The Gray House

Noble is swilling the piney concoction like it’s water, with a placid look on his face. Sphinx sips his through a straw the size of a fire hose. Either their Mountain Pines are diluted, or they’re already habituated to the effect.

“Where’s Humpback?” I say.

“He took residence up in the oak,” Noble says. “It’s been a week that he’s living there with Nanette. They call him Druid now, and there’s an established pilgrimage.”

“They leave offerings under the oak,” Jackal adds. “Some of them tasty. Baskets of seeds and stuff.”

“Seeds?” I say. “He lives on seeds now?”

“Of course not, silly, it’s for Nanette. Even though she prefers sausage. So the top two bunks are free now, and we have girls sleeping there.”

This saddens me. I have nothing against Mermaid, but the second night guest is most likely Ginger, and her I can barely tolerate. I take another sip—the Pine really does become less offensive as you go—and add another stroke to the insane pastiche that is the House. Humpback, cast as Tarzan.

There’s a scratching at the door, then knocking, and in comes Ginger with a gray cat under her arm. One of the three that are completely indistinguishable from each other.

“Hi,” she says to me. “Welcome back.”

She drops the cat on the floor with a thud and sits down next to Sphinx.

“What was Blind doing outside the door?”

“Listening in,” Noble explains. “It occurred to him that all the interesting conversations happen while he’s absent. So now he’s kind of here and not here at the same time.”

“Oh, I see. So I probably shouldn’t have noticed him.”

“True,” Noble agrees.

Cat strides back and forth on the blanket, thick tail up in the air, sniffing at our legs. A huge tomcat, the color of ash. Or of backs of mice. The Pine makes the outline of Noble sitting across from me blur suspiciously, while the cat begins to resemble a giant rat. Those cats, all three of them, give me the creeps. I always feel uneasy in their presence.

The door slams again and Vulture stumbles in, with Beauty in tow.

Vulture is holding a pot with a cactus in it. Beauty is armed with a pole, its top swaddled in rags. Blind comes next, carrying his towel.

“Here we are!” Vulture declares coyly. “Four of us this time.”

Noble tosses two pillows down on the floor. Vulture takes one of them. Beauty leans his pole against the wardrobe and remains standing. Vulture has pulled his hair back in a ponytail so hard that his eyes take on an elongated shape. To emphasize that shape he’s put on eyeliner highlights all the way to his temples. It makes him look unfamiliar, like he’s dressed up for a masked ball. Beauty, on the contrary, is wearing slippers.

As soon as everyone settles down and Alexander turns off the lights, Tabaqui screeches that he can’t see squat and that it interferes with his writing. A wall light is switched on for him. I’ve already forgotten that he’s still hard at work over my diary. Pity R One. Crazy or not, deciphering Tabaqui’s chickenscratch is no easy task.

Ginger complains to Sphinx about Catwoman, the owner of the three haughty cats. Vulture lets Blind in on the plans for his funeral.

“I am to be displayed in a glass sarcophagus, and the mourning period is not to exceed twenty-four hours.”

“What about the poor Birdies?”

“You may immure them nearby. Them, and my entire cactus collection. But I’ll expound on the exact procedure in my will, so you don’t have to worry about getting it wrong.”

“How are you doing, Smoker?” Beauty asks bashfully.

He puts out his hand and flips over the glass of Pine. And becomes upset. Terribly so. A brownish line trickles down the blanket.

Alexander hands me a towel.

“You seem to have spilled something.”

I towel myself off, shake Beauty’s hand, say, “Hi, nice to see you, don’t worry about this, it’s just alcohol,” and try to crawl away from the pine-scented puddle slowly seeping into the covers—but there’s nowhere for me to go. I am hemmed in by Noble on one side and Jackal’s boundary pillow on the other.

“They had it good in the old times, being buried together with their horses and the entire household,” Vulture says dreamily. “So that’s my request too, to be interred among my cacti. Close my eyes, put two small silver keys on them, and cross two lockpicks on the chest . . .”

“I am so, so sorry, Smoker!” Beauty wails. “It is all my fault! Everything is always my fault! Everything!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I protest, digging in my shirt pocket for a handkerchief, but grab the smoldering cigarette instead, and it hurts. Very much.

“While we’re on the subject, how is my dear relative doing?” Vulture says to Blind. “Is she well? Has everything she requires?”

I can’t hear Blind’s answer, but as he speaks he shows Vulture the palm of his hand for some reason.

“Tsk, tsk.” Vulture shakes his head. “What an utterly vicious creature.”

I decide that Vulture probably gave Blind a cactus as a present, and now they’re discussing it, so I switch my attention to Ginger.