The House in the Cerulean Sea(8)

* * *



If one were to ask if Linus Baker was lonely, he would have scrunched up his face in surprise. The thought would be foreign, almost shocking. And though the smallest of lies hurt his head and made his stomach twist, there was a chance he would still say no, even though he was, and almost desperately so.

And maybe part of him would believe it. He’d accepted long ago that some people, no matter how good their heart was or how much love they had to give, would always be alone. It was their lot in life, and Linus had figured out, at the age of twenty-seven, that it seemed to be that way for him.

Oh, there was no specific event that brought along this line of thinking. It was just that he felt … dimmer than others. Like he was faded in a crystal-clear world. He wasn’t meant to be seen.

He’d accepted it back then, and now he was forty with high blood pressure and a spare tire around his middle. Sure, there were times when he’d stare at himself in the mirror, wondering if he could see what others could not. He was pale. His dark hair was kept short and neat, though it seemed to be thinning on the top. He had lines around his mouth and eyes. His cheeks were full. The spare tire looked as if it’d fit on a scooter, though if he weren’t careful, it’d turn into one that belonged on a lorry. He looked … well.

He looked like most everyone else by the time they reached forty.

As he ate his salad with a drop or two of dressing in his tiny kitchen in his tiny house while the Everly brothers began to ask for Little Susie to wake up, wake up, Little Susie, worrying about what tomorrow would bring with Extremely Upper Management, the thought of being lonely didn’t even cross Linus Baker’s mind.

After all, there were people with far less than what he had. There was a roof over his head and rabbit food in his belly, and his pajamas were monogrammed.

Besides, it was neither here nor there.

He didn’t have time to sit in silence and think such frivolous thoughts. Sometimes, silence was the loudest thing of all. And that would not do.

Instead of allowing his thoughts to wander, he lifted the copy he kept at home of RULES AND REGULATIONS (all 947 pages of it, purchased for nearly two hundred dollars; he had a copy at work, but it seemed right to have one for his house as well), and began to read the tiny print. Whatever tomorrow would bring, it was best to be prepared.





THREE


The next morning, he was early to the office by nearly two hours. No one else had yet arrived, most likely still tucked away safely in their beds without a care in the world.

He went to his desk, sat down, and turned on his computer. The familiar green light did nothing to comfort him.

He tried to get as much work done as he could, constantly aware of the clock above ticking by each and every second.

The room began to fill at a quarter till eight. Ms. Jenkins arrived at precisely eight o’clock, heels clicking on the floor. Linus slunk down in his seat, but he could feel her eyes on him.

He tried to work. He really did. The green words were a blur on the screen in front of him. Even the RULES AND REGULATIONS couldn’t calm him down.

At exactly eight forty-five, he stood from his chair.

The people in the desks around him turned and stared.

He ignored them, swallowing thickly as he picked up his briefcase and walked down the rows.

“Sorry,” he muttered with every desk he bumped into. “Apologies. So sorry. Is it just me or are the desks getting closer together? Sorry. So sorry.”

Ms. Jenkins stood in the doorway to her office as he left the room, Gunther beside her, scratching his long pencil on the clipboard.



* * *



The offices of Extremely Upper Management were located on the fifth floor of the Department in Charge of Magical Youth. He’d heard rumors about the fifth floor, most of them downright alarming. He’d never been there himself, but he assumed that at least some of the rumors had to be true.

He was alone in the elevator as he pressed a button he never expected to.

The bright gold five.

The elevator started to rise. The pit of Linus’s stomach seemed to stay in the basement. It was the longest elevator ride of Linus’s life, lasting at least two minutes. It didn’t help that it stopped on the first floor, opened, and began to fill with people. They asked for two and three and four, but nobody ever asked for five.

A handful got off on the second floor. Even more at the third. And it was at the fourth that the remaining exited. They glanced back at him curiously. He tried to smile but was sure it came off as more of a grimace.

He was alone when the elevator began to rise again.

By the time the doors opened on the fifth floor, he was sweating.

It certainly didn’t help that the elevator opened to a long, cold hallway, the floor made of stone tile, the gold sconces on the wall casting low light. At one end of the hall was the bank of elevators where he stood. At the other end was a shuttered pane of glass next to a pair of large wooden doors. Above them was a metal sign:

EXTREMELY UPPER MANAGEMENT

BY APPOINTMENT ONLY



“Okay, old boy,” he whispered. “You can do this.”

His feet didn’t get the message. They remained firmly stuck to the floor.

The elevator doors began to shut. He let them. The elevator didn’t move.

At that moment, Linus gave very real thought to going back to the first floor, exiting the DICOMY building, and perhaps walking until he could walk no longer, just to see where he ended up.