Set This House in Order

by Matt Ruff

  “I don’t know. But—”

  “She doesn’t always listen to the news.”

  “But today of all days, not to—”

  “Probably she just doesn’t want to hear about how he killed his kids for the millionth time—you know they’re going to rehash the whole story again.”

  “Well…” I had to admit, it made sense. “I suppose.”

  “I’ll tell you something else, though,” Adam added. “You owe me a breakfast.”

  “Adam…”

  “Because I’m not upset about what happened.”

  I thought he probably was upset, though. Maybe it was only that my father had warned him not to, but it seemed to me that if Adam were really happy about how Warren Lodge had died, he’d have made a lot more jokes about it.

  I said good-bye to Mrs. Winslow and set off for work. Coming onto Bridge Street, I had a bad scare: I saw a green van parked out front of the Autumn Creek Café. It was the wrong shade of green, and it had a roof rack and chrome trim where the van that had hit Warren Lodge had had neither, but still I stopped dead when I saw it. I waited; when the van didn’t fade away like a mirage, I went up to it cautiously. I put out a hand, and touched one of its side panels.

  There was a tremendous crash of glass. I whirled around: a deliveryman had just dropped several racks of bottled ice teas off the back of his truck. A passing group of kids on their way to school broke out in applause.

  I bent over and vomited up most of my breakfast onto the sidewalk. This brought another wave of applause from the school kids; I half expected Adam to join in, but the pulpit was empty.

  Penny was waiting in my tent when I arrived at the Factory. She looked like she wanted to have a long talk, and I tried to discourage her: I broke into a big yawn in the middle of saying hello, and pinched the bridge of my nose as if I had a headache.

  “Are you all right?” Penny asked me.

  “I didn’t sleep very well,” I told her. “Can I help you with something?”

  She bit her lower lip nervously. “I’m going to call Dr. Eddington,” she announced.

  “I know. My father told me you’d decided to make an appointment. That’s good news.”

  “No,” Penny said. “I mean I’m going to call him this morning—right now. And I was wondering if…if you wanted to call him with me.”

  “With you?”

  “Well…I remember Dr. Grey wanted you to make an appointment with Dr. Eddington too, so I thought maybe we could both—”

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh…no. No thank you.” Of course I did intend to call Dr. Eddington, but right then, I didn’t want to. “I’m not ready to call him yet.”

  “Oh…”

  “Penny,” I said. “You know it’s all right. Dr. Eddington’s a good person. You shouldn’t be afraid to call him yourself.”

  “OK,” she said. “All right.” Her teeth came together again, not just biting her lower lip but worrying it, and I knew she was going to ask me if she could talk to my father. But neither he nor I was up for that, so I said hurriedly, “Is there anything else?” and gestured at my desk as if I had an important project to get to. Penny, taking the hint, shook her head no.

  About an hour later, feeling guilty, I went by Penny’s tent to see if she was OK. She was on the phone when I poked my head in; I listened, unnoticed, until I heard Dr. Eddington’s name. That’s all taken care of, then, I thought to myself as I ducked out again. Penny will be in good hands now. What I’d told her was true: Dr. Eddington was a good person, and a good doctor. I’d be calling him myself soon…only maybe not today. Today I didn’t feel well.

  In fact I felt so poorly that I decided to sneak out of work early. In the middle of the afternoon, as I returned from dumping a load of Honey Bucket waste out behind the shed, I saw Reggie Beauchamps’s tow truck parked on the Factory lot. Reggie sat in the truck cab, alone, smoking a cigarette and listening to the radio, looking bored, and I thought…well, what I thought isn’t really important. But I knew I didn’t want to be there to see Julie go jumping up on him again. My head was aching for real now, and my stomach was an empty pit from throwing up breakfast and having forgotten to eat lunch, so I decided to get out of there. I snuck off the lot through a hole in the back fence so I wouldn’t have to go by Reggie’s truck.

  Back at the Victorian, Mrs. Winslow was waiting with a freshly baked chocolate cake. As I sat in the kitchen and stuffed myself, I told Mrs. Winslow that I wasn’t feeling well, and asked if she would please tell anybody who called that I wasn’t available.

  “I’ll tell you what, Andrew,” Mrs. Winslow said. “I’m a little under the weather myself. So I think I’m going to leave the phone off the hook this evening.” And she did.

  That night, I dreamed I was floating over the landscape in Andy Gage’s head. Viewed from above, the dream-geography formed a series of concentric rings, from the outermost circle of dark forest-green to the rough gray bull’s-eye of Coventry. I hovered over the island, expecting at any moment to see the face of Gideon leering up at me. But Gideon never appeared, and eventually I began to wonder why. In the dream, Coventry was a barren rock, with no buildings or caves for a soul to hide in. Where was he? I dropped lower, intending to make a careful search, but even as I did so, the mist sprang up, boiling off the lake; it obscured my view, and then I woke up to the sound of rain hissing against my bedroom windows.

  By dawn the rain had stopped. It was still overcast as I walked to work, but the forecast promised sunshine by midmorning, and it did look as though the clouds were thinning. As for myself, I decided I felt better than yesterday; and I told myself I would definitely call Dr. Eddington today, by afternoon at the latest.

  I came to the Factory and found Julie on the lot, sitting in her Cadillac, much as Reggie Beauchamps had been sitting in his truck the day before. Julie wasn’t smoking or listening to the radio, though, just sitting. She looked like she’d been crying.

  “Julie?” I said, approaching the car slowly so as not to startle her. She swung her head around lethargically and cranked her window down. Her eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed: she had been crying. “Julie…what happened?”

  Stupid question. Julie’s cheeks colored, and her lips twisted in the way they did when she was about to say something really sarcastic. But she didn’t say it. She took some deep breaths, and got her temper under control. “Nothing,” she finally told me. Then: “Reggie.”

  “Oh.”

  “As predicted.”

  “Oh.”

  There was an awkward pause, and then Julie said: “Do you feel like blowing off work today?”

  I wasn’t sure if this was a proposal or just a reference to my recent absenteeism. “Um…”

  “We could play hooky,” said Julie. “Just go somewhere, take the whole day. What do you think?” I must have glanced over at the shed, because she added: “Don’t worry about Dennis and Irwin; they don’t really need us.”

  “I know,” I replied, more readily than was tactful. “I mean…OK. Sure.”

  I climbed in the car. As I was pulling the door shut, Julie said: “Just one rule—we don’t talk about Reggie.” I was happy to agree to that. “So where should we go?” Julie asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Did you have someplace in mind?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to go into Seattle, and I’d like to get away from here, but beyond that…”

  “Mount St. Helens.” The words just popped out. Mount St. Helens was one of those local tourist attractions I’d always thought of going to without necessarily wanting to go there, if you know what I mean. It was just something to say.

  But Julie took the suggestion seriously. “OK,” she said, and nodded. “Mount St. Helens it is.” She leaned forward and keyed the ignition; the Cadillac started without a hitch. “Good omen,” Julie said, smiling. “Next stop, Mount St. Helens…”

  On Bridge Street, just before the west bridge, we passed Penny’s Buick going the other way.
I waved, and I think Penny saw me, but before she could wave back, Julie stepped on the gas.

  “Uh, Julie,” I said, as we sped across the bridge, “don’t you think we should have stopped and told Penny where we’re going?”

  “Nah,” said Julie. “This is our day out.”

  Because Julie had no road maps in her car—none for Washington state, anyway—we were forced to guess at our route: south on Interstate 5 until we saw a sign for Mount St. Helens National Park, then turn left, or possibly right (hopefully the sign would give a hint) onto the road that actually led to the volcano. It was a much longer drive than either of us anticipated, and we groaned aloud when, having finally reached the turn off, we discovered we still had another fifty miles to go. But it was good-natured groaning—we were still having fun, then.

  We stopped for lunch at a visitor center high up on the mountain road. A scenic overlook offered panoramic glimpses of our goal: Mount St. Helens, swept by storm clouds, drifted in and out of view at the end of a long river valley. It was beautiful but not especially inviting, and rather than drive closer we decided to stay where we were, in the sunshine. We got a blanket out of the Cadillac’s trunk and spread it on the grass, and sat down to watch the day go by.

  “This is nice,” Julie said, sighing contentedly. “Let’s stay here forever, Andrew.”

  “OK,” I replied. “I’ll build us a cabin.”

  “Yeah…” With another sigh she lay down, resting her head in my lap. I tried not to move—I was sitting back, propped on my arms, not a comfortable position to maintain for long, but I thought if I could just keep still, Julie might fall asleep.

  The weather betrayed me before my triceps could. The clouds obscured Mount St. Helens completely, and started heading our way; Julie sat up again, smelling a downpour in the wind. “We’d better head back,” she said. “If it rains like last night, the car’s not going to be happy.”

  It didn’t rain; the clouds remained in the mountains as we returned to the highway. There was, however, plenty of traffic: I-5 was stop-and-go from Olympia northwards, so the car wasn’t happy anyway, and soon neither were we. We were passing Tacoma when the Cadillac’s engine coughed and died. Julie quickly got it restarted, but that was only the first of several stalls, each one requiring greater efforts of resuscitation. After the fifth or sixth—we were alongside Boeing Field now, almost within sight of Seattle’s skyscrapers—we sat so long I thought for sure we were going to have to abandon the car and find a phone.

  But Julie wouldn’t hear of calling Triple A; with her luck, she knew which tow-truck driver they’d send to get us. “I will get out and push this car back to Autumn Creek if I have to,” she said. The Caddy seemed to accept that; it started on the next try, and ran smoothly the rest of the way home.

  We got back to Autumn Creek a little before five o’clock. I figured Julie would go straight to her apartment, or maybe swing by the Factory; instead, she found a parking space on Bridge Street outside her favorite bar.

  “I could really use a drink,” she said. “How about you?”

  The correct answer to this question, of course, was “No thank you.” Drinking was still against the rules of the house, and by this point in my life, experience argued against it as well: every other time I’d had alcohol—all three times with Julie—I’d ended up regretting it. Really, I knew better.

  So I have no excuse for the bad choice I made then. I suppose I could try to blame it on lingering shock at having witnessed Warren Lodge’s death; or on Adam, my father, and the other souls in the house, not one of whom spoke up to try to stop me—the pulpit was empty and had been all day, so that, sitting there in the car, I almost felt the way a singular person must feel, with no other selves to answer to. But these things don’t even hold up as explanations, much less as justifications. The real reason—not excuse—was Julie herself: the way I felt about her; the way I’d felt when she laid her head in my lap on the mountain; and the way I still hoped, given the right combination of circumstances, she might come to feel about me.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll have a drink with you.”

  We started with a pitcher of beer, then at Julie’s recommendation moved on to depth charges, mugs of lager into which shot glasses of bourbon had been dropped like underwater mines. By the time we switched to straight scotch, Julie had broken her own taboo and started telling me all about her breakup with Reggie Beauchamps. It was difficult to listen to. Julie got really worked up, railing about what a bastard Reggie was…and against all logic, I felt myself getting jealous, envying the intensity of her feelings for him, even though it was a negative intensity.

  Julie sensed my discomfort, and stopped. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I wasn’t supposed to talk about him.”

  “It’s all right,” I told her.

  “No, it isn’t. It upsets you.”

  “It doesn’t upset me,” I lied. “It’s just…I don’t understand. If he makes you as unhappy as you say, and you knew he was going to make you unhappy, after what happened the last time you were together…why did you hook up with him a second time? I mean isn’t the whole idea of going out with somebody that you at least think you’re going to enjoy it?”

  Julie gave me a rueful smile. “Now you’re being rational…”

  “Seriously, Julie—”

  “Seriously, Andrew…Look, I don’t mean to make it sound like it was all bad. I mean we did have some fun, before Reggie reverted to being a shit…”

  “OK, then,” I said. “I still don’t really get it, but OK.”

  Julie sighed. “You don’t get it because you’re more together than I am, Andrew. You’re smarter than me.” I made a face at that, but Julie insisted: “It’s true. You are more together than me. And I’m not the only person who says so. Penny thinks you’re really together…Penny thinks you’re great.”

  I frowned. “Why do you keep doing that, Julie?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Talking about Penny like there’s something romantic between us.”

  “Well, she does like you…”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Julie. Not like that.”

  “Come on, Andrew. I saw the way she kissed you.”

  “And I told you, that wasn’t her.”

  “Well it was one of her,” Julie argued. Then: “Honestly, you don’t think you’d make a good couple?”

  “Based on what? The fact that we’re both multiple?”

  “Well…” Julie shrugged. “You have to admit…”

  “Penny’s an unstable multiple, Julie. It’d be like dating a mental patient. I don’t know, maybe you should go out with her.”

  I was worried I’d crossed the line with that remark, but Julie responded with a grin, actually conceding the point. “Maybe,” she acknowledged. “Penny’s not my type, though.”

  “Well she’s not my type, either. I mean I think she’s basically a nice person, and once she gets through therapy I’m sure she’ll make a good girlfriend for somebody, but…not me.”

  “OK,” Julie said. She looked down at her glass, which was empty. “You want another round?”

  “I shouldn’t…Do you?”

  “I’ve got a bottle back at my place,” Julie suggested. “We could go there.”

  “OK.”

  We paid our tab and went outside. The sun was still out, which was very disorienting; I’d never been drunk in daylight before. I went to look at my watch to see how late it was, and stopped in surprise: my wrist was bare. Thinking I must have left the watch in the bar, I started to turn back.

  Then I noticed Julie standing beside her Cadillac. “Hey,” I called to her. “Julie, come on…you know you can’t drive now.”

  “Hmm?” She glanced at me, then waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry,” she said, “the fucking thing probably wouldn’t start, anyway.” Her mouth set in an angry line. “The fucking thing…shit car, shit boyfriend, shit business plan. I really am a complete fuckup, aren’t I?”r />
  “If you are, Julie,” I said, “it’s not because you have to be.” She didn’t seem to hear that, which, upon reflection, was just as well.

  “Fucking thing,” Julie cursed her car once more. Then she said: “Come on, let’s get out of here before I put some new dents in it.”

  We walked back to her building. Upstairs in her apartment, Julie made a beeline for the cupboard above her kitchen sink, taking down an unopened bottle of scotch. As she cracked the seal and filled two glasses, I thought about passing; I’d obviously already had my limit. But when she handed me a glass and said “Cheers,” I drank.

  Bringing the bottle with her, Julie went into her bedroom. I followed her.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” Julie announced.

  “Huh?”

  “I’m going to take a shower.” Julie set the bottle and her glass on top of the dresser, and got a robe from her closet. “Just hang out,” she told me. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  She headed off to the bathroom, leaving me to wonder whether it was really strange, her deciding to take a shower right now, or if it only seemed strange because I was drunk. Pondering the matter, I took a sip of my scotch, which all of a sudden tasted terrible. “Gah,” I exclaimed. “Enough.” I set the glass down firmly on top of the dresser.

  I sat on the futon and stared out the bedroom window. The sky outside was still bright, with just a hint of approaching nightfall. I checked Julie’s alarm clock: 6:47 P.M. Mrs. Winslow would have started dinner by now, I thought, and then I remembered that I hadn’t called to let her know where I was. She’d be worried.

  I berated myself for the oversight. I’d better call, tell her that I was all right…or maybe I should just go home. Of course, if I went home now, Mrs. Winslow would know that I’d been drinking. She probably wouldn’t say anything about it, but she’d be disappointed in me; she knew my father’s rules as well as I did. So maybe I shouldn’t go home. Maybe I should stay here awhile, sober up.

  Absently, I raised my arm and took another sip of scotch. This time it didn’t taste so bad—in fact, it didn’t taste like anything—but even as I swallowed I found myself staring at the glass in my hand, confused. I thought: what’s wrong with this picture?