by David Wiltse
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 face, carefully avoiding even a glance.
With Mozart’s Requiem playing softly on the tape machine, Dyce selected a tray of spicy chicken wings from his freezer and heated them in the microwave. Working with his back to the man, he set
up the television tray in front of his favorite armchair and put out his napkin and a fork for the simple tossed salad. The chicken wings he would eat with his fingers. Normally he would not eat during such an occasion, but since it was only a preview, he reasoned, and because he was very hungry and would not want to have to interrupt himself as long as the emotion gripped him, he would do it this way just this once.
Throughout his preparations he felt the excitement of anticipation stirring him. With an effort he made himself slow down and go through every step methodically. Finally, when all was ready and the microwave sounded its buzzer, he took his tray of chicken wings to the television tray, sat in the chair, and for the first time allowed himself to look at the man.
In the gloom of the living room, the pale face and hands seemed to be lit with an inner light. The man’s features had relaxed under the drug and his expression was one of utter serenity. From this distance, Dyce could not see the man’s chest move with his shallow breaths, but, of course, he knew. He knew, and that detracted from the pleasure somewhat. And the man’s color was not yet perfect. It never was while they were alive, but it was close. The difference between what was and the perfection he could so easily attain detracted, too. Life itself was the problem; it refused to be completely disguised. But still, it was close. And as long as they lived, they did not decay.
“So beautiful,” Dyce murmured in the gloom.
He sat perfectly still for a long time before he reached for the first chicken wing.
Chapter 2
Seventy-five feet in the air over Route 87, clinging to a rock with all the dubious tenacity of a cookie magnet to a refrigerator door, Becker came to the conclusion that he must have been crazy. Would a sane man have decided to take up rock climbing at his age? Would a sane man have taken up rock climbing, period?
“There’s a little depression just above your right hand. Not more than eighteen inches.” The voice came from below, which meant it was Alan Something, the kid with the stringy hair. Alan could look at a bare rockface from the ground and see every handhold and piton strike all the way to the top, then leap at the rock as if it weren’t going up straight as a plumb line, and scamper up it with the agility and contempt of a kid vaulting over the neighbor’s fence. Becker didn’t care for Alan very much; he was the expert who had convinced Becker to take the lessons.
“Just eighteen inches. But if you feel you can’t, you don’t have to.” That voice was Cindi’s, the girl who had preceded Becker to the top in what seemed like a minute and a half, finding the holds, wedging the pitons into the cracks so Becker could secure his rope and have a “safe” trip up. Her hair was as stringy as Alan’s, but on her it looked better. “No one will think any the worse of you if you don’t want to try,” she said.
“Except me,” said Becker. His words were muffled by the rock against which his face was pressed as if he could somehow cling to it with lips and cheek.
“Just reach up with your right hand,” said Alan from below. He was having a hard time concealing his impatience. Becker had been frozen in position three-quarters of the way up the one-hundred-foot palisade for almost a minute. To Becker it seemed the better part of a day. His left hand was extended to the side and down, gripping with only the fingertips an irregularity in the rock that was slanted toward the ground. His left klettershoe was firmly planted-or as firmly as anything was ever planted in a sport that sought insecurity as its challenge-but only his right toe had the slightest purchase on a nub of stone. If he reached for the next hold with his right hand, he would have to release his left foot, which was the only thing keeping him up in the air. The other two grips had as much purchase on the rock as tail flaps on a jetliner. They might steer him a bit but they certainly wouldn’t hold him up.
“Your muscles will cramp if you don’t move,” called Alan.
“He’s right,” said Cindi in a softer tone. She was nearly as good in her way as Alan was in his, but with none of his arrogance. Becker liked her, but didn’t want her to see him in this position. The muscles in his left arm and right leg had been dancing for the past several seconds already. He either had to move or be kicked off the rockface by a muscle spasm. The question was, move where? Upward and onward to glory, or the ignominious climb back to the base. “What did you say?”
Cindi was on her stomach on top of the rock, leaning out as far as she could to watch Becker. If Becker rolled his eyes upward, he could just make out the bright red of her helmet. Crash helmet. If Becker kept his eyes strained upward long enough to make out her features, he got dizzy. It seemed a poor choice of pastimes for a man with a tendency to vertigo, which confirmed Becker in his suspicion that he was crazy.
“I can’t hear you,” said Cindi.
“Golf I said golf,” said Becker, turning his lips from the rock so he could be heard. “I could have taken up golf.”
His right leg began to jerk involuntarily.
“What is he doing?” Alan demanded.
“He’s joking!” Cindi called.
“Choking? I know that.”
Cindi lowered her voice so Alan could not hear.
“Do you want me to come down and get you? There’s no disgrace in it. It happens all the time in the beginning.”
“Or tennis,” Becker said. “I actually like tennis.” Tilting his head a fraction more, he could see what Alan was referring to as a handhold. With luck, Becker could get three fingertips on it. That would give him three fingertips and the toe of his spasming right leg to support his weight-to lift his weight- until he found something for his left side. Not only crazy but a danger to himself.
“I’m coming down for you,” said Cindi.
Becker pushed off with his left leg and reached for the handhold. He caught it with the last three fingers of his hand as he straightened his right leg. The edge of rock sliced into his fingers as his body kept swinging to the right, pivoting around his right toe. His hip struck the rockface, his fingers leaped off the grip, and he fell headfirst toward the highway.
The nylon rope secured to Cindi’s piton with a carabiner caught him after a fall of six feet, and he swung into the rock like a speeding pendulum. Becker took the blow with his head and shoulders, rebounded, then bounced in a second time with his helmet. Stunned, he hung upside down for a while before slowly righting himself He dangled in space, the climbing harness digging into his thighs and buttocks. By the time his head cleared, Cindi was at his side and Alan was halfway up the rock.
“Are you all right?” Cindi asked. Becker tried to smile; he was not yet ready to speak. His back was to the rockface now and he saw the police car pull to a stop.
“How is he?” Alan called from below, climbing. “All right, I think.”
Alan was already analyzing the mishap and gave Becker the benefit of his thoughts as he moved upward.
“The problem was you’re not ready for that kind of move yet. You shouldn’t have tried it. That was an advanced intermediate move. You’re not that good, Becker.”
The cop got out of his car and leaned against it, looking up.
“You told him he could do it,” said Cindi.
“I just told him where the handhold was. He’s got to be the judge of whether or not he can do it.”
Alan was just below them now. It seemed to Becker that the young man had made the trip up in three bounds.
Cindi was looking into Becker’s eyes, swinging out from the rockface on the end of the rope she had secured atop the palisade.
“How do you feel now?”
“Stupid.”
“That’s a good sign,” she said.
“You took the wrong route,” said Alan. “That’s where you went wrong.”
“Where I went wrong was getting out of the car,” said Becker.
“You’re obviously all right,” said Cindi.
“The route to the left is much easier. You should have gone that way.”
“I went that way last week,” said Becker. “I thought I’d try somethi
ng harder.”
“You got the stones for it,” said Alan with a touch of admiration. “I don’t know if you’ve got the aptitude, but you’ve definitely got the stones.”
“You don’t need stones for it,” said Cindi.
The cop lifted his hand and waggled his fingers at Becker.
“Looking good,” said the cop.
Becker put a hand over his crotch and tugged.
“And stylish, too,” the cop said.
“Friend of yours?” asked Cindi. She pulled gently on Becker’s arm and he turned, weightless, to face the rock.
“This has been cleared with the police,” Alan called down. “We got permission already. We don’t need any hassle.”
“Who does?” said the cop. “I’m just watching. This is a spectator sport, isn’t it? I’ve never seen anything quite as graceful as Becker there. I saw a pig on ice once, but that’s as close as it comes.”
“You want to try it?” Alan called heatedly.
The cop chuckled. “Just as soon as you put in a staircase.”
“I don’t like cops,” Alan said in a voice markedly softer.
“Neither do I,” said Becker. “That’s why I resigned.”
Cindi had placed Becker’s hands and feet on secure holds on the rock.
“The next hold is eight inches down with your right hand. I can put your hand there if you like. We’ll just take it one step at a time, and I’ll be right here with you.”
“You’re sure this is the macho thing to do?” Becker said. “Oh, please.”
“Are you sure a real man wouldn’t go right back up and try it again?”
“A real man would be home making soup and humping his woman,” said Cindi. “He wouldn’t have to be out here demonstrating his stones.”
