Set This House in Order (2 page)

It could have been true. Cougar attacks are not uncommon in the Pacific Northwest, and Mr. Lodge looked strong enough to survive a wrestling match with a big cat, if he got lucky. But watching him on TV—the day after the police pulled him over, he called a press conference to plead for volunteers to help search for his girls—I felt a growing sense of unease. Mr. Lodge's story
could
have been true, but something about the way he told it was wrong. It was Adam, looking out from the pulpit into Mr. Lodge's tearstained face, who first put my intuition into words:
“He's
the cougar.”

Ever since then—almost a full week, now—we'd been waiting for the police to reach the same conclusion. So far there hadn't been a whisper of a suspicion in public, although Adam said the cops had to be thinking about it, unless they were totally incompetent. My father, meanwhile, had pledged
that if Mr. Lodge weren't arrested soon, he was going to call the Mason County DA's office himself, or have me do it.

“Do you really think he killed them?” Mrs. Winslow asked now, as the newscast replayed Mr. Lodge's plea for volunteers; the update was just a rehash of previous reports, with an added note that the searchers had all but abandoned hope of finding the girls alive.

My father nodded. “He killed them, all right. And that's not all he did to them.”

Mrs. Winslow was quiet for a moment. Then she said: “Do you think he's insane? To kill his own children?”

“Crazy people don't try to hide their crimes,” my father said. “He knows what he did was wrong, but he doesn't want to face the consequences. That's not insane. That's selfish.”

Selfish: my father's worst epithet. Mrs. Winslow didn't ask the obvious next question, the one I always wondered about, which was Why? Even granting a total disregard for the welfare of others, what would make someone
want
to do to another human being what Mr. Lodge had done to his own daughters? Mrs. Winslow didn't ask that question, because she knew my father didn't have an answer, though he'd spent most of his life searching for one. She didn't ask any other questions, either, only sat there in angry silence as my father finished his coffee and the newscast turned to other matters. Soon it was time for us to leave for work; my father kissed Mrs. Winslow on the cheek and gave me back the body.

There was a family portrait that hung in the Victorian's entrance foyer: a younger, darker-haired Mrs. Winslow with her late husband and her two sons, all of them standing on the front lawn of the Victorian back before it was renovated. I always slowed down a little going past that photo, ever since my father had told me the story of what happened; today I actually stopped, until Mrs. Winslow came up behind me and steered me forward out the front door.

Outside, the sky was unseasonably clear, the only visible clouds huddled in a group around Mount Winter to the east. Mrs. Winslow handed me a bag lunch (one complete meal; lunch isn't shared). She wished me a good day, then took a seat in the swing chair on the porch to wait for the morning mail. The postman wasn't due for another few hours yet, but she'd wait just the same, just as she always waited, bundling up in an old quilt if it got too cold.

“Will you be all right, Mrs. Winslow?” I asked before leaving. “Do you need anything?”

“I'll be fine, Andrew. Just come home safe, that's all I need.”

“Don't worry,” I told her. “If anyone tries anything, I'll have them outnumbered.” This is an old multiple's joke, usually good for a polite smile at least, but today Mrs. Winslow only patted my arm and said: “Go on, then. Don't make yourselves late.”

I started down the front walk. At the sidewalk I turned back to look; Mrs. Winslow had picked up a magazine and was reading, or pretending to read. She looked very small against the side of the Victorian, very small and very alone—
really
alone, in a way I could only imagine. I wondered what that must be like, and whether it was easier or harder than always having other souls for company.

“Don't worry about her,” Adam said from the pulpit. “She'll be fine.”

“I think the newscast really bothered her.”

“It didn't
bother
her,” Adam mocked me. “It pissed her off. And it should. You want to worry, worry about people who don't get mad, hearing about a thing like that.”

I waved to Mrs. Winslow one last time and made myself start walking. When we were down the block and the Victorian was out of sight behind us, I said: “Do you think they'll catch him? Warren Lodge, I mean.”

“I hope so,” said Adam. “I hope he gets punished, whether they catch him or not.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's just a thing that happens sometimes. Sometimes people think they've gotten away with something, think they've fooled everybody, only it turns out they haven't. They get punished after all.”

“How?” I asked. “By who?”

But Adam didn't want to talk about it anymore. “We'll just hope a policeman gets him,” he said. Then he went back in the house, and didn't come out again until we were almost at the Factory.

I worked at the Reality Factory on East Bridge Street. My boss there, Julie Sivik, was also the first real friend I ever made on my own.

When my father first called me out, he was working as a restocker for Bit Warehouse, a big computer outlet store just off Interstate 90 between Autumn Creek and Seattle. The original plan was that I would take over for him there, just as I took over all the other aspects of running the body, but it didn't work out. Being an effective restocker means knowing where things go, knowing where to find them again after they've gone, and—because of Bit Warehouse's “Ask Anybody” customer service policy—knowing what they're actually used for once they're found. After three years on the job, my father had all that knowledge, but I didn't.

This is one of those metaphysical issues that people who aren't multiple have a hard time grasping. Obviously, in creating me, my father had given me a great deal of practical knowledge. I came out of the lake knowing how to speak. I had a concept of the world and at least some of what was in it. I knew what dogs, snowflakes, and ferryboats were before I ever saw a real dog, snowflake, or ferryboat. So it may seem natural to ask, if my father could give me all that, why couldn't he also give me the know-how to be a champion restocker? For that matter, why couldn't he give me Aunt Sam's understanding of French, Seferis's martial-arts prowess, and Adam's knack for lie-detecting?

I wish I knew, because there are times when all of those skills would come in handy. Of course I can always have Aunt Sam translate for me, Seferis stands ready to defend the body at a moment's notice, and Adam hangs out in the pulpit calling bullshit on people whether I ask him to or not, but none of that is quite as good as having the abilities myself. For one thing, help from other souls isn't free—they expect favors in return, and not
all of their wishes are easy to grant. It would be much simpler, and cheaper, if I could just borrow their talents somehow.

The reason why such borrowing isn't possible, my father thinks, has to do with the difference between information and experience. If you'd asked me on the day I was born to tell you what rain is, I'd have given you the dictionary definition. Ask me today and I'll still give you the dictionary definition—but as I'm giving it, I'll think of that moment on overcast mornings when you have to decide whether an umbrella is worth taking with you (the answer, in these parts, usually being yes). Or I'll think of the upside-down world reflected in puddles, or the awful tacky feeling of a drenched wool sweater, or the smell of wet leaves in Lake Sammamish State Park. Experience hasn't changed the form of my answer much, but the
meaning
of my answer has been utterly transformed.

Memory makes the difference. There are facts that everyone knows, but memories, and the feelings they evoke, are unique to individual souls. Memories can be described, but can never truly be shared; and knowledge that is bound up in especially strong memories can't be shared either. Like Aunt Sam's knowledge of French: it's more than just grammar and vocabulary, it's the memory of her high school teacher Mr. Canivet, the first adult she ever knew who didn't betray her in some way, who always treated her kindly and never hurt her. I never met Mr. Canivet, and can't love him the way Aunt Sam does. Any feelings I have about him are purely secondhand, and the things Aunt Sam learned from him will always be secondhand to me too.

My father's job experience had the same sort of proprietary quality. It couldn't be shared; it had to be acquired personally. We tried coaching for a few weeks—my father guiding me step by step from the pulpit, answering a thousand questions about RAM chips and SCSI ports and null-modem cables—but there was just too much to learn in too short a time. Given six months we might have managed it, but by the end of the third week my father's work-performance rating—
my
work-performance rating—had deteriorated to the point where we were in danger of being fired.

Of course it didn't help that my father hadn't told his coworkers about me; I still think he would have done better to be open about the fact that he was training a replacement. But two involuntary commitments had left him reluctant to reveal his multiplicity to people, and while he'd risked trusting Mrs. Winslow, nobody at Bit Warehouse knew. Not knowing, they were mystified when Andy Gage started acting like a whole other person—one who was constantly distracted and had trouble with even the simplest tasks.
Mr. Weeks, my supervisor, was especially concerned; after I accidentally reformatted the hard drive on the Warehouse's main inventory computer, he wondered aloud whether I'd been using drugs.

“We could try telling him the truth,” I suggested. “We could tell everybody the truth.”

“Not everybody would understand,” my father replied. “It's a complicated truth, and people don't like complications. Especially people in authority. You'll learn.”

You'll learn.
That was my father's stock response whenever I asked a question that only experience could answer. I heard it a lot in those days, and it was frustrating, for him as well as for me. He'd thought that the hard part was over once he got the house built; turning things over to me was supposed to be easy. But he was still learning from experience, too.

One thing we'd both learned was that I couldn't just step into my father's old life. I had to create my own: find my own job, choose my own friends—and make my own decisions about who to trust.

I went to Mr. Weeks's office and told him I was quitting. He nodded, as if he'd been expecting this, and said that he hoped I'd consider getting professional substance-abuse counseling. I told him I would think about it—another stock response I'd picked up from my father—and went back out on the Warehouse floor to finish out the day. That was when I met Julie Sivik.

When she found me I was up on a ladder in Aisle 7, rearranging boxes on the overstock shelf. Even though I'd given my notice I was still interested in learning about computers, and my father and I were having a pretty involved discussion about graphical user interfaces, so Julie had to say “Excuse me” several times to get my attention.

“Hello,” I said, when I finally noticed her. I slid down the ladder and brushed my hands on my shirt. “Can I help you?”

At first glance she was a little intimidating. She was a couple of inches taller than I was, with broader shoulders. She wore a brown leather jacket over a black T-shirt and dark jeans; her hair was dark too, very straight and severe, collar-length. And she had an annoyed look on her face, like she'd already decided I must be dense. I'd seen that look on other customers' faces, but Julie was better at expressing annoyance than most people, as if something in her features allowed for clearer transmission of impatience.

“I'm looking for some tax-preparation software,” she said, holding up a short stack of shrink-wrapped boxes. “I was wondering which of these you'd recommend.”

“Ask her what she wants to use it for,” my father said, and I relayed the question: “What do you want to use it for?”

Julie looked at me as if I were very,
very
dense. “For preparing my taxes,” she said. “Obviously.”

“Personal income tax or small business?” my father said.

“Personal income tax or small business?” I asked.

“Oh…” Julie's expression softened. “That makes a difference?”

“Well…” I began, and then paused while my father filled me in. “Well,” I continued, “if all you're looking for is a program that can fill out a 1040, then I'd probably suggest that one.” I pointed to the box at the top of the stack. “Because…because it's the least expensive, very basic but with a good tutorial, as long as you don't need any specialized forms…On the other hand, if you're self-employed or running a small business, you'll probably need something more sophisticated…You're not a farmer, are you?” Even as I asked this question, following my father's prompting, I wondered what was so special about farmers' taxes. But Julie wasn't in agriculture, so I never got a chance to find out.

“But I
am
starting my own business,” she said. “And I've also got to fill out a personal 1040 for last year, so I guess what I need is—”

“Wait,” I interrupted her, holding up a finger. My father was saying something else now.

“Wait?” said Julie.

“Just a second…”

The annoyed look resurfaced on Julie's face. “What the hell am I waiting on?” she demanded.

“My father,” I told her.

“Your father?”

“Oh great,” said Adam, who'd joined my father in the pulpit. “This should be entertaining.”

“Your father?” Julie repeated.

“Yes, my father.”

She made a show of checking to see if there was someone standing behind me, first leaning sideways, then going up on tiptoe to peer over the top of my head. “Where?” she finally said.

“In the pulpit,” I told her, after a quick backward glance of my own.

“Pulpit?”

“It's a sort of balcony, on the front of the house. In my head.”

“What are you, schizophrenic?” Julie said.

“No, I'm a multiple personality. Schizophrenia is different.”

“A multiple personality. You have other personalities sharing your body.”

“Other souls.” Remembering what my father had told me, I added: “It's a complicated truth.”

“I'll just bet it is.” It was at this moment, Julie later confided in me, that she decided I must be sincere or one of the best liars she'd ever met—either of which was interesting. “What was that you said about a house?”

She ended up asking me out for a drink after I got off work, and I was so excited I said yes without checking with my father first. But he was glad to see me taking some initiative, and Adam officially pronounced Julie safe: “She's not an ax murderer, anyway…although she's probably wondering if you're one.”

So at quarter past eight that evening I met Julie in the parking lot outside the Warehouse. Usually I depended on public buses to get around, but Julie had her own car and offered to pick me up. When she found out I lived in Autumn Creek, she suggested a bar on Bridge Street that was only a few blocks from Mrs. Winslow's. “My own place is right around the corner,” Julie added.

The car was a 1957 Cadillac Sedan de Ville, “a minor classic,” Julie said, which she'd bought from her uncle and was planning to sell for a profit once she got it fixed up.

“What's wrong with it?”

“Pretty much everything.” Julie recited a list of the car's defects and Adam pointed out a few more that she didn't mention; as we drove out of the parking lot, something hanging off the undercarriage banged against the pavement, leaving a trail of sparks in the Cadillac's wake. “It needs some serious work.”

“Won't that cost a lot of money?”

“Some of the replacement parts will. But I figure I can handle most of the labor myself…Can you roll down your window a second? We need to make a right-turn signal here.”

Maybe to get away from the subject of car repairs, Julie started telling me about herself. She was twenty-four, and came originally from Rhode Island, though she'd lived in a lot of different places since leaving home at sixteen. She'd attended Boston University for a couple of years, and had majored successively in physics, engineering, and computer science before dropping out without completing a degree; since then, she'd worked as a lab technician, a machinist, a gas-station attendant, a museum tour guide, a set designer for a low-budget horror film, a fire spotter, a short-order cook, a blackjack dealer, a sign painter for the Eugene, Oregon, Department of
Public Works, and, most recently, an assistant to a physical therapist in Seattle. “Never a farmer, though,” she said, and grinned.

Anyway, she continued, since things had gone sour with the physical therapy job she'd decided it was time to stop screwing around and put her life in order, get serious about a career. With the help of the same uncle who'd sold her the Cadillac, she'd secured a small business loan and taken out a lease on a building in Autumn Creek, where she planned to set up a computer software design company.

“What kind of software are you going to design?”

“Virtual-reality software,” Julie said. She looked at me as if I was supposed to know what that meant, but I'd never heard the expression before.

“What's virtual reality?”

“You work at Bit Warehouse and you don't know what virtual reality is?”

“I haven't worked there very long.”

“Gee, I guess not.”

“So what is it?”

Instead of answering, she changed the subject again—or at least I thought she did: “Tell me about the house in your head.”

We were at the Bridge Street bar by then, sitting in a booth near the jukebox. Julie had ordered us a Saturday Night Special, which I found out too late was a gallon-sized pitcher of dark beer. Drinking alcohol was against my father's rules, and I'd meant to ask for a soda, but rather than admit the mistake I let Julie fill my glass and then left it untouched as we went on talking.

I told her about the house: about the dark room in Andy Gage's head, and my father's struggle to create a geography there. I wasn't as clear as I would have liked; it was my first time telling a story to someone, and I was nervous, unsure which details to include or what order to put them in. It also didn't help that I had a critic. My father had left the pulpit to give me some privacy, but Adam was still up there. He thought I was being far too candid with this stranger.

“But why shouldn't I be? You said yourself she's not dangerous.”

“I said she's not an ax murderer. That doesn't mean it's OK to tell her everything about us.”