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I was studying hirandfather, dead forever, in his upstairs bedroorandpa’s pale waxen skin, the eyelids that threatened to crack and fix lare that had frozen Grandma like a snow queen in the parlor for a lifetime, all, all of it as clean and clear as this ist/cos jack,his fruit salad

“Are you,” he asked, politely, “looking for the stitch marks over my ears?”

“No, no!”

“Yes, yes!” he replied, a his head to left and right, skinning his hairline and then his temples

“Lord,” I said, “what fine work”

“No Perfect!”

For the thin lines were mere shadows, and if there were fleabite stitch scars, they had long since healed

“Did you—?” I said

“Operate on myself ? Cut out ri-La and shriveled into a Mongol prune!”

Groc laughed, and I was fascinated with his laughter There was no h if he ever stopped laughing he would gasp and die Always the happy bark, the fixed grin

“Yes?” he asked, seeing that I was studying his teeth, his lips

“What’s there so funny to laugh at,” I said, “always?”

“Everything! Did you ever see a film with Conrad Veidt—?”

“The Man Who Laughs?”

That stopped Groc in mid-dust “Impossible! You lie!”