Set This House in Order

by Matt Ruff

  The basement below was pitch black.

  I decided that wouldn’t do, either.

  “Lights!” I called, and a string of bulbs materialized above the stairs. In the basement proper, there was a bright white flicker of fluorescents coming on.

  I descended, leaving my own set of footprints in the dust.

  Imagine the cellar of an overstocked art museum, and you’ll have a pretty good idea what I found. The house basement was square, about the same size as the common room above it, with a cement floor and cinderblock walls. Arranged within this space, in a not-quite-chaotic pattern that reminded me of Chief Bradley’s picture wall, were scores of artworks in many diverse styles.

  The range of media was impressive, but in every case that I could see the subject matter was identical, the same subject matter as the painting I’d found under the bed in my father’s room: a woman—a mother—embracing her young daughter.

  “Andrew?” my father said. He’d come down the stairs after me, and looked around bewildered at the assembled artworks, the many faces of Althea. “What is this?”

  In answer I gestured to a section of wall where a hole had been broken through the cinderblock. Beyond it a rough-hewn tunnel sloped down out of sight. A steady draft blew from it, bringing a smell of lake water.

  “This is Gideon’s escape route,” I said. “That tunnel must go all the way to Coventry. My guess is he’s been using it to steal little bits of time for a while now, but he had to wait for a crisis to really exploit it.”

  “But…” After glancing briefly at the tunnel, my father went back to staring at the oils and watercolors, the charcoal sketches and crayon scrawls, the marble, bronze, and papier-mâché statuary. “What is this?”

  “A storeroom. This is where you put all the feelings about our mother that you couldn’t deal with, that none of you could deal with—except for Gideon, because he didn’t care. This is your blind spot, father.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I didn’t make this room.”

  “Yes, you did. You kept it hidden, even from yourself, but you built it. I’m surprised Dr. Grey didn’t find out. I’m sure she would have gotten it out of you eventually. But after she had her stroke, you were able to keep the secret…from everyone but Gideon.”

  “Gideon,” my father said darkly.

  “You shouldn’t feel too bad about him escaping. In a way he’s done us a favor. And it’s not that he’s stronger than you are, emotionally. It’s just, like you said, he’s so self-centered, he never needed our mother’s love in the first place. Which I guess is one way to cope with not getting it.”

  “I’ll give Gideon something to cope with. When I get my hands on him—”

  “No, father.”

  “No?”

  “Gideon isn’t your responsibility anymore. He’s mine.”

  “Wrong, Andrew—house discipline is my job.”

  “It was your job,” I said. “But that’s one of the things that’s going to have to change. If we really want lasting order, we can’t go on treating the body and the house as if they’re separate—we need one soul in charge of both. And that soul has to be me.”

  “Andrew—”

  “It can’t be you, father. You’ve done your part: you brought us out of the dark room, you built the house. But you’re tired now. And Gideon can’t run things, as much as he wants to—he’s too selfish, he’ll try to deny the rest of us, and that’ll never work.

  “So that leaves me. I think I’m ready to take charge now. All these feelings that you shut away down here, I think I could bear them. I’m not like Gideon; I do care, it hurts me that our mother didn’t love us, but not so much that I couldn’t learn to live with it. I can live with our history, father—all of it. And that, in the end, isn’t that really what you called me out for?”

  “I…” my father said, and stopped, looking suddenly very old. He sat down on the stairs. From the landing up above I could hear shuffling noises: other souls, growing curious.

  “Getting the body back from Gideon won’t be easy,” my father said. “He’s determined to hold on this time.”

  “We’ll see about that. But first…” I started moving around the basement, searching for something.

  “What is it, Andrew?”

  “I just remembered, there were two sets of footsteps on those stairs…and Gideon wasn’t the only one missing from the meeting. Here!” On the floor between two sculptures, I found a soul-shaped lump covered by a drop cloth. I bent down and drew the cloth aside.

  Xavier Reyes opened his eyes and sat up. “Hello,” he said. “Is it time for me to go to work again?”

  “No work today,” I told him. “But I do have a few questions…”

  “Mind the bones,” Chief Bradley says, and sets a steaming platter on the table.

  The chief has gone all-out for dinner: fresh-baked cornbread, long-grain and wild rice, boiled asparagus, and for the main course, some kind of white fish that has been dredged in cornmeal and pan-fried. It all looks remarkably unappetizing. Well, maybe not all—the rice looks OK. But as for the rest: the asparagus is limp, the cornbread is sweating lard on top and burned on the bottom, and the fish looks…crispy.

  Mouse is hungry, but after looking over the fare decides to pretend that she isn’t. Maybe she can fake an upset stomach—not such a stretch, after what happened this afternoon.

  But Gideon beats her to it: “Actually,” he says, looking warily at the fish platter, “my gut is still pretty shaky from that chili…”

  “Oh, the fish isn’t spicy,” Chief Bradley assures him. “Just a little pepper in the coating is all.”

  “Even so,” says Gideon. “I think I’ll just have some rice…”

  Maledicta, watching from the cave mouth, makes an observation. Mouse listens carefully, then speaks up in a loud voice: “No, Andrea, you can’t do that!”

  Gideon glances at her sharply. “Excuse me?”

  “You, you can’t just have rice,” Mouse says, faltering a bit. “Not after Chief Bradley went to so much trouble, catching these fish for us…”

  Chief Bradley chuckles. “To be honest, I caught them at the Main Street market,” he says. “I don’t think I’d serve the kind of fish that come out of Sportsman’s Lake to guests.”

  “Well these look delicious!” Mouse says. Picking up the spatula from the platter, she lifts two pieces of the fish onto her own plate. She tries to serve Gideon as well, but he blocks her arm.

  “No thank you,” he says.

  “Come on, Andrea,” says Mouse. “You don’t want to be rude…” She lunges with the spatula but he grabs her wrist. Squeezing hard, he forces her arm back, then twists it until the fish drops back into the serving platter.

  “Really,” Gideon says, giving her wrist another painful squeeze before releasing it. “I don’t want any.”

  “No one’s going to force you to eat it, of course,” Chief Bradley says, sounding put out. Then, turning his head and smiling: “That just leaves more for you and me, right…Penny, is it?”

  “Actually,” says Gideon, “she likes to be called Mouse.”

  “Mouse, then…how about some asparagus to go with that?”

  Chief Bradley sees to it that Mouse has generous helpings of asparagus and cornbread, then sets to work serving himself. Gideon hogs the long-grain and wild rice, heaping it on his plate so there is no room for anything else.

  Mouse takes a bite of fish. It’s dreadful—sand-coated rubber, with a hint of Tabasco—but rather than gulp it down, she holds it on her tongue as if savoring it.

  “Mmmph!” she says suddenly. She reaches into her mouth and pulls out something long and slender. “You weren’t kidding about the bones.” She holds it up so Gideon can see it. “Like a little spear.”

  “Yeah, you want to be careful about swallowing any of those,” Chief Bradley says.

  “I certainly wouldn’t want to get one stuck in my throat,” says Mouse. She sets the bone on the edge of her plate,
sticking out over the rim, pointed at Gideon.

  “So what do you do for a living, Mouse?” Chief Bradley asks.

  “I’m a computer programmer,” Mouse replies. She pauses to spit out another bone, then adds: “Andrea is a janitor for the same company.”

  “A janitor?” says Chief Bradley. “I thought you said you were an office manager, Andrea.”

  “I am,” says Gideon. “That is, I was, and I will be again soon.” Glaring at Mouse: “The janitor’s job was just temporary. I’ve already given my notice. I won’t be going back.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know,” Chief Bradley says. “My aunt was a cleaning woman for many years.”

  “I’m not ashamed of it,” Gideon says. “It’s just not something I’d choose to spend my life on.”

  Mouse takes another bite of fish and arranges another pair of bones on the rim of her plate. By now the pepper in the fish coating has begun to sting, and she has to drink something. Chief Bradley has poured them all glasses of water and glasses of white wine. Maledicta recommends the wine, but more alcohol is the last thing Mouse needs right now and she decides to stick to water. Then she notices Gideon is only drinking water, too.

  “What about a toast?” she says, picking up her wineglass after all. “To the sale of the property.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” says Chief Bradley. He raises his wineglass, and Gideon is forced to do the same. They toast, and drink.

  Chief Bradley drinks, anyway. Mouse only pretends to, and Gideon takes no more than a perfunctory sip…at first. When Gideon goes to return his glass to the table, however, instead of setting it down he transfers it from his left hand to his right, brings it back up to his lips, and drains it in one quick swallow. Then he sets the glass down for real, and—seemingly unaware of what has just transpired—picks up his spoon in his left hand and resumes eating rice.

  Mouse, watching this out of the corner of her eye, feels a thrill of elation. She considers proposing a second toast but decides that would be too obvious. Then Maledicta offers another suggestion.

  “So Chief Bradley,” Mouse says, “what are you going to do with the cottage? I guess you’ll have to tear it down.”

  “Probably,” Chief Bradley says. “As I was telling Andrea at lunch, if I could find a way of fixing the foundation without knocking the cottage down, I would, but—”

  “What about taking the cottage apart deliberately? You can do that, can’t you? Disassemble it, and then rebuild it on a new foundation?”

  “I’d thought about that,” the chief says, nodding. “I think it would be difficult, and expensive…but then so is building a whole new house. And I’d really like to preserve the cottage if I could, for sentimental reasons…”

  “Of course,” says Mouse, “if you were going to do that, you’d have to do it soon, before the cottage falls over on its own.”

  “Well, hopefully there’s still some time before that happens.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Mouse touches a finger to the bruise on her cheek. “When Andrea and I were out there this morning, I thought for sure it was going to collapse on top of us.”

  There’s a clink as Gideon drops his spoon.

  “What do you mean?” Chief Bradley says. “What happened?”

  “Well—” says Mouse.

  “Nothing happened,” Gideon overrides her. “Mouse is exaggerating.” His voice is controlled and pleasant, but his eyes flash a warning. Mouse almost loses her nerve, but then she sees that while Gideon is focusing on her, his right hand is reaching out independently for the wine bottle.

  “Exaggerating about what?” Chief Bradley wants to know. “How did you hurt yourself, Mouse?”

  “Penny,” Mouse corrects him, with renewed confidence. “I really actually prefer Penny.”

  “Penny…how did you get hurt? What happened?”

  “We were up in the attic. Andrea was…looking through some old things, and all at once I got thrown off my feet. I thought the cottage was going to fall down right there.”

  “You went up in the attic? Andrea, are you crazy?”

  “I told her it was dangerous,” says Mouse, “but she really wanted to see her old room.”

  “When you say you got thrown off your feet,” the chief asks her, “do you mean that the floor moved?”

  “I’m not really sure—it happened so suddenly.” Mouse turns to Gideon, who is drinking from his refilled wineglass. “What do you remember, Andrea? Did the floor move?”

  Gideon smiles nastily at her. “You know, Mouse,” he says, “I don’t even remember you falling down—I guess I was in my head at the time. But are you sure it wasn’t just a case of you being clumsy? You know how careless you are.”

  “I suppose it could have been clumsiness,” says Mouse, matching his smile, “but don’t forget about the bracing planks—”

  “How did you hurt your hands, Andrea?” Chief Bradley interrupts.

  “My hands?” says Gideon. “I—” He stops; in glancing at the scabs on his knuckles, he suddenly notices the wineglass. “My hands,” he repeats, and throws Mouse a look of what might almost be grudging admiration. “Well,” he says, “I guess I’ve been careless too…” And he stares at his traitorous right hand until the hand lowers itself to the table and sets down the wineglass.

  “Andrea?” Chief Bradley says.

  Gideon raises his right hand again, flexing the fingers to test his control over them. Satisfied, he turns his attention back to the chief: “I’m sorry, Chief Bradley, it’s been an emotional day. You understand: all the memories about what my stepfather did to me…”

  “Of course,” says Chief Bradley, cheeks coloring.

  “And of course you’re right that it was stupid of us to go up in the attic,” Gideon continues. “I don’t know what possessed me, to do something so idiotic. But despite what Mouse says, I really don’t think there was any harm done. Besides,” he adds, “I seem to recall, when we were dickering about a fair price for the property, you told me several times that you expected the cottage to be a total loss.”

  “Well that’s true, Andrea, but obviously if I can keep the cottage intact I’d prefer it.”

  “Well, it is intact—at least it was still standing the last time I saw it, and I have no intention of going back to it again, so what happens to it now is up to you…Did you get the money?”

  “For the down payment?” Chief Bradley nods. “Yes, that was no problem.”

  “In cash?”

  “Yes. I was going to give it to you after we ate—”

  “Why don’t you give it to me now?” Gideon says. “I’d like to get our business out of the way, and then we can…enjoy the rest of the meal.”

  “All right,” says Chief Bradley. He pushes his chair back. “Come with me.”

  He gets up and heads through the living room towards the back of the house. Gideon goes to follow him, but as he’s leaving the table he whispers in Mouse’s ear: “If you’ve fucked up this deal for me, you’ll be sorry.”

  Gideon catches up to the chief at the door to the back hallway, and Mouse hears Chief Bradley ask: “What was that she was saying about the bracing planks?”

  They are gone for several minutes. By the time they come back, Mouse has finished her fish and has slipped both her asparagus and her cornbread back onto their respective serving plates.

  “So you think it could be done by the end of June?” Gideon is saying, as he and Chief Bradley return to their seats.

  “Possibly,” Chief Bradley tells him. “We’ll have to see what Oscar says, when he gets back from his vacation. He’s pretty well-connected in the county, and I’ve seen him work miracles cutting through red tape before, so I imagine it could all be settled that quickly.”

  “Good,” says Gideon. “With the money you’ve given me tonight, plus whatever other savings I have, I should be fine through July. And you”—he looks at Mouse—“you can go back to Washington now. Say good-bye to everybody f
or me.” He picks up his spoon, and takes a big mouthful of rice.

  “You do understand, Andrea,” Chief Bradley says, “I can’t guarantee it will happen that fast. I’m as anxious as you are to get this done quickly, but until we talk to Oscar…Andrea?”

  Gideon’s jaw has frozen in midchew. For a moment he just looks confused, but then his cheeks puff out, and his eyes begin to dart around in alarm.

  “What’s the matter, Andrea?” says Mouse. “Is something wrong with your food?”

  He looks at her, then down at the rim of her plate, and finally at his own plate. His eyes go wide as he spies at least a dozen fish bones mixed in with the long-grain and wild rice.

  Retching, Gideon opens his mouth and lets the half-chewed mass of rice fall out. He makes a grab for his water glass, only to spot another fish bone floating in the water.

  “You cunt!” he says, rice and saliva spraying from his lips. “You CUNT!” He half-turns in his seat, arm cocked to fling the water glass into Mouse’s face, but before he can make good on his intention something catches in his windpipe. He gasps, then whoops in terror; the glass slips harmlessly from his grasp, and his hand claps to his throat.

  “Jesus Christ,” Chief Bradley says, “she’s choking,” and starts to get up. But Gideon grunts “No!” and the chief, thinking this is addressed to him, pauses halfway out of his seat.

  “No…you…don’t!” Gideon says. The cords of his neck stand out, and his face turns red; while his left hand continues to clutch at his throat, his right hand, turning traitor again, reaches across his plate. “No!” Gideon hisses at it, but the hand, trembling with exertion, keeps reaching, until its fingers close once more around the wineglass. This time, though, the hand doesn’t try to lift the glass; it just clenches.

  “Oh God,” says Mouse, guessing what comes next. The bowl of the wineglass cracks with a dry-stick snapping sound, then shatters; the hand continues to close, making a bloody fist.

  Gideon screams. He screams, but still he hangs on, not giving up the body, until the traitor hand comes up in front of his face and opens to show a palm studded with broken glass. The sight is too much for him; he shrinks back, trying to escape his own hand, and then his chair tips over backwards.