The Gray House

by Mariam Petrosyan

  They must know I can’t!

  Smoker doesn’t move. The whiny voices around him keep repeating, “UP! GET UP! RISE AND SHINE!” until he begins to cry.

  “You didn’t come to my memorial service,” Ghoul hisses, screwing the tip of his finger into Smoker’s aching head.

  “At this trying hour!” Pheasants sing in unison. “The hour of farewells!”

  Is this my memorial service now? But I’m alive!

  There’s a pot with a geranium on the nightstand. Smoker peers into the foliage and notices a tiny green spot on one of the leaves.

  “Come here,” Sphinx’s voice whispers. “Come on, don’t be afraid.”

  The leaf grows until it blocks out the room. Each vein in it is the size of a tree, the soft fuzz covering it is a wild meadow. Sphinx, in a green cloak with translucent wings, is swinging his legs at the edge of the emerald savanna.

  “See? That was easy. No reason to be scared.”

  “Is this where we are going to live now? Forever?”

  The leaf trembles, echoing with distant thunder.

  “What was that?”

  “That? Oh, that’s elephants running,” Sphinx says, waving the long antennae growing right above his eyes. “Running . . . running . . .”

  “That’s right, sonny,” Father says, putting his hand on Smoker’s knee. They are back on the living-room sofa, Mother and Brother are next to him. “You see, sometimes they just run through here, minding their own business.”

  Smoker stares at the enormous print of an elephant’s foot on the brownish carpet.

  The trapdoor to the House’s attic lifts up, creaking. Blind squeezes into the opening, then places the hatch back without getting off his knees. The hatch has a large iron ring on top, and nothing on the bottom—it’s Blind’s personal entrance. He shakes the dust out of his clothes and creeps along the attic, treading softly on the floorboards. There are five steps from the trapdoor to the chair, but somehow only four and a half the other way. He knows that the old chair with the busted seat is waiting for him in the exact same place he left it. No one else ever comes here. Just him and Arachne. She hangs in the corner—tiny, almost invisible. Pretending to be dead. Blind lowers himself onto the edge of the busted seat and takes the flute from under his sweater.

  “Listen, Arachne,” he says into space. “This is for you only.”

  It’s quiet. The attic is the quietest place in the world. Then the sound streaming from under Blind’s fingers, plangent and trembling, fills it up. Blind does not know yet what he wants. It has to be a kind of web. Arachne’s webbed trap—enormous and all-encompassing for her, imperceptible for everyone else. Something that is at the same time the snare, the House, and the entire world. Blind plays. He has the whole night ahead of him. He follows familiar tunes. Humpback makes them beautiful, but Blind leaves them dry and frayed at the edges. He can only make beautiful things that are fully his own. Chasing that feeling, he does not notice the steps of the night going past, it walks through the attic and through him, dragging his songs away. Arachne grows bigger and bigger. She fills the corner and spills out from it; the silver web envelops the attic. Blind and Arachne, now enormous, are in the center of it.

  Arachne trembles, and her trap trembles with her, the translucent spider harp strung from the ceiling to the floor. Blind senses its vibration, hears its chiming, Arachne’s innumerable eyes burrow into his face and hands, burning them, and he smiles. He knows that he’s doing it right. Not completely yet, but very close.

  The two of them play together. Then they are three, the wind joining in with the song of the flues. Then four, welcoming a cat’s gray shadow.

  Blind cuts the song short. Arachne shrinks back into the dusty corner, no bigger than a fingernail again. The cat flees into the crack in the floor. Only the wind, completely unhinged, continues wailing, rattling the flues, knocking on the skylight, tugging at the window frames . . . The glass erupts and tumbles inside, coating the floorboards in snowy dust.

  Blind, barefoot, calmly walks over the shards to the window. He thrusts his arm through the middle of the ring of glass knives, takes a handful of snow from the roof—it’s soft and fluffy under the hardened crust—and drinks it.

  “I am drinking the clouds and the frozen rain. The soot of the streets and the sparrow’s footsteps. What are you having, Arachne?”

  Arachne is silent. The wind flees, recedes, inconsolable. The cat, overflowing with the song, flies down through the building, a furry arrow. Its double, one floor below it, crosses the hallway, tumbles down the steps, halts, and starts to clean the paws and the chest. The cat aims lower and lower, reaches the landing saturated with the scent of other cats—and is reunited with its double. Three rounds of the cat dance follow, the all-knowing noses touch, the stories get told: one about the adventures of the trash can in the night, the other about the spider concerto. Then it is the running, paw to paw and rib cage to rib cage, past the dark screen of the switched-off television, past the sleeping bodies, until finally they take a turn into an opened door, into stuffy darkness where their master is sitting, cradling another cat in her lap. Their vaults onto the master’s sharp shoulders are mirror images of each other. The coats mingle and flow into a single furry blanket.

  THE HOUSE

  INTERLUDE

  The wind rattled the glass. The roof dripped water. Blind heard the faint tinkling and then Beauty’s sigh as he snuggled in the puddle he’d just made without waking up. Stinker’s nose whistled softly. Blind stalked past the beds, clutching the sneakers wrapped in the blanket to his chest. Siamese, side by side in their bed, lay in the exact same pose, down to the clenched fists. Wolf, on the top bunk, hugged the guitar. When he tossed and turned in his sleep, the strings thrummed. The room was full of phantoms. Blind heard them all. Each one was like a clear song to him.

  Sleeping Beauty was dwarfed by the snowcapped mountain of the enormous juice maker. It worked continuously, spewing forth multicolored cascades smelling of fruit. The torrents whirled around Beauty’s bed, ushering it into the orange ocean, and the meager puddle of urine was lost in that kingdom of juice, utterly insignificant.

  Over Magician’s bed a masked man rustled his star-studded cape, the master of top hats and swimsuit-clad women sawn in half. The squalls of applause from the unseen audience made the other ghosts startle.

  Elephant slept silently, like a small hill under the stars. There was a whispering susurration from the top bunks: Humpback’s parents dropped in for a visit, faceless figures in bright clothes. Blind never listened to their conversations. Up there were only them and Wolf’s nightmares: dark labyrinthine corridors, sucking him further and further into their emptiness, and the heavy steps thundering behind. Wolf whined, and the guitar, anchored to the headboard, answered softly, soothing him.

  Blind passed the phantom of the juice maker and stopped. From the direction of Grasshopper’s bed came the velvet drawl of that senior girl: “Listen to me. When you grow up you’re going to be like Skull. I know, for I am Witch.”

  Blind took a step forward, stumbled over someone’s shoe, and the dream phantoms vanished, spooked by the noise. He pushed the door and found himself in the anteroom. The floor was cold against his heels. He put on the sneakers and went out into the hallway.

  He walked lightly in his rumpled clothes, trailing the edge of the blanket after him like a cape blotting out his footprints. Stopping in one particular place, he plucked a piece of wet, crumbly plaster off the wall and ate it. Then another one, unable to resist. His dirty face was now spotted white. He walked past senior dorms and classrooms, went up the stairs and through the counselors’ hallway, dry and clean; walls here didn’t have cracks, were not a source of plaster. A television droned behind one of the doors, and Blind lingered, listening to it. At last he came to Elk’s door. Pushed down the handle gently, assuming a savage crouch, ready to bolt at the slightest sound. The door opened, and he entered, feeling the way ahead with his hand to prevent hi
mself from banging into the bathroom door, but it was securely closed. He quietly crossed to the bedroom door and leaned against it, taking in the silence and the barely audible breathing of the one sleeping inside. Blind listened, at first standing up, then squatting down. He was listening to the soft song that was whispering to him: “He is fine, he is sleeping, his sleep is dreamless.” Then he spread the blanket and lay down by the door, a watcher, a protector of that sleep. No one knew about this, and no one was supposed to know. He was oblivious to the sliver of light under the door, of course, but his sleep was mindful, and when there was a cough and a groan of bedsprings on the other side of the door he shot up like a dog hearing someone’s footsteps. The sound of a match being lit, the rustle of pages. Blind listened.

  He read for quite a while. Read and smoked. Then the springs groaned again, released of the weight, and slippers shuffled to the door. Blind flew away under the coatrack. The coat and the rain jacket pressed together, hiding him and the crumpled blanket. Elk went to the bathroom without noticing anything. Back the same way, the click of the light switch. The door slammed shut. Blind emerged from his hiding place, returned to his former spot, put the blanket down, and lay back. He placed his head on top of an open palm and fell asleep. His dreams were clear that night.

  The first thing Siamese Rex did when he went down to the yard was to check the traps. There were three, and two of them he’d constructed himself. But this time the one that worked was the third one, even though he’d placed the least hope on it. The concrete hole. It was unclear who had built it and what for, but it sure made for a nice trap. Rex baited it by throwing fish entrails down and then camouflaged it with pieces of lumber. He couldn’t check on it every day because of the rains, but he did visit it from time to time. The smell of the entrails grew stronger each day. Finally he heard a rustle and low growling when he passed by.

  He crept to the edge of the hole, got on all fours, and peeked under the plank. The stench of rotted fish hit him full in the face. A ginger cat, ragged, dirty, and wet, arched its back and hissed at him. Rex whistled excitedly and toddled away. When he returned, his pockets were full of stones. The cat must have figured what was in store for it and attempted to jump out. Rex shot it down with a piece of brick. Then he proceeded to toss the rest of his haul. The planks interfered with his aim, and most of the stones missed the target. Rex was afraid that the cat would either bolt or start screaming. The cat was indeed yelping now, drawing attention to itself. Rex was slow to notice Lame, and once he did it was useless to pretend that he’d just happened near the hole by accident.

  Lame, the hunchback with golden curls, an unpleasant stare, and a twisted leg, was one of Skull’s people.

  “Having fun?” he said, stopping next to Rex and looking down into the hole.

  The cat was frantic, throwing itself against the smooth concrete walls. It might have gotten out if not for the injured paw. Three legs were not enough for the jump.

  “Get the animal out,” Lame said, lighting up.

  Siamese started to back away. Lame grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

  “I can’t. It’s too deep. If I take the planks away it’ll get out by itself.”

  Lame didn’t say anything. Rex began to take off the lumber. Once the last plank was gone, he looked back at Lame.

  “Get it out,” Lame repeated indifferently. “Before I throw you in.”

  Rex leaned forward and made a plaintive purring sound, but the cat did not respond. It was hiding somewhere. Siamese sighed and slithered into the hole. He was afraid to jump. Because of the leg.

  Lame stood right at the edge. Rex shot him a glance, saw the evil slit of the lipless mouth, closed his eyes, and crashed down to the bottom of the hole.

  The cat went completely berserk. It took to the walls, mewling and scrabbling for purchase. Rex felt the leg, making sure it was intact, and then tried to grab the protesting cat.

  “It scratched me!”

  “Get it out,” the implacable voice said again.

  The cat drew zigzags in the air around Rex. He tried to catch it by the tail. It doubled over with a muffled yelp, claws out, then jumped on Rex’s head and out of the hole, leaving ginger hairs in his hands. Its scream trailed off in the direction of the garage and then ascended to the sky.

  Rex crouched, waiting. His scratched face and hands smarted. At first he saw only the sky above him, but then Lame appeared, surrounded by his golden halo of hair, in a striped blazer the color of mustard. He was holding a piece of brick. Siamese stared at it in horror.

  “Let’s play,” Lame said. “You’re going to be the cat, and I’m going to be you. It’s a great game. Ready?”

  He flung the brick down. Rex gasped and shielded his head.

  “Isn’t that fun?” Lame said. “But if I were you I’d try to duck instead. Or you might get hit, you know.”

  He tossed two more stones and then yanked Siamese out by the collar. Reeking of fish, limp as a rag, Siamese sagged in his hands, eyes closed. But as soon as Lame lowered him to the ground, Rex perked up and dashed toward the House sideways, like a crab. Lame gave him one last look and sat down on the plank, smoking and dropping the ash down into the hole.

  The boys of the Poxy room were playing catch with the boxing glove. The radio screamed. Magician covered the hamster with his top hat, then pulled the hat back and sighed sadly. The hamster, still not used to the top hat, was gorging itself on potato peel to calm its nerves. Siamese Max, wearing a polka-dot shirt, was sitting on the windowsill, pressing his nose and lips against the glass and looking fretfully down at the yard. He was worried. So worried that he was ready to throw up.

  “Blind went away somewhere in the night again,” Stinker said, hugging the glove he’d just caught. “Where, I wonder?”

  “If you’re so curious, go follow him sometime and see for yourself,” Wolf suggested.

  The glove smacked him in the jaw, and he swatted it away.

  “I was going to,” Stinker said. “Except he’d hear me. So there wouldn’t be any sense in my doing it.”

  “Leave the poor rodent alone,” Humpback said to Magician. “Can’t you see, it’s eating like crazy because of you?”

  “That means it’s working,” Magician enthused. “It must be eating to put on some extra weight, because it’s afraid of disappearing!”

  Siamese Rex came in, covered in dirt and scratches, steeped in the stink of rotted fish. He stumbled to the bed and lay on it, face to the wall, without even glancing at his brother.

  I knew it, Max thought miserably. Something happened to him down there. Something bad.

  Sissies tactfully avoided asking questions. Hamster, free of the attention, sneaked under the bed. Wolf started drawing a tattoo on his cheek.

  Siamese lay very quietly. The only part of him that was moving was his hand, scratching words into the wall with a razor: DEATH TO LAME. Max came closer and looked over his shoulder.

  The House was awake. The teachers and counselors might have been sleeping, the dogs and the television, but not the House. From its bowels, from right under its roots, music emerged, seeping through the walls and ceilings, making the House tremble slightly. The nexus was in the basement.

  The dark figures of Poxy Sissies crawled along the dark hallways. Magician’s crutch thumped softly. Elephant huffed, burdened by the weight of Stinker on his shoulders. The cavalcade of white nightgowns proceeded down the stairs. They opened the front door and went out into the yard, blackened by the moonless night. Still in lockstep they stole closer to the basement windows and sat down on the ground next to them. Then lay flat. The basement had been turned into a bar, and the seniors were going wild down there. The windows flashed orange and green, the glass vibrated to the jumps of the dancers. It was a crazy kaleidoscope with human silhouettes whirling inside. The boys looked in breathlessly.

  There was only one thing more awesome than the seniors’ fights, and that was their entertainment. Beer benders, otherworldly danc
es of the glued together, wheelchair waltzes, and the wild, screeching music. Who knew how and where they got it from. Sissies peered intently into the low windows, desperate to prove to themselves and each other that they could see something there, even though nothing could be discerned apart from the changing lights. But they were free to get both deaf and blind, and to die of envy. They lay with their noses patiently stuck to the cold grating, blinked in unison with the flashes, and after some time started to truly believe that they did see something.

  Grasshopper, wedged between Siamese and Magician, inhaled the colors: now orange, now green, white, blue . . . and the wailing music. Every time the song rose to a high-pitched squeal he expected that, right at that moment, accompanied by the din and clatter of this beautiful orgy, a senior girl would burst out of the basement window astride a broom and soar into the black sky, trailing sparks and unbridled laughter. It would be Witch, of course.

  “I GOT TO RAMBLE, OH, YEAH, BABY, BABY!” the song shrieked.

  She would leave a jagged hole in the glass, and then everyone else would fly out of that hole. They would glide down to the ground and then spike right up—one, then another, and another, streaming along the ragged clouds, turning into laughing demons as they went. And the only thing left of them in this world would be their amulets on torn strings. That’s what the song was about. The seniors swayed, jerked, flamed in different colors, but remained rooted to the floor. They could not fly away, the basement was holding them, tethering them to itself. There was no one to break the glass for them.

  “OOH, BABY, BABY!” The song was ringing in Grasshopper’s ears. The colors flashed. Orange! Green! White! Blue!

  His breath was ragged in the throat, his mouth open, he was coiled like a spring.

  “IT’S CALLIN’ ME!” Green! White!

  Grasshopper gasped, turned over on his back, and kicked out with his feet as hard as he could, right at the glass. It rained shards, and then Grasshopper was lifted bodily from both sides and hauled away, but not before freeing his legs, stuck in the grating. After just a few steps he managed to spring up and run with the others, even ahead of the others, because the song continued to scream at him: “OOH! OOH! OOH!” Except now it urged them to flee. They flew up the stairs, with him still in front, and thundered down the hallway, tripping and chortling loudly. The three lame among them imagined that they were racing the wind, the two hauling the third thought that they were really fast, and even the largest one, huffing miserably behind, was sure he was running. And all of them heard the clatter of the hot pursuit on their heels. They burst into the dorm, crashed on the beds, and burrowed inside, the way lizards disappear in the sand. The suppressed laughter was trying to get out of them. Then there wasn’t a stir anywhere, except for the shoes being taken off under the covers. The first shoe hit the floor, then another and another, and every time they froze and listened. But everything was quiet. No one chased after them, no one came in to check if they were really sleeping. Taming their breaths, they pretended to be asleep until they got tired of it, then slowly, one by one, climbed down from the beds and crawled to the middle of the room, the place where the invisible fire was always lit in their cave, surrounding it in a barefoot semicircle.