The Gray House

by Mariam Petrosyan

  I looked at the hands of the others. Short, stubby sausages. Rings biting into the flesh. Big hands, small hands, all of them the same. He was of another blood. Different hands, different eyes, different body. He also was the only one wearing old clothes, so old that they were now as familiar with him as he was with them, enveloping and caressing him.

  I smiled. I can’t remember the last time I liked someone that much from just one look. He tried to return the smile. Imperceptibly, with just a corner of his mouth.

  Then Shark came out. The woman let out a stream of excited babble and stepped forward to meet him, trailing mud. The man tagged along, holding the youngest by the hand. Those family pets do have a knack for getting lost. And getting into trouble. You might say they’re born with this talent. The girl, scratching at a zit on her cheek, was looking sideways at Scarlet One. I wondered how he was feeling. He stood there somber and silent.

  Shark put all of his teeth on display and invited them to the office. They all filed inside. Except for him. Once the door slammed after them I wheeled over to it, took out the plug, which is only allowed in the most dire of circumstances, and proceeded to watch them. I’m always curious about parents. Especially of that kind.

  The woman was bawling. Making crunching noises into her handkerchief, smearing lipstick with it, licking the snot off her lips, and grabbing at her face. Robustly and affirmatively. The man perspired demurely. The coat he had on was really heavy. The children pinched each other. Shark nodded thoughtfully.

  “Our house has gone to hell! To hell, you hear?” the woman proclaimed, interspersing this information with incessant sobs.

  Shark nodded. Yes, he heard. The House he spent his time in wasn’t much better, in fact, so could they maybe get to the point?

  “He is killing us,” the woman explained. “Slowly. Day after day. He is tormenting and humiliating us. He’s a murderer! A sadistic killer!”

  “You wouldn’t know, looking at him,” Shark said politely.

  This statement made the woman in the red coat explode.

  “Of course!” she shrieked. “Of course! Why do you think we brought him here? No one believes us! No one!”

  Shark had seen some really strange people in his life, but this was a bit too much even for him.

  “We do not accept youths with criminal tendencies,” he said sternly. “This is not a penal facility.”

  “He’s not criminal,” the man interjected. “That’s not what we meant.”

  “You see,” the woman said, realizing she’d gone overboard. She switched from crying to an intimate whisper. “He always knows everything. About everybody. It’s horrible. He is one of them . . .” She winced, searching for the right word.

  “Savants?” Shark prompted, intrigued.

  “If only! Worse, much worse! All kinds of things happen when he’s around. Things appearing out of nowhere. Technology breaking. Televisions . . . one, then another. And the cat’s gone mad! The poor creature couldn’t take it anymore.”

  She went on, but Shark lost interest. He didn’t like crazies. His face clearly showed that he’d tuned out somewhere around the bit about the cat.

  “Are you sure?” he asked perfunctorily when the woman paused. Just to be polite.

  “Yes! Anyone in my place would be sure.”

  And she trotted out a litany of ironclad proofs, prominently featuring her own little kids. Those underage piranhas. Apparently “they would not let pass a single word that wasn’t true.”

  “Tell this nice gentleman if Mommy’s telling the truth.”

  The truth detectors, busy shoving and pinching each other behind her back, took a short break from their activities and eagerly nodded a couple of times.

  “And those baldies are tagging after him,” the boy added. “They’re like completely nuts. They pee in our building by the elevator. They’ll keep coming until we get him out of there. Or until they throw us all out.”

  Shark goggled, but didn’t pursue it further. Apparently, though, the love of truth had its limits, because this contribution earned the boy a whack upside the head from his mommy, and he shut up.

  “We are decent people, you know,” she said proudly. “We’d never invent something like this. We’ve never had any deviations on my side of the family, thank you very much.”

  The man cringed guiltily. On his side of the family they clearly did.

  “We showed him to the best specialists,” the woman said, dabbing the corner of her eye. “But he pretended to be normal. Made fools of us. One time they even said that it’s us who needed to be checked. The indignity of it! The humiliation!”

  Crunch, sniffle, snort.

  Shark scratched his head.

  “I don’t see how we could be of help. Our specialization is children with diminished physical capacity. You might be better served by . . .”

  “He’s epileptic since age ten,” the woman interrupted. “A horrible sight. Just horrible. Would that work for you?”

  “Well, not exactly, that’s a different area altogether . . .”

  This is where I stopped listening. It was clear enough. The administration was going to pump them for money and then accept the newbie. The house is full of healthy people with scary stuff in their medical histories. And others who are written up for something completely different from what they have. Boring. The Scarlet One was still by the wall. Now I knew what made him special. So I wheeled over to him.

  “Ask to be put in the Fourth. We don’t have a television. Never had. And cats only come in winter. Even if you make a couple of them crazy, no one is going to make a big deal out of it. Got it?”

  His stare was unblinking. I never got an answer. So I decided I’d done what I could, nodded at him, and went back. When I looked at him over my shoulder he wasn’t looking at me. He was thinking. I made it up to the second floor in record time, sprinted to the door of the dorm, coaxed Sphinx out into the hallway, and told him everything. Then we both went down and I showed him the Scarlet One.

  Sphinx frowned.

  “Mommy’s clearly hysterical and imagining things. You’re too gullible, believing every story you hear.”

  “Mommy is bonkers, that’s a fact. But she hasn’t got enough imagination to make up something like that.”

  We went closer. Soon the pasty family spilled out of the office. We couldn’t hear them from where we were standing, but we’d seen and heard all of this a million times already. It never varied except in the details. Small details. The tank woman floated up to him, patted his head, flapped the red lips for a bit, and walked on. The man shoved something in his pocket. Money, what else? The girl looked directly at us, while the pet piglet was chewing gum and blowing bubbles. They burst and covered his snout in translucent film. He used his nails to scrape it off and shove the gum back in his mouth. Finally they all left and we returned to the dorm.

  They brought him an hour later. Shark did, personally. We had to listen to everything Shark had to say concerning the cramped conditions in other dorms, and then about the camaraderie that was supposed to unite those less fortunate. Once he’d blabbed his fill he sailed away.

  Scarlet One was looking down at his feet all that time. And we were looking at him. The corduroy jacket was too big for him, and the sweater under it was too small. He stood a little splayfooted, and apart from the freckles, we couldn’t make out much about his looks. His eyes were of indeterminate color, speckled, as if reflecting the freckled face. Fingernails gnawed off. He was incredibly calm. No one who’s just been brought in could be this calm. Everyone liked that in him. I didn’t have to look around, I just knew that they did. I was happy for him.

  “Epilepsy,” Noble grumbled. “Just the thing we were waiting for. Someone having convulsion fits right here in full view.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” Wolf said. “Besides, what about your own first day here? Equal to at least three fits at once, if I remember correctly.”

  “Such a quiet kid,” Humpback said. �
�Nice, even. I vote we take him.”

  While they were discussing him in this fashion, Scarlet One just stood there looking down. His face was completely impassive, like Blind’s when he’s listening to music. I wasn’t taking part in the discussion. I alone knew what he was. He was a dragon, a scarlet dragon, a fairy-tale visitor from a different world. Because sad people with knowing eyes and mysterious abilities do not appear in piranha families for no reason, or by accident. I was worried about Sphinx, though. His usual perspicacity seemed to have evaporated.

  Sphinx stepped forward.

  “You are going to stay here only if we agree to it,” he said. “You’ll get a nick and become one of us. But only if we agree.”

  I exhaled. Sphinx was not in the habit of explaining these things to newbies. Of explaining, period. He must have felt something too. Just didn’t want to admit it.

  Scarlet One looked at him.

  “Then can you please agree,” he said. “So I can stay.”

  He said “you” to Sphinx personally, as if he knew which one of us made the decisions about who stayed and who went.

  “I’m so tired,” he added. “Really, really tired.”

  He didn’t mean us, he was talking about something from his past.

  “All right,” Sphinx said. “We accept you. But you have to swear that you’re not going to blow up electronics, attract thunderstorms, or turn into animals.”

  The pack giggled at the joke that was not a joke at all.

  “I don’t know how to do any of that,” the newbie said earnestly. “But I understand you. If that’s what is required, then I swear.”

  The pack was hysterical. I was the only one not laughing.

  And that’s how Alexander came to live among us.

  A newbie is always an event. They’re just so different. It’s exciting just to look at them. Watch them and observe how they change, little by little, how the House pulls them in, making them part of itself. I know many detest newbies because they’re a handful at first, but I happen to like them. I like observing them, pestering them with questions, pulling jokes on them. I like the strange scents they carry in. Many things, not all of them capable of being put in words. One thing’s certain—where there’s a newbie, there’s always excitement.

  That’s the way it was with Noble, and with everyone who came before him. Everyone I ever saw, really. But not Alexander. It’s as if he didn’t come in from out there but materialized, more of this place than any of us. With the shadows cast by the bars on the windows already etched into his face, with the voice as soft as the rustle of the rain. Possessing memories of each of us. He seemed to have been born here long ago, absorbing all of the colors and smells of the House. He kept his word. He’s never done anything that someone else would not be doing. He was quiet, pointedly so. He did have fits from time to time, breaking and ruining everything in his wake, but that happened rarely. There was just one thing he did allow himself—chasing away our bad dreams. I saw how he did it: he would jump up all of a sudden, walk over to someone who was asleep, whisper indistinctly in his ear, and go back. We were no longer awakened by screams—either our own or someone else’s. Our nights became more peaceful. Except for those that came after Wolf . . .

  I catch that thought by the tail and try to turn it back.

  DO NOT THINK ABOUT THAT!

  Except those nights. When even Alexander could do nothing. When . . .

  ENOUGH! NOT ALLOWED!

  With a desperate effort I manage to put the brakes on it. Then I realize I’ve been crying for a while. Good thing the rain’s picked up. Coming down for real now. I throw back my head, intent on getting soaked. Then I start shaking. The cold managed to creep under my coat and vests while I was occupied. Teeth start chattering. Time to go.

  I wheel over to the porch and wait. The darkness falls suddenly and swiftly. Shadows are floating past the curtains on the windows. The music seems to be louder than usual, or maybe I’m just imagining it because of the rain and the darkness and me here all alone, forgotten and abandoned. I feel sorry for myself. Then I feel very sorry. Then extremely sorry.

  “Tabaqui! What’s wrong?” Alexander thunders down the steps, holding a jacket like a tent above his head. “I thought you wanted to stay.”

  “I did, and then I didn’t anymore. And the ramp is too slippery, as you can see. So I had to call for some help.”

  He drags me into the elevator. I shiver and rattle my teeth, rather theatrically. He leans over, looks me in the face.

  “What was it you saw, Tabaqui? I can feel it.”

  “Lots of things. You’re not old enough to know.”

  “Sorry. I won’t leave you by yourself for that long next time.”

  On the way to the dorm I explain to Alexander that liking a drizzle is an altogether different thing from liking a downpour. The latter happens to play havoc with vehicles not designed for prolonged exposure to the elements, and a wheelchair should be kept dry regardless of one’s love for rain.

  “Mustang has been in service for a long time now, and is deserving of attention and respect. Even if its churlish rider, also owner, is not.”

  “Tabaqui, stop it,” Alexander pleads. “I’m going to have a hard time sleeping tonight as it is.”

  While he’s drying and dressing me I take the stone out of my pocket. This time I manage to take a closer look at it, even though it’s not easy with the towel scrubbing my head. It is oblong and light blue in color. Both the color and the shape seem familiar, resembling—what? I keep fiddling with it, turning it this way and that, trying to figure it out.

  Alexander wraps me in a dressing gown and deposits me on the bed under the blankets. I burrow even deeper and keep thinking. The stone is warm in my hand. We go to sleep together, and the dream I have is about it and about that which it resembles.

  I wake up to soft guitar chords. It’s dark except for the red Chinese lantern hanging low above the bed. It gives off barely enough light. I stare at it for a long time, until I start swaying in unison with it.

  Somewhere very close—Sphinx’s voice. He’s singing, something about “the hole in a black truck tire against brown grass.” Muffled noise on the other side of the wall, like there’s a party going on. I pull off the covers and sit up. Could it be that I missed dinner? That’s something that doesn’t happen very often.

  Sunlight mixed with dust

  rises behind a truck

  on the dirt road

  There’s something awfully familiar about Sphinx’s song. Vulture’s head is nodding over the guitar’s strings. And what looks like Shuffle’s feet are hanging off the headboard. His right one especially is very distinctive.

  “Are you awake?” Humpback whispers. “You’re not ill, by any chance? You’ve missed dinner.”

  “If I am, then chance had nothing to do with it. What’s that noise?”

  “Celebrating the new Law. Or have you forgotten? So we’re also kind of celebrating. The old gang’s here.”

  I remember. Everything, including my dream. The stone in my hand is wet. Now I know exactly what it looks like. And it’s a very strange coincidence.

  Not a word! Not a word!

  Flies do all my talking for me—

  and the wind says something else

  Right now the important thing is my dream. I need to fulfill it. That’s what I think.

  The pale pinkish glow of the lantern. The plates of shard-like sandwiches. Glasses clinking, black wine sloshing inside. The old gang: Vulture, Shuffle, Elephant, Beauty. My hand reaches for the harmonica, but flees by itself. Not now. Need to remember . . . I grab the nearest sandwich and eat it.

  walking back into the retreat house

  Humpback breathes tenderly into the flute. Sways, bumps into me. Someone is chomping loudly behind my back. Irritating.

  after Two-Week Retreat

  The guitar passes on to Shuffle. A succession of somber chords. The sandwich suddenly comes to an end, and then another one. Now it’s
Vulture droning hoarsely:

  A thin red-faced pimpled boy

  stands alone minutes

  looking into the ice cream bin

  When he comes to the “Cabin in the Rockies” we’re interrupted by an explosion of noise from the dorms up and down the hallway. I crawl in the direction of Vulture’s voice.

  “Listen. Could you maybe lend me your stepladder? It’s very important. And I’d like to avoid answering the question ‘Why,’ if you don’t mind.”

  He’s pink, like everything around him that’s illuminated by the lantern. Leans over, reeking of wine.

  “No problem at all. Of course. It’s yours, for however long you need it.”

  He has a short whispered conversation with someone invisible and turns back to me.

  “You drive over with Beauty. He’ll tell the boys, they’ll bring it out.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call for him when I’m ready.”

  I crawl over the sandwiches, legs, and bottles—and here I am on the floor, and the stone is in my pocket, and I’m dying to find out if I can accomplish what I decided to do before lights out. Everyone’s making merry. I hate leaving them now, but time’s a-wasting.

  I put on the warmest clothes I can find. The tools I need are in the anteroom, in the boxes under the coat hangers. The bulb here is dim, but after the flashlight it’s almost blinding. At first all I manage to dredge out are rags and old ossified shoes—useless crud. Shuffle’s guitar perversions in the room grow even more elaborate. I fret and worry, until finally there comes out the thing I was looking for: the brush with the can of white paint and some more rags stuck to it. I take them and some other small things that might prove useful, call Beauty, and wheel into the corridor with him.

  He comes inside the Third while I wait by the door. The Nest is quiet, unlike the other dorms—all clatter and wailing. The common room is full of jumping, mulleted shadows. Our Lary must also be there somewhere.

  I have my warmest vest on, but I still shiver. The can, covered in dry paint drippings, I hold in my hands, and the rest—the scraper, the knife, brushes—I try to stuff in my pocket, where they collide with the remains of something edible. I shake out those. The rats who happen to run this way tonight are in for a treat.