; after a brief uncomfortable silence, Julie announced, with forced cheerfulness, “I’m going to the kitchen to freshen up my eggnog.” This time the hidden message was clear: When I come back, we’ll talk about something else. Which we did; and it wasn’t until later, after Julie and I had said our good nights and I was walking home alone, that it occurred to me that she’d never actually said whether she was attracted to me.

  “Does it matter?” Adam asked. “She doesn’t want to fuck you. Get that through your head already.”

  I tried. I tried very hard, and I might have succeeded, too, if not for what happened the day of the Wednesday After Christmas Party.

  Because Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve were both on Sunday that year, Julie had decided that we ought to split the difference and hold a combined holiday office party on Wednesday the 27th. Julie and I handled the refreshments for the party: Julie made punch, using up the second bottle of her uncle’s scotch; I baked cookies and a chocolate cake. The Manciple brothers, meanwhile, were put in charge of the entertainment.

  At five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon we gathered in the Big Tent for the festivities. Julie ladled out punch for everyone but me; Dennis booted up the Eidolon system. The Reality Factory only had two data suits at that point, so we took turns putting them on and playing Virtual Ping-Pong, Virtual Skee-Ball, and Virtual Bash-the-Piñata (in which you aren’t blindfolded, but the piñata can duck). Finally, Dennis announced the “ultimate” virtual party game: Virtual Twister.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Julie’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve never played Twister?”

  She described the real-world version of the game, which sounded very strange to me at first. And the VR version was even stranger: in Virtual Twister, the colored circles weren’t just on the “floor” but all around you, hanging in space.

  “So you reach for these circles,” I said, “and you get all twisted up…”

  “Right,” said Julie.

  “…and the first person to fall over loses?”

  “Yes, technically. But winning and losing aren’t really the point of the game…”

  What was the point? Part of it, as with virtual piñata-bashing, was to provide comic relief for the spectators. But the main point of Twister, Julie hinted, was to give the players an excuse to roll around with each other. I could understand the appeal of that, given the right playmate—but that aspect of the game didn’t translate well into cyberspace. When Irwin and I played our first game of Virtual Twister, our real bodies were in separate corners of the Big Tent, and of course virtual body contact that is unaccompanied by actual body contact doesn’t feel like anything. Also, the version of the software engine we were using had a few bugs in its collision-handling subroutines. When the computer gamesmaster told me “Left hand—red,” and Irwin’s eidolon was blocking the most convenient red circle, instead of reaching around I was able to put my hand right through him.

  Julie caught this on one of the monitors and cried foul. “You guys aren’t playing it right!” she complained tipsily. “Here, Irwin—let me get that suit for a minute, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Irwin gave his data suit to Julie. She put it on and had Irwin position us so that our real bodies were the same distance apart as our virtual bodies. “Right hand—blue,” the computer commanded me. I saw a blue circle peeking over Julie’s shoulder, started to put my hand through her chest…and met resistance.

  From there on out, the game made a lot more sense to me. It also got more dangerous, as Julie’s and my virtual bodies still weren’t perfectly synchronized with our real bodies. Not all of the accidents that this caused were unpleasant—I didn’t mind so much when Julie reached for a green circle behind my back and grabbed my butt by mistake—but most of them were: Julie probably could have done without me kneeing her in the rib cage, and I know I would rather have skipped the elbow in the stomach. The game ended with Julie going for an overly ambitious “Left foot—yellow” that knocked both my legs out from under me and flipped me hard onto my back.

  “Ow,” I said.

  “Andrew!?” Julie ripped off her headset in a panic, but when she saw that I wasn’t badly hurt, she burst out laughing…and collapsed, gently, on top of me.

  I decided that I liked Virtual Twister, even with the bruises.

  We took a break from the games after that and went back to the refreshments. Julie and Dennis got drunk, and Irwin got really drunk. Then around six-thirty—it was amazing that it had taken him that long—Dennis took his shirt off. Julie, helping herself to the last of the punch, said: “You know, Dennis, that is just so attractive, you exposing yourself that way.”

  Dennis, unoffendable as always, raised his arms above his head. “Gotta air myself out,” he explained. Then, after his armpits had had a moment to cool, he said to Julie: “So how about it, Fearless Leader? Since I’m so attractive, you wanna play a round of Twister with me?”

  I think he was kidding; even without his back brace on, Dennis had a hard time fitting into a data suit. But Julie got this look in her eye like she was actually considering it, just to prove she wasn’t afraid to take a dare, any dare, and I knew if she called Dennis’s bluff he’d do it. It made me feel funny; I didn’t want Julie playing Twister with Dennis, or anyone else besides me. Before it could come to that, though, Irwin bent over and vomited on one of the Eidolon headsets, putting a definite end to the games.

  “Time to go home,” I suggested.

  Questions of sobriety aside, Julie’s Cadillac was in the shop again, so we all walked back to town. A light snow was falling, and Julie and Dennis, full of crazy energy, kept running ahead, catching snowflakes on their tongues and bursting into choruses of “Auld Lang Syne” (I’m not very familiar with the song, but I’m pretty sure they were making up their own lyrics). Irwin plodded along zombie-like, stopping every now and then to throw up some more. I followed quietly, keeping an eye on Irwin and trying to stay out of Julie and Dennis’s way.

  We crossed the east bridge and came to the intersection where Julie had to turn off to get to her apartment. I hesitated, uncertain whether to follow her or continue down Bridge Street with the Manciples. But Julie decided for me, slinging an arm around my waist and raising a hand to wave good-bye to the brothers. “See you two tomorrow,” she said.

  “G’night,” Irwin muttered as he plodded on, not even bothering to turn around. Dennis, far more alert, watched curiously as Julie led me away up the side street.

  “Hey, Grand Poobah,” he called after us, “what are you going to do now?”

  “You only wish yo
u knew, Dennis,” Julie called back.

  “Oh yeah?” Dennis said, swaying a little on his feet. “Does that mean you changed your mind about him?”

  “Shhhh!” Julie shushed him, laughing.

  “What?” Dennis shouted. He cupped a hand behind his ear, as if he were hard of hearing. “I didn’t catch that, Commodore. What?”

  “Good night, Dennis!” Julie shouted back, still laughing (but at what?). Then, tugging at my hand: “Come on, Andrew.”

  “Um, Julie—”

  “Let’s run!” she said, giving my hand another tug.

  So we ran, Dennis behind us hollering something that I couldn’t make out. Then we were out of earshot, racing up the street in the dark, Julie leading the way, still laughing, pulling me along.

  We reached Julie’s building. Instead of heading up to her apartment, she ran out onto the front lawn and let herself fall, pulling me down with her onto the thin dusting of snow. As we tumbled over each other I wrenched my back again, but Julie didn’t notice.

  “God,” Julie said, coming to rest on her own back. “God, I am so drunk.” Then she rolled towards me, coming up on one elbow, and asked: “You want to come upstairs for a while? It’s still early.”

  “Um…OK,” I said, and Julie, hearing the hesitancy in my voice, gave me a long look, as if she were making up her mind about something. She raised a hand to brush a snowflake from my eyelashes, then caught a lock of my hair, twirling it around her index finger.

  “C’mon,” she finally said, and stood up.

  Upstairs in her kitchen, Julie poured two shot glasses of straight scotch. “Julie—” I began to protest, but she overrode me, saying: “Come on, Andrew, just one. One toast.”

  “Toast to what?”

  “To new experiences,” Julie said slyly.

  So I gave in—I chose to give in—even though I knew I’d pay for it later. “To…to new experiences,” I said, and drank. Julie tossed her shot down in one swallow; I tried to sip mine but ended up gulping it as well, nearly choking on the heat of it in my throat.