The Terminal Experiment - Robert J. Sawyer Page 0,12

played footsie when Rod got into one of his boring stories.

This was turkey month—the first-Sunday dinners rotated between turkey, roast beef, and chicken. Rod picked up the carving knife. He always served Peter first— “our guest first,” he’d say, underscoring that even after thirteen years of marriage to his daughter, Peter was still an outsider. “I know what you want, Peter—a drumstick.”

“Actually, I’d prefer white meat,” said Peter politely.

“I thought you liked dark meat.”

“I like dark chicken meat,” said Peter, as he did every third month. “I like white turkey meat.”

“Are you sure?” asked Rod.

No, I’m fucking making this up as I go along. “Yes.”

Rod shrugged and carved into the breast. He was a vain man, a year from retirement, hair dyed brown—what was left of his hair, that is. He grew it long on the right side, and combed it over his bald pate. Dick Van Patten in a track suit.

“Cathy used to like drumsticks when she was a little girl,” Rod said.

“I still do,” said Cathy, but Rod didn’t seem to hear her.

“I used to like giving her a big drumstick and watch her try to get a bite out of it.”

“She could have choked to death,” said Bunny.

Rod grunted. “Kids can take care of themselves,” he said. “I remember that time she fell down the stairs.” He laughed, as if life should be one big slapstick comedy. He glanced at Bunny. “You were more upset than Cathy was. She waited until a big enough audience had arrived before she started crying.” He shook his head. “Kids got bones made out of rubber.” Rod handed Peter a plate with two ragged slices of turkey breast on it. Peter took it and reached for the bowl of baked potatoes. Friday evenings at The Bent Bishop somehow didn’t seem that bad right now.

“I was bruised for weeks,” said Cathy, a bit defensively.

Rod chuckled. “On her bum.”

Peter still had a long scar on his leg from a high-school gym accident. Those darned Phys. Ed. teachers. Such funny guys. He waited until everyone was served, helped himself to the gravy boat, then passed it to Rod.

“No thanks,” said Rod. “I’m not eating much gravy these days.”

Peter thought about asking why, decided against it, and passed the gravy boat to Cathy instead. He turned to his mother-in-law and smiled. “Anything new with you, Bunny?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m taking a course Wednesday nights—conversational French. I figure it’s about time I learned.”

Peter was impressed. “Good for you,” he said. He turned to Rod. “Does that mean you have to fend for yourself Wednesday evenings?”

Rod grunted. “I order in from Food Food,” he said.

Peter chuckled.

Cathy said to her mother, “The turkey is delicious.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Bunny. She smiled. “I remember that time you played a turkey in the Thanksgiving play at school.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know about that, Cathy.” He looked at his father-in-law. “How was she, Rod?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t go. Watching children dressed up as livestock isn’t my idea of a fun evening.”

“But she’s your daughter,” said Peter, then wished he hadn’t.

Rod helped himself to some cooked carrots. Peter suspected he would have gone to watch a son play in Little League.

“Dad never took much interest in children,” said Cathy, her tone neutral.

Rod nodded, as if this was a perfectly reasonable attitude for a father to take. Peter stroked Cathy’s leg gently with his foot.

CHAPTER 4

August 2011

The world goes through two seasons in six months. Should it be surprising that other things change a lot in that time, too?

Peter had downloaded this week’s Time from the net and was glancing through it. World News. People. Milestones.

Milestones.

Births, marriages, divorces, deaths.

Not all milestones were so cut-and-dried. Where were things such as the disintegration of a romance noted? What was the journal-of-record for lingering malaise, for empty hearts? Who marked the death of happiness?

Peter remembered how Saturday afternoons used to be. Lazy. Loving. Reading the paper together. Watching a little TV. Drifting at some point to the bedroom.

Milestones.

Cathy came down the stairs. Peter looked up briefly. There was hope in lifting his eyes, hope that he’d see the old Cathy, the Cathy he’d fallen in love with. His eyes fell back to the text reader. He sighed—not theatrically, not for her ears, but for himself, a heavy exhalation, trying to force the sadness from his body.

Peter had inventoried her appearance in that quick glance. She was wearing a ratty U of T sweatshirt and loose-fitting jeans. No make-up. Hair quickly combed but