The Gray House

Smoker fairly reeks of watches. He’s been hiding one somewhere on his person ever since returning from the Sepulcher. I’ll get to it. Sooner or later I always do. When he’s out taking a shower, for example. That thought calms me down a little. But only a little, because at present the watch is perfectly intact and leaches the life out of me slowly by the mere fact of its existence. I can’t live in the proximity of watches, they are killing me, but just try and explain this simple fact to Smoker. He is convinced I’m faking it. Faking! Me! I look at him meaningfully and reproachfully, but he keeps sipping his tea without a care in the world. I guess the cup is in the way, shielding him from my reproach.

Noble scratches forlornly at the blanket with his finger. His soul clearly hungers for the dialogue with the deaf-and-mute Twentiers.

“Tried it every which way for them,” Lary mumbles. “Bring this in, take that out . . .”

Enter the dragon, quietly and unassumingly. No eyes of flame, no burbling as it came, none of that. Tiptoes in, keeping close to the wall like the least mouse in the whole world. And he comes bearing us a huge egg. Must be a tribute, for all the tumult he made us undergo. Passes it on to me and holes up in his bed.

I unwrap the egg-shaped pack. It contains unevenly cut slices of cabbage pie.

“Cool! Is that from the wake?”

Alexander startles.

“Relax,” I say to him. “It was really fun, actually. Look at Noble. He tumbled down from his crutches and is drinking himself silly now, under the guise of his disability. If you hadn’t provided him with an excuse he’d be ashamed. So, breathe easier.”

“I’m not drinking,” Noble counters. “It’s medicine.”

“My point exactly.”

Alexander is still miserable and concealed. Horrible thing, moral scruples.

“So it was Alexander who did it, then?” Lary says hopefully, clutching the can of tea leaves to his chest. His lips move with a newfound purpose. “Threw the bomb, or whatever it was back there in the Coffeepot.”

“No,” I say. “He didn’t throw anything. All he did was try to fly away.”

The wind howls between the double panes. Ginger dons blue glasses.

“The weather’s changing,” she says.

The wind moans and bangs at the windows for the rest of the day. I change cold packs at regular intervals and generally take care of my lump. Sphinx’s eyelashes are gone and his cheeks are seared, so he’s walking around slathered with burn cream. The overall impression is unusually bright. Noble continues his journey into the bottle. The girls have left, to protect Needle and her wedding dress from the evil eyes of malicious loiterers.

Instead of them we receive a visit from Black. He’s exchanging banter with Smoker about their favorite painters. Even without listening closely, it’s obvious that this topic is a struggle for Black. He’s suffering, but soldiering on. Must be imagining that as soon as he’s out the door we’d all fall apart, done in by assorted vicious ailments. Or, conversely, worrying about Smoker’s psychological state in our continued presence.

Blind is doing his best to play Alexander’s replacement. The water boils over, the cold packs get lost, and when he does find them they’ve been thoroughly trampled—by him. When he tries to repair Mustang his finger gets caught in the works, and I end up lovingly tucked in with Tubby’s much-pissed-on blankie. To quote Sphinx, “Where would we be without you?”

I’m the only one to drive out to dinner, after Smoker’s feeble protestations that he’s going to join me.

The Coffeepot is still besieged by the curious throngs. I stop by to listen to the scuttlebutt and find out that apparently Alexander doused himself with kerosene, protesting the graduation, lit himself, and jumped out of the window. I liked it better when it was a bomb.

At the doors to the canteen, Monkey catches up with me.

“Hey! Did you know Lary went into the Outsides with the Flyers? Said he needed something out there urgently.”

The frightening news makes me put on the brakes. Lary in the Outsides! Apocalypse! He’s going to get whacked before he goes around the nearest corner. Or lost, admiring his own shadow. And if he manages to return, he’d be covered in Syndrome from head to toe.

I say to Monkey, “Sure. Of course we know. Thanks.”

And drive on.

In the canteen, under probing stares, I prepare mounds and mounds of sandwiches that I need to bring back. I spread this and that, shake some salt on them, and fold the pieces together. Continuously fretting about that idiot Lary. In a leather getup like his, an inhabitant of the Outsides is supposed to roar past on a Harley, not perambulate with his mouth agape. As he is, Lary would provoke an irresistible desire to beat him up in any sane male under the age of forty. And I’d just bet that the whole risky business is about something like a ghastly-colored tie for the wedding.