The Gray House

by Mariam Petrosyan

  I didn’t believe him. Not for a moment.

  “Why is he always cleaning up after everybody? Bringing people things? Does he like it?”

  “I don’t know why. I have an idea, but I don’t know for sure. I know one thing, though: it’s nothing to do with us.”

  The expression on my face must have been telling. Sphinx sighed.

  “All right. I guess that’s how he sees his purpose in life. His previous job was much harder. He worked as an angel, and he got really fed up with it. So now he’s doing his best to prove his usefulness in any other capacity.”

  “Worked as a who?”

  Sphinx was the last person I expected to be pulling a stunt like this. It just wasn’t his style. Now, Tabaqui I would understand, that would be his area of expertise.

  Sphinx wasn’t about to elaborate.

  “You heard me,” he said. “I’m not going to say it again.”

  “OK,” I mumbled. “Got it.”

  “Just observe. You’ll notice that he’s always trying to preempt our requests. Do something before he’s asked to. He generally doesn’t like it when people talk to him. Doesn’t like to be personated.”

  “To be what now?”

  “He. Doesn’t. Like. Being. Noticed,” Sphinx chanted. “Being talked to. Asked. Paid any attention. It annoys him.”

  “How do you know? Did he tell you that?”

  “No. I live next to him.”

  Sphinx bent over and scratched his ankle with the prosthesis, like he was using a stick.

  “He likes honey and walnuts. Likes seltzer, stray dogs, striped awnings, round stones, worn-out clothes, no sugar in his coffee, telescopes, and a pillow on his face when he’s asleep. He doesn’t like when people look him in the eye or stare at his hands. Doesn’t like strong wind and flying cottonwood fluff, can’t stand white clothing, lemons, and the scent of chamomile. All of that would be obvious to anyone with a working pair of eyes.”

  I decided not to mention that I hadn’t been living in the Fourth long enough to distinguish the fine details in the most inscrutable person in the House.

  “You know what, Sphinx, don’t say anything to Lary. I changed my mind.”

  He lowered himself to the mirror again.

  “Why?”

  “It was all your idea. And I don’t want him to think I’m a snitch.”

  “Really?”

  Sphinx appeared suspicious of my reflection, which did in fact look unpleasant. Furtively snitchy. Confused and distrustful. And at the same time I was feeling nothing of the sort.

  “Really,” I said nervously. “I don’t want to be a snitch, whether real or imaginary. And you promised to leave my reflection alone.”

  Sphinx looked back at me over his shoulder. Like he was comparing.

  “I did. I am just fascinated by the contrast. Sorry. Won’t happen again. So, I am not to talk to Lary? All the assurances go out the window then.”

  “To hell with them.”

  I sighed with relief. I was almost sure I was doing the right thing. And did it in the last possible moment, almost when it was already too late. It all had to do with mirror Smoker. He was a nasty character. A veteran snitch, an expert even. And my talks with Sphinx in bathrooms were becoming a nice tradition. Just him and me, surrounded by sinks and commodes. We’d have a talk, and then suddenly everything would be different. Upside down, or maybe the other way around. Somehow I sensed that there was going to be no such upheaval this time. That I managed to avoid it.

  Sphinx was examining his pants, having finally noticed their sorry state.

  “Lary has been asking for it anyway. Look at this mess.”

  “How do you know it’s him?”

  “Who else could it be? Thumbtacks in the sheets, gum in the shoe, toothpaste on the sink, that’s right about his range. Tabaqui operates on a different level altogether. Jackal’s pranks lay waste to half the House. He’s not into the small stuff. So it must be Lary. See, he’s just a child really.”

  I laughed and said, “A child that shaves.”

  “What’s so unusual about that? A very common occurrence.”

  He scratched the leg again, wincing.

  “What’s with the scratching?” I blurted.

  “Fleas. Definitely. Did they get to you yet? No? Strange.”

  “Fleas?” I was a bit lost. “You mean Nanette’s got fleas?”

  “I wish. We could hope to get rid of them then. No, it’s Blind hauling them in. We can’t exactly spray our Leader with pesticides, now can we? And fleas aren’t even the worst of it. Sometimes he comes in covered in ticks. In the dead of winter. And not a couple, mind you, several different species at once. Have you ever extracted a tick? The trick is never to pull too abruptly, otherwise the head breaks off and stays inside.”

  “You must be kidding.”

  “Of course I am,” Sphinx said gravely. “I’m the resident joker, didn’t you notice?”

  “Why can’t you just tell someone to shut up if his questions are getting on your nerves? Why this rigmarole?”

  Sphinx did not answer. He sighed, scratched his leg, and walked out. In a wet shirt and with toothpaste blobs on his butt. The toothpaste was not really visible and the dripping shirt only added coolness. So it wasn’t about the clothes at all, it was about Sphinx. About his self-esteem.

  I stared at my reflection.

  The mirror Smoker was looking better, but still noticeably spiteful. I struck a pose. He assumed an even more idiotic stance. I guess my self-esteem still sucked.

  “So what,” I said. “Even Noble doesn’t like himself in the mirror.”

  I finished the coffee that really was cold by now and wheeled back to the dorm.

  THE HOUSE

  INTERLUDE

  The House is walls and more walls of crumbling plaster. The narrow passages of the staircases. Motes dancing around the lantern on the balcony. Pink sunrises through the gauzy curtains. Chalk dust and untidy desks. Sun dissolving in the reddish clay of the rectangle that is the backyard. Shaggy dogs dozing under the benches. Rusting pipes crisscrossing and twisting into spirals under the cracked skin of the walls. Rows of small boots with battered toes, tucked under the beds. The House is a boy disappearing into the emptiness of the hallways. The boy who is falling asleep in class, who is striped black-and-blue from endless fights. The boy of many names. Head-Over-Heels and Prancer. Grasshopper and Tail. Blind’s Tail, never more than half a step behind him, treading on his shadow. To anyone who seeks to enter, the House presents its sharpest corner. Once you’ve bloodied yourself against it, you are allowed inside.

  There were thirteen of them. Others called them “nightmare,” “gang,” and “ankle biters.” The last of these they emphatically contested. They themselves preferred “The Pack.” And, as befits a pack, it had a leader. The leader was already ten. His nick was Sportsman. He was fair-haired, rose-cheeked, blue-eyed, and taller than everyone else, except Elephant, by a full head. He slept in an adult-sized bed and didn’t have any visible disfigurements or hidden diseases, no zits or fixations, he wasn’t even collecting anything—in short, he had nothing that everyone else had to some extent. For the House he was too perfect.

  Rex and Max, the lame twins, were just called Siamese, as they hadn’t acquired separate nicks. Narrow faced, gangling, and yellow eyed, with only three legs between the two of them, as alike as two halves of one lemon, inseparable and indistinguishable, two sticky-fingered shadows with pockets full of keys and lockpicks. No door ever stopped them. Anything left unattended became theirs.

  Shaggy Humpback liked marching music and dreamed of becoming a pirate. During the summer he browned almost to a crisp, became a hunched raven and a breeding ground for insects. Dogs sensed the tenderness in him from afar and rushed to partake of it. His hands smelled of dog fur and his pockets were full of bread and sausages for his four-legged friends.

  Whiner and Crybaby were also inseparable like Siamese, but looked different from each other. Cr
ybaby, with his pale bug-eyed stare, resembled a praying mantis. Whiner’s deeply set little eyes made him look like a little rat. They were both dyslexic and both loved collecting things. They collected nuts, bolts and screws, pocket knives, and bottle labels, but their pride and joy was a vast collection of fingerprints.

  Rabbit was an albino and possessed dark glasses tied to his ears with a string and shoes with orthopedic heels. He always knew what river flowed where. He remembered the names of cities, many of them unpronounceable, could enumerate their principal thoroughfares and inform of the best ways to get from one of them to another. He identified the major categories of national manufacturing output and the impact they had on the corresponding countries. Many considered Rabbit’s knowledge useful, but hardly anyone respected him for it. His front teeth were slanted forward, making him look like a rodent. They were also the reason for his nick.

  Beauty, an impossibly cute boy with very dark eyes, was ashamed of his out-of-control arms and legs and never talked. His feet carried him to where he didn’t wish to go, his hands dropped things he wished to hold. He fell a lot and was covered in bruises. He was ashamed of those too.

  Round-faced Hoover was crazy about his treasures. He found them everywhere. What he called treasure was everyone else’s trash. In the nine years of his life, Hoover had amassed a hoard, filling a dozen secret places and one trunk, and now spent as much time each day inspecting it as searching for new precious objects.

  Curly-haired Muffin was rotund and obnoxious, and liked to dress up and design pretty clothes for himself. His wardrobe took up a lot of space and annoyed his roommates. Muffin’s nose struggled to peek out of his cheeks, which, in their turn, yearned to meet his shoulders. All the female teachers adored him. Their name for him was Li’l Cupid.

  Crook was crooked because of a wicked disease that also made him walk sideways. His head relied on a stiff plaster collar for support. This did not prevent him from being able to run amazingly fast. Crook collected butterflies, so all through the summer, with the hunting season in full swing, he never parted with his net and specimen jars.

  Elephant was enormous, shy, and retiring. He stuffed rubber toys in the pockets of his overalls and cried if left alone. Elephant’s head was covered in white fuzz. He was thought of as the baby of the Pack, even though few of them came up to his chin.

  Bubble wasn’t quite sane, in the common opinion. Everywhere he went, he went on roller skates. His ears were open to the four winds, his bulk protected him in collisions. He called himself Wild Whirlwind and his only fear was of damaging the skates. He’d outlived seven pairs already but cried bitterly when saying farewell to each one. Under his bed he kept a box full of the busted wheels taken off his dearly departed friends.

  Sportsman’s Pack occupied two dorms at the very end of the hallway. The larger of those they called Stuffage. Stuffage rarely earned visits from counselors and, consequently, rarely was cleaned. Hoover’s treasures, stored in the most unsuitable spots, fell out at the slightest touch. Elephant’s toys, chewed to a sorry state, collected dust under the beds. The dangerous clanking collection of Whiner and Crybaby nestled on the windowsill. Sticker sets adorned the walls, fighting for space with Crook’s butterflies. Muffin’s clothes could not fit inside his locker and spread out onto the chairs and headboards. A stinky hamster moved in under Humpback’s bed. A mysterious plant in a hanging pot took residence above the bed of Max the Siamese. The wardrobe housed their homemade weapons, which clattered like a bag of sticks every time they tumbled out.

  They let the hamster out for walks. The plant dripped dirty brown water. Stickers fell off and disappeared in Hoover’s secret places. No amount of cleaning could save Stuffage from accumulating stuff.

  The Pack remained a pack only while it reminded everyone of itself. By means of broken windows, graffiti on the walls, mice in teachers’ desks, smoking in the bathrooms. The notoriety flattered them and also separated them from their sworn enemies, the wheelers. But by far the favorite pastime of the Pack was the newbies. Mama’s darlings, still smelling of the Outsides, sissies and crybabies not worthy of nicks. Newbies provided unlimited opportunities for entertainment. There was scaring them with spiders and worms. Smothering them with pillows and stuffing them into lockers. Jumping at them from behind and screaming into their ears. Putting pepper and baking soda in their food. Gluing their clothes to the chairs or just ripping off the buttons. If all else failed, there was always a good thrashing.

  An equally wide assortment could be applied to the sightless, especially those who, for some reason, wanted to stand up for the newbies. Strings stretched across hallways, beds and nightstands moved, clothes painted with stupid messages. Doors barred with chairs from the inside, thumbtacks on the floor combined with carefully hidden sneakers, items disappearing and others appearing in their places. Sky was the limit if you knew how to think up such things. The Pack did.

  “There! There they are! Get them!” the boys yelled, tearing down the hallway in a multicolored avalanche. Their eyes were aglow with the thrill of the hunt, their sweating hands clenched into fists by themselves.

  “Gotcha!” they exclaimed once the prey was cornered.

  The prey, Grasshopper and Blind, prepared to fight. But it always happened the same way, whether they prepared or not. The screaming tide of punching arms and kicking legs engulfed them, flipped them over, dragged along, and ebbed, satiated. The hunters were running away, waving the captured fragments of clothing and emitting piercing whistles. Lame Siamese struggled to keep up with the rest. Once the clatter died down, Blind got up and dusted himself off.

  “Oh well,” he said. “They still enjoy the advantage in numbers.”

  Grasshopper, his face buried in his lap, didn’t say anything. Blind sat down beside him.

  “Please don’t,” he said. “Didn’t you notice there were not as many of them today? Have you managed to clobber any of them?”

  “I have,” Grasshopper said glumly, still not lifting his head. “But there’s no use anyway.”

  “You only think there isn’t,” Blind said. He felt his cheek, which was starting to swell up, and winced. “There is too use,” he said forcefully. “Max wasn’t there with them, and that tells me a lot.”

  Grasshopper looked at him inquisitively.

  “How do you know which one is which? They’re identical.”

  “They are, their voices aren’t,” Blind explained. “Max must have gotten scared. Probably because of that leg of his. They’re one person short now, don’t you think that’s significant?”

  Grasshopper sighed.

  “There are still too many of them for the two of us. We’ll never defeat them.”

  Blind gave a derisive snort.

  “‘Never’ is a long word. You seem to be fond of silly words like that for some reason. Think how we’re stronger than they are. And they are only more numerous than we are. One day, when we grow up, they are going to regret ever picking on us.”

  “If we manage to live that long,” Grasshopper said. “Which, if this continues the same way for much longer, we won’t.”

  “You’re a pessimist,” Blind said resignedly.

  They sat back to back without speaking. A ceiling light went on, then another. Grasshopper’s ear was on fire.

  “Could you feel my ear, please?” he asked. “It burns.”

  Blind felt for his shoulders, then his neck, and then pressed his hand against the ear. The hand was cool and soothing.

  “Blind. Think of something,” Grasshopper said. “While we’re still alive.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  Blind was cradling the ear and thinking. Thinking of his promise to Elk. Promise me you’ll take care of him.

  All the remaining lights switched on, illuminating the hallway.

  Back in the dorm, under Sportsman’s guidance, the boys were installing a pan filled with water on top of the half-opened door.

  “It’s gonna fall down,” Muffin warn
ed. “On your own heads. Or someone else will come in before them. That’s what always happens.”

  Muffin was sitting on his bed, nursing a finger damaged in the fight. He’d jammed it against one of the Pack, and this made his mood especially nasty.

  “It won’t,” Sportsman assured. “We set it up solid.”

  Whiner jumped off the chair and flicked a sideways glance at the pan.

  “Genius idea, guys! So they come in, and Blind—bang!—right in the head! And then he’s like out cold, so we grab the mama’s darling—bang!—down the toilet he goes!”

  He cackled. Crybaby was polishing the knives by the windowsill, but squeaked enthusiastic agreement.

  They went to their beds and settled in for the long wait. The pan’s blue sides glistened, hanging precariously over empty space. This was fun. For everyone except Humpback. He was against the pan business, just like he’d been against the dead rat in the newbie’s bed, and the dog poo in Blind’s shoes before that. Humpback was a humanist. But they never listened to him.

  “Let’s go,” Blind said and got up off the floor. “Or you’ll fall asleep right here. I thought of something, except I’m not sure if it’s going to work.”

  Grasshopper rose reluctantly, still pressing the injured ear to his shoulder. He was sure that none of what Blind thought of ever worked, hardly for anyone.

  “If you thought of how we are going to go there and clean their clocks, I’d rather stay here and sleep.”

  Blind did not answer and started in the direction of their dorm. Grasshopper followed him, grumbling and fuming.

  “I could half do with a cigarette right now,” he said.

  “You’re too young to smoke,” Blind said without turning his head.

  “For how long do they usually beat up newbies?” Grasshopper caught up with him. “A dozen times? A hundred? Several months?”

  “Once, maybe twice.”

  Grasshopper stumbled, flabbergasted.

  “Once or twice? Why are they still picking on me, then? It’s been forever! How am I so special?”