Eliza and Her Monsters(41)
“Hmm.” Tim goes back to his eggs. “So is this what you’d be doing with your major next year? Writing fanfiction?”
All amusement has left Wallace’s face. “No, they don’t do fanfiction in any creative writing major.”
“So you’d be writing your own work.”
“Yeah.”
“What is that going to get for you, if you can’t make money off your own work?”
“Timothy,” Vee warns. “Not while we have a guest.”
I shrink into Wallace’s side, but Tim’s laser gaze finds me anyway. “Eliza,” he says. “You plan on going to college next year, don’t you? What do you want to major in?”
Art seems like the obvious answer, but I haven’t settled on anything yet because there’s no major for drawing Monstrous Sea. But saying “art” doesn’t seem like it’ll get me many points in Tim’s book. “Graphic design,” I say. “For, like, marketing. And stuff.” Way to stick the landing, Mirk.
“Graphic design,” Tim repeated. “See, Wallace, even that has business appeal. Graphic designers can make good money. I’m not saying you can’t do writing, just do some writing that you can build a career on. Creative writing isn’t going to get you anywhere.”
Wallace clamps his mouth shut and stares at his plate. Lucy shoves a piece of bacon into her mouth, and Bren covers her face with a hand, slowly shaking her head.
“This fanfiction thing is for fun. Your mother and I won’t be paying for a college education that supports a hobby. We want you to do something meaningful.”
Tim keeps going. Wallace’s fist tightens against his thigh. I brush my finger against it, and he grabs my hand. Squeezes hard, like he’s in pain. I squeeze back.
“I know you don’t like listening to this,” Tim says, “but it’s the way the world is.”
A beat of silence falls over the table as Tim goes back to his eggs. Then Wallace says, “May we be excused?”
Tim looks ready to say no, but his mouth is full. Vee shoots him a venomous look from the other end of the table and says, “Yes, hon, you and Eliza are excused. I’ll get your plates.”
Wallace stands and pulls me out of the kitchen.
CHAPTER 22
Down the back hallway is a set of stairs that lead to the basement. The basement is brick walled, carpeted, and chillier than the rest of the house. Wallace flicks a light switch at the bottom of the stairs that turns on soft, ambient sconces. The room is divided in half by a wall with a large opening. On this side is a moth-eaten couch and a large, old television. Wallace leads me to the other side of the room, through the opening. The darker side. There’s a mattress here on the floor covered with rumpled bedsheets, a lamp plugged into a power strip, and books and papers piled around it, including the Children of Hypnos series and chapters of Wallace’s Monstrous Sea transcription. A pool table takes up a lot of the space. Just to the left of the lamp on the floor is an old recliner. Behind that is a large poster of Dallas Rainer standing on a beach, looking over the ocean, and the words THERE ARE MONSTERS IN THE SEA sketched into the shadow he casts on the sand. Pinned beside the poster is an old football jersey that says WARLAND and the number 73.
From the opening in the wall, Wallace pulls a heavy, sliding wood door and locks it on the other side of the doorframe. It cuts off any residual noise from upstairs, and even from the rest of the basement. He presses his forehead to the door and closes his eyes.
“I am so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think he would do that.”
I shift from foot to foot. The room is cold, and my jacket is upstairs. “Does he usually?”
“Sometimes. He’s—he’s a great guy, and he’s a good person, but I hate it when he starts saying things are meaningless.” He pulls his head away from the door and starts to pace. “Sorry. Sorry, I don’t mean to freak you out. I didn’t think he would be like that if you were here.”
“It’s fine. I get it.” I’m just glad I can breathe again.
Wallace balls his hands together at his sides. I’ve never seen him so angry. Not like this. He looks like he could break something. Maybe the pool table. “What’s the point of being alive if you don’t do what makes you happy? What good is a career that makes you money if you hate yourself every day you do it? I don’t have a family to support, I don’t have bills to pay, at least not right now. Sure, I’ll have to pay student loans, but we only have enough money for me to go to community college anyway, so I’ll pay it off with whatever job I get after that. I don’t need to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or whatever important job he wants me to get. I just want to write.”
I watch him pace and feel myself growing to the floor, feet rooted in place, uncertainty creeping its way through my veins. I’ve never seen him like this—I don’t know what to do with him, so I stand there and stare until he finally looks up at me and says, “I’m really sorry” again.
“Do you need something to scream into?” I ask.
He considers. “That would be nice.”
I pluck the pillow off the mattress and toss it to him. He presses it to his face and lets out a muffled scream. Probably the loudest sound that’s ever come out of him in my presence, and the pillow makes it no louder than his usual speaking volume.