The Gray House

The Amadán-na-Breena changes his shape every two days. Sometimes he comes like a youngster, and then he’ll come like the worst of beasts, trying to give the touch he used to be. I heard it said of late he was shot, but I think myself it would be hard to shoot him.

I cross the Crossroads, mumbling this canonical nonsense, and come to a stop at the back wall. Between the stand with the busted television and the wall there’s a tall mirror, so dusty that many think it’s facing the wrong side out. Girls do divination with it sometimes. Rub small areas with their fingers and look at what’s reflected in them. In a tiny spot of the mirror even a fragment of your own face seems portentous.

I clear a small patch too. It’s been a long, long time since I looked myself in the eye. You’d think that experiments like this should not be attempted when depressed. But I suddenly realized that the days have been flying by too fast, so fast I might not get another chance to see myself in the divination mirror.

First I make a small circle above my eyes, from there trace a line down toward the nose, and finally my double is peeking out from the neat window like from a hole in the wall. Hasn’t aged a day. The same fourteen-year-old mug. I’m sure I’ll still have it on the day they bury me. I rub out the side spaces for the ears, and push the hair off them so they come out better. The double resembles Mickey Mouse now. A very sinister Mickey Mouse. It hits me square on: I’m old. The mirror still reflects the same me as five years ago, but something’s missing on the inside. And it shows. The familiar prankster isn’t there. If you think about it, it’s been bloody ages since I did something amusing. Brought pox on all houses. I can’t even remember the last time I got beat up.

“Hey, you,” I say to my double. “What’s this? You’re not growing up, by any chance? Drop it, or it’s over between us.”

The reflected Tabaqui bugs out his eyes. Scared, or mocking me. One or the other.

“What is it that’s written on their mugs? It says there: Graduation’s nigh! The sky is falling! We’re all gonna die!” I whisper. “And what does yours say? The exact same thing. Who the heck are you and what have you done to the guy who was there before?”

He blinks. Meaning: what do you mean, who am I?

“You are the Horror Creeping in the Night! The Predator Gnawing at the Enemy’s Entrails! The Sharpshooter! The Pox and Perdition!”

It doesn’t work. The double dutifully scowls and strikes an even scarier pose, but still it’s obvious how insignificant, hollow, and rotted he is.

“I wish I had a good dumbbell with me. Yeah, you heard that right. And stop ogling me.”

I take the marker from behind my ear and draw a toothy smile right on the mirror. And roll back quickly so I don’t see the double jumping out of it. And he doesn’t. He’s too late.

As I drive along I get to thinking how many things are too late for me now.

I still can’t play the flute or do card tricks. Or make the chili infusion properly. I’ve never been up on the roof, never sat on a chimney, and never dropped anything in it so it rattled all the way down. I’ve never climbed the oak. I’ve never picked up a swallow’s nest and eaten it. Never flew the biggest, scariest kite at dawn under the Pheasants’ windows. I couldn’t even read the message from the olden times by collecting all the no one’s things that exist in the House.

Burdened with these thoughts, I roll into the Coffeepot. With my shades on, of course.

A couple of Rats, a triple of Hounds, and Mermaid with Ginger in the far corner. They’ve got three cups on the table, which means they’re waiting for someone but the someone isn’t here yet. So it would not be unreasonable to assume that it’s me who they’re waiting for. I head directly for them, say, “Why, thank you,” and grab the cup.

Coffee with milk. So, not Sphinx but Noble. I push the shades up my forehead and drink. One more thing I still can’t do: avoid gulping, even when the ladies are present.

“Tabaqui, did you just have a fight with somebody?” Ginger asks, looking at me intently.

“A vicious one. Scary even to talk about. I can say only that I’ve ripped him another smile, but that’s all I can reveal without devolving into the grisly details.”

They exchange glances. Ginger has on the paisley shirt, my own find at the last week’s Change Tuesday. Mermaid’s wearing the gray vest, still exposing the question marks in its gaps. Two dozen Whys, eerily in sync with the general mood and atmosphere.

“Poor guy,” Mermaid says, probably meaning the victim.

Very warm and caring.

“Exactly,” I say, touched. “Poor, unfortunate, unenlightened, and dusty.”