Doc - Mary Doria Russell [130]
Morg’s face went blank. “Hell, Doc. I don’t remember. Why?”
“Just curious. Johnnie might’ve gone into the barn to bring out that horse.” Doc went back to his work and to Dickens. “So, now, what do you think about the odious Bill Sikes? There’s a pure bully for you, no redemption involved.”
Morg didn’t answer. Doc looked up. “Struck a nerve, did I?”
Morgan’s face had darkened, but Doc was looking past him now. “Tell me about bullies, Wyatt. I wager you have made a study of the breed.”
Morg turned and wondered how long his brother had been standing in the doorway, listening.
Wyatt took off his hat and hung it on a peg. “They were beaten,” he said simply. “Ninety-nine out of a hundred still are, inside. A man beats his boy, he wants a son who won’t buck him. He’s trying to make a coward. Mostly, it works.” Face expressionless, Wyatt walked to the window and held the curtain aside, gazing back toward Iowa as he spoke. “That’s why a bully will fold. You just … look at him, the way his old man did. It’s not anger. It’s scorn. A bully sees that look? He’s nine years old again. Small and weak, like his pa wanted him. It’s all he can do to keep from crying.”
Doc looked at Morgan, whose eyes slid away.
“And the hundredth boy?” Doc asked Wyatt.
“We can go either way. Kill the old man, or try to become a better one.” Wyatt dropped the curtain. “You ready for me?”
“Just about,” Doc said. “Have a seat.”
“A very natural appearance.” That’s what Dr. J. H. Holliday had promised, and that’s what he delivered.
It was just as well that neither Wyatt nor Morgan inquired about the provenance of the teeth themselves, for Wyatt’s new ones were among the hundreds of thousands collected from battlegrounds, sorted by type and size, and made available for restorative dentistry for many years after the war. With John Henry’s sketches and detailed measurements to go by, his cousin Robert had found a pair of upper centrals that matched Morgan’s closely.
“It’ll feel strange for a while,” Doc warned, making the final adjustment, “but a couple of days from now, you’ll think they were never missin’. You still need to be careful when you eat. Don’t bite into apples. Slice them up like you’ve been doin’. And don’t take up smokin’ a pipe. Too much torque’ll deform the mount … And if somebody’s likely to hit you in the mouth—”
“Right! I’ll be careful! Can I look now?”
“Not yet. Say ‘Mississippi.’ ”
“Mithithi—Oh, hell, no!” Wyatt cried, sitting up in the chair. “Doc, thith—”
“Hush, now,” Doc said. “Morgan, you laugh, and I will slap you flat. It’s goin’ to take some practice, Wyatt. Don’t let the tip of your tongue touch the teeth. Bring it down and back, just a hair. Try it again.”
“Mizzith—Hell! Mizziss—”
“Damn your eyes, Morgan!” Doc wheeled, coughing, and pointed to the door. “Go wait in the lobby!”
Chastened but still grinning, Morgan left the room, though he stayed in the hallway to listen, out of sight.
“Pay that pup no mind, Wyatt,” Doc was saying. “Try again. Just the tip of the tongue … Curl the tip back a little. There you go! Yes! You’re already doin’ better.”
This went on for about ten minutes, with time out for Doc’s cough. When Wyatt was getting it right about half the time and seemed confident that he’d get the hang of it, Doc told him, “Now try ‘fifty-five.’ Bring your lower lip up to the teeth. Just rest the lip against them … Again. Good. Yes! Better! That one’s easier, isn’t it … Now try ‘very vivid.’ It’s the same movement but voiced. Put your hand on your throat. Feel the vibration?”
“You should be in bed,” Wyatt told Doc, who was coughing again.
There was a clink of glass on glass. Doc must have been pouring himself another drink. The desk chair scraped back.
“Not yet,” Doc said, sounding breathless but serene. “Take a look.”
Morg moved closer and peered in through the crack between the door and its frame. For a while Wyatt sat still, and Morgan found himself thinking, Poor soul—like Doc always said—poor soul, he can walk straight into a mob, but this …
It was about then that his own vision blurred, but