Set This House In Order Part 8

"That doesn't matter!" Andrew insists. "I mean. . . I mean it does matter, but you can't just do nothing. You can't just sit by while somebody does something wrong, and not call them on it."

"Why not? If calling them on it doesn't make any difference. . . the next time that guy feels like slapping his daughter around, do you think he's even going to remember you?"

"No," Mouse says, surprising herself by speaking up, "but the girl will remember." Andrew and Dennis both look at her, and Julie smiles.

After lunch they go back to the Reality Factory, where Mouse starts losing time again. It's not unexpected; it happens just as Julie announces that it is time for Mouse to get to work. "OK," Julie says, "let's you and Dennis and I go sit down and start --"

-- and the next thing Mouse knows she is alone, crouching in the s.p.a.ce between two close-set tents. Uncertain what she is doing there, she starts to get up, but pauses when she hears two voices coming from the tent to her left. One voice is Julie's; the other is Andrew's.

"-- textbook MPD," Julie says. "I talked to three, maybe four different people."

"The parade," says Andrew. "That's what Adam calls it."

"The funny thing is, I might not have recognized it if I didn't know you. I might have just thought, 'Wow, she's really moody!' But once you know what to look for. . . I got an inkling right away, when she snapped at me at Rudy's. But it wasn't until I b.u.mped into her again at the bookstore that I was sure.

After she got a couple drinks in her it was really obvious."

"You got her drunk?"

"I didn't mean to," Julie says, sounding defensive. "I offered to buy her a gla.s.s of wine, and then she asked for a second. And then she went and bought three more gla.s.ses on her own."

"Julie!"

"Well what was I supposed to do? I didn't even know who was ordering those last three drinks."

"I hope you drove her home afterwards."

"I tried, Andrew. Really I did. She wasn't acting drunk, but she's so little, and after five gla.s.ses. .

. but she wouldn't let me give her a ride. When I pressed her on it, this new person came out who I hadn't met yet, and he said -- he was male, definitely male, and his voice was stone-sober -- he said, 'No, she's going to need her car to get to work in the morning.' And I said, 'Are you sure she should be driving after all that wine?' And he said, 'Don't worry, I'll drive her home. I've done it before.' Even then I didn't just let her -- him -- go. I said good night, pretended to walk the other way, and then turned around and followed them. I figured I'd at least see that they got to their car all right. But they didn't go straight to the car, they went into a coffee shop. So I hung around outside for as long as I could, until I had to go get my car, and they never came out, so I thought, OK, they'll be fine, they're waiting to sober up. . . I felt bad about it, Andrew, but what else could I do? It wasn't -- it wasn't like that time you got drunk."

Andrew makes a sound that Mouse, listening through the tent fabric, cannot interpret. There is a silence. Then Andrew says: "So you offered her a job."

"Before she had the second gla.s.s of wine, yeah. And she said yes."

"Who said yes?"

Julie laughs. "Yeah, that question occurred to me, too. She gave me her home number, so I called up early the next morning, partly to double-check that she really had made it home OK, partly to see if she remembered accepting the job offer."

"And did she?"

"Somebody did. Whoever answered the phone. But when I talked to her again on Sat.u.r.day she seemed kind of clueless, like all of a sudden she didn't remember but was trying hard not to show it. To tell you the truth, I wasn't a hundred percent sure she'd show up this morning."

Andrew asks: "Why did you offer her the job, Julie?"

"Why?" Julie exclaims. She says it as if she is astonished that there could be any question about the reason, but even listening through the tent wall, Mouse can tell that her surprise is faked. "Because she's a natural programmer, that's why. At least, one of her souls is. You should have seen after lunch today, even Dennis was impressed once he saw her in action." A pause. "What, you don't believe me?"

"I believe she's a good programmer," Andrew says, "but Adam thinks there's another reason why you hired her, and I think he's right."

Another pause.

"Well. . ."Julie says.

"Well?"

"OK," says Julie, "OK, OK, here's the thing. Her programming skills really are the main reason I hired her -- I'd been thinking about bringing somebody new in, at least part-time, for a while now, so it really was in my head to sound her out about a job, even before I made the connection about the MPD.

That's the G.o.d's honest truth, Andrew. But when I did make the connection, I thought. . ."

"What?"

"See, the thing is, she doesn't know. I mean, some of her people know, obviously, like the one who told me he'd drive her home, but she -- the woman you met this morning -- she doesn't know. I'm sure of it. So I thought, maybe you, you could --"

"Oh, Julie. . . this is a bad idea."

"I remember you telling me what it was like for your father, back before he built the house.

Before he knew. Like living in chaos, you said. Well. . . that must be what it's like for her too, right? Like living in chaos."

"Probably. But Julie --"

"So I would think, having lived through that experience yourself, you would want to help --"

"I didn't live through that experience myself," Andrew says. "My father did. And neither one of us is a psychiatrist, which is what she needs."

"OK, fine, but how's she going to get what she needs, if she doesn't even know --"

"If she doesn't know, it's probably because she's not ready to know. And trying to force the knowledge on her could do more harm than good."

"You're saying she's better off being ignorant of her condition?"

"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 f.u.c.ked 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, brus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.ses 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.

"c.u.n.t," Andrew says. "You meddling c.u.n.t."

Then he blinks, and he is once again his boyish, befuddled, lightly exasperated self. "Oh Julie," he mutters. He c.o.c.ks 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 makes.h.i.+ft fortress of solitude. They go in there and wall themselves away. Malefica pulls up a particularly st.u.r.dy 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 a.s.s-Chewing.

Phase one, which lasted approximately twenty-four hours, was Contrition. Upon being informed that she'd overstepped the bounds of friends.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+ft 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 h.e.l.l 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 f.u.c.k 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 unt.i.tled. Thinking that this was probably junk mail, I clicked on the first message, and read: Subject: Dear Mr. Gage, Date: Tue, 22 Apr 1997 00:33:58 From: Thread To: [email protected] 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.

The follow-up message, sent less than three minutes later, read: Subject: Date: Tue, 22 Apr 1997 00:36:22 From: Thread To: net one more thing a.s.shole if you hurt her we will f.u.c.k 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 feint shuffling of feet. "h.e.l.lo?" 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 n.o.body there, at least not where I could see them. "h.e.l.lo?" 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?"