Free The Color of Paradox by A.M. Dellamonica Page B

precise moment when our younger selves are under anesthetic. Doctor Stefoff’s theory is it’s easier to make the transition that way.”
    I ran a finger over a week’s worth of beard. “I’d like to shave.”
    “You’re not ready.”
    “I wish to be presentable.”
    “Nobody cares what you look like.”
    I tried to summon a shred of charm. “You should be nicer to me, Willie. I’m here to save the world, remember?”
    “You can have a mirror and a razor when you come up to your room.” With that, she vanished upstairs.
    That gave me pause. The prospect of climbing that staircase filled me with dread, like a child mandated to visit to a malevolent old relative. Some dying grandfather, furious as his body failed, refusing to know his time was coming. Clawlike hands and the smell of dying . . .
    Up in the house was sunshine and fresh air and the inevitability of the end.
    It took me another day to muster the nerve. I was rubber-legged and sweating before I was halfway up the staircase.
    “See here, old man. This isn’t physical.” To prove it to myself, I marched down to the bottom again, one two, one two, setting a slow but steady pace and swearing I wouldn’t break it. When my feet hit the concrete floor I turned on my heel—about face, good soldier!—and maintained my march to the top.
    I was trembling with nausea when I reached the door, but I nevertheless forced myself through.
    The door led into a closet, filled with men’s clothes. Beyond it was a plain, old-fashioned and distinctly masculine bedroom, with blue bed covers and uninspired wooden furniture. Even that, for a moment, was almost too much color.
    A shaving kit taunted me. The water was fresh, steaming; Willie must have heard me dithering on the stair.
    “You can do this,” I told myself.
    The face in the mirror was thinner, and the bruising on the bridge of my nose was smeared, on one side, into a black eye. I’ve always been on the pale side; now I looked positively bloodless. My hair had turned a brittle white-blond, except at the roots.
    I had been convinced I’d see
it
—the end, that horrible color—brimming from the sockets of my eyes.
    I shaved, slowly, taking care not to cut myself. The sight of blood would have sent me quailing back to my sickbed. Putting on a suit from the closet that just about fit, I listened at the door.
    Women’s voices and a mutter of teacups: Willie had company. No matter. She couldn’t keep me from my mission forever.
    I found her in the kitchen with an older woman and a sickly looking Negro man, the three of them sharing a breakfast of eggs and bacon. The smell was so rich my stomach turned.
    The older woman looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Who’s this fellow?”
    “My brother.” Willie swallowed a slimy, soft-boiled egg. “Jules Wills the Third.”
    The woman turned out to be a housekeeper and cook. Her name was Mrs. Farmer and she seemed a gem: motherly, warm, efficient, everything a matron should be. The old man, Rufus, was nominally a servant. This polite bit of fiction allowed him to live, despite his race, with three other gents Willie was keeping upstairs. I was given to understand she ran a boarding house for convalescent bachelors.
    I endured an interminable stretch of pointless chitchat about the stock market and a recent State of the Union address and whether the carrots at market had been overpriced that day. Finally Rufus caned his way out into the hall and Mrs. Farmer took away the dishes, with their intermingling, overstrong smells.
    “I could just about do a cup of tea,” I said. “Be a love, will you?”
    Willie affected not to have heard, opening a small journal and paging through the opening leaves.
    “Why am I appointed your brother?”
    “Because you’re a flirt, and I wish to avoid trouble.”
    “You said you’d be nicer to me if I survived.”
    “Who says you have?”
    That took the wind out of my sails. “My strength is—I am recovering.”
    “You might yet