Set This House in Order by Matt Ruff Page B

every day after that, Rudy’s mood seemed to get worse. On Wednesday morning he yelled at her for the first time ever, complaining that the workroom was “a complete mess” and that “I’ll never be able to find anything back here, the way you’ve let it go.”
    â€œWhat are you looking for?” asked Mouse, alarmed. “I’ll help you find it.” But this offer of assistance only seemed to anger Rudy further; he toldher to have the workroom straightened out by closing time Friday and stalked out.
    On Friday, the moment she’d been dreading for eight months finally arrived. It happened as Mouse was preparing to leave. As ordered, she’d straightened up the workroom; she’d also finished the last two pending repair jobs. “All done,” she announced, coming out front shortly before six.
    Rudy, who sat reading a copy of The Drifters with a sullen expression on his face, wouldn’t acknowledge her.
    â€œOK, then,” Mouse said. “If there’s nothing else you need me to do today…”
    No response.
    â€œOK,” Mouse said. “I’ll be going, then. I’ll see you on Monday, Rudy.”
    Her hand was on the door when Rudy said: “No you won’t.”
    Mouse turned around. Rudy was glaring at her over the top of his book. “I won’t?” Mouse said.
    â€œNo,” said Rudy. “Don’t you remember?” He snorted. “Hell, maybe you don’t. Maybe the ‘numbing boredom’ of working for me numbed your memory, too.” He set down his book and took a deep breath. “I’ve got something to say to you before you go. If you don’t like your job, whatever the reason, that’s fine—I don’t want anybody working here against their will. But you’ve got no right to shit on me personally. Maybe this place is just ‘a hole in the wall,’ but I’ve got pride in it just the same—I worked for it, I built it up, I kept it going for years without any help from anybody, and you’ve got no right to shit on that. It may not be much, but it’s more than you’ve got, as far as I can tell…”
    Mouse felt her lower lip quivering. She wanted to cry; she wanted to beg Rudy’s forgiveness for whatever she’d done. But she was terrified that if she did either of those things, made any sound or interrupted Rudy in any way, he’d come out from behind the counter and start hitting her. So she stayed mute and still by the door, while Rudy continued to berate her. He went on for a long time.
    â€œâ€¦so that’s it,” he concluded, when his rage was finally spent. By this point his eyes were rimmed with red, as if he too were on the verge of crying. “That’s all I’ve got to say to you. Now get the hell out of my shop.”
    â€œRudy…” Mouse tried to say, but the word came out as a meaningless twitter. Then Rudy stood up, shoving his stool back with a loud screech, and Mouse bolted.
    She ran from the Quick Fix so swiftly that she was all the way to her car before the tears started. She slid into the driver’s seat, slapped down thedoor locks, and then hunched over the steering wheel blubbering for almost twenty minutes. She kept hoping she would lose time, lose this moment, this day, and so find herself beyond it. But time stayed with her, and eventually the crying fit tapered off. She drove home.
    A red light blinked in the darkness of her apartment as she let herself in: there was a message on her answering machine. After switching on the living-room lights, Mouse hit the playback button, and heard Julie Sivik’s voice: “Hey Mouse! It’s Friday afternoon, around four, and I’m calling to confirm that we’re all set for Monday…”
    The top of the stand on which the answering machine rested was glass-inlaid wood; as the message continued—with Julie expressing concern about how