Set This House in Order Page 10

  “I’m saying that if you upset her by trying to tell her something about herself that she doesn’t want to hear, she won’t hear it—she’ll call out another soul to protect her from the information. And if you keep upsetting her, the protector may decide you’re a threat, and try to get her away from you. Only she won’t know what’s going on—she’ll just wake up one day with a new job, maybe even living in a new city, and she’ll have to cope with that change without understanding why it happened.”

  “Well,” Julie says, sounding reproached. “I wasn’t…I’m not suggesting you should just drop it on her. My idea was that you’d get to know her first, make friends, then maybe share your own history with her. Tell her what things were like for your father and the others before the house got built—”

  “Describe the symptoms?”

  “Well…yes, actually. You could talk about how your father used to lose time, tell her about those lists he used to keep…and I mean, don’t push, but if she says to you, ‘Hey, that sounds like my life,’ then—”

  “I still don’t think it’s a very good idea, Julie. And I really wish you would have asked me about this before you hired her. I mean, speaking of dropping things on people…you’ve known about this for a week already, but the first I heard about it was this morning, from Dennis.”

  “I know, I know…I should have told you. I almost did, but then I thought, I didn’t want to prejudice your thinking.”

  “‘Prejudice my thinking’? What does that mean?”

  “It means…I wanted to see what would happen if you met her without being told about the MPD in advance. If you’d pick up on it without me pointing it out.”

  “But you said it was obvious. Were you worried that maybe you were wrong, that she wasn’t multiple after all?”

  “No, I was sure about that, I just thought—”

  “What? That it would be fun to surprise me?”

  “Andrew!”

  “I’m sorry, Julie,” Andrew says, “but I’m really…it bothers me a lot that you would do this. This isn’t a game. It’s not a, not a virtual-reality simulation.”

  “Andrew…”

  “It isn’t fair,” Andrew insists. “Not to me, and especially not to her. I really don’t know what you were thinking, Julie. I really don’t.”

  “Andrew!…Andrew, wait!”

  He is leaving the tent. Hugging the canvas wall for concealment, Mouse slides forward and peers around the tent’s front corner in time to catch his exit. She sees right away that the walkout is mostly theater; instead of storming off, Andrew stops just outside and waits for Julie to catch up to him. When Julie does, she is contrite, though Mouse wonders if the contrition isn’t theater, too.

  “All right, Andrew,” Julie says, and lays a hand on his forearm—the same flirting, conciliatory gesture Mouse saw her use on Rudy Krenzel. “All right, I fucked up, I admit it, and I’m sorry. Really. But she is working here now. I can’t take that back. And I hope you aren’t going to punish her for my mistake.”

  “Of course I won’t punish her. But Julie—”

  Julie tugs lightly on his arm, brushing it against the front of her bosom. “Just work with her,” she pleads. “If the MPD never comes up, that’s fine. If you two don’t hit it off, that’s fine too—I won’t push anymore, I promise. But if—just if—it turns out that she does want help, that she’s ready for help, I hope that—”

  “I’m not going to make any promises, Julie.”

  “And I won’t ask you to. We’ll just, we’ll see what happens, OK?” She smiles at him and bats her eyelashes, and when he doesn’t respond she answers the question herself: “OK. So…” She gives his arm a last tug and releases it. “I’d better go see how she’s doing. I told Dennis to set her up in the spare tent with another test project, but she’s probably finished by now.”

  Julie kisses Andrew on the cheek, which seems to startle him, then turns and walks away, leaving him standing there, looking exasperated and more than a little confused. He watches her go; Mouse watches him watching.

  Mouse is fascinated by the conversation she has just overheard, even though there is much of it that she doesn’t understand. For the second time today, she considers letting down her guard; she imagines stepping out of her hiding place, tapping Andrew on the shoulder, and asking: What was that all about? Were you talking about me just now?

  This time it is more than an idle thought, but she still doesn’t do it. She hangs back, lurking, and a moment later she witnesses something else interesting.

  As Julie passes out of earshot, Andrew’s face changes. His expression changes, she should say, but the transformation seems more fundamental than that. Andrew’s confusion evaporates; his look of mild annoyance becomes something much more severe, and much darker: contempt bordering on loathing.

  “Cunt,” Andrew says. “You meddling cunt.”

  Then he blinks, and he is once again his boyish, befuddled, lightly exasperated self. “Oh Julie,” he mutters. He cocks his head, as if listening, and adds: “Be quiet.”

  “Mouse?” Julie calls, from elsewhere in the Factory. “Mouse, where are you?”

  Mouse, gone again, doesn’t answer. Instead Maledicta and Malefica retreat, by turns, to a hiding place they scoped out earlier: a storage-and-supply tent filled with stacks of boxes, boxes that are easily rearranged into a makeshift fortress of solitude. They go in there and wall themselves away. Malefica pulls up a particularly sturdy box to sit on; Maledicta lights a cigarette.

  They stay in the fortress of solitude for a long time, thinking.

  THIRD BOOK: ANDREW

  7

  The first two e-mails were waiting for me when I came to work on Tuesday morning.

  I’d already been expecting it to be an emotionally trying week, because of my confrontation with Julie the afternoon before. This wasn’t the first time Julie had tried to complicate my life without checking to see if I’d mind. She liked volunteering people for things; she liked surprises, too. She didn’t like asking permission, or at least didn’t always seem to recognize when permission was necessary. And whenever she was called to account for it—whenever someone objected to being involved in some scheme or intrigue against their will—her reaction was consistent, so consistent that Adam had made up a name for it. He called it the Julie Sivik Patented Three-Phase Response to a Good Ass-Chewing.

  Phase one, which lasted approximately twenty-four hours, was Contrition. Upon being informed that she’d overstepped the bounds of friendship, Julie would turn meek and conciliatory, so wounded by her own transgression that the friend she’d presumed upon might actually start to feel guilty, as if he were the one who’d gone too far. But even as the first doubts set in, Julie would shift abruptly to phase two, which Adam called Balancing the Scales. During this phase, which lasted anywhere from two to five days, Julie would herself become hypercritical, losing her temper over minor slights and mistakes that she ordinarily wouldn’t even have noticed. The worst thing about phase two was that there was no way to get Julie to see the connection between it and phase one. If, a couple days from now, Julie were to yell at me for tying my shoelaces the wrong way, and I said to her, “You know, Julie, the real reason you’re angry is because you feel guilty,” she not only wouldn’t agree, she wouldn’t even understand what I was talking about. I knew, because I’d tried it before.

  Phase three, Reconciliation, was a milder version of phase one. At some point Julie would turn nice again, and spend a day or two making up, without ever admitting in any way that there was anything to make up for. And then it would be over, at least until next time—although if Penny kept working at the Reality Factory, next time might not be that long in coming.

  Yesterday afternoon, when Julie had pleaded with me to at least think about helping Penny, I’d told her I wouldn’t make any promises. I hadn’t actually said no, though, and I knew that Julie was likely to interpret that—the lack of a flat refusal—as if I had promised. So of course I had
spent some time thinking about helping Penny—most of last night, in fact—and the more I thought about it, the more sure I was that I couldn’t do it.

  I’d already told Julie some of the reasons: I wasn’t a psychotherapist; even if I had been, it wouldn’t have done any good unless Penny was ready to be helped. But the biggest reason was one that I hadn’t mentioned, because it sounded too mean to say out loud: I didn’t like Penny.

  I don’t mean that I disliked her. I mean that my feelings towards her were neutral: neither good nor bad, positive or negative. She was just someone who, if I’d met her by chance, I wouldn’t have been especially interested in. Of course that very disinterest was somewhat negative, coming from me: usually I am interested in new people. That I was neutral about Penny was kind of a strike against her—at least that’s how Julie would likely see it. But it was how I felt; I couldn’t help it.

  And because it was how I felt, I couldn’t help her. I hadn’t been born yet when my father started building the house, but I’d heard enough stories about it to know that it was a difficult, painful process—and not just for him. I love my father, but Aunt Sam says he was hell to be around in those early days, and that’s not even counting the times he fought Gideon for control of the body. To stick by him through that rough period, you had to be either a true friend, or family, or a saint like Mrs. Winslow, or a professional like Dr. Grey. A just-met acquaintance with neutral feelings could never have hacked it.

  “So fuck it, then,” said Adam, as I came in the Factory gates and crossed the lot to the shed. “Penny’s not your problem. You didn’t bring her here, and you didn’t promise to help her.”

  “I know, but Julie—”

  “Oh, Julie,” Adam sneered. “That’s right, I forgot, we can’t ever disappoint Julie.”

  “She’s been very kind to us.”

  “Kind to us. Right. And that’s why you’re still thinking about this—because Julie’s so kind.”

  Inside the shed I made a beeline to my tent and switched on my computer. I had two e-mail messages, both from someone named Thread. They’d been posted late last night, after midnight; the subject heading of the first was Dear Mr. Gage, and the second was untitled. Thinking that this was probably junk mail, I clicked on the first message, and red:

  Subject: Dear Mr. Gage,

  Date: Tue, 22 Apr 1997 00:33:58

  From: Thread

  To: housekeeper@pacbell.net

  Dear Mr. Gage,

  I am writing to ask if you would please help Penny find herself. I know it is a lot to ask--you don’t know us at all-but she has been afraid for such a very long time and it would really help if she understood what was going on. Please help us.

  t.

  The follow-up message, sent less than three minutes later, read:

  Subject:

  Date: Tue, 22 Apr 1997 00:36:22

  From: Thread

  To: housekeeper@pacbell net

  one more thing asshole if you hurt her we will fuck you up like you wouldt believe

  This may sound strange, but it was the first message that disturbed me the most, probably because it was more personal, addressed to me by name. “How did they get our e-mail address?” I wondered.

  “Guess,” said Adam, and when I didn’t, he went on: “Thank you, Julie, for being so kind to us…”

  “Adam!” I said. “Adam, don’t, I’m sure Julie didn’t—”

  “There’s someone outside the tent,” Adam said.

  I sat up in my chair, listening; there might have been a noise, a faint shuffling of feet. “Hello?” I called out. No one answered. I got up, tiptoed towards the front of the tent, put my ear to the entrance flap for a moment, then shrugged and stepped outside.

  There was nobody there, at least not where I could see them. “Hello?” I called again. From the tent next door, Dennis hollered: “What?” “Nothing,” I hollered back. I circled the outside of my tent, checking carefully around each corner, finding no one. I came back around to the front and started to go back inside, and that was when Julie said “Hey.”

  “Julie!” I spun around; somehow she had appeared right behind me. “How…how are you doing?”

  “Good,” Julie said, smiling. She laid a soft hand on my arm. “And you?”

  “I’m…OK, I guess. But—”

  “Good,” said Julie. “Listen, Andrew, if you’re not busy right now, I’d really like to talk some more about—”

  The words were out of my mouth before I had a chance to think about them: “I can’t do it, Julie.”

  She paused in midsentence. I felt a twitch go through the hand on my arm.

  “What you asked me about Penny,” I explained, though I’m sure Julie knew exactly what I was referring to. “I can’t do it. I know you asked me to think about it, and I have, but what I’m thinking is that I just can’t. So…so I wanted to tell you straight out, so we’re both clear on it. I hope you understand.”

  Julie took her hand off my arm. Her lips were pursed. “She understands, all right,” said Adam.

  “So anyway,” I went on, babbling now, “anyway, I’ve got something important I’ve got to take care of, so…so I’ll talk to you later, OK?” Even as Julie opened her mouth to reply, I turned and ducked back into my tent.

  I stopped just inside and waited. Julie didn’t try to follow me in, but she didn’t leave right away either—I could hear her just beyond the tent flap, breathing loud through her mouth. Finally she said, softly but distinctly, “Fuck,” and stalked off, the soles of her shoes slapping hard against the Factory’s concrete floor.

  “Phase two,” said Adam, “will be starting early this time.”

  I went back to my desk, and reread the words on the computer screen:

  one more thing asshole if you hurt her we will fuck you up like you wouldt believe

  “What should I do about this, Adam?”

  “Well, you could tell them not to call you an asshole. That worked pretty well yesterday.”

  “I’m serious. Should I be worried?”

  Inside, I felt Adam shrug. “Probably not—not yet,” he said. “It sounds like a protector, probably just fronting, talking tough so you’ll be careful with her…I mean, if they don’t take no for an answer, that’s different, but for now—”

  I had a mental image, not of Penny, but of Julie, stomping away angrily. “Maybe we should try to help them,” I said.

  “Don’t be stupid. It’s a bad idea; you said so yourself. Besides, you don’t really want to.”

  I didn’t argue the point. Instead I transferred the two Thread messages, unanswered, into my “Saved” folder.

  I decided it would be a good day to check on the condition of the shed roof. I got an extension ladder and spent the next hour making a very thorough search for loose shingles, gaps, and rotten planking.

  Around ten-thirty I heard Julie calling up to me. She sounded anxious: “Andrew! Andrew!”

  “What happened?” I hurried to the edge of the roof, nearly losing my balance. “What happened? Did somebody get hurt?”

  Nobody had gotten hurt. Julie sounded anxious because she was mad. “What the hell are you doing up there?” she demanded.

  “What the hell do you think I’m doing up here?” said Adam. He said it in the same casual tone that he uses when he’s feeding me lines, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from repeating the words aloud.

  “Checking for leaks,” I told Julie. Inwardly, I warned Adam to knock it off.

  “Did I tell you to check for leaks today?” asked Julie.

  “Well, no,” I said, “but…” But that was irrelevant, since she almost never told me what to do. “Did you need me for something?”

  “Yes! That’s why I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

  “Oh…OK, I’ll be right down…Where do you want me to meet you?” But she had already gone back inside, slamming the door behind her.

  “‘She’s been very
kind to us,’” said Adam.

  “Be quiet.”

  I found Julie and the others in the Big Tent. Julie was conferring with Dennis, while Irwin, cross-legged on the floor, replaced some bad wiring on one of the data suits. Penny sat off in a corner, typing away on a laptop. I felt a weird flutter in my stomach at the sight of her, but when she happened to glance over at me, there was no special anticipation or acknowledgment in her eyes; whatever soul was in charge of her body right now, it wasn’t the author of either of the e-mails.

  I went over to Julie and stood patiently by her side waiting for her to notice me. “Oh,” she said mildly, several minutes later. “We don’t need you after all. Never mind.”

  “Oh-kay…” I said.

  “Since you’re down here, though,” Julie added, before I could walk away, “why don’t you give Irwin a hand?”

  Irwin looked up at the sound of his name, and I could tell from the baffled expression on his face that he didn’t need my help and didn’t understand why Julie had said that he did. But I went and sat down with him anyway, and tried to make myself useful.

  At some point I felt myself being watched. I turned my head; Penny was staring straight at me now, a new soul looking out through her eyes. Thread, I thought.

  “Thread,” Adam confirmed. “She doesn’t look pissy enough to be the other one.”

  Then Dennis hollered “Hey Mouse!” and Thread, or whoever it was, blinked and disappeared.

  Adam and I both kept a lookout, but Thread didn’t return for the rest of the morning. After lunch, I went back up on the roof.

  Subject: Dear Mr. Gage,

  Date: Wed, 23 Apr 1997 01:04:17

  From: Thread

  To: housekeeper@pacbell.net

  Dear Mr. Gage,

  I hope my request was not an imposition. Perhaps I should have contacted you in person, but I am somewhat shy, and sensed that you might be too…is there some time and place we could meet, face to face? If it is convenient for you…