Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse by Lee Goldberg

on the tables and shelves were grouped by height and shape and spaced evenly apart. The magazines were arranged by name and stacked chronologically. He’d reorganized my books alphabetically, by size, and, for all I knew, by copyright date as well.
    The living room—and I assumed the entire house—was clean, organized, and utterly sterile. It looked like a model home. I hated it.
    “Mr. Monk, everything in here is level and centered and perfectly organized.”
    “Thank you.” He beamed with pride, which only frustrated and infuriated me more.
    “No, it’s wrong. Don’t you see? You’ve taken all the personality and charm out of my house.”
    “Everything is still here,” Monk said. “Except the dirt, the dust, and half a grilled cheese sandwich I found under the couch.”
    “But there’s no more clutter,” I said. “It looks like robots live here.”
    “And that’s a bad thing?”
    “ People live here, Mr. Monk. Eight years of marriage, twelve years of parenting, a mother and daughter living together; that all leaves a trail. I like that trail. It comforts me. It’s the muddled arrangement of photos on the shelf, the half-read book left open on the arm of a chair, and yes, even the forgotten grilled cheese sandwich. Clutter and disorganization, those are signs of life. It is life.”
    “Not mine,” he said.
    Those two words carried an infinite sadness that made me ache and, for a moment, forget my own frustration and think about his.
    Monk’s life was a constant pursuit of order. I’m sure that’s why he became a detective and why he’s so good at solving murders. He notices all the things that don’t fit as they should and puts them into their proper places, creating a solution. Restoring order.
    The only mystery he hasn’t been able to solve is the one at the heart of his own personal disorder.
    The murder of his wife.
    Everything else he did, like organizing my house or making sure my daughter’s shoelaces were even, was a poor substitute for the perfect order he lost with Trudy. That could never be restored.
    But I couldn’t say all that to him. Instead I took his hand in mine.
    “Your life is a lot messier than you think. I’m a big mess and I’m part of it, aren’t I?”
    “You and Julie,” Monk said. “And I’m glad you are.”
    “Me, too, Mr. Monk.”
    “Actually, I’ve loosened up quite a bit.”
    “You have?”
    “I haven’t always been the easygoing guy you know today,” Monk said. “There was a time when I was very uptight.”
    “I can’t imagine that.” I gave his hand a squeeze and let go. “Please don’t straighten up my house anymore.”
    He nodded.
    “Good night, Mr. Monk.”
    “Good night, Natalie.”
    I went to my room. It wasn’t until I was in bed, and nearly asleep, that I realized that I’d held his hand and he didn’t ask for a wipe. Even if he sanitized his hands later, at least he didn’t do it in front of me. That had to mean something, and whatever it was, I think it was something good.

9
    Mr. Monk and the Thirtieth Floor
     
     
     
     
    Straightening up the house must have exhausted Monk because on Monday morning Julie woke up before he did and managed to beat him to the bathroom by a few seconds. They nearly collided at the door at six o’clock.
    “I need to use the bathroom first,” Monk said.
    “Is it number one or number two?”
    “I think I have a constitutional right not to have to answer that question.”
    “I need to know how long you’re going to be,” Julie said, holding the door possessively with one hand, her school clothes draped over her arm.
    “No longer than usual.”
    “I can’t wait that long,” Julie said. “School starts at eight fifteen, not noon.”
    She closed the door on him. He stared at the door for a moment, then looked at me. I was standing outside my bedroom, not bothering to hide my amusement.
    “Does she have to use the bathroom so often?” Monk said.
    “Would you prefer she didn’t bathe at