The Gray House

We negotiate the piles of overturned tables and chairs, sprinkled with the shards of the broken lampshades. Noble, sitting on the bar, nods at me sullenly. The whole gang’s here. And they’re not green! That freaks me out, it really does.

In the shower stall (I seem to have acquired a strong aversion to them lately) I try to explain to Ginger what has transpired. Not having much success, because I actually have no idea. She lathers my hair as she listens, so I can see neither her nor her reaction to my ramblings.

“You think Gaby made it up about being pregnant?” she says.

“How would I know? If pregnant girls behave like brainless berserkers, I guess she didn’t.”

The blackberries of her eyes seem to be tearing up, because I look at them through the curtain of water.

“What about the others?”

“They jumped right in. Like it was the plan all along.”

She shoves my shirt into the stream, and the razor case falls down on the tiles. Ginger picks it up and looks at it intently.

“Tell me. If it were guys going at you, would you have taken this out?”

“I guess. I’m not sure. I always carry it around, and then always forget to get it out in a tight spot. Corpse, now he doesn’t need to even think about it. The razor finds its way into his hand by itself. I don’t know how he does it.”

“Why didn’t you use it? Either of you?”

I push the hair away from my eyes so that I can see her when she says that.

“You mean to scare them? I don’t think it would’ve worked.”

Somewhere outside, Sheriff howls for all the “clowns” to present themselves for Sepulchral ministrations.

Ginger rinses off my shirt under the shower. Her own is almost as wet. Shorts too.

“You have to understand. They could have killed you. Easily.” Having said that, she looks me straight in the eye for the first time. “It wasn’t mercy that made them stop when they did.”

“Oh, I got that. I just don’t understand why.”

“Yeah, you don’t.”

I continue to hold up the damaged hand, away from the walls and from my body. Because of the constant worry that I might bump it against something, it’s hard for me to concentrate on the conversation. That, and Sheriff banging on the stall doors.

Ginger is right, but not entirely. I did understand something back there in the Coffeepot, except I can’t quite pin it down. That happens a lot. The knowledge sits inside you somewhere, and you don’t notice it until something shakes you up, and then you understand it’s exactly what you’ve been waiting for. But you still won’t know why that is.

This annoying thought keeps chasing itself around my head, that if not for me there might never have been this new Law. Even though it doesn’t much matter now.

The door slides to the side, admitting Viking’s head.

“Everyone went to the Sepulcher,” he reports, then cracks a dirty smirk. “I’m not interrupting anything?”

Ginger decides to walk me over. It’s peace and quiet in the hallway. We stumble on, leaving puddles in our wake. Big ones and small ones. Ginger wrung out my shirt before slapping it on me, but the hem is raining water again, both pant legs are streaming, and my sneakers squelch lustily. This is the first time I’ve looked like that in the full light of day. A regular water sprite. Ginger isn’t much better.

“What do you think is going on right now in the Sepulcher?” I say, imagining our triumphal entrance.

“If you think I’m going in there, forget it.”

I’m grabbed and squeezed at the edges to wring off some more water.

“I hate public displays of all kinds,” Ginger says, getting up from her knees.

“Then you should’ve changed my clothes. And if you’re really serious about this, how can you live alongside Jackal? Did you see his ripped-out-hair collection? Now don’t tell me it’s not him you’re living with. He is there wherever any of them is.”

No answer. She doesn’t like talking about the Fourth with me. I don’t know why. She just doesn’t.

My purple shirt not only drips, but also stains. I am covered in spots the color of dawn. Or of baboon’s butt. I’ve never had problems with associative thinking, so looking at them I picture myself bleeding out, and then Solomon. These images always go together.

Solomon, my very own illicit basement-dwelling Rat. The pudgy wobbling cheeks, the haunted look, and his damn asthma. One and a half candles until the day after tomorrow, a flashlight, and a stack of newspapers. Good thing I hauled some grub down to him last night. He’s probably OK for today. I am not going to the basement with my hand in this condition, no way. And don’t tell me about rats and their behavior. I used to keep a real rat. Not one of those white ones, no, I mean a genuine authentic gray. You can go to sleep with it. Just feed it out of your hand, that’s all. No tricks. But a human—that’s entirely different. Feed him or not, but never come close, especially when not healthy.