Set This House in Order (30 page)

“Sure,” I said. “I'll have a drink with you.”

We started with a pitcher of beer, then at Julie's recommendation moved on to depth charges, mugs of lager into which shot glasses of bourbon had been dropped like underwater mines. By the time we switched to straight scotch, Julie had broken her own taboo and started telling me all about her breakup with Reggie Beauchamps. It was difficult to listen to. Julie got really worked up, railing about what a bastard Reggie was…and against all logic, I felt myself getting jealous, envying the intensity of her feelings for him, even though it was a negative intensity.

Julie sensed my discomfort, and stopped. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I wasn't supposed to talk about him.”

“It's all right,” I told her.

“No, it isn't. It upsets you.”

“It doesn't upset me,” I lied. “It's just…I don't understand. If he makes you as unhappy as you say, and you
knew
he was going to make you unhappy, after what happened the last time you were together…why did you hook up with him a second time? I mean isn't the whole idea of going out with somebody that you at least
think
you're going to enjoy it?”

Julie gave me a rueful smile. “Now you're being rational…”

“Seriously, Julie—”

“
Seriously,
Andrew…Look, I don't mean to make it sound like it was
all
bad. I mean we did have some fun, before Reggie reverted to being a shit…”

“OK, then,” I said. “I still don't really get it, but OK.”

Julie sighed. “You don't get it because you're more together than I am, Andrew. You're smarter than me.” I made a face at that, but Julie insisted: “It's true. You are more together than me. And I'm not the only person who says so. Penny thinks you're really together…Penny thinks you're great.”

I frowned. “Why do you keep doing that, Julie?”

“Doing what?”

“Talking about Penny like there's something romantic between us.”

“Well, she does like you…”

I shook my head. “I don't think so, Julie. Not like that.”

“Come on, Andrew. I saw the way she kissed you.”

“And I told you, that wasn't her.”

“Well it was
one
of her,” Julie argued. Then: “Honestly, you don't think you'd make a good couple?”

“Based on what? The fact that we're both multiple?”

“Well…” Julie shrugged. “You have to admit…”

“Penny's an unstable multiple, Julie. It'd be like dating a mental patient. I don't know, maybe
you
should go out with her.”

I was worried I'd crossed the line with that remark, but Julie responded with a grin, actually conceding the point. “Maybe,” she acknowledged. “Penny's not my type, though.”

“Well she's not my type, either. I mean I think she's basically a nice person, and once she gets through therapy I'm sure she'll make a good girlfriend for somebody, but…not me.”

“OK,” Julie said. She looked down at her glass, which was empty. “You want another round?”

“I shouldn't…Do you?”

“I've got a bottle back at my place,” Julie suggested. “We could go there.”

“OK.”

We paid our tab and went outside. The sun was still out, which was very disorienting; I'd never been drunk in daylight before. I went to look at my watch to see how late it was, and stopped in surprise: my wrist was bare. Thinking I must have left the watch in the bar, I started to turn back.

Then I noticed Julie standing beside her Cadillac. “Hey,” I called to her. “Julie, come on…you know you can't drive now.”

“Hmm?” She glanced at me, then waved a hand dismissively. “Don't worry,” she said, “the fucking thing probably wouldn't start, anyway.” Her mouth set in an angry line. “The fucking thing…shit car, shit boyfriend, shit business plan. I really am a complete fuckup, aren't I?”

“If you are, Julie,” I said, “it's not because you have to be.” She didn't seem to hear that, which, upon reflection, was just as well.

“Fucking thing,” Julie cursed her car once more. Then she said: “Come on, let's get out of here before I put some new dents in it.”

We walked back to her building. Upstairs in her apartment, Julie made a beeline for the cupboard above her kitchen sink, taking down an unopened bottle of scotch. As she cracked the seal and filled two glasses, I thought about passing; I'd obviously already had my limit. But when she handed me a glass and said “Cheers,” I drank.

Bringing the bottle with her, Julie went into her bedroom. I followed her.

“I'm going to take a shower,” Julie announced.

“Huh?”

“I'm going to take a shower.” Julie set the bottle and her glass on top of the dresser, and got a robe from her closet. “Just hang out,” she told me. “I'll only be a few minutes.”

She headed off to the bathroom, leaving me to wonder whether it was really strange, her deciding to take a shower right now, or if it only seemed
strange because I was drunk. Pondering the matter, I took a sip of my scotch, which all of a sudden tasted terrible. “Gah,” I exclaimed. “Enough.” I set the glass down firmly on top of the dresser.

I sat on the futon and stared out the bedroom window. The sky outside was still bright, with just a hint of approaching nightfall. I checked Julie's alarm clock: 6:47
P.M.
Mrs. Winslow would have started dinner by now, I thought, and then I remembered that I hadn't called to let her know where I was. She'd be worried.

I berated myself for the oversight. I'd better call, tell her that I was all right…or maybe I should just go home. Of course, if I went home now, Mrs. Winslow would know that I'd been drinking. She probably wouldn't say anything about it, but she'd be disappointed in me; she knew my father's rules as well as I did. So maybe I shouldn't go home. Maybe I should stay here awhile, sober up.

Absently, I raised my arm and took another sip of scotch. This time it didn't taste so bad—in fact, it didn't taste like anything—but even as I swallowed I found myself staring at the glass in my hand, confused. I thought: what's wrong with this picture?

I might have figured it out, but just then Julie returned from the shower, bringing her own logic puzzle. I distinctly remembered her taking a robe to the bathroom, but now coming back she was wrapped only in a towel. As a fashion choice it was beyond criticism—with the bare skin of her upper chest and shoulders still flushed from the heat of the shower, she was almost indescribably lovely—but the question remained: what happened to the robe?

Julie went to the dresser and picked up her glass. The arch of her neck as she drank had me mesmerized; I tried to think of a way to tell her how gorgeous she looked that wouldn't imply any inappropriate feelings on my part.

“So,” Julie said, turning to face me, “you think I'm a fuckup.”

I blinked. “What?”

“What you said outside the bar, when I asked if I was a complete fuckup…” Oh great. She had heard that. “‘If you are, it's not because you have to be…' If you are. Meaning I am, right?”

“No! No, Julie, I—”

“It's all right,” Julie said. “I'd rather you be honest with me, and if you think—”

“I
don't
think you're a fuckup, Julie. I think…you're impractical—”

“Impractical. Hmmph.”

“—and sometimes it seems like you set out to frustrate yourself, and I don't
get
that, but I also know that you're really talented, and really smart, and, and beautiful, and if your life isn't everything you want it to be right now, it's not because you're
condemned
to that…you have all the qualities you need to make things better, you just…need to pick a different strategy, is all…”

“A different strategy. Uh-huh.” Julie was smiling guardedly now, a sign that she'd only been teasing me, but I went on babbling, alternating apologies with further compliments, until she finally took pity on me.

“Andrew,” Julie said at last, setting her glass back on the dresser and coming over to the futon. “It's OK…”

“No, it isn't…you were depressed, and I wanted to say something to make you feel better, and instead—”

“I knew what you were trying to say, Andrew…more or less.”

“I'm sorry, Julie.”

“Andrew, shh, stop apologizing.” She sat beside me on the futon, put an arm across my shoulders. “You're my best fucking friend, you know you are…” She reached up with her other hand to stroke the side of my face, and then I couldn't help myself: I leaned over and kissed her.

Julie didn't pull away; she kissed back, softly. We broke from that, and then I, emboldened, bent my head down and brushed my lips against the tops of her breasts. Julie tensed. “Andrew,” she said, starting to object. “Andrew, wait…” I didn't wait. I raised my head again halfway and kissed a spot in the hollow of Julie's throat, the right spot I guess; all at once she was tense in a different way. “Andrew,” she repeated, her voice different too. “Ah, shit…”

We ended up lying side-by-side on the futon. My hand was on Julie's bare skin, tracing the curve of her shoulder.

“This is a
bad
idea, Andrew,” Julie said. She said it like she believed it but might also be willing to overlook the fact, which was all the encouragement I needed. My wish had come true: the window of opportunity had opened again, and this time I was not going to be too shy or indecisive to go through it.

I propped myself up on one elbow and leaned over, kissing Julie on the mouth, on the face, on the chest. She accepted the kisses passively at first, but then I found that magic spot on her throat again, and she said “Ah, shit…” and started to reciprocate. She grabbed me by the collar, shoved me over onto my back, and rolled on top of me. She kissed the hollow of
my
throat, nibbled on it. Her fingers found the top button of my shirt and undid it, then groped for the second button; I reached for her towel, which was already slipping. We began to wrestle, fighting over who would get to undress who first. I had the advantage—in addition to the fact that towels have no fasteners, I had the better upper-body strength. But Julie was wilier; she slipped a hand free and reached down, meaning to throw me off balance by grabbing between my legs.

And that's where things started to go wrong. Julie grabbed my crotch…and paused. A puzzled expression came over her face—the look of mild bafflement you get when you reach for a set of keys that you know you just put down, only to find that they're not where you thought they were. Julie's hand resumed its groping, more urgently now, and her puzzlement increased…where were those keys?

“Andrew,” Julie said, drawing back from me a little, even as her hand continued its groping, “you're not…you don't have…”

“What?”

She made herself say it.

“Oh,” I replied casually, as if she'd expressed surprise over my choice of underwear. “Oh yeah. I don't have…one of those.”

“You don't…” Julie blinked, struggling to keep a game face. “Is that…part of the abuse? Did your stepfather…?”

“What?” Then I laughed, getting it. “Oh no! No, nothing like that. Nothing was…cut off. The body's female, that's all.”

“What?”

“The body is female,” I repeated. “What—”

“No,” Julie protested. “No, that can't…you said ‘he.' You always say ‘he.'”

“What?”

“When you talk about Andy Gage…the original Andy Gage…you always say ‘he,' not ‘she.'”

“Well…yeah.”

“But if Andy Gage was a girl, then—”

“Julie…” Of all the times to start talking about metaphysics…but it seemed important to her, so I curbed my impatience. “I call Andy Gage ‘he' because, well, because my father always does…and Adam, and Aunt Sam, and everybody else in the house too.”

“But if Andy Gage was female…”

“His body was female, but his soul was male.” I didn't actually know this
for a fact, but it made the most sense—and I wasn't about to call my father out for confirmation.

“You said that souls and bodies were twins, though. Reflections of each other.”

“In people who are singular. But—”

“But Andy Gage
was
singular. I mean he was the original soul, right? He…she…existed before the split. So—”

“Julie,” I interrupted, “Julie, I don't want to be rude, but…why does this matter? I mean I'd be happy to talk about it
later,
but—”

“Why…?”
She let out a crazy laugh, a half-strangled chuckle. “Oh my God…”

“I mean I'm sorry if the body is not…not everything you'd like it to be, but I'm sure I can make up for…anything that's missing.” I smiled, still believing that this was a minor misunderstanding that would soon be put behind us. “Just tell me what you want.” I reached for her but she wriggled away. She backed up to the far end of the futon, gathering her towel tightly around her.

“Julie?” I said, finally growing alarmed. “Julie, what is it?”

I sat up and reached for her again, but Julie shouted
“Don't!”
and slapped my hand away, hard. I couldn't have been more stunned.

“I'm sorry, Andrew,” Julie said stiffly. “I'm sorry, but please don't…please don't touch me.”

“Julie…” I felt a familiar dash of ice water on my heart, a dash that became a torrent. It had happened again: one moment we'd been intimates, open and loving, and now…now the window was closed again, nailed shut, shuttered and barricaded. And I didn't understand. “Does it really matter so much? I mean it's still
me,
even if I don't have—”