The Gray House

by Mariam Petrosyan

  The old principal . . . The former principal (that white beard; she couldn’t recall the face anymore) favored girls, and it was reflected in the disparity between the corridors. The white beard had been long gone, but the favorable treatment persisted. Only four per dorm; yes, they were tiny, more cells than rooms, but still only four, and you could always close the door. And those area rugs, balding and fraying, and the cords on the curtains, and the television sets. White beard put them up in every dorm, but he’d been long gone, and the televisions broke down gradually until there were only two left. One of those two was glowing now by the wall, and in front of it, on mattresses and blankets dragged out of the dorms, an enraptured (whatever could they be expecting to learn?) selection of females from various rooms positioned themselves. Stumbling in the dark between their arms and legs, stepping on the pillows and mounds of apple peels, she finally figured out the difference. Their corridor was not a place separate from the dorms, it was their continuation, one common dorm, a place where after dark anyone could crash down and sleep.

  The ghostly glow flitted across the faces. She extricated herself from the tangle of prone bodies, opened the door (in daylight you could distinguish a smeared silhouette of a cat on it), and entered the room. Greenish dusk, four mattresses on the floor, and the glinting eyes of the one dubbed Catwoman. She switched on the light and tossed the backpack on the floor.

  “I’m back. Sure is quiet here.”

  “Everyone’s out,” a soft voice answered. “Didn’t you see them there?”

  A slight stress on there, just enough for a sensitive ear.

  “No, they’ve all filtered back to the rooms,” she said reluctantly. “Haven’t seen anyone. Why are the lights out? Your eyes hurt?”

  “Mine don’t.”

  Stressed again. Barely noticeable. Eliciting the question: Whose do? And if asked, the answer to it would be forthcoming. Catwoman had only two ways of influencing those around her: her voice and her eyes. She used both of them to the fullest. And that wasn’t counting the cats. Those eyes, on top of the pile of clothes and the three fur coats, are best avoided. She turned out the contents of her pockets onto the mattress. The gifts from “there,” from “them” and “those.” Pitiful stuff they might be, but they were still destined for eternal repose in the drawers, wrapped in cloth or shiny gray paper, because gifts were never thrown out or given away.

  The bottomless holes of the night in the windows. Catwoman shrugged the jacket onto the mattress, shedding the three identical smoky-gray cats with it and exposing sharp, bony shoulders. The long razor face, the swaying needles of the colorless hair. The cats tried to climb back, she chased them off, then whistled to one of them, sending it on an errand. The cat trotted to the window and pulled on the cord, flooding the black holes of the window with white. It then returned to the mattress, shaking its paw in disgust.

  “If only they would make coffee,” repeated those who were never tired of the show.

  “If only they would,” Ginger whispered.

  She couldn’t tell the cats apart, no one could except for their owner. She crouched down next to the gifts and turned them over distractedly.

  “So whose eyes do hurt?”

  Catwoman draped herself in the jacket and the cats again.

  “Rat’s,” she said. “She returned.”

  Ginger craned her neck warily.

  “Where from this time?”

  “How would I know? Bottom of the river, she says. Where sand people live among the seaweed. I would’ve thought one Mermaid was enough.”

  “True.”

  Ginger picked up a hair. Mermaid’s, unendingly long. Trying to lift it off, she stretched her arm all the way up, but the end still remained on the floor, lustrous and invisible, coiling and snaking under the mattress. The cats observed her eagerly from their perch. Their eyes and their master’s. Ginger rose.

  “I’ll go look for her. I’d like to hear about the river.”

  A switch for the corridor lights at every door. Another privilege. As the light flooded in, the indignant cries flared up and subsided into irritated murmuring. She scanned the scene and found what she was looking for. There, by the wall, hunched behind the backs of the TV watchers. The lone figure in the leather jacket. The lights went back off. Ginger threaded her way between the bodies and the transient wafts of perfume, bent down, and shook Rat by the shoulder.

  “Hey, Rat! Hey! Get up!”

  “Why would you wake her? Don’t do that,” came the plaintive voices. “Let her sleep. Let her dream.”

  Ginger jostled harder.

  The eyes flamed in the dark, burning her.

  “Why are you disturbing my dreams? Tearing at my clothes? Why?”

  Thin as a rail (to recognize a girl in her took a special effort), eyes like two black puddles, hair dyed black and plastered down with spray, a much-too-short black leather jacket, pale lips. Rat, not one of, but Rat the Flyer, the traveler into the Outsides, the owner of (guess under which of her nails) the half-moon razor, picked herself up off the floor and took a muddled look at the screen.

  “Oh god,” she said. “Fount of knowledge.”

  The bodies in front of the TV shifted uneasily. The floorboards squeaked.

  “Let’s go.”

  Ginger pulled Rat’s sleeve. Rat followed docilely, crushing the stray body parts underfoot. But not a shout, not even a peep out of anyone, because you never knew: one, whether she’s in her right mind, and two, under which of her nails.

  “We thought you’d be missing your toes. And your nose. That they’d freeze and fall off.”

  “You mean like the tail back then?”

  Rat crashed down on the mattress under the gym ladder, each bar with a gaggle of bells on a string. They sang in unison, just the way they were going to sing now every night when she stirred in her sleep.

  The cats pawed, hearing the familiar song that became unfamiliar.

  “You were away for a whole month, and it’s been snowing.”

  “Has it?” Rat said, rummaging in her pockets. “I’ve brought you a present from out there. Wait . . . it’s here somewhere. There.”

  Ginger crouched next to the open palm, in which sat a ring.

  “Take it. The stone is amethyst. You can get it out and put it somewhere else.”

  “Who did you take this off?”

  “A corpse.” Rat giggled. “Take it. For luck.”

  She turned to listen to the screams of the TV. Catwoman was sitting with her eyes closed. Four-line snippets of lyrics mingled with paint flows on the walls.

  Mermaid (where does her hair end?) came in playing the guitar, holding it like a ukulele, and stared at them expectantly. A gentle soul, conversing only in whispers (and definitely nothing under the nails).

  “Gingie. Tell me,” she said. “How was it there tonight?”

  Ginger wasn’t in the mood for talking about “them” and “there,” but she knew there was no avoiding it. All three were waiting for the story. Waiting quietly and patiently, not even acknowledging her feeble “Same as yesterday.” Even she who’d just returned, not knowing anything and not understanding what “there” meant, even she waited too. Ginger sat down, hugging her knees.

  “Why don’t you go and see for yourself. Quit bugging me.”

  They were just staring, motionless. Outside the door, the TV shrieked excitedly.

  Ten eyes, if you counted the cats.

  “It’s completely different there,” she began with a sigh.

  The gifts lay on the mattress, looking pathetic to anyone who would like to laugh at them.

  WALKING WITH THE BIRD

  Step, step . . . There goes Bird, the one feeding on carrion. He comes and he goes, and clomp-clomp goes his poor crippled paw. Way, give way! There’s never ever a day that we’re not here at this hour. But it’s useless to expect the populace to expect us. They still impede, they still interfere, running by, jostling and bumping. Not me, of course, but the shadow of
my brother, which is almost as annoying. I’m strolling, divining the times to come. It’s only going to get worse. The new Law will take care of that. It will take care of many other things besides the aforementioned, but that’s not my concern, now is it? Or is it? Concern, that’s what we Leaders are made of. We’re supposed to nip the unnippable in the bud, or at least fret dutifully concerning the inability to thus nip. There’s exactly zero sense in that. And a lot of headache into the bargain.

  Animals and birds hobble here and there, the inhabitants of the zoo and their keepers. Some greet me, some maintain silence. Snow sparkling on the ledge of the Crossroads window. I’m overwhelmed by the desire to Jump, to roam in the fields of the Underside of the House. But I can’t. For “by succumbing to your desires you lose the self and turn into their slave.” This maxim is all that remains in my mind of the old Jumpers’ Code, destroyed during the Troubles. Sightless One can probably quote it chapter and verse, but for me that one snippet is plenty.

  I walk up the pain in my knee and return to the Nesting. My dear jungle. The pillars thereof of ivy, the bottom thereof of ferns. Bitter green flesh all the way around. What’s that smell? Someone’s indiscretion. Nothing to do with me. Everyone here lives on carrion, not just me. I hop on the roost to give myself a boost. That’s the only way to see anything in here, from up high. The inhabitants mostly cling to the ground, and there’re nooks galore. And we’re the ones called Birds, go figure. Whatever, it wasn’t us who dubbed us that. I take the red ribbon out of the plastic bag and tie it to the top rung. That’s a sign. Of the upcoming verbal incontinence of old Daddy Vulture. The awful racket dies down, the populace crawls closer and waits. All kinds of deformities, both external and internal, all of them staring at my beak. That’s the way they’ve been born, so what can you do? I drop a carton of cigarettes down, as a token of benevolence. It is caught jubilantly. I can toss them goodies all day long, and it’ll never be enough.

  “Listen, children,” I begin.

  They do. They’re good at it. All of them. Scary, that.

  “Here’s the deal,” I say unto them, “concerning the girls. I seem to notice that you never invite anyone. That’s not good. Making friends and inviting them—that’s good. Look at Beauty, he’s got a girlfriend, but he doesn’t invite her. That’s the latest fashion here in the House, wouldn’t do for us to fall behind. Saunter forth. Give the Nest a bit of spit and polish, tidy up, throw away the rubbish. Clean and sparkling, and the only smell should be of Elephant’s violets.”

  They get it. Nodding. Elephant more eagerly than others. He heard his pretty flowers mentioned, so he’s happy, poor soul. Butterfly flips his paw over Angel’s shoulder. Angel wrinkles his nose. Hilarious. What do those two need with girls?

  Dearest giggles.

  “I just lo-o-ove girls,” he proclaims in falsetto. “Such darlings! Could it be they would bring us something? Them being so kind and all.”

  Sure, why not. They very well might. Lipstick, for example. I wouldn’t bet on kindness, though.

  “Don’t even think about wheedling gifts from them,” I say.

  Dearest rolls his eyes dolefully and preens his feathers.

  “Wheedling? Eww-w! I’m not that way!”

  “What the hell?” Lizard says. “Girls mean trouble. They go here, they go there, and then there’s gossip all over the House. Some darlings! They can take their gifts and shove ’em.”

  “Don’t do anything worth gossiping about, then,” I say.

  Beauty glows. Tries to dim the light show with the eyelashes, but it still shines through. One handsome guy. The only one here. He’s not going to invite Doll, of course. He’s got enough sense for that.

  Lizard slaps him on the back and brays, “Our Ro-o-meo!”

  Beauty goes livid, hisses and spits. The image is ruined for the next half hour.

  “Shut up!” I shout from my aerie.

  They do.

  Every possible variety of senility, all in one Nest. You could come in with the medical reference and check off the symptoms one by one. I’ve got crazies to suit any taste.

  Horse’s snoring. I toss a matchbook at him. He perks up and tries to look like he was alert all that time. Who’s he kidding?

  “Hooray for Vulture!” Bubble suggests out of the blue.

  I have to wait out the assortment of odd-sized hoorays.

  “Was that clear to everyone?” I inquire.

  They nod. They scratch. With grating and huffing noises. As I look over them, a thought occurs: a girl’s got to have no brains at all to accept the invitation. Horse’s glum mug. Bubble’s multicolored one. Butterfly’s, rotting from both top and bottom. Lizard’s, bumpy. Beauty alone is a sight for sore eyes, him and Elephant. And they are all uniformly green. That’s from bad lighting. I look at the lightbulb. Something’s buzzing around it. Something that has not yet croaked in this cold. I take a swipe at it and miss.

  Lizard doubles down coughing. Choked on smoke. Eight flippers pound him on the back. A Boschian masterpiece. In the dark.

  “Lord, thy will be done,” I say to the bulb.

  Uproarious fun. It’s a chronic condition with the pack. Whenever I am serious they imagine that I’m joking. I untie the red ribbon, fold it, and stuff it back into the bag. The buzzer goes off. They startle. It’s time for Angel’s drops.

  “Still. Why do we need this?” Lizard drones. “Girls! We were doing fine without them. We should keep it that way. Now what? With half a year left . . . Blind took a roll with Long, and hey, there’s the new Law? Now we can’t even walk the hallways in peace.”

  Angel opens his mouth and waits. For his portion of dew.

  “Blind is off limits. Hallways are not. Girls are for chatting up, and inviting whenever feasible. That is all. Understood?”

  Angel is waiting. Elephant bashfully giggles and covers his mouth. Beauty nods. Bubble grins.

  “That’s nice. Go with my blessings, children.”

  I slide down from the roost and hobble away. Away from the Nest. Away from everyone. Elephant catches up with me and presents me with Louis in the pot. To buck me up and for general cheer.

  So we are three walking now. Me, Louis in the crook of my elbow, and the stooping figure in Levi’s and black sweater. He treads limping on his left foot just as I am listing to the right. The soundless ghost of Shadow, brother of mine. This place belongs to him as much as it does to me. In fact, he’s even more of the House than I am, since he could never leave it. I can see him whenever and wherever I wish, he’s always around, but always occupied with some kind of posthumous business, always on the run. He never even looks in my direction. Could be that he’s upset with me. We only ever talk in my dreams, and in the morning I have to struggle to remember them. Max is the reason people seldom come closer to me than three paces when I’m not walking. Many of them feel his presence.

  There’s Black. Walking slowly toward me.

  He nods at me, I nod at him. We don’t like each other very much, but noblesse oblige. What it demands is that we greet each other and chat whenever we meet. What about? I don’t know. The weather? Each other’s health? Shadow makes a sour face. We move on. I start whistling softly. The daylight hours belong to the girls now. They’re also out strolling. Along with their hangers-on and gawkers-at. Flea-ridden Hounds in collars. Birds, bare-necked and in pajamas. Logs, ever fashionable, swarming. What do you call a Log’s girlfriend? Logess or Logmaid? Logette, maybe? They rustle and whisper, they laugh, throwing sharp stares from under the fringes. Their presence turns the corridors into something that I don’t know how to describe. The floorboards keep whimpering as balding Vulture treads them.

  Plump Splutter sees Vulture, yanks off his beret, and assumes the Hound pose of respect. Head down, tail sweeping the floor. I go around him, Shadow plows through, and it’s not entirely clear what causes Splutter to shudder, his respect for me or the unpleasant feeling one gets when Shadow walks through him. I would have liked to bring clarity to this
question, but my feet carry me on. I have lots of questions that will forever remain unanswered. We knew not what we were doing when we christened Shadow as Shadow. Wasn’t that inviting the fate that did befall him: to wander eternally, to cleave and be one flesh, to be always silent? Most of the other ghosts I know are quite chatty. He’s the only one to keep total silence.

  The Crossroads sofa features beastly Gaby. Legs open wide, the skirt barely there at all. The connoisseurs of private parts huddle around, peeking in eagerly. Gaby’s having fun, swatting at them with her purse and squeaking coyly, but doing nothing to limit the view. When they see Great Bird it’s all silence and jerky jumps away. I part that silence and take it with me, the silence, the flushed cheeks, and the sickening feeling of being somehow involved. A stern grandfather happening on a granddaughter in a compromising position. Disgusting. And funny at the same time.

  A familiar tune assembles thread by thread out of thin air and pulls me in. I slow down. The Coffeepot’s entrance. Guitar gently weeping. Rats swaying their motley heads blissfully, pressing into the tiled walls. All the slender-legged stools are packed, but mine’s free as always, projecting emptiness two seats deep. Only Shuffle, the troubadour of our youth, is pressing right against it, his nose buried in the strings.

  I come in and sit down. Shadow takes the seat to the left of me. Louis goes on the right. An empty cup. I look in and it fills up. I nod, I drink, I take out the key ring and count the keys. Eighteen, just as expected. The same result time after time after time. Someone with gills and one nostril floats closer. Wheezing. Puts out a claw. A silver earring. Nice, but there’s no place to put it. It would ruin the general concept. The gills droop sadly. More wheezing. A tiny key, about the size of my pinky nail, is tendered. Silver as well. I try it on. Now this I have to get.

  “How much?”

  The claw extends four fingers. That’s as many as it has. I draw the wallet out from the secret pocket. I pay up. I have this soft spot for keys. Especially when they’re useless. Doggy breath behind my back. That would be Shuffle.