Prayer for the Dead Read Free Page B

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