The shirt and jacket still fit well, but the pants are a problem. Eugene holds his breath, tugs hard at the zipper, and fastens the top button with some difficulty. He slouches in order to see himself in the full-length mirror and wonders absently if pleats are still in fashion.

Finally, he smoothes back a few thin strands of hair and adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose. The lenses are smudged, but he does not bother to wipe them clean. Nor does he bother to put on his shoes.

It doesn’t matter now. He is ready.

The razor blades are in a drawer under the bathroom sink. He rips the package open and takes one of the blades between his thumb and forefinger. He drops the remaining blades to the floor, showering the ceramic tiles with a thousand tiny metallic pings.

He eases into the tub. The water is warm, and the loose fabric of his pant legs wavers like ghosts against his thighs. He holds the blade to his wrist, marvelling at how the flawless steel edge reflects the light. He expects the pain to be swift and clean, something akin to a paper cut. But despite his calm, his heart begins to beat heavily in his chest?a relentless, aching rhythm that resonates in his throat and at the base of his skull.

He is ready to draw the blade down when, suddenly, he notices a sound that he had not heard during the evening’s preparations. Faint, just beneath the drip drip drip of the faucet: music.

Music.

Through the walls, from the apartment next door, he can hear the strains of jangling guitars. The Beach Boys, perhaps, or some unbearably cheerful group singing about surfing, or girls, or surfing girls. As much as he tries, he cannot block out the music, and his focus begins to drift. He can no longer concentrate on the task at hand.

?Oh, for Pete’s sake,? Eugene cries. He pulls himself from the bath, his drenched suit clinging to his body. He slips and slides across the tiles, narrowly avoiding the mess of razor blades scattered over the floor.

He tears open his apartment door, storms into the hallway, and hammers his fist on the door of apartment 2B. He waits for a moment, listening for footsteps. A radio announcer taunts him from the other side of the door. He hammers at the door once again, louder this time. Then, dripping onto the hall carpet, he stands and waits. Under his feet a damp, dark circle is now spreading.

But still there is no answer.

Soon, though, the song changes and he hears the muted reverberation of ?Crimson and Clover? drift from the blaring radio. The song washes over him, pulls him under, and he decides to finish what he has started.

He moves toward his apartment door, his socks squelching with every step. Not until he grabs the handle does it occur to him that the door is locked and that he has left his keys in the apartment, on his bedside table. He can almost see them sitting in the little china dish, the only wedding gift he had decided to keep.

A rumbling escapes his throat, and he raps his forehead against the door. He stands there for a while, eyes cast down on the worn threshold, thinking.

Then it comes to him.

The rooftop.

Of course, he has considered it before. It has always been a ?plan B,? of sorts.

The rooftop.

From behind the door of 2B, Eugene can still hear ?Crimson and Clover? looping toward its conclusion: ?Crimson and clover, over and over. Crimson and clover, over and over . . .? It will be the mantra for his remaining moments on earth.

He moves for the door at the end of the hallway. The stairwell will lead to the rooftop, but will it be open? He has passed by the door on many occasions, each time wondering if it might be locked. But this time he tries the door, and the handle turns for him.

?Crimson and clover, over and over . . .? He shoves the door open and makes his ascent.

When he reaches the rooftop exit, he finds the door wedged open with a small block of wood. He steps out onto the roof, tripping on the block of wood and knocking it out of place. The door slams shut behind him, leaving him stranded in the night.

So much the better. There can be no going back.

Then a voice startles him from the darkness. ?I put that block there for a reason,? it says coldly.

Eugene spins on his heels to see the vague outline of a woman standing next to him.

?The door locks from the inside, otherwise,? she continues. Her annoyance is not subtle.

?Sorry,? Eugene says lamely.

There is a long silence, followed by a cool breeze. Eugene shivers in his wet clothes. ?On occasion,? he says, stumbling over his words, ?I can be somewhat . . .ah . . . accident-prone.?

?Apparently so,? she says.

Eugene’s eyes begin adjusting to the dark, and he can see that the woman is wearing a bathrobe and slippers. She is slim and pretty, with mussed, shoulder-length hair as fair as her complexion. Her left arm hangs at her side, seemingly useless, and in the available light he can see that there is a long, vertical scar just below her left eye.

Eugene marvels that even with the anger and anxiety clouding her features, she is still beautiful. If she lives in the building, he has never noticed her before.

?And what do you suggest we do now?? she asks.

Eugene has no answer for her. He begins to hammer on the stairwell door, desperately trying to communicate with the world of the apartment. His fists grow numb. No one comes.

Eugene offers her a weak smile, and then shoves his fists into his pockets.

They pass the time looking up at the night sky; they listen to the faint strains of traffic that emanate from the streets below. Eugene finds himself grasping for something to say to her, but the night has been too strange.

She shatters the silence. ?I like to come up here and look at the stars,? she says.

Eugene watches her, admiring her profile as he listens.

?My son was a stargazer,? she continues. ?He talked about being a scientist: an astronaut, maybe. And he could have done it, too. He was very bright.? She puts her good hand delicately to the scar under her eye. ?But he died on New Year’s Day.?

?I’m sorry,? Eugene mumbles.

?My husband moved to Vancouver soon after,? she says. ?I suppose he needed the distance and the mountains to separate himself from it all.?

Eugene opens his mouth to speak, but he can think of nothing else to say other than, once again, ?Sorry.? And so he says nothing at all.

?I look at the stars and hope to see my son there,? she says. ?But I haven’t seen him yet.?

They are silent for a time until finally she turns and looks Eugene up and down. ?You’re all wet,? she remarks.

?Yes,? Eugene says.

She stares, waiting for an explanation.

?I . . . ah . . . slipped in the tub,? he says finally.

At first she can manage only stunned silence. Then she laughs?a high, staccato trill she attempts to stifle with her good hand. The sound is sweetness to Eugene, and he laughs with her.

And suddenly the tension shatters, and they both begin pounding on the stairwell door in mock terror.

?Help!? the woman cries. ?Somebody help us! Anybody! Please!?

?Save our souls!? Eugene chimes in.

They pause, breathless, laughter playing around their faces. The woman smiles at Eugene and then extends her hand.

?Sophie,? she says. ?I’m in 2B.?

Eugene is at a loss for a moment. Then he smiles and takes her hand firmly in his own.

?C?mon guys,? Cameron barked over his shoulder. ?Pick up the pace!?

We took a shortcut through Eldon Park. The wind had started to rise, and the rusted hinges of the swing set voiced disapproval as we hurried by. Our feet kicked up wood chips as we passed under the play structure?the same play structure where Cameron had once held title as ?World Grounders Champion.?

At last we stopped in the old apple orchard to catch our breath. Moonlight filtered through the sway of bare branches above us, and shadows danced over our faces.

?I wanna go home,? I whined.

Cameron pulled me into a headlock and gave me a noogie. ?Easy, little man,? he said. ?we’ll be leaving soon enough.?

He released me, and I quickly straightened my crown in an effort to regain my dignity. I looked to Matthew for support, but he was busy cleaning his glasses with the hem of his t-shirt. He breathed a fog across the lenses and squinted at Cameron.

?We really should get home,? Matthew said. ?Aaron’s supposed to be in bed by now.?

Cameron sneered. ?Yes, mother.?

The wind gathered strength and blew the crown from my head. The little cardboard hat fluttered to the ground, where it came to rest amongst the rotting apples and shards of brown glass. I snatched it up, folded it a few times, and stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans for safekeeping.

Then I saw Cameron reach into his breast pocket and pull out a small packet of du Maurier Lights.

Matthew fumbled with his glasses before placing them back on his face. ?Jesus!? he exclaimed. ?Since when do you smoke??

Cameron shook a cigarette out of the package and placed it between his lips as if he had been doing it his whole life. ?I don’t know?last summer, I guess.? He smiled and revealed a wide row of teeth that shone in the moonlight. ?The first pack made me sick like you wouldn’t believe.?

I gaped at the contraband hanging from my brother’s mouth. ?Mommy and Daddy are gonna kill you!?

Cameron ignored me. He was busy searching his pockets for a light, so I continued, ?Cigarettes kill you, y?know!?

Cameron shrugged. ?Well, I’m not dead yet.?

?And they give you bad breath,? I concluded.

Cameron reached deep into the pocket of his jeans and found a lighter. He lit up, inhaled, and blew a fairly impressive smoke ring over our heads.

Matthew fanned the smoke away with his hand. ?Cam, enough. We gotta go.?

Cameron frowned, turned his back on us, and began climbing one of the half-dead apple trees. The branches protested his weight with loud, dry snaps. He called back over his shoulder, cigarette still between his teeth. ?Look, if you sissies are ready to go home, go right ahead. See if I care.?

He disappeared up into the tree. I could see the red tip of his cigarette, glowing brighter each time he inhaled.

Matthew called up after him in worry. ?That tree’s not gonna hold you!? he shouted.

Cameron ignored us.

?I wanna go home,? I complained again. ?I gotta pee.?

?In a minute, Aaron, okay?? Matthew said. ?Just hold on. Go behind one of the trees if you have to.?

I held tight.

?Cam,? Matthew called, ?c?mon. This is stupid. Let’s go home.?

Silence.

The wind was growing stronger. The trees swayed violently, as if in a mounting rage.

?Cam, please!? Matthew cried.

There was a sudden loud crack. Cameron came crashing through the branches and hit the ground with a heavy, hollow thud.

Matthew raced to him. Our elder brother lay flat on his back, stunned and gasping for air.

I stood paralyzed. ?Is he . . . dead?? I ventured.

Matthew lifted Cameron to a sitting position and then glared at me. ?No, dummy. Just had the wind knocked out of him, I think.?

After a few moments, Cameron finally caught his breath. Then he laughed?a long, hard, wheezing laugh that I did not recognize. Then his laughter became tears and he pressed his face hard into Matthew’s shoulder.

I watched in shock. Until that night, I could not recall ever having seen Cameron cry. He leaned closer into Matthew, and his shoulders convulsed with great, hitching sobs.

Matthew patted Cameron on the back uneasily, uncertain what to do. Finally Cameron pulled himself away from Matthew’s shoulder, his red-rimmed eyes blinking away tears. He rubbed a long, wet strand of snot across his face.

?Me and Dawn are in trouble,? Cameron said. He looked over Matthew’s shoulder at me, and then lowered his voice, thinking only Matthew could hear. ?She’s pregnant, I mean.?

There was a long silence. The wind continued to blow around us in quick gusts. Finally, Matthew cleared his throat and whispered, ?Are you sure??

?Yes, goddammit. She’s been to a doctor and everything.?

?Oh,? Matthew said weakly. Having nothing else to offer, he wrapped his arm around Cameron’s shoulder and held him tight.

Cameron hung his head and began to weep once more. ?I’m scared, Matty. I’m?I’m?so scared.?

I moved closer and tapped Cameron on the shoulder. He wiped his face with his forearm and turned to me. I took the crown from my pocket, unfolded it, and held it out to him.

Cameron managed a smile. He took the crown and held onto it with both hands. ?Thanks, little man,? he choked out

We all sat together for a long while in the middle of the orchard, listening to the wind. We drew ourselves together for warmth. On either side of me, I could feel my brothers, their breathing loud in my ear.

Finally, Matthew rose to his feet, took Cameron by the hand, and helped him up.

?I was just thinking,? Matthew said. ?How about one game of grounders before we go home??

Cameron sniffled once or twice, composed himself, and then nodded in agreement.
They both looked at me, expecting an argument.

I was cold, tired, and miserable. I had wanted nothing more than to go home. But I nodded with a grin.

We sprinted to the park and had our game. Balanced atop the play structure with our eyes closed tight, we reached out to the emptiness before us and tried to find each other there.

In the end, Cameron and Matthew let me win.

Then off we ran, with the wind at our backs, pushing us forward, out of the playground and into the night. And despite the cold and wind, and as much as I had I wanted to go earlier, I could not help feeling that we were leaving all too soon.

The doctor, a slim, grey man, stifles a yawn and taps a rhythm with his pen; his indifference resonates within the small confines of the examination room. ?Of course, you do have options. It’s not the end of the world.?

Ben tenses his jaw, ready to spew a thousand expletives. His small hands ball into fists, and he envisions punching the doctor in the face, bloodying his nose, and jolting him from his grating nonchalance.

?I have some literature here you should probably take a look at,? the doctor continues, rooting about in his desk.

Ben watches the old man shuffle through reams of paper, and his vitality suddenly abandons him. His anger has dissipated as quickly as it had erupted, and he can now manage only the most basic of gross motor skills.

So he pulls on his coat and stumbles from the room.

Ben drives home as the daylight wanes. His dark eyes stare, unseeing, at the snow falling against the windshield. The Christmas lights that line the streets waver in his peripheral vision and blur into bright, watery, smudges of colour. From the rear speakers of the pickup, a radio announcer vies for his attention, but Ben silences him with an angry snap of the dial.

He circles the neighbourhood twice before finally pulling into his driveway. He idles in the fading light, studying the bungalow he shares with Sarah, staring at the red and green floodlights she has placed to brighten the front entrance. It is a good house, he thinks, with good bones?one that they had imagined filling with children. As it is, though, there have been only an old cat and a dying houseplant to share their living space. He knows why.

The snow finally stops, and Ben sits and listens to the intermittent squeak of the wiper blades across his windshield. Sarah appears, fair and angelic, in the large square of light cast from the living room window. She beckons Ben with a wave of her hand, and then disappears from sight. He has no choice now but to go inside.

She greets him at the front door with a kiss and a smile. ?Might I ask what you were you doing out there, skulking about in the dark??

He eyes the small, gold crucifix nestled in the hollow of her neck. It glimmers in the light.

?Just listening to the end of a song,? he says.

He looks at the floor, the bare walls, anywhere but in her eyes.

She wraps her arms around Ben’s waist and tries to meet his wandering gaze. ?What’s wrong?? she says, but she knows.

?Nothing,? he says.

?Ben, what did he say??

His silence conveys all that she needs to understand.

She pulls Ben close and holds him tight. For a long while, they simply share the stillness that has fallen over their home. Ben looks past Sarah to the wreath that sits on the kitchen table. He has yet to nail it on the front door.

Finally, Sarah holds his face firmly in her hands, forcing Ben to level his eyes with hers. ?It’ll be okay,? she says. ?we’ll figure something out.?

The cat enters the room, eyes them both with disapproval, and begins calling to them with long, drawn-out howls. Ben withholds the urge to kick the cat into the next room. With a sudden chill, he pulls away from Sarah and goes to bed.

He lies in the darkness that night, listening for Sarah’s breathing to settle into a rhythm. Once he is able to hear her slight snore, he slides out of bed and pulls on his jeans and a sweatshirt. It is not until he is on his way out the front door that he realizes he is wearing one of Sarah’s oversized sweatshirts?white, with a pink Roots logo emblazoned across the chest. In one seemingly fluid motion, he takes the sweatshirt off, turns it inside out, and pulls it back on. Inside out, the pink stitching is barely noticeable, he decides. But for good measure, he zips his coat up to his chin and steps out onto the front porch, quietly locking the door. He wonders if he will ever return to hang the wreath he has left neglected.

Just outside of town, Ben pulls into the parking lot of a dilapidated little pub. He would have guessed the building to be condemned and abandoned, but the few cars parked out front suggest otherwise. So Ben cuts the ignition, drops down from the cab, and makes his way toward the entrance. As he draws near, he can see that the windows of the establishment are vibrating with the muffled pulse of rock music. The neon sign over the door used to read ?The Gown and Gavel,? but most of the glass tubes are dead and dark, leaving the sign with only a few consonants and vowels. Ben steps over a mess of bodily fluids and broken bottles, and then enters the building.

The pub is dark and half-empty. A band plays ?Born to be Wild? as a drunken woman in a short, red, sequined dress moves about on the dance floor. Her partner, an angry-looking young man with a mullet, shifts moodily from foot to foot in time with the music.

Ben seats himself in a corner booth where the upholstered bench is stained yet comfortable. A pretty but surly waitress approaches and raises her eyebrows in anticipation of his order. She appears to have no inclination to speak with Ben, and stands there, rubbing her one free hand absently over the small swelling of her belly.

Ben has to shout above the music. ?Red wine??

She does not offer any selections, nor does she write down his order or acknowledge him in any way. She simply walks away.

Ben waits and waits. After a while, he begins to feel like a phantom that might fade into the wallpaper. He could disappear entirely, he thinks, and no one would ever be the wiser. Not in this room, anyway. With the exception of the drunken woman in red, everyone in the pub seems shadowy and strange. Their faces are husks.

Just as Ben is about to give up hope of the waitress’s return, she arrives?grudgingly?with his wine. It is a white wine, a Chardonnay, and not a very good one. But after the second, third, and fourth glasses, Ben is not quite as discerning.

It does not take long for the alcohol to cloud his mind, and soon he is scanning the room with slow, tired, stupid eyes. The drunken woman is still kicking up her heels on the dance floor, shaking and shimmying to ?Jumpin? Jack Flash? now. Her man is at the bar, sitting this one out, stewing in his own surliness.

Suddenly, it occurs to Ben how desperately he needs to urinate. He rises to his feet, only to find that the floor has become unstable and he must now concentrate on each step. He stumbles across the room, attempting to appear sober. He narrowly avoids a collision with the unpleasant waitress, but bashes his shins against something hard and angular in the process.

Somehow, he makes it to the washroom, relieving himself and washing his hands purely by some unconscious, routine means. It occurs to him in one brief moment of clarity that there is a tampon dispenser in the washroom and no urinals, but the thought is fleeting and he soon dismisses the matter entirely.

On the way back to his table, Ben crosses the dance floor. There he finds the drunken blonde alone, swaying slowly to ?Freebird.? She sees Ben and begins grinding her hips in his direction. He feels almost preternaturally obligated to complete the ritual, so he begins to dance with her. He hears a few catcalls from the darkness beyond the lights, and he thinks dimly of the boyfriend at the bar. The lights are hot and blinding as the woman presses her body up against Ben, moving in perfect rhythm to the music.

But the wine has dampened Ben’s libido. He stumbles off the dance floor, hearing jeers and laughter from all sides. He throws down some crumpled bills at his table?a few coins scatter in the dim light?and and then he leaves.

In the parking lot, Ben is searching his pockets for the keys when he hears scrambling footsteps approach from behind. A sudden solid and painful blow at the back of his head sends white spots flashing in his field of vision. His keys drop to the pavement. Ben turns and finds the drunken girl’s boyfriend raging behind him, fist raised and ready.

?Think you can dance with my girl, dickwad?? he shouts.

The boyfriend is younger than Ben. Although he is small in stature, his shoulders are broad and his biceps stretch the thin material of his shirt. There is an almost feral quality about the young man, something that Ben knows he should fear. He considers for a moment that he might be able to talk his way out of this particular predicament.

The boyfriend keeps his fist raised over Ben, waiting for him to cry mercy.

But Ben decides he does not want to cry mercy.

?I don’t wanna dance with your girl,? Ben says finally. ?I wanna fuck her.?

The boyfriend’s eyes widen, his lips pull back from his teeth. He smashes his fist down, splitting Ben’s bottom lip wide open. The fresh stab of pain, and the blood that follows, sober Ben somewhat. He looks up and sees the boyfriend’s face all twisted with anger. He notes a small, gold crucifix stud in the young man’s ear. It glimmers in the available light.

The boyfriend picks up Ben’s keys from the pavement, throws them up on the roof of the pub, and walks away, laughing.

Ben lies on the ground, looking up at the stars. He listens to the low bass pulsing from the pub’s interior. He listens to the passing cars and figures that if he lies there long enough, someone will come along and run him over.

But eventually he pulls himself to a sitting position. He then rises to his feet on shaky legs. Although his body has suffered only minor damage from hitting the pavement, the crystal face of his watch has shattered. Time is left trapped at 1:03 am.

He grabs a handful of snow and cleans the blood from his face. He puts some of the snow in his mouth to slow the bleeding, and soon there is only a faint trace of pink in the slush that he spits to the ground.

He looks across the street and sees an old church, brightly lit, with a Nativity scene constructed on the front lawn. He crosses the street and staggers toward the manger, bathing himself in white light. Mary, Joseph, and the three wise men are only poorly drawn wooden cut-outs, but Ben feels himself drawn to the makeshift crèche nonetheless.

He moves ever closer to the bed of hay. He feels a strange anticipation; he draws a breath and holds it in his lungs. He inches himself toward some hazy sense of salvation.

But the bed is empty. There is only a small, dirty blanket left strewn in the hay.

Ben exhales, and then collapses into the manger, knocking Mary and Joseph to the ground. He vomits in the snow, and then everything is blackness.

Ben awakens to the sounds of birds and distant traffic. He opens his eyes to the bright blue sky above. His head and face hurt, and as he rises to his feet, he vaguely recalls his defilement of the manger only a few hours earlier. Mary and Joseph stare up at him with accusatory glances. The bed of hay still lies empty.

Alongside the church, though, something catches Ben’s eye. There he can see that repairs have been partially completed on the exterior of the building.

Next to the church is a heavy piece of machinery, a motorized scaffold with an elevation device resembling the workings of an accordion. However, it is not the machinery itself that interests Ben; it is the small limb he sees protruding from the top of the scaffold.

He studies the machine in order to find a foothold, and then makes his ascent. The climb is not difficult, and when he reaches the top he finds what he had expected: a baby doll, the Christ child, lying face up on the scaffold, his limbs askew?tossed from his bed, no doubt, and left to the elements.

Ben takes the doll gently in his arms, and he climbs down from the scaffold. He swaddles the babe in his blanket and places him back in his bed. He returns Mary and Joseph to their upright position so that they might continue their adoration of the child.

Ben stands back to assure everything is in its rightful place. And then he begins his long walk home to Sarah.

Across the room, the stunned non-father staggers into a void; the first scattered thoughts he is able to gather involve his rather rudimentary understanding of science and mathematics. He does not hold a medical degree, but he is quite certain that the number disclosed in the sperm count should consist of many more millions.

The doctor discreetly stifles a yawn and taps a syncopated rhythm with his pen. In reaction, the non-father feels the void replaced by a far more liberating sense of rage. He envisions punching the practitioner in the nose, imagines his superior stasis of nonchalance jolted suddenly into a stupefied bloody mess.

But the void soon returns to the non-father, sapping his vitality. He can manage only the most basic of gross motor skills. So while the doctor makes a perfunctory effort to address fertility options, the non-father pulls on his jacket and leaves the room.

Prior to this humbling experience, the non-father had cheerfully assumed the unquestionable virility of his loins. In his naiveté, he had the utmost confidence in his abilities to procreate, to spread his seed across the known free world (if fate willed it). Indeed, he took it for granted that he and his wife would effortlessly fill their home with children.

As it was, though, they had been married for a year, with only an old cat and a dying houseplant to share their living space. What had begun as blissfully enthusiastic sexual abandon had now become a progressively hopeless and pressured routine.

And so shortly after the non-father’s bare minimum sperm tally, there begins a long procession of equally unpleasant fertility treatments.

To start with, the non-father is treated to a varicocelectomy, an outpatient surgery involving the tying off of swollen veins surrounding the testicles?a procedure about as enjoyable as one might expect. Some weeks later, the non-parents begin artificial insemination, a process of which the only enjoyable aspect is evidenced in step one: the self-gratification of the non-father.

However, in order to increase the sperm count for the insemination, the urologist recommends that the non-father abstain from ejaculation for at least two to three days prior to the procedure?no easy task for the anxious young man.

Within three days, though, he is pleased to find himself pleasing himself on the cold, hard tiles of the bathroom floor. He kneels as if in some deviant form of prayer, aided visually by a one-dimensional, unfolded starlet with staples in her flat stomach. The crucial moment of release involves a complex mental calculation of ballistic trajectory; he aims the precious, potentially life-giving fluid from the attentive phallus into the ridiculously small diameter of the sample cup.

For the most part, he is successful in his targeting. Afterwards, the non-mother puts the sample in her bra, against the warmth of her breast, and they leave for the clinic.

Once there, the non-father shamefully passes his sample to the nurse at reception. She accepts it unreservedly, being one who is in the habit of holding warm cups of semen. The nurse leads them into the examination room, and before long the non-mother has her legs up in the stirrups, exposed and vulnerable. The doctor injects the ?washed? sample using a needle-less syringe (utilized in much the same fashion as a turkey baster), and then, finally, the procedure is over.

Within a few weeks, though, the non-mother menstruates, and the process begins all over again. In fact, this process continues for the better part of a year with the same results each time.

It is a miserable and uneventful year: the non-father begins to wonder if his wife would not be better off with someone in possession of far more efficient sperm; friends, family, and co-workers tease and pry, blissfully unaware of the non-parents? dilemma; and, worse yet, there is the constant barrage of happy and complete families that surround them.

The non-father watches these happy and complete families with their soft, pink, new babies, and he hates them for their happiness.

And even though he does manage to retain some semblance of faith in God, this precarious faith comes only out of desperation and self-interest. The act of prayer itself feels hollow, and most times he feels he is praying only to the bare walls.

Yet, in time, regardless of spiritual uncertainties, hope is rekindled in the hearts of the non-parents. Initially, they consider adoption, and begin to imagine themselves perfectly happy with a perfectly happy Chinese baby. But with one last-ditch attempt to assuage the narcissistic desire for their own biological offspring, they opt for in vitro fertilization?a very expensive long-shot, but one that must be taken if they do not want to spend the rest of their lives asking, ?What if??

So, once again, the non-mother is brave and committed in her task. For 10 days, fertility medications are injected into her thigh (administered by the non-father, whose only other duty in the entire process is to masturbate yet again).

When the medication has stimulated an adequate amount of ovarian follicles, the non-mother is then subjected to the excruciating process of egg retrieval. Afterward, the sperm is injected into the egg, and the resulting zygote is passed to a special growth medium in a petri dish. Once the zygote reaches a desired cell stage, it is then transferred to the uterus in hopes of a successful pregnancy.

There are many prayers that follow. And somehow, with this unlikely marriage of faith and science, the non-parents become new parents at last.

Weeks later, they arrive for their first ultrasound. The new mother is reclined amongst the machinery, her slight belly shiny with gel. The technician slides her wand across the recently occupied abdomen, and then smiles to herself; she turns the monitor toward the new parents and reveals a grainy black and white image of two little people dancing in the shadows of the new mother’s womb.

Two heartbeats are amplified from the speakers of the machine, filling the room with a divine, synchronized rhythm. For the rest of the day, the new parents can only beam at each other with an odd, wonderful combination of panic and joy. ?Oh my God!? they exclaim over and over again.

?Oh my God . . .?

The time on the computer screen reads 11:18 p.m., and the loneliness sets in. (In truth, the accuracy of this time is questionable as my computer is often many hours ahead, and the date setting is often many years behind; 1982, to be exact.)

Regardless of chronological inaccuracies, there is still the slightest twinge of melancholy that this distance student feels tonight.

Were it actually 1982, the closest approximation of academically related gloom would be the depressingly unreciprocated love for my fifth-grade classmates, Amy Carter and Cara Bell. Needless to say, these adolescent lamentations have long since passed, but this evening there is an undeniable sense of isolation within me.

The feeling doesn’t come often, but at such times I must remind myself why I have been hunching over this battered laptop and countless textbooks for the past five years: I have persevered in order to redeem the mediocrity of my educational past, to improve myself intellectually in the present moment, and more importantly, to broaden the future for myself and for my family.

As I begin to dwell on the embarrassing scholastic ineptitude of my youth, our family’s ancient tabby, Boo, begins her long, drawn-out, ritualistic caterwauling from the basement. Her intermittent howls break the silence of the house for the next few minutes, and under my breath I curse her seeming immortality. My disdain for the cat is only temporary, of course, and I must remind myself to sympathize with her apparent dementia.

While I am attempting to put myself in the emotional mindset of an aged, slightly overweight feline, it suddenly occurs to me that Boo has been in my life almost as long as I’ve been pursuing some form or other of post-secondary education. With this reflection, it also occurs to me that for all the good my lacklustre intellectual pursuits had done me, I may as well have let the cat do my homework all along.

Hyperbole aside, I am so very thankful for the second chance that distance education has now given me. If not for AU, I would still be stuck in a professional rut, most likely involving a polyester uniform and a plastic name tag.

If not for AU, I would not currently be surprising myself with my own studious achievements. If not for AU, I would not have the opportunity to be both a student and a stay-at-home dad, rewarding myself with knowledge both academic and precious.

At the thought of my children, I shut down my computer for the evening and quietly ascend the stairwell leading to their rooms. (With ninja-like precision, I manage to avoid the numerous squeaks, pops, and moans so characteristic of slipshod, builder-grade construction.)

I enter my daughter’s room at the top of the stairs and, in the pink glow of the night light, I see her stretched out like a starfish, snoring softly into the worn belly of her favourite stuffed bunny (dubbed ?Bunny,? appropriately).

I draw near and kiss her between her eyes, where faint blue veins suggest the shape of a butterfly taking flight. It is at this moment that I am reminded of my purpose. Indeed, whenever I begin to wonder why I fight to keep myself awake into the wee, lonely hours, chipping away at a degree with no apparent end in sight, all I have to do is watch her sleep and I am reminded.

I visit my son’s room next. By this time, my eyes have become accustomed to the darkness, and I can distinguish his long, scrawny limbs positioned at the oddest of angles. As I brush the bangs from his uncharacteristically calm brow, I smile to myself and am reminded once again of my purpose; he fills me with such pride, and it is this same feeling that I wish him to have of me.

I kiss his small nose and, in return, my son smacks his lips, turns to the wall, and farts loudly into the small, still room?a blast of surprising amplitude for such small buttocks. It is a poignant moment, to be sure.

At this point in the evening/morning, I long only to be horizontal, preferably in a bed of some sort. After a drowsy, negligent display of dental hygiene technique, I lumber through the darkness toward the sweet release that only my pillow has to offer. As I hit the mattress, every spring and coil groans in protest of my collapsing weight, and I momentarily disrupt the sleep of my beautiful wife.

She soon drifts back to unconsciousness, and my final waking thoughts are of her: she, who has sacrificed much so that I may continue my education; she, who works tirelessly to earn our single income; she, who reminds me that I am not alone in my struggle.

The burning, red LED of the clock radio reads 1:32 a.m. The loneliness has passed, and all is well.

The trio is seated together in an empty section of the last car. They make polite conversation, but our young protagonist does not hear a word that is said. He can feel his jaw working, he makes note of the spittle sprayed from his top lip, and, indeed, the happy couple who sit across from him seem to nod in the appropriate places. But he himself has no idea what he is saying.

Earlier, at dinner, he had eaten little and drank much. In theory, he had hoped that the drink would make him brave?brave enough to reveal everything to her. In effect, though, he has surpassed any facade of courage, and is edging ever closer to flat-out drunkenness. As it was, he could barely make himself coherent to her when he was sober; now the words he needs to say have become indefinitely mired in the thick fog that surrounds his skull.

Nevertheless, he attempts to grasp a few scattered portions of the dialogue. He nods his head in answer to something she has said, hoping he has made the proper response, always willing to acquiesce to her, at any rate. He is hanging on the sounds of the consonants and vowels that emanate from her small, pretty mouth. He wants to hear her words, but is distracted by the blood pounding warmly in his ears, and tormented by the sudden, hot, loosening of his bowels (a less-than-romantic sensation, but a biological inevitability when in her presence).

He steals occasional glances in her direction, observing that even under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights she is beautiful. He tries hard not to stare at her, tries hard not to gaze too long at the part of her hair, or the slope of her breast. He decides, instead, to worship the dark pane of glass where night races past her reflected apparition. Even with this second-hand reverence he is content.

This contentment, though, is short-lived. For he cannot help but envision what the happy couple will be doing under the covers, in the darkness, within a few short hours. The clarity of this foresight makes him wish the train would crash and burn. Compounding this agony is the simple fact that the fiancé appears entirely deserving of her affection. Our hero wants to hate the fiancé, demonize him, but, instead, he seems a god.

Another distorted announcement comes over the speakers. The train slows and her destination approaches, all too soon, and not soon enough. They exchange email addresses and make wholehearted vows to stay in touch, but he knows that this will be the last time he will ever see her again. She rises from her seat, her footing uncertain as she is jostled back and forth by the movement of the train; still, the fiancé is there to hold her steady.

?It was good to see you again,? she says, touching our hero’s arm lightly. In her eyes, he thinks he sees what he has thought he has seen many nights before.

But the train comes to a full stop, she nods goodbye, and he notes only the briefest moment of hesitation on her part before she turns away. The fiancé takes her hand, leads her off the car, and out onto the platform. The last our hero sees of her is a slight profile, her breath a small cloud before her; he shuts his eyes tight to burn this image into memory. He listens as the doors slide closed. There is a muted discord of steel against steel from beneath him as the train pulls away, slowly accumulating ever more distance from the goddess of his creation.

The fluid motion of the empty car lulls him into a near catatonic state. In his left breast pocket he can still feel the weight of the gift he had planned on giving her. It sits hard against his chest, a small, dead burden. He draws a laboured breath and swallows with some difficulty, feeling as though he has been kicked in the throat. He feels suffocated with regret, wishing that he had known her at some other point in time, wishing that he had never known her at all.

But he is grateful for this misery all the same.

Her crowning glory, though, is a fiery red bouffant that readily complements her short temper and sudden bouts of rage. Certainly, she is not averse to a strict regimen of daily admonishments and humiliations. She is ever ready to overturn a messy desk with Herculean strength, or turn over a disobedient student on her expansive lap.

She often speaks to the class about the goodness of God, but the boy has difficulty seeing the goodness in Miss Campbell.

One day, Miss Campbell calls upon the students to paint their own interpretations of God. The boy, being more familiar with pop culture than with religion, believes the title, God, to be the short form of Godzilla; thus, he assumes Jehovah and the Japanese monster to be one and the same.

This being so, he proceeds to paint God with bold, vibrant strokes of green. Indeed, the finished piece rivals Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam?the only difference being the inclusion of scales, claws, and sharp teeth.

One of his classmates laughs hysterically at the portrait, and the rest of the class joins in for good measure. At this point, the boy slowly begins to comprehend the scope of his divine faux pas. He knows that some of the other students attend Sunday school on a regular basis, and he now realizes that they likely have a better-informed opinion as to God’s skin colour.

The boy’s own skin colour turns many bright, burning shades of red. But, surprisingly, Miss Campbell does not say a word. She simply takes the boy’s portrait of the false, green god, folds it neatly, and drops it into the wastebasket.

The boy walks home from school that day somewhat enlightened, but still confused. For his six-year-old mind cannot grasp the concept of God being part of his life. As far as he is concerned, he has something much more powerful that resides in his own home; to be sure, there are two demigods who sleep right across the hallway from him. Though, in truth, his parents are only mortals, they have far more impact on him than any abstract, ethereal presence could ever have. For the boy, salvation comes from them alone.

Salvation comes when he wakes from a dark dream, panicked and crying; his mother is there, performing late-night puppet shows, easing him back into golden slumbers. She is there in the pool, at his first swimming lesson, as he struggles and splashes fearfully in the water. She is there when he awakens; she is there when he falls asleep. She is omnipresent.

Salvation also comes when he runs home in fear of the bullies; his father is there, scouring the neighbourhood in pursuit of pint-sized tyrants. He is there to hold the airsick boy after his first flight, ignoring the fresh trail of vomit running down the back of his new business suit. He is there with answers, and advice, and altruism. He is omnipotent.

The boy may not know the colour of God in Heaven, but he does know that if his mother and father are made in His image, God must be good.

The youngest of the three has fashioned a particularly unimpressive Spider-Man costume for himself: baggy sweat pants; red and black face paint smudged into an indistinguishable grey mess; magic markers on a blue cotton T-shirt, the webbing crooked and unfinished. He follows close behind his siblings, terrified he will lose sight of them, for, in truth, there is no actual radioactive blood flowing through his veins?he is brave tonight because of them.

The middle brother is Superman. This is difficult to ascertain at this point in the evening since the cheap elastic headband has already snapped away from the hard plastic pseudo-likeness of Krypton’s noble hero. However, beneath this mediocre visage is revealed the very likeness of Clark Kent?kind, honest eyes magnified through thick prescription lenses. And although the mask’s cruelly placed staples have scourged the middle brother’s temples, he moves forward, undaunted.

The eldest of the trio is Magnum, P.I. Jeans and a Hawaiian shirt complement the thick stroke of shoe polish across his hairless top lip while a Blue Jays cap suffices in place of the famed Detroit Tigers cap. He has reached the age where he draws contemptuous glances from neighbours eager to ration their crappy assortment of rocket candies and lollipops. He is passing from this realm of innocence, beyond the grasp of his brothers. In fact, in the eyes of his baby brother, he could very well be a mustachioed prime-time hero?the only difference being a Raleigh 10-speed bicycle in place of the Ferrari 308 GTS.

Porch lights and the flickering glow of countless pumpkins are extinguished. The brothers arrive home, bound in their conquests, their pillowcases stuffed to capacity. The spoils of triumph are dumped onto the shag carpet and inventoried. They calculate the precise number of chocolate bars that each brother has acquired (this item being the most coveted, of course.) They commence phase one of the gorging process, and then, once satiated, complete the annual ritual by each securing a viable hideaway for their hard-earned treasure. For, although the brothers are united in the evening’s victory, they are not above ransacking each other’s stash in search of the aforementioned coveted item.

Many Halloweens later, the children of Spider-Man, Superman, and Magnum, P.I. are plundering the neighbourhoods for the great glory of the almighty chocolate bar. The brothers are many miles apart now, separated by provinces and responsibilities. Despite the distances, though, the ghosts of the past will always draw them close. They can only hope that their children will one day be haunted in the same way.

Needless to say, I affect the obligatory hunch and limp so as to afford them ample time to flee in terror.

In my experience, I have found that the average pre-schooler would sooner play some form or other of this particular game than they would any other activity on the planet; indeed, with the chase comes the adrenalin-fueled rush and wide-eyed bliss that only children have such an effortless capacity for.

As I pursue the earth-children across a padded terrain, my reptilian eyes perceive another dreaded form of extraterrestrial life?one of a breed far more unsettling than my own: the notoriously languid and remote subspecies known as the ?half-parent.?

Paradoxically, these half-parents are present in a temporal sense, but, in actuality, they are not really there at all. The ?half-children? of these specimens vie for the attention of their seemingly comatose parental units in manners ranging from subtly pathetic to desperately violent.

They may, at times, play a solitary game of air hockey, knock down a fellow half-child for the pure, unsupervised joy of it, or even relieve their aggression vicariously via the vestibule of voluminous video game violence.

During this time, the half-parent appears oblivious of its progeny, occupied instead with an array of technology and half-important distractions: communicating with other half-people on tiny hand-held devices; staring into space, at some fixed point just beyond their offspring (possibly some form of telekinetic activity); and researching Earth literature dedicated to the study of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie?earthlings of great cosmic significance, apparently.

There is a sad, strange moment when one of the half-children (not of my own brood) calls me ?Dad.? I hesitate only slightly before acknowledging her address, for I don’t have the heart to ignore her role-play. If, for only a moment, in this imaginary universe, she sees some hunching, limping, alien beast as a preferred role model over the sedate, clock-watching mass of flesh sitting in the corner?so be it. Of course, children should always be wary of strangers, but, in this particular instance, the stranger seems apparent.

Closing time for the playground arrives. My kids wind down and wander inevitably to the display of sugar-coated point-of-purchase merchandise (my only salvation in what can sometimes be a difficult and tear-filled exit from the building).

My eyes revert to their usual hazel, myopic guise of normalcy, and through thick lenses, smudged with tiny fingerprints, I see the half-parent moving faster than I’ve seen him move all afternoon. He manoeuvres his half-child toward the exit with skill, speed, and efficiency; he speaks a language to the child that is clipped and barren of affection. They quickly board their vessel, and set course for some distant, nondescript destination.

As for my little humans and I?we have other galaxies to explore.

Regardless of chronological inaccuracies, there is still the slightest twinge of melancholy that this distance student feels tonight.

Were it actually 1982, the closest approximation of academically related gloom would be the depressingly unreciprocated love for my fifth-grade classmates, Amy Carter and Cara Bell. Needless to say, these adolescent lamentations have long since passed, but this evening there is an undeniable sense of isolation within me.

The feeling doesn’t come often, but at such times I must remind myself why I have been hunching over this battered laptop and countless textbooks for the past five years: I have persevered in order to redeem the mediocrity of my educational past, to improve myself intellectually in the present moment, and more importantly, to broaden the future for myself and for my family.

As I begin to dwell on the embarrassing scholastic ineptitude of my youth, our family’s ancient tabby, Boo, begins her long, drawn-out, ritualistic caterwauling from the basement. Her intermittent howls break the silence of the house for the next few minutes, and under my breath I curse her seeming immortality. My disdain for the cat is only temporary, of course, and I must remind myself to sympathize with her apparent dementia.

While I am attempting to put myself in the emotional mindset of an aged, slightly overweight feline, it suddenly occurs to me that Boo has been in my life almost as long as I’ve been pursuing some form or other of post-secondary education. With this reflection, it also occurs to me that for all the good my lacklustre intellectual pursuits had done me, I may as well have let the cat do my homework all along.

Hyperbole aside, I am so very thankful for the second chance that distance education has now given me. If not for AU, I would still be stuck in a professional rut, most likely involving a polyester uniform and a plastic name tag.

If not for AU, I would not currently be surprising myself with my own studious achievements. If not for AU, I would not have the opportunity to be both a student and a stay-at-home dad, rewarding myself with knowledge both academic and precious.

At the thought of my children, I shut down my computer for the evening and quietly ascend the stairwell leading to their rooms. (With ninja-like precision, I manage to avoid the numerous squeaks, pops, and moans so characteristic of slipshod, builder-grade construction.)

I enter my daughter’s room at the top of the stairs and, in the pink glow of the night light, I see her stretched out like a starfish, snoring softly into the worn belly of her favourite stuffed bunny (dubbed ?Bunny,? appropriately).

I draw near and kiss her between her eyes, where faint blue veins suggest the shape of a butterfly taking flight. It is at this moment that I am reminded of my purpose. Indeed, whenever I begin to wonder why I fight to keep myself awake into the wee, lonely hours, chipping away at a degree with no apparent end in sight, all I have to do is watch her sleep and I am reminded.

I visit my son’s room next. By this time, my eyes have become accustomed to the darkness, and I can distinguish his long, scrawny limbs positioned at the oddest of angles. As I brush the bangs from his uncharacteristically calm brow, I smile to myself and am reminded once again of my purpose; he fills me with such pride, and it is this same feeling that I wish him to have of me.

I kiss his small nose and, in return, my son smacks his lips, turns to the wall, and farts loudly into the small, still room?a blast of surprising amplitude for such small buttocks. It is a poignant moment, to be sure.

At this point in the evening/morning, I long only to be horizontal, preferably in a bed of some sort. After a drowsy, negligent display of dental hygiene technique, I lumber through the darkness toward the sweet release that only my pillow has to offer. As I hit the mattress, every spring and coil groans in protest of my collapsing weight, and I momentarily disrupt the sleep of my beautiful wife.

She soon drifts back to unconsciousness, and my final waking thoughts are of her: she, who has sacrificed much so that I may continue my education; she, who works tirelessly to earn our single income; she, who reminds me that I am not alone in my struggle.

The burning, red LED of the clock radio reads 1:32 a.m. The loneliness has passed, and all is well.