Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

Ralph waited for Shark to come out, reported that his hallway shift had been uneventful, and inquired why the farewells took so long.

“Good thing they happened at all,” Shark said. He had a guilty look.

From the reception came the sound of breaking crockery and someone bawling. Ralph guessed that this was Darling unwinding after her encounter with the parents and decided to leave it at that. A counselor who's just gone through the ordeal of spending time with the departing students and their parents was, to one who hasn’t, as a soldier who has returned from a skirmish to one who's stayed back in the trenches. Seeing Ralph in the room could push them over the edge.

He wasn't visiting Smoker but did inquire after his well-being every day. Not because he felt concerned about his health, but because of a guilty conscience. Besides, he was afraid Smoker might sink into an even deeper funk. Spiders respected Ralph's wishes and hadn't invented any mysterious disorders to explain Smoker's stint in the hospital wing, saying to him instead that they were simply concerned with his blood work, but the hypochondriac boy had freaked out anyway. This needed to be resolved soon, one way or another. Ralph couldn't insist on keeping him for more than ten days, but on the other hand he didn't want to return Smoker to the group from which he was clearly being squeezed out.

He went into the staff room, to make the requisite call about Smoker, and ran into Godmother. She was one of the few who really used her desk there as a work space. She was behind that desk now, sorting some papers, nodded curtly in response to his greeting, and then asked if he could spare her a few moments. That didn't surprise Ralph. As the graduation crept closer, the counselors started asking him about his experience with the previous ones. By now he was used to the questions, which were always the same, and they kept asking them over and over again, as if they didn't hear his answers, or couldn't understand them.

Godmother collected the loose sheets into a file and only looked at Ralph after making sure the surface of the table was clean. She folded her hands on top of it, neatly, palm to palm.

“I remember you saying once that at the time of the last graduation the situation in the House was less stable. If I'm not mistaken, you were referring to the ongoing confrontation between two belligerent groups.”

“Yes,” Ralph said. “It had been much worse then.”

He sat down, feeling somewhat uneasy, as he always did in Godmother's presence. This woman had an ambiguous effect on him. Yes, she was undoubtedly good at what she did, effortlessly handling the problems that would reduce Darling to a sniveling mess, she was smart, responsible, and rational, and the girls respected her. At the same time, her aloofness was off-putting. No one in the House liked her. To Ralph it looked like she had no feelings at all for her charges, that she was comprehensively impersonal. He tried to convince himself that this was just a professional deftly hiding her emotions, but it did nothing to dispel his prejudice. Godmother was too icy for her job. Or too old. Trim and straight, like a retired ballet dancer, invariably in the same gray pantsuit, white cuffs gleaming, she appeared fifty while in reality pushing seventy.

“I would be interested to know if that remark hasn't been simply an attempt to calm down the principal,” Godmother said.

Her eyes behind the glasses glinted severely and accusingly. The cold, round, staring eyes, the hooked nose, the long neck—they all combined to make her look like a bird of prey. But despite all that, anyone talking to her got the impression that she had been a great beauty once.

“No,” Ralph said after a pause. “I don't remember exactly the conversation you're referring to, so it is possible that I was trying to calm him down, but the last time the situation really was much less stable.”

“Are you concerned at all that as of today there are again two belligerent groups in the House?”

It took some time for Ralph to understand what she meant, and when he did he almost laughed out loud.

“No,” he said. “I am not concerned. I do not consider this conflict to be serious.”

Godmother's fixed stare became unblinking.

“Why?” she said.

“You see,” he said, feeling awkward for intruding on her turf with his musings, “this so-called war is entirely the girls’ invention. I think it's their way of coping. They are aware that graduation is coming whether they like it or not, and with it the separation from the boys with whom they have established relationships. They also see no chance of those relationships continuing beyond the gates of the House. So, what's easier: accepting the separation or convincing themselves that those who they're being torn from are the enemy? They chose the latter. On balance, it would mean less pain for them overall. The war may look silly, but it appears to be an effective technique.”

“Do you consider yourself an expert on female psychology?” Godmother said.

What infuriated Ralph wasn't the question itself but that it made him blush.

“No,” he said drily. “I do not. I was merely expressing an opinion.”

“An opinion that deserves the highest praise,” Godmother said even more impersonally. “I salute you.”

Ralph again tried not to let his annoyance show.

“Would that be all?”

“Apparently,” Godmother said. “I would like you to keep one thing in mind, however. The principal does not share your optimism.”

“I would imagine,” Ralph muttered.

“And he is prepared to use all options available to him to ensure safety at the time of graduation. What would your attitude be toward that?”

“One of understanding,” Ralph said, getting up. “If you’ll excuse me, I still have some unfinished business to attend to before the meeting.”

Godmother nodded. “Of course. Should we be expecting any suggestions from you?”

“Possibly.”

As he left, she remained in her place, looking ahead at the wall, like a robot that's been switched off. Sitting very straight, with hands folded in front of her.

A round-faced, big-eared boy in a black skull-and-crossbones T-shirt peeled leisurely away from the door. Ralph closed it behind himself.

“What were you doing?” he whispered.

“Listening in,” the boy said earnestly. “I am well aware that I shouldn’t,” he added, preempting Ralph's reaction.

Ralph lightly massaged his eyelids.

“Why do you do it, then?”

“Sometimes my curiosity gets the better of my ethical values,” the boy admitted. “Has that ever happened to you?”

Ralph leaned against the door.

“Please leave,” he said. “Get out of my sight.”

Whitebelly nodded eagerly and retreated.

“Did you hear that?” Ralph mumbled, making his way toward the stairs. “And this one isn't even a Log.”

But in all truth, he was glad of the encounter. Charmingly insolent Whitebelly chased the image of the unmoving mannequin in the staff room from his mind's eye. A frightening image, even if he wasn't quite ready to admit it.

Ralph climbed up to the third floor, to the break room where the meeting was scheduled for three o’clock. Originally this was supposed to be a home away from home for counselors, but the drab institutional furnishings and rickety tables piled with dog-eared magazines invited the ghosts of a dentist's waiting room, so there never had been any volunteers to spend their free time here. Finally the administration hauled in three desks and a slide projector, put up a dry-erase board, and designated it a meeting room. This breathed new life into the space, and soon counselors claimed parts of it for storage, divided up the chairs, and declared the tiny balcony to be the smoking area, and Sheriff even brought his favorite boombox. Now at any time of day or night someone would be in, even if most often that someone was Homer, dozing on the sofa.