Set This House In Order Part 10

But it wasn't Thread driving, or Penny either. The soul behind the wheel of the Centurion was one I hadn't met before, at least not in person: the foul-mouthed protector. As the car drew close enough for me to clearly make out the protector's expression, I could see that she (or he) was enraged -- not just annoyed, or angry, but enraged.

"Oh s.h.i.t," said Adam, and then I knew I was in trouble.

I stopped waving, dropped my arm to my side, and turned my back on the car. My first instinct was to run, but something told me that would be a bad idea, so I quick-stepped the rest of the way across the bridge, then got over on the soft shoulder of the road and slowed up again, hoping that the Buick would pa.s.s me by. It didn't; it pulled alongside me, and paced me. I could feel the protector staring at me but just kept walking, my own gaze fixed straight ahead.

Then the protector laid on the Centurion's horn, and I fell back on my first instinct. I broke into a sprint, which turned out to be not so much a bad idea as a useless gesture. With a squeal of tires the Buick sped up, got ahead of me, and swerved onto the shoulder, cutting me off.

The protector leaned out the window and screamed at me: "Get your motherf.u.c.king a.s.s in this f.u.c.king car right now, c.o.c.ksucker, or I'll rip your G.o.dd.a.m.n f.u.c.king head off and --"

Adam yelled something at me too -- probably "Don't get in the car!" -- but I was already racing back towards the bridge. The protector tried to cut me off again, but the Centurion didn't handle as well in reverse, and I managed to get to the bridge ahead of it -- and then, instead of going across, I ducked to the side.

There's no path or walkway to the bottom of Thaw Ca.n.a.l, just a steep rocky slope that I equal parts slid, scrambled, and fell down, the pack full of shingles pounding hard against the back of my head and neck. There's no path or walkway along the banks of Thaw Ca.n.a.l either, so instead of trying to escape upstream, I hid underneath the arch of the bridge. Standing knee-deep in freezing water, I listened to the idling of the Buick almost directly above me, and the ranting and raving of the protector as she -- it was a she, I was sure now -- paced the bridge's span, promising to do me all sorts of harm if I didn't come out and show myself. I pressed a hand over my mouth to keep my teeth from chattering, and tried not to sneeze.

Eventually all the noisemaking frightened some squirrel or woodchuck up along the rim of the gully, and as it crashed through the underbrush, the protector mistook it for me. She ordered it to come back, right f.u.c.king now!, but it didn't, and shortly after that she gave up. She spat out a few more curses, stalked the length of the bridge two or three more times, then jumped into the Buick and drove off with a furious squeal of tires.

The silence that fell then was broken by the voice of rny father, speaking from the pulpit: "We need to have a meeting about this."

Mrs. Winslow opened the Victorian's front door just as I was coming up the Porch steps.

"Andrew!" she said. "What happened to you?"

"It's complicated," I said.

"Well, come inside then."

I followed her back to the kitchen and had a seat at the breakfast table. Mrs. Winslow brewed coffee; I peeled off my shoes and socks, and, at Mrs. Winslow's insistence, my jeans as well.

Even before Adam warned me not to, I recognized that I couldn't tell Mrs. Winslow the full story of what had happened. Much as I wanted to be completely honest with her, and much as I wanted to discuss this matter with someone outside my own head, I knew that there were elements of what had taken place, like the threatening e-mails, that would upset her beyond all proportion. So I was deliberately vague, saying only: "I'm having some trouble with one of the people at work."

"One of the people. . ." Mrs. Winslow frowned. "Does that mean Julie?"

"No," I said, "it's a new girl, a new programmer. Penny."

"And what did she do, roll you down an embankment?"

I laughed nervously, although I suppose, given my wet and muddy condition, that it wasn't that astounding a guess. "You know I trust you, Mrs. Winslow," I said. "More than anyone. But I think this is something I, we, need to deal with on our own. My father's called a house meeting about it, and I'm sure he'll know what to do. So you mustn't worry."

"I'll respect your privacy, of course," she told me, her tone suggesting she'd make her own decision about whether to worry. "But. . . I know I don't have to tell you this, Andrew, but if you ever do need my help -- if you should decide to quit your job, for instance --"

"Quit my job! Why would I do that?"

Mrs. Winslow glanced at my jeans, drying on the back of a chair. "If you need to put some distance between yourself and this Penny person, for instance. If your father thinks that would be a good idea."

"Oh. . ."

"Don't worry about the rent, is all I'm saying."

"Well thank you, Mrs. Winslow. I'm sure it won't come to that, but I, I appreciate it. My father appreciates it. And speaking of my father. . ." I set my coffee mug on the table. "I should probably get to that meeting now."

Mrs. Winslow nodded. "I'll see to it you're not disturbed."

We both stood up. Mrs. Winslow took my mug, and, on her way to the sink, switched on the TV. The sound of a newscaster's voice reminded me of something. "Mrs. Winslow?" I said. "Did you hear about Warren Lodge?"

"I've heard," Mrs. Winslow replied, not sounding nearly as happy about it as I would have expected. Then she explained: "The latest report is that the police can't find him. He's run off."

"Oh," I said. "Well, I'm sure it's only a matter of time --"

"We'll see," said Mrs. Winslow, understandably skeptical. "You go have your meeting now, Andrew. I'll call you for dinner in a few hours."

"All right, Mrs. Winslow."

Somebody has to run the body: that is a truism in many ways, but it's not literally true; it is possible, though generally not a good idea, to leave the body unattended. The trick is to make sure the body is in a safe place, a place where, if bad stuff starts to happen, it will happen slowly and with lots of warning. With this in mind, I prepared for the house meeting by checking my bedroom carefully for open flames, frayed electrical cords, teetering bookshelves, escaped circus tigers, and other potential sources of sudden catastrophe. Though I joke about it, it is serious business: after one memorable early meeting held back before the house was built, my father returned to the body to find a crow pecking at his chest.

When I'd verified to my own and my father's satisfaction that the bedroom was safe (with the windows all shut tight, and latched) I lay down on the bed, arranging myself comfortably on the mattress.

Julie once asked me what it feels like to leave the body. "Do you contract into yourself, or float away, or what?" After several mangled attempts at a description, I came up with the following exercise, which, while not perfect, at least conveys the general idea: Tilt your head back as far as you can. You will feel a tension in the muscles at the back of your neck that quickly becomes painful. Imagine that tension spreading outwards, wrapping around the front of your face and shooting down into your torso, arms, and legs, turning your whole skin into a rigid sh.e.l.l like a suit of armor. Now imagine stepping backwards out of that suit of armor and finding yourself, not behind your body, but somewhere else entirely. Imagine all of this happening in the s.p.a.ce between two heartbeats.

That's what it's like, more or less. Or at least that's what it's like for me; from exchanges I've had over the Internet, I know that some multiples experience it a bit differently -- and of course, what happens to you after you've left the body depends on what your internal geography is like, something that is different for every multiple.

The map of the geography inside Andy Gage's head looks like this: The X at the bottom of the map marks the spot where I appeared, beside the column of light that is the conduit between inside and outside. The column of light touches down on the crest of a hill above the south sh.o.r.e of the lake; from it, a path curves west and north around the lake's perimeter, eventually splitting into three branches. The rightmost branch leads down to a boat dock on the western lakebank; the middle branch runs straight and level to the pumpkin field; and the left branch goes up another, broader hill to the house. The question of distances gets kind of metaphysical, and I will return to it presently, but let's just say for the moment that the length of the path from the column of light to the front door of the house appears to be about a mile.

Colors, sounds, smells, tastes, and tactile sensations are all exactly the same inside as they are outside. The house looks and feels just like a real house; the hills, rocks, and trees just like real hills, rocks, and trees. The only obvious difference is you, since when you're inside, you're not wearing the body -- so depending on how tall your soul is, for instance, your eye level may be shifted up or down.

The geography has a sky above it just like the real sky, with a sun, moon, and stars. The motions of these heavenly bodies are all controlled by my father, who for the most part keeps them synchronized with their real-world counterparts: generally, when it's day outside, it's day inside, and ditto for night. The geography also has weather -- this, too, controlled by my father -- which is definitely not in sync with real-world weather, or at least not real-world Pacific Northwest weather: day or night, the sky in Andy Gage's head is almost always clear, and it never rains. Sometimes, around Christmas, my father will stage a brief snowstorm for Jake and the other kids.

As for the laws of physics that apply to the geography. . . well, it's complicated. Because the geography doesn't really exist, certain things are possible inside that are not possible outside -- but because I am used to these impossibilities and consider them normal, it's hard for me to list them on demand. One impossibility that I've already alluded to, though, has to do with distances inside: they're optional. Inside, when you want to get from point A to point B, it isn't strictly necessary to pa.s.s through all the points in between, the way it is when traveling from A to B in the real world. For instance, if you're on the hilltop beside the column of light, and you want to go to the house, you can get there by following the path, but you don't have to -- if you're in a hurry, or don't feel like walking, you can just decide to be in the house, and quick as thought, there you are.

Today I wasn't in that much of a hurry, even though I knew that the others were all waiting for me. I stood on the hilltop for a while, staring out across the lake. Inevitably, my gaze was drawn towards Coventry, the lake island where Gideon was imprisoned. There wasn't much to see: a mist had risen from the deep waters in the middle of the lake, reducing the island to a vague outline.

I said that my father controlled the weather inside the geography. He did not control the mist -- he didn't summon it, and he couldn't make it go away. In hindsight, it's clear that this should have been cause for concern, but because it was a.s.sociated with the lake, rather than, say, the forest or the pumpkin field, my father chose to regard it as a harmless anomaly rather than a potential danger sign.

Like the column of light, the lake predates the geography. Originally it was a kind of void, a darker area in the dark room in Andy Gage's head that occasionally vomited out new souls. In the course of constructing the geography, my father tamed the void somewhat -- he made it resemble a body of water, which was better than having a gaping black hole in the landscape, and he also learned how to call new souls, like me, out of it at will. But he never fully mastered it. Since the lake was still technically its own ent.i.ty, it was not completely outrageous that it should act of its own accord, and so my father chose not to worry about it when it did. And since he didn't worry about it, neither did I -- but I was curious.

"Andrew," my father said, appearing beside me on the hilltop.

I nodded h.e.l.lo, but kept on staring out across the water, trying to catch a clear glimpse of Coventry in the whiteness. "Does the mist come more often now than it used to?" I asked. My father didn't answer, and I could tell he was growing impatient. Still, I went on: "I think it does come more often. Back when I first came out of the lake, it hardly ever --"

"Andrew."

"Right, I know: the meeting."

"Yes," my father said, "the meeting. Let's go."

We went: thought about being at the house, and were there.

The floor plan of the house in Andy Gage's head looks like this: As you can see, it is a fairly simple structure. The first floor is one big common room. A staircase in the southwest corner goes up to a gallery that overlooks the common room on all four sides and gives access to the bedrooms and the nursery. A short hallway off the gallery's east end leads out to the pulpit.

In preparation for the meeting, a long table had been set up in the middle of the common room.

The table was wider at one end than at the other, and my father, as head of the household, took his place at the wider end. I sat to my father's right; Adam to his left. The next two seats on my side of the table were occupied by Aunt Sam and Jake; Seferis sat next to Adam. Farther down the table were Simon, Drew, and Alexander; Angel, Annis, Arthur, and Rhea; Sander, Archie, Seth, and the two Samuels; Silent Joe the Gravedigger; and Captain Marco. Many of these were souls who, like my father, had grown weary of dealing with the outside world, and only rarely occupied the body anymore. Silent Joe and the Captain had never been outside; they were helper souls, called out of the lake by my father to perform specific functions within the geography.

There were still more souls up in the gallery, scores of them: the Witnesses. The Witnesses were what impolite psychiatrists like to call "fragments" -- fragmentary souls created by a single traumatic event or act of abuse. Living embodiments of painful memory, they resembled small children; more than a few of them were dead ringers for Jake. But they lacked Jake's depth of personality, most having been outside only the one time, in the awful moment that made them. They had sad eyes, and rarely spoke. It was unlikely that they would have anything to add to the proceedings, but because they were members of the household, they were allowed to attend the meeting; they lined the gallery banister, some sitting, some standing. Three adult helper souls circulated behind them, ready to whisk them back into the nursery if they became bored or upset.

My father called the meeting to order.

"We're here," my father said, "because a series of threats has been made against Andrew by one of his coworkers at the Reality Factory. And since some of these were physical threats against the body, they potentially affect all of us. . ." He went on to describe what had been happening with Penny. By the time he finished, more than half of the Witnesses had vanished from the gallery, and a couple of souls at the table had become hysterical. When he got to the part about the protector chasing me in the Buick, Annis clapped her hands over her ears and ran upstairs to her room, and a moment after that Arthur bolted out the back door of the house in the direction of the forest, probably intending to work off stress by chopping down a few stands of trees. My father took all of this in stride; such reactions were perfectly normal for a house meeting. ". . . so that is what has been going on," he concluded, "and now we need to discuss what should be done about it."

Simon raised a hand. "How dangerous is this Penny Driver?" he asked. "Would she really hurt the body?"

My father turned to Adam. "The soul we saw today is capable of real violence," Adam said.

"Seferis and I are sure about that. We don't think it actually wants to hurt us, but it might, if it got mad enough."

"Well then," said Simon, looking directly at me, "somebody ought to call the police. There's no reason why we should have to tolerate even the possibility of violence." Several other souls around the table murmured agreement.

"Andrew?" my father prompted me.

"I don't think we need to get the police involved," I said, startled by the suggestion. "I mean yes, what happened today was upsetting, but I think Adam's right, the intention wasn't to hurt us. It's just. . .

they want help. This isn't about harming us, or making us feel bad. Penny's souls want help, and for better or worse they're convinced that we can give it to them, and I guess they're a little desperate about it."

"That doesn't justify threats!" exclaimed Simon. "Or chasing people in cars!"

"We needed help," I reminded him. "Are you going to tell me we were never so demanding that it scared somebody?"

"What are you suggesting, Andrew?" my father asked. "Are you saying we should overlook Penny's. . . desperation. . . and try to help her?"

"Well. . ."

"Because that isn't how you've been acting. You've been acting like you don't want anything to do with her."

"I know," I said. "But maybe. . . maybe the fair thing, if we could just get her some help, at least point her in the right direction --"

"LIAR!" Adam's shout spooked another dozen Witnesses into flight. "'Maybe the fair thing,'" he mocked. "This isn't about what's fair, or nice -- the truth is you don't give a d.a.m.n about Penny. This is about Julie."

"Oh good grief," said Simon, "not her again. . ."

"It isn't just about Julie!" I protested. "I honestly think that --"

"Oh, not just about Julie! So you admit --"

"Adam! Andrew!" my father shouted. "Both of you stop --"

"I have a suggestion," Aunt Sam said. Her level voice cut through the ruckus, quieting all of us at once. "I think," said Aunt Sam, "that we should go see Dr. Grey."

Jake, who'd been fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat throughout most of the preceding discussion, now perked up and said: "Oh, yes! Let's go see Dr. Grey!"

But my father wasn't so pleased with the idea. "Dr. Grey is retired," he reminded Aunt Sam.

"She's not well."

"She's not dead," Aunt Sam retorted. "It's high time we paid her a visit anyway, just for courtesy's sake -- it's been over a year since we've seen her. And I'm sure she wouldn't mind giving us some advice. Maybe she'd even be willing to meet with Penny personally."

"That's not appropriate. You don't show up at someone's house asking them to --"

"I think it's a great idea," I said. "The part about going to visit her, I mean. Aunt Sam's right, she could advise us what to do. I mean, who better?"

"Andrew --"

"We could go see her tomorrow. We could call her tonight, and see if she's free."

"Tomorrow is Friday," my father said. "You're supposed to be at work."

"But there's no point in my going to the Factory if I'm just going to play hide-and-seek with Penny. Julie won't mind me taking the day off -- at least, not after she finds out we're trying to get Penny some help."

"I don't like this idea," my father said. "I -- "

Down at the far end of the table, Drew suddenly piped up: "If we do go to see Dr. Grey tomorrow, could we stop at the aquarium on the way back?"

"Ooh!" Jake exclaimed, bouncing in his chair. "And what about the Magic Mouse toy store?

That's practically on the way!"

That opened the floodgates. Whatever reservations my father had about visiting Dr. Grey had to be put on hold as half the souls at the table weighed in with suggestions for possible side-excursions. My father rejected all of them, but by the time he was finished, the visit itself had somehow become an established fact.

"All right," my father relented. "All right. We'll go see Dr. Grey."

"And maybe the Magic Mouse toy store," Jake added, unwilling to give up.

The meeting ended soon after that. When I returned to the body, Mrs. Winslow was knocking on my bedroom door. "Andrew?"

"Yes, Mrs. Winslow?" I sat up stiffly, checking the clock on the night-stand: it was almost five.

"You have a telephone call," Mrs. Winslow said.

"Is it Julie?"

"No -- Julie called earlier, but I told her you weren't available. This person won't give her name, but she's very insistent about speaking to you."

Uh-oh.

"Andrew? Do you want me to put her off?"

"No," I said, swinging my legs out of bed. "No, I'll take care of it. . ." I came out into the sitting room. "I'm sorry about this. I hope she didn't say anything nasty to you. . ."

"She has a colorful vocabulary," Mrs. Winslow allowed, "but nothing I haven't heard before."

The phone was on a stand in the side hallway. Posted prominently on the wall above it was a list of emergency numbers: poison control, hospital, fire department, police department, and FBI.