The Gray House

On his way back to the dorm, jostled by the bus ride, striding along the snowy street, he would think about the bell secreted in his pocket, fighting the urge to take it out and confirm that it really exists. Then he’d feel a prickly sensation in the other pocket, stop and pull out a white feather, so long that it would be impossible to put back without breaking it. He’d have to stick it in his hat, hoping against hope that it didn’t look too outrageous.

He’d meet his neighbor on the stairs, a morose bespectacled girl. She would say that someone was waiting for him.

“This tiny slip of a girl, with gorgeous hair,” the neighbor would add, eyeing the feather suspiciously. And of course, she would be immensely surprised when the untamed loner, the standoffish recluse in prosthetics, jumps at her and kisses her right there on the stairs, like a drunken reveler.

“And a feather in his hat!” she’d stress every time she tells the story. “Red nose, crazy eyes, and this huge feather!”

She would never admit that her neighbor seemed to her at that moment the most beautiful man in the world.

VOICES FROM THE OUTSIDES

Smoker

I still get asked about those events from time to time. Less frequently now compared to twenty or even fifteen years ago. But many do remember. It’s amazing how many. They remember that I had something to do with that story and imagine that it somehow influenced my soul and my paintings.

I have met with quite a few of the former occupants of the House since graduation. Some have done pretty well for themselves and others barely scrape by. There are probably also those who are in pretty dire straits, but since they are not in the habit of attending my personal shows, I can’t vouch for their existence. Of those who remained in the town, I know six. They meet regularly to wallow in memories, but I’ve never felt the need to join their company. There are none among them whom I’d really like to see. I actually see very few people, apart from Black.

I collected news clippings about the Sleepers for a while, but then abandoned the whole thing. It was too painful, thinking about them, imagining them. Easier to deal with the living or with the truly dead.

Horse

No, we none of us went to visit them. What’s the point? Not even Red. First it was because we were lying low, and then there was too much to do. But I never wanted to anyway. We knew about them, I mean, who was where and stuff, but going there—no, that didn’t happen.

Black

Honestly? I don’t care about the Sleepers. I’m not even going to pretend that I’m grieving for them. It was their own choice, their decision, and the last thing I would do is drag myself over there clutching a bunch of carnations, drowning in snot around the corpses. Because let’s face it, corpses is what they are. Living corpses who don’t give a damn about any emotions coming from me. What would I be busting my tail for, then?

Red

I do visit them from time to time. No flowers, of course. Why shouldn’t I? I even got myself a special permit. I didn’t do it before because I didn’t want to blow the cover on our guys, because naturally the “dormice” were under constant surveillance. Now that no one cares, I can do it. And I don’t consider it to be perverted or anything. There’s nothing scary about them. They don’t wither, they don’t waste away, they don’t look like corpses at all. Besides, it’s always fun to visit with old friends. I don’t tell the guys about this. They might think themselves obliged to accompany me and start hating themselves for not wanting to. Nobody needs that.

Smoker

Lary and Needle moved to the suburbs. He is now a part owner of the repair shop where he started back then as a grease monkey. She’s keeping the house. They have two kids, the eldest daughter got married recently. I was at the wedding, gave the newlyweds a picture. Not one of mine, though. Mine are not everyone’s cup of tea. It was amusing to follow the expression on the bride’s little face as the present was being unwrapped, and to note the look of relief when they could finally see it.

Lary and I never talk about the Sleepers or the vanished. We keep a knowing, competent, friendly silence about the subject if we happen to meet. But we do discuss other Outsides-mates, and he always has some exciting new piece of information for me because he tries to keep up with what’s happening as much as he can. Horse and he are still very close, even though Horse is still living with the commune (the sect, let’s be honest here) founded by the passengers of the bus and the Devout. It’s a royal pain to drive all the way there, but Lary performs the pilgrimage at least every month. “In honor of past friendships,” he says.

Needle