Olympus Drive Book 1: Everything is Fine

Chapter 20

Mrs. Merryweather

I take off of work for the next week. Repair men are in and out fixing the wall. And Basil is remarkably unphased. Marshall and Sydney are frightened but in general Basil's presence seems to comfort them. So that's all right.

But I feel like I can't reach him. He's pleasant. He's polite. He's even kind to the little ones. But he's never himself. It's all very rote. Very routine. He doesn't talk much about what happened while he was gone. Sometimes, but only little things. And those are normal. Such as being used to pizza done a certain way, or a movie Della liked. That type of thing. The doctors said his trauma would show in different ways. They didn't mention bashing in a wall and fighting a wild animal in our living room. I realize that isn't his fault but---why was he so calm about it? and we never found the corpse. What happened to it? Could he have done all that to himself? That I even ask the question scares me.

So I'm just sitting at the kitchen table, crying to myself. Basil is here doing what ever it is he does with his notebooks and his journals up in his room.

The phone rings. It's probably Detective Stamos. I think he worries about my son as much as I do.

"Hello—Mrs. Merryweather?" that's Della's voice.

"Yes, are you okay honey?" she never calls our line she always calls Basil. I thought it was weird they talked so much, but the other day I overheard part of the conversation and they were arguing about whether eating Ritz crackers with Catsup should be illegal or not.

"Yeah yeah I'm fine---can you, tell your stupid, stupid, son that he does NOT need to water my plants with rain water? That when I said do not use tap water I meant use distilled water instead?"

"What?" I ask.

"Look outside for me," very tiredly.

I look out the back door. Sure enough, Basil is standing there in the pouring rain, looking entirely pleased with himself, holding a potted plant in either hand and blinking up at the sky, his good blue sweater soaked.

"How---how did you know he was doing that?" I ask. I didn't even hear him go outside.

"Unfortunately---I know him," she sighs, "Go ahead and get him in will you? And tell him to use distilled water?"

"Okay, just a second," I set down the receiver and go the back door, "Come in here."

"No I shan't I have to water Della's plants for her these are the poisonous ones that have to live with me and she said tap water is bad for them," he says, blinking rain water out of his eyes and being dumb.

"Yes, honey—you can use distilled water, she says, she just called."

"Let me talk to her," he says, walking in, dripping water all over the floor, to set the dripping plants down on the counter and pick up the phone "Well you didn't say that did you?"

Loudly through the other end, "WHY WOULD IT BE MORE LOGICAL TO WATER THEM WITH RAIN EVERY SINGLE WEEK THAN TO GET DISTILLED WATER AT THE STORE?"

"It was more convenient. Now I have to go to the store and get distilled water---oh you'll give me some---oh that was a jug of water for the plants---well what did you expect me to do with it? I drank it I thought you were giving it to me as a gift----I realize that's a weird gift now---fine yes I get it now---bye—bye," he hangs up, nods at me, then carries the plants back up to his room, sloshing water on the steps.

"I swear to god it has rained every single Friday for the past two months," my husband says, walking in from the garage. He's a bit too passive about having Basil back. He takes his quiet as settling in normally. He's also angry with me because I've decided that since Basil can apparently break into any sort of container that holds alcohol, this house will no longer have alcohol. I've got a therapy appointment for him. His last counselor quit. Said Basil needed to be 'on board with therapy' and not 'sing "this is the song that doesn't end" all the time'. I said if he were okay then he wouldn't need therapy.

"Well at least it stopped now. I'm going to mow the lawn."

"Oh let Basil help you he likes to put out salt," I don't know why it makes him happy but it does and I don't even care at this point.

"It's bad for the grass and a waste of money."

"Humor him---has it really stopped? It was pouring seconds ago," just when I told Basil to come in it was pouring buckets. Sure enough it has stopped now. I can even see blue sky.

"Fine, he can at least help it would be good for him. He spends too much time up there."

"I think he's used to quiet," that's it. It's been an entire day. I'm calling Detective Stamos again.

"He okay?" that's how he answers the phone for me now.

"He's still putting out salt lines. Have you---found anything?"

"No. those journals----they---it's ---Rhea was training them to fight the monsters, the ones only he could see. Except he got the kids to believe they were real I don't---all I can think of is Basil was trying to do that the other night."

"Something was in our house," I whisper.

"Was it? Or were your two little ones following their big brother's lead?"

"He couldn't have done that to himself."

"We don't know that though, do we? That kid had had a hell of a lot to drink."

"I know. I took all alcohol out of the house."

"Has he gotten into the Listerine?"

"The what?"

"Sorry, alcoholic here, he's gonna go for the Listerine."

"Fuck I wondered why he smelled like last night---sorry—"

"It's fine just take that too—and tell him I told you. He can be mad at me—"

"I don't know what to do with him."

"I wish I had more to tell you."

"No, you're more than enough it's just that I'm afraid—"

"That it's not enough?"

"Yeah, and that we're gonna lose him again."

"Yeah me too. All right. I gotta go do security at funeral."

"What?"

"Hector's mom, had an abusive ex, showed up at her door to drop dead, not a heart attack, just drop dead no brain activity nothing wrong with him. Now a variety of his crackhead relatives think Hector is some sort of harbinger of death because apparently Hector's parents thought he was the anti-Christ---they had this cult thing going it's bad---I actually should go."

"Good luck with that."

"Thanks I'll probably need it, call me if anything happens, okay?"

"No, I'm sure we'll be fine," I say, as I hear a scream from upstairs.