The man was secured to an inclined board, tilted back at an angle of a few degrees, so Dyce’s face was level with him as he spoke. The nearly vertical position was helpful in draining blood when the subject was comatose, Dyce had found. Gravity did the job when the heart weakened.
The man could see Dyce’s face swimming in and out of his line of vision like a beach ball riding the waves.
“I’m just going to empty this bottle for you,” said Dyce, dropping out of sight. “It’s nearly full; you’re doing very well, very well, you’d be surprised.”
Dyce straightened again and held the bottle of blood in front of the man’s face. “See?”
The man’s eyelids fluttered and his eyebrows arched upwards. Dyce laid a hand on the man’s cheek.
“Now, Bill… I’m sorry, I don’t remember your real name. Is it all right if I just call you Bill? It’s less confusing for me that way. You didn’t like looking at that. I should have asked you first. It’s funny how some people react to the sight of blood. Frankly, I’m indifferent to it myself It makes some people queasy, though. I realize that, and it looks like you’re one of them. Sorry, I won’t do that again. It takes a while for us to get to know each other, after all. I can’t be expected to guess your likes and dislikes right away.”
The man had broken into a sweat. He felt the stirrings of nausea in the pit of his stomach and tried to swallow to fight them back. He was afraid that if he threw up he would choke on his own vomit. The object in his mouth depressed his tongue and made it very difficult to swallow and he thought for a moment he would choke to death.
Dyce stroked the man’s face with a dry cloth, then put something very cold on his temples.
“It will pass,” Dyce said comfortingly. “You’re fine, you really are. There’s no reason to be upset. Just breathe deeply. That’s it, breathe deeply.”
Dyce gently massaged the man’s throat with one hand while running the ice cube across his forehead to the other temple. Droplets of ice water ran into the man’s hairline.
“It’s just your imagination that has made you feel upset. You don’t need your tongue to swallow, you know. You just think you do. Relax those throat muscles, just relax them. That’s it, let them go. Now swallow. There, you see? You mustn’t let your imagination run away with you like that. You’re perfectly all right. I won’t let anything happen to you, you know that, don’t you?”
Dyce wiped the man’s forehead dry and touched his hair, fluffing it with his fingers.
“I’m here to help you. You know that, don’t you? Don’t you? Think how silly I’d be if I let anything happen to you. Now, I’ll just pour this out and be right back and I’ll have a little treat for you, all right?”
Dyce poured the contents of the bottle down the drain of the kitchen sink and rinsed it out, then went to his bedroom. The room was dark even during the day; the sun was perpetually blocked by heavy brown drapes. Like all the windows in the house, those in the bedroom were covered by double-glazed glass and a board of sound- proofing material pitted by peaks and depressions like an egg carton. Dyce did not like the drapes. For several months he had been thinking of changing them for something brighter and more cheerful. The bedroom was gloomy, no matter how many lights he turned on, and he spent no time in the room except to sleep. There were times when he had long-term guests, such as the man in the living room, when Dyce considered moving the television set into the bedroom so he could have some privacy at night, but the tomblike quality of the room decided him against it.
In the top drawer of the heavy oaken bureau he found the stiff-bristled military hairbrushes and the matching hand mirror. The backings were made of thick, dull silver, and his grandfather’s initials were engraved into the handle of the mirror and burned into the leather straps on the brushes.
Dyce slipped his hands through the straps with a sense of ceremony and felt the presence of his grandfather. The feeling came upon him as a flush, an overall surge of emotion that filled and dominated him. He stood for a moment watching his reflection in the mirror atop the bureau, trying to see if the strength of the emotion were visible to the eye. Heat was suffusing him and the pattern of his breathing had changed, his stomach had tightened, and tremors seized the base of his spine-but nothing was apparent in the mirror. His plain, everyday face looked back at Dyce, eyes a bit too close together, mouth a little crooked, one nostril higher and larger than the other, hair thin and getting thinner as his forehead seemed to grow larger by the month. To the eye there was no trace of the joy that made him shiver with anticipation.
He had to have a look today, he realized. It was early, maybe a full day premature and it might even diminish his satisfaction when everything was perfect, but he could wait no longer. He would have a look today, a preview, and let tomorrow take care of itself.
Dyce opened the oaken wardrobe with its simple, patterned surface-the pattern of the polished oak had been ornament enough in the days when his grandfather acquired the furniture-and withdrew the length of cream-colored silk, the pillow of the same material, the dark blue suit, the stiffly starched shirt, and his grandfather’s favorite paisley tie. He hesitated over the hair pomade, the lipstick, the mascara, then decided to leave them in the wardrobe. It was only a preview, after all. It was always better to save the full treatment for the end. Dyce believed in deferred pleasure, although his needs sometimes overcame his patience.
He had forgotten to replace the collection bottle; a few drops of blood had dribbled to the floor. Dyce wiped them up, then put the bottle back on the end of the plastic drip. This kind of mistake annoyed him and normally made him angry with himself, but now with the fever of anticipation, he scarcely noted his error.
“Sorry I took so long,” Dyce said. “I had to get a few things together.” He held the brushes up so the man could see them.
“Like I promised, a treat for you, then one for me, too.”
Dyce stood behind the man and began to brush his hair.
“His hair was pure white and thicker than yours. You’re a young man, but believe me, his hair was thicker even at his age. He used to say there was an Italian in the woodpile; he couldn’t figure out how else to explain a head of hair that full. And with just a little wave, not crinkly at all, just a little wave-but so white. A hundred strokes a night, no matter what, that’s what he said the secret was, one hundred strokes a night. It kept the scalp alive, he said.”
Dyce pulled the brushes gently through the man’s hair from brow to neck, one hand following the other. First the top, then the sides, then the top again. Dyce heard the man moaning softly in appreciation.
“Funny how it always feels better when someone else does it, have you noticed? It’s never quite the same when you have to do it yourself There’s a girl where I have my hair cut who does the shampoo-I can’t just go to a barber anymore, my hair’s too thin, there’s no Italian in my woodpile, I guess. I need a real artist to take care of it these days, and women just know more about these things. Actually, the person who does the actual styling is a man, but you know what I mean, he’s used to working on women, but what was I saying? There’s this girl who gives me a shampoo before the guy does the cutting and her fingers feel so good I want to propose to her every time I go in… I don’t, though… His wife used to do his hair before she died, and then I took over. One hundred strokes a night, no matter what. It was practically a religious thing and that makes me what, an altar boy or something… There, that’s more than a hundred.”
Dyce stood in front of the man, admiring the results of his work. A tear seeped from the man’s eye.
“I know I promised you a treat and that was it, but I think I’ll give you another one, and then it’s my turn.”
Dyce pressed the syringe in the man’s arm, studying the level in the cylinder carefully. Contented with the dosage, he held the hand mirror so the man could see himself. The second treat.
The man looked at the face of his own death. His skin was the ashen pallor of a corpse, more deathly pale than the tape that covered his mouth. His eyes were an impossibly bright blue in contrast with his flesh, and his hair, fresh from the brushing and crackling with static electricity, stood up like the caricature of a man in terror.
Behind the mirror, Dyce’s face swam in and out of focus, nodding approval and smiling. The man closed his eyes and gratefully allowed the drug to lower him into unconsciousness as softly as a mother with a babe.
Dyce covered the man’s face while he worked so that he wouldn’t be tempted to peek and spoil his first viewing. He laid the board flat on the sawhorses that were draped with black felt crepe to hide their rough-hewn legs. The shirt, tie, and suit jacket were awkward to put on and the covering slipped from the man’s face several times. He drew the creamy silk up to the man’s waist and then crossed his arms, which had already been freed from their restraints, in order to put on the clothing. Working by feel, Dyce removed the tape and took the darning egg out of the man’s mouth. With the pillow under the man’s head, Dyce finally removed the covering from his
