Maybe there were only a given number of hairs in the world, and they had to be shared out.
Surely Róisín would laugh if she knew what was scurrying through his mind, these days. It could become one of her running gags. "Be careful of Bearded Ladies, Jo-Jo," she might say. "They have a habit of running away with the circus."
The real question wasn't whether she would be hurt if he asked her to pluck it, Joseph realized. The real question was, What if she said no?
In the library he left Liam slamming Barbie and Ken's heads together and ducked round the corner. He thought it might take some research, but the first encyclopaedia told him all he needed, and more than he wanted to know.
It turned out that a hair was a filament or filamentous outgrowth that grew from the integument of an animal or insect. Joseph had never known he had an integument. He also learned that although in many cultures beards were a symbol of the dignity of manhood, there was nothing intrinsically masculine about facial hair at all. Native American and Chinese men didn't tend to develop much hair on their faces; Mediterranean women did. Even in the British Isles, the incidence of facial hair among women was much higher than was commonly supposed.
Joseph felt slightly breathless, at this point. He had been tricked. To think of all those hairy-chinned women out there on the streets, plucked and waxed and powdered down, going about their business with nobody knowing a thing...
He read on distractedly. Both men and women of high birth in ancient Egypt wore metal ceremonial hairpieces on their chins. Then there was Saint Uncumber, who prayed to God to deliver her from men and was delighted when he gave her a beard.
Joseph let the encyclopaedia sag shut. He edged round the corner to Self-Help, where he found a book called Women Are Cats, Men Are Dogs: Making Your Relationship Work. He had to skim through Sexual Positions, Money Worries and In-law Trouble before he found the right section.
Instead of commenting negatively on her appearance, say "Honey, I'd like to treat you to a top-to-toe makeover. You deserve the best."
Joseph tried out that line, under his breath, but it sounded like bad karaoke.
Down on his knees on the cork tiles, a few hours later, he tried to unclog the bath; the plunger made a violent gulp. He finally had to use his fingers in a tug-of-war with the long clot of soap and hair; more and more of it unreeled as if it grew down there. From the colour it looked more like his than hers. Queasy, he flicked it into the bin.
He was tidying up the living room after lunch when he noticed that Róisín's magazine was on the coffee table again. She must have found it stuffed down the side of the sofa cushion. She must have wondered. Joseph stared at the crumpled cover, wondering what exactly she'd have wondered, SIZZLING SUMMER SANDALS. PEACE OF MIND IN JUST TEN DAYS. HOW TO TELL IF HE'S CHEATING.
These days he was trying to ensure that sex wouldn't happen. Not that he didn't feel like it. But he knew that sex brought his guard down, and he was afraid that it would ruin some intimate moment if Róisín caught him staring fixedly at her chin.
He was just playing for time. He knew he had to tell her, whether it sounded reasonable or not. He had to say something at least, make a joke of it instead of a sore point. Otherwise he was going to lose his tiny mind.
They used to be able to tell each other anything, the two of them. That's what they'd boasted, in the early days. Everyone went round saying things like that at college. Tell me. Honestly. I really want to know.
Later that afternoon Joseph had a better idea. He ran upstairs to the bathroom and ransacked the cupboard like a burglar. He rooted through all Róisín's paraphernalia: eyelash crimpers, toenail sponges, an old diaphragm. Finally he recognized the tweezers. He was holding it up to the light to check its grip when he sensed he was being watched. He turned. Róisín in her stocking feet, arms piled high with files, staring.
"You're home early! Sorry about the mess," he said as if it was a joke.
"What are you doing with my tweezers?" she asked.
"Got a splinter, down the playground," Joseph improvised.
Róisín took hold of his hand and tugged him towards the window. She peered at the map of lines: head, heart, fate. "I don't see anything."
"It's tiny," said Joseph, "but it's driving me mad."
That evening he was watching some stupid quiz when Róisín came in and sat on the arm of the sofa. "You're in a funny mood these days," she said, so softly that he thought at first she was commenting on the program.
"Am I?" Joseph assured her he didn't know why he seemed that way. No, he didn't miss his old job; what was there to miss? No, Liam wasn't getting on his nerves, no more than usual. It was nothing.
At which point Róisín reached for the remote and muted the TV.
Joseph stared at the flickering images. He wasn't ready to look at her yet. He was choosing his words. "It's nothing that matters," he said at last, too cheerfully. "It's—"
"It's me," interrupted Róisín, "isn't it?"
And he turned to look at her then, because her voice was stripped down like a wire. Naked. The skin below her eyes was the blue of a bird's egg.
Joseph gathered her into his arms and lied with his whole heart. "Of course it's not you. Why would it be you? You're grand. You're Perfection Incarnate," he added, pressing his lips to her neck, trying to shut himself up.
She twisted her head. "But are you—"
"I'm just tired, love," he interrupted, so she couldn't finish the question. "I'm just a bit tired these days." He faked an enormous, apelike yawn.
It was two in the morning before he could be sure she was in deep sleep. He opened his eyes and sat up, feeling under the pillow for the pen torch and the tweezers.
Hovering over Róisín, he aimed the tiny light at her chin. His thumb pressed hard on the ridged plastic of the switch. Arms shaking, he caught the little hair in his narrow beam. With the other hand he reached out to close the tweezers on it. Please god he wouldn't stab her in the chin.
Just then Róisín stirred and rolled towards him, onto her face. Joseph lurched back and snapped off the torch. He shoved everything under his pillow and lay down flat. His heart was hammering like police at the door.
He lay quite still for a long time. Veils of darkness hung all round him. He was sinking.
Then Róisín spoke. "Can you not sleep?"
Joseph didn't answer.
In the morning he lay hollow-eyed, watching Róisín put on her lipstick in the bedroom mirror. She grabbed her bag and came over to give him a kiss.
She turned to open the door. He hauled himself upright and put on a casual voice. "Hey. You know that tiny wee hair under your chin?"
He waited for the world to crack apart.
"Which?" Róisín doubled back to the mirror without breaking stride. She stuck her jaw out and threw back her head. "Got it," she said in a slightly strangled voice. Her finger and thumb closed together and she made a tiny, precise movement. Like a conductor might, to finish a symphony.
She brushed her fingers together and gave Joseph a little wave on her way out.
STRANGERS
Good Deed
Sam had always thought of himself as a pretty decent guy, and who was to say he wasn't? While he was doing his MBA at the University of Toronto he'd been a volunteer on the Samaritans' phone line. These days he couldn't spare the time, but he made regular tax-free contributions to schemes for eradicating river blindness in sub-Saharan Africa and improving children's sports facilities in the Yukon. He always wore a condom (well, not always, just when he was having sex), and he never pushed past old ladies to get on a streetcar.
The day it happened, he was coming down with a head cold. Funny how such a petty thing could make such a difference. Not that it felt petty at the time; it was a January cold, one of those brutes that makes you screw up your eyes all week and cough wetly for the rest of the month. So Sam—sensibly enough—had left the office before rush hour in order to get home and take care of himself. He had his Windsm
oor coat buttoned up to the throat as he hurried towards the subway station. His friends seemed to live in down jackets all winter, but Sam refused to abandon his dress sense so he could look like a walking duvet. Today he did keep his cashmere scarf looped over his nose and mouth, to take the ice out of the air. With a hot whiskey and something mindless like Nip/Tuck and an early night, he thought he could probably head this cold off at the pass.
He walked right by the first time, like everyone else. It was a common sight, these last few winters, street persons in sleeping bags lying on the hot-air vents. The first time you saw it you thought: My god, there's a guy lying in the middle of the sidewalk, and everyone's walking round him like he's invisible. How bizarre. What a sign of the times. But you got used to it—and, to be fair, it was probably much warmer for the homeless, lying on the air vents, than if they had to tuck themselves away against the wall of a bank or a travel agency.
This particular guy near the intersection of Bloor and Bay seemed pretty much like all his peers: a crumpled bundle with eyes half closed and a not-entirely-unsatisfied expression. Probably Native, thought Sam, but you should never assume. It was only when Sam had got as far as the crossing, blowing his nose on his handkerchief with awkward leather-gloved hands, that his brain registered what his eyes must have seen. Just as sometimes by the time you ask someone to repeat themselves, you've realized what they've said. Anyway, that's when Sam saw it in his mind's eye, the little trickle of blood. He thought he must have imagined it. Classic white middle-class guilt hallucinations, he said to himself. Then he thought: So the guy's bleeding a little from the lip, not necessarily a big deal, I sometimes chew my lips to shreds when I'm working on a big presentation.
The lights changed but something wouldn't let Sam cross. Instead, he clenched his jaw and waded back against the tide of commuters. He picked a place to stand, near enough to the street person to get a good look at him, but not so near that anyone would notice. Besides, if he stood too close, the guy might wake up and take offense and bite him or something. A significant percentage of them were mentally ill, Sam had read in the Street Times, and no wonder, considering. But there was no sign of this particular guy waking up anytime soon. The blood from his mouth had trickled all the way round and under his chin, now, like some kind of Frankenstein party makeup. He had a dirty white beard.
Sam had no idea what to do, and frankly, all he felt was irritation. Where were human feelings when you wanted them? The timing was so inappropriate. Why couldn't this have happened on another winter afternoon, when Sam wouldn't have had a cold and so would have been able to respond like the person he truly was?
His eyes were dripping; he thought they might freeze shut. He unfolded his handkerchief and mopped at his face. An unworthy thought occurred to him: Why did I look round at all when I should have kept my head down and run for the subway?
There was a foul reek of spirits coming off the guy when Sam bent nearer. It occurred to him to touch the guy, but he didn't know where. Or why, now Sam came to think of it. On a theoretical level, he knew that the rigours of life on the street would drive just about anyone to alcoholism, but he still couldn't help finding it gross.
"Excuse me?" he said, sniffing loudly so his nose wouldn't drip on the guy. "Sir?" How ludicrously genteel. "Mister? Are you OK?"
No answer. Sam's breath puffed out like white smoke. He made up a reply: Sure I'm OK, mister; I love to spend my Friday nights lying on the sidewalk, bleeding from the mouth.
Sam was crouched beside the guy now. Commuters kept streaming past; nothing interrupted the flow on Bloor and Bay. They probably assumed Sam was some kind of weirdo friend of the guy on the ground, despite the Windsmoor coat—which was trailing in the gutter's mound of dirty old snow, he noticed, snatching up the hem. Now he wasn't upright and moving at speed, like the commuters, it was as if he'd left the world of the respectable and squatted in the mud. They'd probably think the coat was stolen. Damn them for a bunch of cold salaried bastards. It wouldn't occur to one of them to take the time to stop and—
And what, exactly? What was Sam going to do?
His nose was streaming now, and his legs were starting to freeze into place. He almost lost his balance as he rooted for his handkerchief. He ripped one leather glove off, reared up, and blew his nose. It made the sound of a lost elephant.
Quick, quick, think. What about first aid? Shit, he should have volunteered to go on that in-house course last year. Shreds of traditional advice swam giddily through Sam's mind. Hot sweet tea was his mother's remedy for everything, but it would be tough to come by; the nearest stall said ESPRESSO EXPRESS. Whiskey? Hardly the thing if the guy was full of alcohol already. Put his feet higher than his head? What the fuck was that about? Sam wondered.
The guy on the ground hadn't moved. The blood didn't seem to be flowing at speed, exactly. It hadn't dripped onto the pavement yet. In films, bleeding from the mouth always meant you were a goner; the trickle only took a few seconds to grow into a terrible red river.
Sam shifted from foot to foot to keep his circulation going, like a hesitant dancer at an eighties disco night. Maybe, it occurred to him with an enormous wave of relief, maybe the blood on this guy's face was an old mark he hadn't washed off. If you didn't have a mirror you probably wouldn't even know you had blood on your chin. Maybe a bit of bleeding was the natural result of drinking methanol or whatever the cocktail of choice was these days. Well, not choice; Sam didn't mean choice, exactly.
But the thing was, how could he be sure? How was a personnel officer with no medical experience to tell if there was something seriously wrong going on here? He shouldn't call 911 on a whim. If they sent an ambulance, it might be kept from some other part of the city where it was really needed. They got these false alarms all the time; hadn't he seen something on City TV about it? And the homeless guy probably wouldn't thank him for getting him dragged into the emergency room, either...
And then Sam looked at the guy on the ground, really looked for the first time; he felt a wave of nausea roll from the toes he could no longer feel, all the way to his tightening scalp. The man lay utterly still, not even shivering in the hard air that seemed liable to crystallize round them both any minute now. Sam was not repelled by the guy, exactly; what turned his stomach was the sudden thought that he himself, by some terrible knot of circumstances such as came down on successful people all the time, might someday end up lying on an air vent with people stepping round him and an overeducated ignorant prick in a Windsmoor coat standing round inventing excuses for not making the call that could save his life.
Sam reached for his cell phone, but the pocket of his coat was empty. At first he couldn't believe it; thought he'd been robbed. Then he remembered laying it down beside his computer after lunch. Today of all days! His head was made of mucus.
He dialed 911 from the phone box at the corner. He was afraid they wouldn't believe that it was an emergency—that they would hang up on him—so he sounded inappropriately angry, even when he was giving the address. "The guy looks seriously ill," he barked.
It hadn't occurred to Sam to wonder what he would do once he had made the call. He hovered outside the phone box, as if waiting for another turn. In a sense, there was nothing else to do now; the proper authorities had been called in, and Sam was just a passerby again, with every right to head home to his condo and nurse his cold. But in another sense, he thought with self-righteous gloom, he was the only connection. What if the ambulance never turned up? What if the medics couldn't see the guy on the ground because the human traffic was too thick?
A sneeze shook him like a blow from a stranger. With grudging steps he walked back to the guy on the ground, who hadn't stirred. It occurred to Sam for the first time that the guy might be dead. How odd that would be, for such a dramatic thing not to show on a human face, except by this discreet ribbon of blood and a certain blueness about the lips. He thought maybe he should see if there was any sign of life in the guy, but he couldn't decide which
bit of dirty raincoat to lay his hand on. If he wasn't dead, Sam should keep him warm; yes, that was definitely to be recommended. Sam stared around to see if there was a department store on the block. He could buy a blanket, or one of those rugged tartan picnic rugs. He would be willing to pay up to, say, $100, considering the seriousness of the occasion; $125, maybe, if that was what it took. But the only stores in view sold lingerie, shoes, and smoked meats. He blew his nose again.
Take off your coat, Sam told himself grimly. He did it, wincing as the cold air slid into his armpits. He was wearing a wool-blend suit, but it wasn't enough. This was probably a crazy idea, considering his own state of health.
He laid the Windsmoor over the man; it was stagy, like a gesture from some Shakespearean drama. No response yet. What if the warmth made the guy wake up, and Sam had to make conversation? No sign of life, nor death, either. The coat lay too far up the guy's body, so it almost covered his head; it looked like the scene after a murder, Sam thought with a horrified inner giggle. He stooped again, took the coat by its deep hem and dragged it delicately backwards until it revealed the dirty white beard. Sam's keys slid out of a pocket and caught in a grating; he swooped to retrieve them. Jesus, imagine if he'd lost his keys on top of everything! Then he remembered his wallet and had to walk around the guy to reach the other pocket. Passersby might think he was picking the pockets of a dead man, like a scavenger on a battlefield.
He let out a spluttering cough. He could just feel his immune system failing. This cold would probably turn into something serious, like post-viral fatigue or something. He should sit down and try some deep breathing. But where? The heating vent in front of him would be the warmest, but it would look so weird, a guy in an $800 suit squatting on the sidewalk beside a bum. But then, who did he think would be looking at him? he asked himself in miserable exasperation. And why should he care?
Sam let himself down on the curb at last. It was so cold on his buttocks, through the thin wool, it felt like he had wet himself. He stood up and kept moving, jigging on the spot. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been out in January without a winter coat. Like one of those squeegee punks who lived in layers of ragged sweaters. Was that snow, that speck in his eye, or just a cold speck of dust? He rubbed his leather-gloved hands against his cheeks. His sinuses were beginning to pulse.