Set This House in Order (60 page)

“All right then,” I said. “I'll keep it for you until you're ready to get rid of it.”

Like Julie, Mrs. Winslow also left me her car, but it was a true gift and not just a temporary loan. She insisted I get a license, too, so when she left town on the first day in May, I was able to drive her to the airport. She was headed to Galveston, Texas; she had people there, old college friends who'd been trying to get her to move down for years. “Mostly it's to get me moving
somewhere,
” Mrs. Winslow said. “If I don't like Texas, there are other places.”

After Mrs. Winslow's plane took off, I got back in the car and went for a very long, aimless drive around Puget Sound. It was well after dark by the time I returned to Autumn Creek. My plan had been to go straight to bed, so I wouldn't have to think about how empty the Victorian was, but I couldn't get to sleep. I went into the kitchen and made both tea and warm milk. I fixed the tea the way Mrs. Winslow liked it, and set the mug at her place at the table. Then I sat in my own seat, drank warm milk, and cried.

I survived the night, though. And in the morning I made my own breakfast. Adam's bacon strip was a little crispy, and my scrambled eggs had too much salt, but I knew that I'd get better with practice.

A week later I got a letter from Mrs. Winslow. Galveston was very hot, but she'd found a nice place, an air-conditioned bungalow right on the beach by the Gulf of Mexico. “Swam all afternoon yesterday,” she wrote, “& last night, for the first time in memory, I slept until dawn…I believe I may stay here awhile.” And so she has.

 

Which just leaves me to account for.

It is now the middle of June, 2001. I am thirty-two years old—or six years old, depending on how you want to count it. I still live in the Victorian in Autumn Creek; I have spread out a bit since Mrs. Winslow left—the kitchen is more cluttered than she would ever have tolerated—but I have refrained from taking over any of the upstairs rooms. In my mind that is still Mrs. Winslow's domain, and besides, with more space comes the temptation to get more stuff, and I am trying to save money.

I still get up every day at the same time, and still go through the same morning ritual. I drive myself to and from my job at Bit Warehouse, and in the evenings, if I'm not out somewhere with friends from work, I come home and dole out time to those souls who want it (contingent, as always, on good behavior).

My therapy with Dr. Eddington concluded—successfully, we both think—late last year. I still see him about once a month for the mental-health equivalent of a check-up, but these sessions are extremely informal: usually we'll meet at his office and then go out to eat somewhere. Last time we got together we took the ferry to Bainbridge Island for Sunday brunch at the Streamliner Diner, and then went up to Poulsbo to put flowers on Dr. Grey's grave. We also stopped in to see Meredith; she's living in a new house, with a new partner. She seems happy.

Inside Andy Gage's head, there have of course been some changes. I am in charge of the house now; I still go to my father for advice, but the final say on all official matters is mine. I sit at the head of the table during house meetings. I handle house discipline. It isn't always easy, but on balance I would say the responsibility has been good for me.

The house is emptier than it once was. Over the course of my therapy, I absorbed all but a handful of the Witnesses, making their memories my own, and in the process learning more than I ever wanted to about Horace Rollins and Althea Gage. Like taking charge of the house, this was hard but ultimately beneficial; if I am somewhat less carefree than I used to be, I am also more mature, closer to my nominal age. And for better or worse, I know my own history.

Perhaps the most surprising change is that Gideon now has the run of the geography. After what happened in Seven Lakes, my father wanted to send him to the pumpkin field; one of my first acts as new head of the household was to issue a stay of execution. I did keep Gideon confined to Coventry for several months, but after talking it over with Dr. Eddington, I decided I wanted to take another shot at socializing him. I reopened the escape tunnel between Coventry and the house basement, and later on, after I'd cleaned out some of the junk down there, turned the basement itself into a sort of guest bedroom for Gideon to stay in when he wanted to.

This attempt at rehabilitation has proved a mixed success. Gideon remains the single most disruptive force in the house. On his worst days, he continues to deny that the rest of us are real; on his best days, he is still a huge pain, constantly making trouble. He and my father refuse to speak to
one another at all; on the rare occasions when Gideon attends house meetings, the two of them will only communicate through third parties.

It can be very difficult sometimes, but Gideon has made no further attempts to seize control of the body. I doubt I will ever be able to trust him enough to allow him out voluntarily, but the fact that I have “reintegrated” him into the household even this much is a source of some pride to me; and as good a proof as any that the house is, finally, in order.

 

Three letters came this week.

The first was from Mrs. Winslow, letting me know that she was finally ready to sell the Victorian. “It won't happen right away,” she hastened to make clear. “My plan would be to come back to A. Creek around Labor Day, look the house over & see what repairs need to be made, contact a realtor, pack up my remaining things, &c. With the downturn in the economy it will probably not sell quickly, in fact I probably should not try to sell it right now at all—but that becomes a temptation to keep hanging on forever…in any case, you still have plenty of time to decide where you are going next.”

The second letter was from Gordon Bradley, the now ex–police chief of Seven Lakes, Michigan. No, he did not write to me from prison; despite his confession, Chief Bradley never served a day in jail for the murder of Horace Rollins. He'd been allowed to plead guilty to involuntary manslaughter, and was sentenced to eighteen months' probation. As for what he'd tried to do to me and Penny, that was written off as temporary insanity and/or a huge misunderstanding, and he was never even charged.

I knew he was a free man, but I was still surprised to get a letter from him. After a largely incoherent opening paragraph—which, I eventually figured out, was an attempt to apologize for almost drowning me in Two Seasons Lake—Chief Bradley said that he'd heard from Oscar Reyes that I had finally established my ownership of the old Gage property. (This is true. A year ago, as a peace offering to Gideon, I contacted Oscar Reyes—who else?—and asked if it was still possible for me to inherit Althea Gage's land. He arranged it for a small fee.) “While I can well understand that you might not want to deal with me,” Chief Bradley went on to say, “I am still interested in purchasing the property. Please let Oscar know if you would be willing to hear my offer.”

Adam suggested I write back and tell Chief Bradley I'd sell the property to anybody
but
him, but the truth is, even after what happened, I don't feel
especially vindictive towards him. I don't know what I feel towards him, frankly. I think what I am going to do is ask Oscar Reyes to sell the property for the best price he can get, and just not tell me who the buyer is. If Chief Bradley really wants to pay to own the ruins of my mother's house, so be it.

The third letter I got this week, actually an e-mail, was from Penny in San Diego.

Following this there was a break of about ten lines, and then:

“Well,” said Adam from the pulpit, “this should be an interesting little get-together.”

 

Sunday, June 24th, 2001, 7:35
A.M.
(give or take a couple minutes): I am sitting in the Victorian's porch swing, drinking my morning coffee. I am not waiting for anything—there's no mail today, and Penny isn't due for another three weeks—I'm just watching the day get started, and thinking, not too urgently, about what I want to do next with my life.

I have my fantasies, of course, about what may happen when Penny finally does get here. I am grown up enough now to know that they are only fantasies, however, and thus cannot be relied on. The truth is it's been over a year and a half since I've seen Penny face to face, and while we have tried to keep in touch during that time, I don't have that good a sense of what she is like now (and if that P.S. from Maledicta isn't just a joke, it may be that Penny doesn't know herself that well these days). So while I may dream of her inviting me to come join her in San Diego, I am not going to count on it.

Maybe we can do some fun things together while she is here, though.

As for farther in the future, after Mrs. Winslow sells the Victorian, I think I might travel for a while—deliberately, this time. I'd like to see some more of the country, see if there's anywhere else I might enjoy living, maybe someplace where land is cheap enough that I wouldn't have to rent.

I find myself thinking about New Mexico. I know that's Aunt Sam's dream, and so maybe she's just found some way of sneaking her desires into my subconscious—although Aunt Sam wants to live in Santa Fe, and I don't think I could afford to buy property there. Outside the city, though, out in the desert—maybe there I could have a few acres. Build my own house out of adobe: why not?

“Oh yeah,” says Adam, “and if you grow straw you can make your own bricks. You could get Julie Sivik to fly down from Alaska and help you.”

OK, so maybe it's not a practical idea.

Still, I can picture what the house might look like: small—one story would do, I think—but with a big porch or a patio facing east, a place to take my breakfasts in the morning sun. Some space around it, enough to plant a few trees, and a long open driveway that always lets me see who's coming. A garden out back. And inside, protected but not hidden, lots of shelves and cabinets and closets, so that everything I own, and everything I have yet to acquire, can find its rightful place.

As always, I owe a lot of people, but by far my greatest debt is to my wife, Lisa Gold, who helped so constantly and in so many ways that she really deserves her own acknowledgments page. She acted variously as muse, sounding-board, critic, editor, proofreader, research assistant, best friend, cheerleader, business counselor, and general handler of things practical. Thanks, Lisa.

Thanks also to Michael B., whose questionable taste in women provided the initial inspiration for this story.

Thanks to my agent and second-greatest supporter, Melanie Jackson.

Thanks to my three editors: Dan Conaway, who got me going, Jennifer Hershey, who liked where I went, and Alison Callahan, who did a great job finishing up after Jennifer was lured away by a strange house.

Thanks to Brenda Cavender, for providing me with a truly amazing home to live in while I finished this book.

Thanks to Josh Spin, Greg Delaney, Neal Stephenson, Ellen Lackermann, Harold and Rita Gold, Susan Weinberg, Lydia Weaver, Elliott Beard, Olga Gardner Galvin, Michael McKenzie, Andrea Schaefer, Cynthia Geno, Lee Drake, Michael Alexander, Noah Price, Karen Carr, Lisa Fogelman, Jonathan Jacobs, George Coulouris, and Christodoulos Litharis. Thanks finally to the librarians, Web authors, and Usenet posters who helped answer my many research questions.