But he didn’t say anything else. Just “ah.” And then he waited for me to get on with it.

Gordon was in the States now, and I knew the American media well: once an alien had appeared on U.S. soil — there was that Forhilnor who had been haunting the San Francisco courts, and another visiting the psychiatric hospital in Charleston — no mention would be made of anything outside of America; if Gordon knew about Hollus and me, he gave no sign.

I’d rehearsed what I’d wanted to say, of course, but his tone — the coldness, the hostility — left me tongue-tied. Finally, I blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

He could have taken that any number of ways: sorry to bother you, sorry to have interrupted what you were doing, sorry to hear about whatever your current sadness is, sorry that an old friend is dead — or, of course, as I meant it: sorry for what had happened, for the wedge we’d driven between ourselves all those decades past. But he wasn’t going to make this easy for me. “For what?” he said.

I exhaled, probably quite noisily, into the mouthpiece. “Gord, we used to be friends.”

“Until you betrayed me, yes.”

That’s the way it was going to be, then. There was no reciprocity; no sense that we had each wronged the other. It was all my fault, entirely my doing.

I felt anger bubbling within me; for a moment, I wanted to lash out, tell him how what he had done had made me feel, tell him how I’d cried — literally cried — in rage and frustration and agony after our friendship had disintegrated.

I closed my eyes for a moment, calming myself. I’d made this call to bring closure, not to restart an old fight. I felt pain in my chest; stress always magnified it. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “It’s bothered me, Gord. Year after year. I never should have done what I did.”

“That’s for damn sure,” he said.

I couldn’t take all the blame, though; there was still pride, or something akin to it, in me. “I was hoping,” I said, “that we might apologize to each other.”

But Gordon deflected that idea. “Why are you calling? After all these years?”

I didn’t want to tell him the truth: “Well, Gord-o, it’s like this: I’ll be dead soon, and . . .”

No. No, I couldn’t say that. “I just wanted to clean up some old business.”

“It’s a little late for that,” said Gordon.

No, I thought. Next year would be too late. But, while we’re alive, it’s not too late.

“Was that your granddaughter who answered the phone?” I said.

“Yes.”

“I have a six-year-old boy. His name is Ricky — Richard Blaine Jericho.” I let the name hang in the air. Gordon had been a big Casablanca fan, too; I thought perhaps hearing the name might soften him. But if he were smiling, I couldn’t tell over the phone.

He said nothing, so I asked, “How are you doing, Gord?”

“Fine,” he said. “Married for thirty-two years; two sons and three grandkids.” I waited for him to invite reciprocity; a simple “You?” would have done it. But he didn’t.

“Well, that’s all I wanted to say,” I said. “Just that I’m sorry; that I wish things had never gone the way they did.” It was too much to add, “that I wish we were still friends,” so I didn’t. Instead, I said, “I hope — I hope the rest of your life is terrific, Gord.”

“Thanks,” he said. And then, after a pause that seemed interminable, “Yours, too.”

My voice was going to break if I stayed on the phone much longer. “Thank you,” I said. And then, “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Tom.”

And the phone went dead.

24

Our house on Ellerslie was almost fifty years old. We’d upgraded it with central air conditioning, a second bathroom, and the deck Tad and I had built a few summers back. It was a good home, full of memories.

But at the moment, I was all alone in it — and that was strange.

It seemed that I was hardly ever alone anymore. Hollus was with me a lot at work, and when he wasn’t around, the other paleontologists or grad students were milling about. And except for church, Susan almost never left me alone at home anymore. Whether she was trying to make the most of what time we had left, or was simply afraid that I had deteriorated so much that I couldn’t get along without her for even a few hours, I don’t know.

But it was rare for me to be at home alone, with neither her nor Ricky around.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do.

I could watch TV, but . . .

But, God, how much of my life had I wasted watching television? A couple of hours every night — that would be 700 hours a year. Times forty years; my family had gotten its first black-and-white TV in 1960. That’s 28,000 hours, or . . .

My God.

That’s three years.

In three years, Ricky will be nine. I’d give anything to see that. I’d give anything to have those three years back.

No, no, I wasn’t going to watch TV.

I could read a book. I always regretted that I didn’t spend more time reading for pleasure. Oh, I spent an hour and a half every day on the subway perusing scientific monographs and printouts of work-related newsgroups, trying to keep up, but it had been a long time since I’d cracked open a good novel. I’d gotten both John Irving’s a A Widow for One Year and Terence M. Green’s A Witness to Life for Christmas. So, yes, I could start either one this evening. But who knew when I might get to finish it? I was going to have enough uncompleted business left on my plate as it was.

It used to be when Susan was out that I’d order a pizza, a big, hot, massive pie from Dante’s, which one local newspaper had given an award for the heaviest pizza — a Dante’s with Schneider’s pepperoni, so spicy it would still be on your breath two days hence. Susan didn’t like Dante’s — too filling, too hot — so when she was around, we ordered more pedestrian pies from that Toronto institution, Pizza Pizza.

But the chemotherapy had robbed me of much of my appetite; I couldn’t face anyone’s pizza tonight.

I could watch a porno film; we had a few on tape, bought as a lark years ago and rarely viewed. But no. The chemo had killed most of that desire, too, sad to say.

I sat down on the couch and stared at the mantelpiece above the fireplace, lined with little framed pictures: Susan and me on our wedding day; Susan cradling Ricky in her arms, shortly after we’d adopted him; me in the Alberta badlands, holding a pick; the black-and-white author photo from my one published book, Canadian Dinosaurs; my parents, about forty years ago; Susan’s dad, scowling as usual; all three of us — me, Susan, and Ricky — in the pose we’d used one year on our Christmas cards.

My family.

My life.

I leaned back. The upholstery on the couch was worn; we’d bought it just after we’d gotten married. Still, it should have lasted longer than this . . .

I was all alone.

The chance might not come again.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

I’d spent my whole life being a rationalist, a secular humanist, a scientist.

They say Carl Sagan maintained his atheism right until the end. Even as he lay dying, he didn’t recant, didn’t admit any possibility of there ever being a personal God who cared one way or the other whether he lived or died.

And yet —

And yet, I had read his novel Contact. I’d seen the movie, too, for that matter, but the movie watered down the message of the novel. The book was unambiguous: it said that the universe had been designed, created to order by a vast sentience. The novel concluded with the words, “There is an intelligence that antedates the universe.” Sagan may not have believed in the God of the Bible, but he at least allowed the possibility of a creator.

Or did he? Carl was no more obliged to believe what he wrote in his sole work of fiction than George Lucas was required to believe in the Force.