The House

by Bentley Little

  Morbid, perhaps, but at least it made the time go by.

  She glanced once more around the room, at her coworkers and peers, and thought, not for the first time, that she didn't belong here. She'd been hired by Automated Interface just out of college, had worked her way up the corporate ladder and had held her current position for the past five years, but she still sometimes felt like an imposter, a child playing dress-up who had somehow successfully fooled adults into believing that she was one of them.

  Did she have anything in common with these people at all?

  No. It was a fake plastic yuppie world she lived in, and it was one of the cruel tricks of fate that she happened to have an aptitude for this business, that she happened to be good at this job.

  She'd grown up far differently, in a rural town south of the Bay Area, at the tail end of the hippie movement, and her parents had raised both her and Josh nontraditionally, teaching them a reverence for nature, emphasizing individuality, all the counterculturecliches . The obsession with appearances, the focus on finances and materialism that were so much a part of the lives of her peers were completely foreign to her. At the same time, she recognized the need to fit in, and she had no problem putting on the mask of conformity, buying the right clothes, ordering the right food, doing everything necessary to facilitate her created persona of successful businesswoman.

  It was why she was where she was today.

  It was funny how life turned out. Her parents had been killed in a freak auto accident her senior year in high school, and amid the devastating grief and bottomless sense of loss, she'd been surprised to learn that her parents had actually written a will, and that they'd specifically earmarked funds for her and Josh's college education.

  She never would have suspected such a straight request from either her mother or her father, but it was there in black and white, and the lawyer said that the money could only be used for books and tuition. Anything else, and the money would be donated to Green peace.

  So, in a way, her hippie parents were responsible for her becoming the business executive she was today.

  She had the feeling they'd be proud of her, though.

  A half hour later, Hoffman finally finished talking, the meeting finally ended, and the various department heads went back to their offices. Tom Jenson, the division development coordinator, asked her if she wanted to go out for drinks after work, but she begged off, saying that she wanted to get a head start on the weekend.

  "I don't blame you," he said. "It's been a crappy week."

  Laurie smiled. "See you Monday."

  She left work an hour early, walking downtown. A

  cable car filled with Japanese tourists clattered past her, and she waved at one man who snapped her picture.

  As she did each Friday, she stopped off to see her brother at The Shire. He'd been managing the bookstore for three years now, and it was nice to see him finally find a job that he liked, but recently he'd been delving a little too deeply into Eastern religion and philosophy books.

  An interest he'd inherited from their mom.

  It was one of the reasons she liked to check up on him.

  Josh was helping a customer when she walked into the shop, and she waved at him and busied herself with the magazines while he talked with the customer about the works of Carlos Casteneda .

  The customer finally bought a book and left, and Laurie walked over to the counter. "How goes it?" she asked.

  He looked at her. "I was about to ask you the same question."

  "That bad, huh?"

  He nodded.

  She placed her purse down on the counter and sighed.

  "It's been a long week."

  "Tell me about it."

  She described the petty infighting and office politics that had been indulged in since the division's recent restructuring, moved on to the boring meetings and endless memos, and finished with a lawsuit being filed against the company by an ex-clerk whom she had hired.

  "Sounds like a party."

  "Yeah. Right."

  "How are things with you and Matt?"

  "Fine. No problems there."

  "You could always get another job."

  "No. It's not the work, it's . . . it's the position. Ever since I took that promotion, I've had to spend all my time dealing with human resources rather than what's important."

  He smiled. " 'Human resources'?"

  "I admit it. I've been corrupted. I'm a corporate shill."

  "Like I said, you could find another job."

  She shook her head.

  "You're under a lot of stress. That's your main problem. I have this book--"

  "Josh."

  "I'm serious. It's about spiritual awareness and energy management. There's a lack of spirituality in your life.

  That's at the root of your problems. It's what's at the root of most of the world's problems."

  "I really don't want to hear it right now."

  "Laurie--"

  "Look, I'm glad you have a hobby, and it's really interesting and everything, but I just don't believe that I

  can walk into your store and buy a five-dollar vanity press book and find out answers to questions that the greatest minds in the history of the world couldn't solve."

  "You don't have to be hostile."

  "Yes, Josh, I do. I do because every time I come in here, you're trying to shove some new religion down my throat. I just want you to be my brother and give me a shoulder to cry on and not try to convert me all the time."

  "You're just too closed-minded."

  "If Albert Einstein didn't know the meaning of life, then neither do you."

  He turned away, and she reached out and grabbed his arm, sighing. "I'm sorry. It's been a boring day and a long week, and I didn't mean to take it out on you."

  He turned, smiled wryly. "What are brothers for?"

  She hugged him. "I just need to go home, take a hot bath, relax with Matt, and watch a crummy movie." She picked up her purse from the counter. "I'll call you later, okay?"

  He nodded.

  "And next time we'll discuss your wacky religions."

  He laughed. "Deal."

  She waved good-bye and walked outside onto the crowded sidewalk. She'd taken BART to work this morning but decided to walk home. It wasn't that far, and she needed the exercise. She also wanted some time to think.

  At the corner, at the stoplight, a convertible pulled next to her, its driver idly flipping through stations on a radio loud enough to be heard halfway down the block:

  rap, dance, metal, alternative. The light changed, the convertible took off, and as she walked across the street she heard the fading drone of a currently hot rock band.

  She missed the music of the seventies. To the mainstream public, it was the decade of disco, but she'd been into fusion and progressive rock, movements on the edge of the mainstream that took chances, expanded boundaries, celebrated artistic ambition and musical ability.

  Everyone now had been ground down into mediocrity, afraid to shoot too high, afraid of being ridiculed as pretentious, and the result was a music scene that was terminally banal.

  Art.

  That's what she respected.

  Which was why she was so happy with Matt.

  They'd been going together for a year, living together for the past four months, and while the situation at work had been up and down, she'd never been happier at home.

  Matt, she thought, was a true artist. He created his work not for money, not for fame, not for recognition by his peers.

  He did it because he had to.

  He didn't look or dress the part either, and that's what had sold her on his integrity. There were two looks for artists in San Francisco: designer duds and an up-to-the minute coif, or thrift-store clothes and uncombed hair.

  Matt looked more like a sales clerk or a civil servant-- average--and the fact that he didn't feel obligated to play into the media's conception of an artiste made her think he was the real thing.

/>   In actuality, he did work as a sales clerk. At Montgomery Ward's. Cameras and Luggage. He used the money he earned at his nine-to-five to fund his art: films he shot in and around Golden Gate Park with "found"

  actors--people he picked off the street to read his scripts. When he completed a film, he copied it onto videotape, passed the tapes out to friends and coworkers, and told them to copy the film and pass it on as well. Most of the people who watched his work, she knew, were not even aware that he was the filmmaker.

  He always acted as though this were just some low-budget movie he'd discovered and wanted to share with them.

  She found that charming.

  Matt's Mustang was in the driveway when she arrived home, and her spirits lifted as she hurried across the small yard and up the porch steps. The front door was unlocked--as usual--and she opened the door and went inside. She was about to pull her Ricky Ricardo routine and yell "Honey, I'm home!" but instead she decided to surprise him, and she moved quietly through the living room.

  There was the sound of someone peeing in the bathroom, and she walked over to the open door --where a nude blond woman was sitting on the toilet, legs spread.

  Matt, her artist, was kneeling before the toilet, his head in the woman's lap.

  There was no silent second of shock, no delay of any kind. She ran instantly into the bathroom and yanked Matt up by his hair. "Get out!" she screamed. "Get the hell out of my house!"

  His erect penis was bouncing around comically and the woman was frantically trying to recover her clothes, but Laurie did not let up. She dug her fingers into Matt's upper arm and shoved him as hard as she could into the hall, picking his clothes up from the floor next to the tub and throwing them after him. She did not touch the woman but continued screaming all the while, anguished, angry invectives that included both of them.

  The woman, pants and T-shirt now on, ran past her out of the bathroom clutching panties, bra, nylons, shoes.

  Laurie was crying. She didn't want to, wanted to wait until after they were gone, wanted to appear only mad, not hurt, but she couldn't help it and she was sobbing as she screamed, "Fuck you, Matt! Fuck you, you pervert!

  Fuck you!"

  Still only half-dressed, the two of them ran down the hallway, through the living room, out the front door.

  They did not bother to close the door behind them, and Laurie caught a glimpse of Matt scrambling into his car, fumbling with his keys, before she slammed the door shut and dead-bolted it.

  She slumped to the floor, leaning against the hard cold wood. It had all happened so fast. One minute she'd been happy, excited, ready to relax with Matt and begin her weekend; the next, her entire life had been turned upside down and it felt as though her guts had been scooped out as she realized that the man she loved had betrayed her. She hadn't had time to think, to absorb the shock, she'd simply been thrown in the water and forced to swim.

  She sat there, crying, and after a while the tears stopped. The hurt had not lessened, but it had stabilized.

  It was no longer an intruder but a part of her, and she could deal with it. She stood, wiped her eyes, wiped her face, and went back down the hall to the bathroom.

  Walking over to the toilet, she grimaced with distaste and flushed, almost gagging.

  She washed her hands in the sink, scrubbing hard, then walked into the bedroom, slumping onto the bed.

  She was still shaking with anger, but beneath the anger she felt hollow, empty. Her thoughts were rushing a mile a minute, scenes from the past months with Matt running through her head as she tried to determine whether she should have seen this coming.

  She sometimes thought it would be easier if she were a lesbian. At least she understood the female mind set.

  And she wouldn't have to put up with asshole men who tried to tell her what to think and how to act and then betrayed her.

  She leaned back onto the mattress.

  Lesbian.

  She remembered when she was little, promising to marry a girl who lived . . . where? Next door? Down the street? She couldn't remember. She couldn't recall the girl's name either, but she remembered the way she'd looked, dirty and thin, pretty in a natural, unaware, unself-conscious way. Even now, the memory stirred her, and Laurie sat up again, shaking her head.

  What was wrong with her?

  Maybe she was attracted to women. Maybe she'd been repressing her true feelings all these years and that was why she'd consistently picked losers, why she'd failed in her relationships with men each and every time.

  No. She thought of Matt's blond bimbo, naked, frantically putting on her clothes, and there was no interest whatsoever, not even a subliminal attraction, only a white-hot anger and a burning core of hate. She'd always considered herself a nonviolent person, a pacifist, but she understood now how people could kill.

  If there'd been a gun in the house, she probably would've shot both of them.

  She sighed, thought for a moment, then stood and began rummaging through the closet and the drawers of the dresser, taking everything of Matt's and tossing it onto the floor. She gathered it all up, took it out to the living room, threw it on the couch, then went systematically through the rest of the house until she'd found everything he owned.

  She threw it all out into the yard, everything, even his art, heaving his camera as hard as she could on the ground, stomping on his precious videotapes before tossing the shattered cassettes onto the grass. The driveway, the yard, the sidewalk were all covered with clothes and books, electronic equipment and CD's, and a group of kids playing baseball in the street had stopped to stare at her, but she didn't care, and she slammed the door again and locked it, already feeling better.

  She'd leave it overnight, give him a chance to come back for it. But if his shit was still there in the morning, she'd call the Children's Hospital or some other charity and have them haul it away.

  It was a morning without fog, a morning without clouds, and Laurie stood on the stoop staring up at the sky. It was rare in San Francisco that the sun shone this early in the day, that blue showed through before noon, and despite everything that had happened recently, the uncharacteristically good weather brightened her spirits, made her feel, for the first time in over a week, slightly hopeful.

  Tia Guiterrez , the young woman next door, waved from her porch. "Beautiful day, huh?"

  Laurie nodded. "For once."

  "You should call in sick, take the day off."

  "You should, too."

  Tia smiled. "I am."

  Laurie smiled back. It had been a long time since she'd taken a day off. And she had accumulated plenty of vacation hours. But, no, she couldn't. There was too much work to do. There was theMieger account to go over: the customized software that the manufacturer had ordered had apparently not been satisfactory, and now Mieger was pushing for upgrades that he wanted for free and done yesterday. And she was supposed to chair a meeting on flexible benefits packages at three o'clock.

  She couldn't take off today.

  But she could walk to work. She went back inside, checked her hair in the mirror, popped a few vitamin C's, and picked up her purse and briefcase. Stepping out of the house and locking the door behind her, she waved to Tia, still on the porch, and started off. The day was indeed beautiful, and the sun felt good on her skin, warm and fresh and invigorating. People seemed friendlier on a day like this, and she said more hellos to strangers in the next hour than she had in the past six months.

  She was twenty minutes late by the time she reached the office, but no one noticed and no one cared, and she told Mara to hold all of her calls for the next hour while she reviewed the Mieger file.

  She didn't review the file, though. She seemed to be having difficulty concentrating, and after reading and rereading the same memo four or five times, Laurie finally gave it up and walked over to the window, looking between the buildings at the bay.

  What was she doing here?

  It was a question she asked herself periodically but for whi
ch she could not seem to find a satisfactory answer.

  There comes a point, she thought, when what you do as a temporary stopgap until you "find" yourself hardens into your actual personality. The person you pretended to be, while waiting to discover who you are, becomes the real you.

  Was that what had happened to her?

  Yes.

  She'd been the responsible one, and she'd tried to take care of Josh after their parents had died, to provide for him, to give him as stable a life as she could under the circumstances. She'd always intended to move on at some point, to abandon this job and this lifestyle once her brother settled down and got himself established, but Josh never had settled down, never had gotten himself established, and she'd been promoted onward and upward and at some point it had just not made sense to think about quitting and doing something else.

  So here she was.

  To top it off, she was now all alone. The foundation of the stable loving relationship in which she'd thought she'd been involved had turned out to be built on quicksand, and she was going to have to start over from scratch--although, after all this time, she was not sure that she still knew how.

  Laurie sighed, stared once again out the window, looking down at the street and its tiny toy cars below. Her period was two days late. That's what she was really concerned about, that's what was really on her mind.

  And while a baby would certainly force a change in her life, she did not want to be carrying Matt's child. She wanted nothing more to do with that sick loser, and despite the fact that her biological clock was winding down, she was not sure that she wanted to be a mother at all. She didn't have any burning desire to reproduce, no deep-seated need to cuddle with something small and cute and fetchingly defenseless, no inclination toward spending the next eighteen years of her life catering to the material needs and overseeing the intellectual and emotional development of another human being.