The Gray House

by Mariam Petrosyan

  “I see,” Catwoman sighs. “So the next thing would be Ginger digging up her favorite sling. Or Rat bringing in that baggie of arsenic, half of which she dumped into her dear grandpa’s soup when she was four. I just can’t wait. So sudden, so exciting!”

  “That was mean,” Mermaid says levelly, preoccupied with her own thoughts. “Want me to feed the cats?”

  “No. Taken care of. You’re all so courteous, so attentive. Catering to my every whim. Except you hightail it out of here when I so much as look away. But who am I to complain? I don’t need much and I can spend a whole day here alone. It’s not like I’m good company or anything. Of course, there are more interesting things in life than talking to a stump.”

  “Shhh,” Mermaid says, closes her eyes, and puts a finger to her lips. “That’s enough. Please.”

  She slips out of the room without giving Catwoman an opportunity to counter her words.

  Lately, being with Catwoman has grown into something like torture. Incessant blackmail and their feeble attempts at countering it. Ginger is better equipped for it. Rat simply doesn’t much care about anything. Mermaid envies them both.

  She navigates the hallway strewn with mattresses and walks into the first classroom door she finds. Sits down on the freshly scrubbed floor, takes the backpack off her shoulder, and turns it out, emptying its contents. Then slowly and deliberately puts most of it back. What’s left is a small pile of things that don’t belong to her. Mermaid lies down, propping her chin on her hands, and looks at them: a suede pipe bag; a necklace, nutshells on a string; a coin with a hole through the middle; candied lemon peel; a shirt button; a crumpled diaper bearing traces of egg yolk; leather headband; guitar pick. Some of them she stole herself, others were brought in by Catwoman’s sneaky children. For the necklace and the coin she traded fairly. Mermaid considers her hoard, bringing some of the items closer together, pushing them apart. Then she sits up and takes out the gym bag from under her shirt. She puts the items in it one by one, warming them up in her hands, breathing on them, whispering mutely, until all that’s left on the floor is the crud that’s been accumulating on the bottom of the backpack since time immemorial: hair, crumbs, twine. She blows on them, scattering them away. Then she stands up and walks to the window. There, with her back to the door, she takes out the most important piece—a small sewn-up bag on a string, a suede pouch decorated with beads. She stole it from a desk drawer in the Fourth. It is definitely the most magical object she’s ever held in her hands. Out of the vest pocket she produces nail scissors and uses them to rip the seam. The pouch is now open, but Mermaid does not peek inside. From another pocket she takes a handkerchief and unfolds it, exposing a lock of her own hair. She twists the lock into a figure eight, binds it with twine, and lowers it into the pouch. Then slowly and carefully sews it back, still not having taken a look in it. The pouch goes back in her pocket, everything else in the gym bag. Mermaid cinches it and then stands there with her eyes shut tightly. She feels very tired. That might be a good sign. A confirmation that she has accomplished a really difficult task. She has to hold on to that thought if she wants to avoid crying.

  The empty classroom shines. No one hauls mattresses in here, or dumps their clothes, or saunters in to rummage through the bookshelves. They warned that if the classrooms were to start filling up with junk they would start locking them, so the girls, with unexpected fastidiousness, stopped going in altogether. The hallway and the dorms are quite enough. The classrooms are for dusting, watering the plants, and airing out from time to time. Now that Mermaid is finished with the task she came here to do, she wants to leave as soon as she can. She slings the gym bag over her shoulder. It will now accompany her wherever she goes. She’s not sure if it’ll help anything, but it’s safer this way. No one would be able to find it and look inside. And she still needs to put the amulet back.

  She walks out of the classroom weighing in her head if she should return to Catwoman, but even as she’s still thinking about it, her legs are already carrying her in the opposite direction. Catwoman is bitter. She needs to dump the long list of perceived slights and hurts on someone, and Mermaid tries to put off that moment. Until right before going to sleep. Or even until tomorrow.

  The hallway isn’t packed yet. Only two of the mattress piles are occupied, the rest are empty. The TV is not on. It looks like most girls are still in the boys’ wing. When she walks by the staff room, Mermaid tries to make herself inconspicuous, the way she usually does, but it doesn’t work this time. Long-necked Darling, sitting in the soft chair installed right in the doorway, calls out to her.

  “Just a moment, child.”

  Mermaid freezes inside her cocoon of hair.

  “Come here. I want to have a word with you.”

  Darling has climbed out of the chair and is pushing it back into the room, clearing the way. Mermaid goes in.

  The coffeemaker sizzles and spits on the tiny table piled with packets of food. The staff room completely changes thrice each day. On Godmother’s shift it is depressingly sterile. Not a speck of dust, not a piece of dirt, not a single item out of place. Godmother never eats here, or makes coffee or reads magazines. And definitely never puts on makeup, Mermaid thinks, noticing two eyeliners in a dish of peanuts. Two slender cylinders, one black and one brown, and a piece of cotton wool smeared with eye shadow. She’s going to eat those peanuts, too, Mermaid thinks, overcome by a sudden swell of revulsion. In the hours of Darling’s shift, the staff room becomes a total dump, and girls can only wonder how Godmother manages to wave it all away as soon as she passes through the door.

  Darling yanks the coffeemaker cord out of the socket and sweeps a pile of magazines off the second chair.

  “Have a seat. We have things to discuss.”

  Mermaid sits down on the edge of the chair obediently. Darling gets comfortable in the one opposite and takes out cigarettes. Mermaid glances at the gold-nosed shoes and hides her own battered sneakers under the chair.

  “Now, you’ve taken to going over to the boys’,” Darling says. “Don’t even think of denying this, I know it for a fact.”

  Mermaid wasn’t planning to deny anything. She’s just tracing the smoke drifting up and melting under the sooty ceiling. Then she looks back at Darling.

  “Yes,” she says. “I do go there.”

  “Don’t you think that maybe, just maybe, you shouldn’t be doing that?”

  Mermaid thinks about Catwoman. Could it be that she complained of being left alone too often?

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Many girls have friends there now. I gather you’ve heard about that.”

  “Yes, I know,” Mermaid says. “Except it’s not called having friends.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Darling says, shooting her a disapproving look from under her silver bangs. “It doesn’t matter what they call it. What matters is what they do over there. And, even more importantly, what it is inevitably going to lead to. You do understand what I’m talking about, don’t you, darling? It is my opinion that one shouldn’t behave in a certain way only because everybody else seems to be doing it, especially if a girl is not naturally disposed to that kind of behavior. Or because others would think her immature otherwise. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mermaid frowns.

  “No. Who’s that girl you’re talking about? How would you know what I am naturally disposed or not disposed to?”

  “Well, we’ll just have to rely on my experience,” Darling says, smiling sweetly. I-am-your-counselor-don’t-you-ever-dare-argue-you-pathetic-nobody! “And on my considered opinion regarding who is disposed to what in this place, darling, I have worked here for many, many years. Do you have a sweetheart there? In the other wing?”

  Mermaid laughs. Sweetheart! Now there’s a great-grandma kind of word. Suitor. Swain. It’s hilarious. Sweetheart is about the farthest thing from Sphinx that can possibly be. She imagines his face when someone tells him that he’s her sweetheart and bursts out laughing again de
spite herself, even though she sees the irate look on Darling’s face morphing into pure hatred.

  “No, I don’t have a lover,” Mermaid says once she’s able to stop laughing. “But I will. I am going to do my best to make sure that the person you have dubbed ‘sweetheart’ becomes my lover. He doesn’t know about this, but he will find out soon.”

  “Why, you . . . !” Darling explodes, stubbing out her cigarette on the edge of the table. “Do you even understand what you’re talking about, you stupid girl? Straight out of diapers, and here we go. A lover! You’re not old enough. And that so-called future lover of yours needs his head adjusted with a good whack if he doesn’t understand that! Which is exactly what I’m going to do right now! What’s the idiot’s name?”

  Mermaid doesn’t answer. Has she heard a single word I said? A sad feeling comes over her. She would have loved to sit here all day listening to Darling’s abuse, if only it all had been true. Calmly and indifferently. It wouldn’t be able to get to her, neither this, nor Catwoman’s burbling. All right, so what if she imagined that it was true? After all, if she herself does not believe in her own sorcery, how could it work on others?

  “Sphinx,” she says, amazed at her boldness. “It’s Sphinx. But he doesn’t know yet that I’ve chosen him. So he’d be very surprised if you arrived with that good whack.”

  She gleefully observes the fight draining out of Darling, replaced by astonishment.

  “Sphinx,” Darling repeats, biting on the manicured fingernail. “Who would have thought . . . You sure have strange tastes, sweetie. Are you seriously considering making a move on him? If I were you I’d certainly look for a different target.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Mermaid says in a dangerous, faraway voice.

  “Armless, bald,” Darling counts off on her talon-like fingers. “That sickness that no one was able to diagnose . . . He looks like he’s coming on twenty-five . . . Definitely, I’d have found myself a better catch.”

  “I don’t think,” Mermaid says slowly, “that you have the slightest idea about it.”

  “About what?”

  “About love,” Mermaid says. “That you even know what that is.”

  Darling’s eyes narrow into slits.

  “What kind of language is that to use with me, child? Isn’t that a bit fresh?”

  “No, it isn’t. And I’m not your child.”

  Darling springs up aiming to slap her face, but Mermaid is faster. She darts behind the chair, positioning it between Darling and herself.

  “Don’t even think about it!”

  “Or what?” Darling hisses, trying to wrestle away the chair. “You are asking for such a thrashing, you good-for-nothing ingrate!”

  Mermaid shoves the chair at the counselor and runs out the door. She stops there, confident that Darling is not going to act on her threats in full view of everybody.

  “Why?” she says. “Why me, and not Ginger? She goes over to the other side much more often, and she’s only a month older. But you never say anything to her. Because with me it’s easy. Because you despise me, don’t you?”

  Darling, still hemmed in by the chair, looks at her furiously, like a horse raring to bolt out of the stable.

  “You bonehead,” she says in a loud whisper. “Get out! Go, do whatever you want with whomever you want. I was just trying to care.”

  “You were trying to admire yourself!” Mermaid shouts back as she runs away. “That’s the only thing you really care about!”

  She flees down the corridor, feeling the counselor’s fury as something hot and fiery, a wave lashing across her back. Someone greets her from the nearest mattress hut. She doesn’t stop.

  On the top landing, the merry gang of Logs in black leather race an electric toy car. Needle is with them. Round-faced Bubble sees Mermaid and cracks a smile.

  “Hey!” he shouts. “Are you happy?”

  “You mean right now?”

  “I mean in general. Are you lucky or unlucky? That is, which happens more often?”

  “I don’t know,” Mermaid says, downcast. “I’d like to find out myself.”

  “I doubt she would work as a lucky charm,” Needle says, crouching on the floor with the rest, “if she doesn’t know herself. Those who are happy are usually more or less aware of it.”

  “Maybe, but they would also never tell. Or it can get jinxed,” Bubble argues, defeated but still hopeful.

  Needle has on a leather jacket now, like all other Logs. Except instead of jeans she’s wearing a cotton print dress, exposing her matchstick legs. She must have gotten over her hang-ups about them. She also looks loads happier than before, and Mermaid wonders why would counselors be so against girls being friends with boys. Look at Needle, turning into something reasonably cute and worry free.

  Logs look away from Mermaid and turn their attention to the beat-up toy, whirring across the landing. Mermaid looks at it too. Short of the wall, the car veers into the railing, hits it, and overturns. Logs bolt up, shouting and whistling.

  “Whose wager was that? And who was the dolt that aimed it? Termite, how about using your hands once in a while?”

  Mermaid quietly leaves them to it.

  She treads the boys’ hallway, very slowly. Now she’s level with the Fourth. She’s going all the way to the Crossroads. There she’ll sit on the sofa for a while and then go back. Pass by the Fourth again. Then maybe do the whole trip over. Or not. She needs to be sure that no one sees her when she goes inside, that she has enough time to replace the stolen amulet and sneak out undetected. Otherwise she may as well forget the whole thing. She is walking, becoming more and more flushed and beautiful with each step. The little bells woven into her hair tinkle softly. She is going to find out soon if she could work as a lucky charm.

  BASILISKS

  Rat is curled up in a gorgeous armchair. It looks like a hippo with glistening black skin. It’s so cozy that she is able to relax completely in its embrace, almost dozing off. Only her leg, draped over the armrest, is in continuous motion, swinging back and forth. The foot is clad in a splendid black-leather boot, built like a tank, in perfect harmony with both the chair and Rat’s cut-off jacket—shiny leather everywhere, exactly the way Nature intended.

  The boot is infuriating to PRIP for some reason. He can’t seem to look away from it. I wonder why, Rat thinks. What’s so irritating about it? The size? Or that it’s swinging all the time?

  During his previous visits, PRIP kept ogling her tattoo the same way. You’d think he’d get used to it after all this time. The tattoo is more than two years old. Rat hadn’t worn long sleeves ever since she got it, because how can you hide that. The rat looks almost alive. It even itches sometimes. Because of that, and to avoid confusion with her own nick, its owner named it Fleabag.

  So now every time PRIP directs his full-of-loathing stare at his daughter he meets Fleabag’s rictus instead. Which is only fair, since Rat herself never looks at him directly. Only through her badges, the little round mirrors slung around her neck. She’s been seeing him in small fragments for so long now she can’t even imagine him in any way other than a series of reflections. She can’t perceive him as a whole. Not that she’d wish to.

  “I am sick and tired of your continuous absenteeism,” PRIP enunciates. “Your constant tardiness. Are you trying to get yourself expelled?”

  Rat takes a sideways glance in the badges. She sees the jiggling pink spots of his cheeks and the piggy snout between them. Nothing else shows up anywhere. Then PRIP jumps up, freeing himself of the badges’ attention, and proceeds to stomp and wail like an insane banshee.

  “Put-that-disgusting-boot-out-of-my-sight-and-sit-straight-the-way-a-daughter-is-supposed-to!”

  Rat takes the leg off the armrest.

  “Stop yelling,” she says. “Pull yourself together.”

  PRIP, short for Primary Progenitor, has a hard time controlling his runaway feelings. Rat closes her eyes and sighs. She needs to wait out the forty minutes allott
ed for parental visits. Good thing the chair is so comfy.

  “. . . no direction in life! You are completely passive! I’m surprised you even managed to learn how to talk. Must be only so that your mouth could spew forth all those vile abominations!”

  “Would you please open your eyes, my girl, when your father is talking to you,” Sheep bleats.

  Rat opens them, reluctantly.

  “Talking? To me?”

  Sheep sighs pitifully.

  Rat takes the largest badge and catches in it raging PRIP’s reflection. Now his shiny red visage fits neatly between her thumb and forefinger. Is he ever going to shut up?

  “. . . procure those disgusting clothes and shoes and cover your body with sacrilegious graven images, contriving to look even more repulsive than you already are . . .”

  Rat covers the paternal countenance with her thumb and presses on it, but the voice keeps wheedling.

  “. . . useless trinkets . . . Be so kind as to look at me when I am . . .”

  She makes a fist around the badges, all four of them, but PRIP continues to squeak, tickling the palm of her hand, and then with surprising agility jumps on the buttons of her vest. Rat is mortified. She is covered with PRIPs, they crawl over rivets and buckles, they are on the steel toes of her boots, sliding on the shiny armrests—PRIPs everywhere, multiplying uncontrollably, screaming.

  “The execrable foulness of your soul is reflected on your face! Out of every orifice you stink! Stink!”

  She jumps up and tries to brush them off.

  “Stink! Stink!” the PRIPs scream as she sheds them on the floor.

  “Ow!” yelps the original PRIP, he who begat the rest of them, and he also darts away from her.

  She can’t see him do it, but she can definitely hear. The original PRIP is bulky, and his maneuverability is inferior.

  Rat looks herself over, closely examining every button. Her hands are still shaking. At the other end of the room PRIP is trying to convince Sheep that his daughter is possessed by demons.

  “Please calm down,” Sheep says sweetly. “She is just upset. Nervous. Your girl has such a sensitive nature.”