Hybrids

No, she would not deny the marriage.

And that meant…

That meant getting a divorce, not an a

Mary passed a car, then looked over at Ponter. “Honey?” she said.

Ponter frowned ever so slightly. It was an endearment that Mary used naturally, but he didn’t like it—because it contained the ee phoneme that his mouth was incapable of making. “Yes?” he said.

“You know we’re going to spend the night at my place in Richmond Hill, right?”

Ponter nodded.

“And, well, you also know that I’m still legally bonded to my…my man-mate here, in this world.”

Ponter nodded again.

“I—I would like to see him, if I can, before we head off from Richmond Hill to Sudbury. Maybe have breakfast with him, or an early lunch.”

“I am curious to meet him,” said Ponter. “To know what sort of Gliksin you chose…”

The CD changed to a new track: “Is There Life After Love?”

“No,” said Mary. “I mean, I need to see him alone.”

She looked over and saw Ponter’s one continuous eyebrow rolling up his browridge. “Oh,” he said, using the English word directly.

Mary returned her gaze to the road ahead. “It’s time I settled things with him.”

Chapter Three

“I said it during my campaign, and I say it again now: a president should be forward-thinking, looking not just to the next election but to decades and generations to come. It is with that longer view in mind that I speak to you tonight…”

Cornelius Ruskin lay in his sweat-soaked bed. He lived in a top-floor apartment in Toronto’s seedy Driftwood district—his “penthouse in the slums,” as he’d called it back when he’d been in the mood to make jokes. Sunlight was streaming in around the edges of the frayed curtains. Cornelius hadn’t set an alarm—not for the last several days—and he didn’t feel energetic enough to roll over and look at his clock.

But the real world would soon intrude. He couldn’t remember the exact details of the sick benefits he was entitled to as a sessional instructor—but whatever they were, doubtless, after a certain number of days, the university, the union, the union’s insurer, or all three of them, would require a doctor’s certificate. So, if he didn’t go back to teaching, he wouldn’t get paid, and if he didn’t get paid…

Well, he had enough to cover the rent for next month, and, of course, he’d had to pay the first and last months’ rent in advance, so he could stay here until the end of the year.

Cornelius forced himself not to reach down and feel for his balls once more. They were gone; he knew they were gone. He was coming to accept that they were gone.

Of course, there were treatments: men lost testicles because of cancer all the time. Cornelius could go on testosterone supplements. No one—in his public life at least—would ever have to know that he was taking them.

And his private life? He didn’t have one—not anymore, not since Melody had broken up with him two years ago. He’d been devastated, even suicidal for a few days. But she’d graduated from Osgoode Hall—York University’s lawschool—finished articling, and was sliding into a $180,000-a-year associate’s position at Cooper Jaeger. He could never have been the kind of power-husband she needed, and now…

And now.

Cornelius looked up at the ceiling, feeling numb all over.

Mary hadn’t seen Colm O’Casey for many months, but he looked perhaps five years older than she remembered him. Of course, she usually thought of him as he’d been back when they were living together, when they’d been pla

Colm rose as Mary approached, and he leaned in to kiss her. She turned her head, offering only her cheek.

“Hello, Mary,” he said, sitting back down. There was something surreal about a steakhouse at lunchtime: the dark wood, the imitation Tiffany lamps, and the lack of windows all made it seem like night. Colm had already ordered wine—L’ambiance, their favorite. He poured some in the waiting glass for Mary.

She made herself comfortable—as comfortable as she could—and sat in the chair across the table from Colm, a candle in a glass container flickering between them. Colm, like Mary, was a bit on the pudgy side. His hairline had continued its retreat, and his temples were gray. He had a small mouth and a small nose—even by Gliksin standards.

“You’ve certainly been in the news a lot lately,” said Colm. Mary was on the defensive already, and opened her mouth to reply curtly but before she could, Colm raised a hand, palm out, and said, “I’m happy for you.”

Mary tried to remain calm. This was going to be difficult enough without her getting emotional. “Thanks.”

“So what’s it like?” Colm asked. “The Neanderthal world, I mean?”

Mary lifted her shoulders a bit. “Like they say on TV. Cleaner than ours. Less crowded.”

“I’d like to visit it someday,” said Colm. But then he frowned and added, “Although I don’t suppose I’ll ever get the chance. I can’t quite see them inviting anyone with my academic specialty there.”

That much was probably true. Colm taught English at the University of Toronto; his research was on those plays putatively by Shakespeare for which authorship was disputed. “You never know,” said Mary. He’d spent six months of their marriage on sabbatical in China, and she’d never have expected the Chinese to care about Shakespeare.

Colm was almost as distinguished in his field as Mary was in hers—nobody wrote about The Two Noble Kinsmen without citing him. But, despite their ivory-tower lives, real-world concerns had intruded early on. Both York and U of T compensated professors on a market-value basis: law professors were paid a lot more than history professors because they had many other job opportunities. Likewise, these days—especially these days—a geneticist was a hot commodity, whereas there were few employment prospects outside academe for English-literature experts. Indeed, one of Mary’s friends used this tag at the end of his e-mails:

The graduate with a science degree asks, “Why does it work?” The graduate with an engineering degree asks, “How does it work?” The graduate with an accounting degree asks, “How much will it cost?” The graduate with an English degree asks, “Do you want fries with that?”

That Mary had been the real breadwi

A female server came, and they ordered: steak frites for Colm; perch for Mary.

“How are you liking New York?” asked Colm.

For half a second, Mary thought he meant New York City, where Ponter had been shot in the shoulder back in September by a would-be assassin. But, no, of course he meant Rochester, New York—Mary’s supposed home now that she was working for the Synergy Group. “It’s nice,” she said. “My office is right on Lake Ontario, and I’ve got a great condo on one of the Finger Lakes.”

“Good,” said Colm. “That’s good.” He took a sip of wine, and looked at her expectantly.

For her part, Mary took a deep breath. She’d been the one who’d called this meeting, after all. “Colm…” she began.

He set down his wineglass. They’d been married for seven years; he doubtless knew he wasn’t going to like what she had to say when she used that tone.