Rollback

"Someone else paid for it."

"God," said Mike. "That’s amazing. You — you look fabulous."

"Thanks. And thanks for coming. It would have meant a lot to Bill to have you here."

Mike was still staring at him, and Don was feeling very uncomfortable about it.

"Little Donny Halifax," Mike said. "Incredible."

"Mikey, please. I just wanted to say hi."

The other man nodded. "Sorry. It’s just that I’ve never met anyone who’s had a rollback."

"Until recently," said Don, "neither had I. But I don’t want to talk about that. You were saying something about Bill’s fondness for maple syrup…?"

Mike considered for a moment, clearly warring with himself over whether to ask more questions about what had happened to Don, or to accept the invitation to change the subject. He nodded once, his decision made. "Remember when the old Scout troop used to go up north of Highway Seven each winter and tap some trees?

Bill was in heaven!" Mike’s face showed that he realized he’d probably chosen not quite the right metaphor under the current circumstances, but that simply gave him an incentive to quickly push on, and soon the topic of Don’s rollback was left far behind.

Pam was listening intently, but Don found his eyes scanning the gathering crowd for other familiar faces. Bill had always been more popular than Don — more outgoing, and better at sports. He wondered how many people would come to his own funeral, and—

And, as he looked around the room, his heart sank. None of these people, that was for sure. Not his wife, not his kids, not any of his childhood friends. They’d all be dead long, long before he would. Oh, his grandchildren might yet outlive him; but they weren’t here right now, nor, he saw, were their parents. Presumably Carl and Angela were off somewhere else in the church, perhaps busily straightening collars and smoothing dresses on youngsters who had rarely, if ever, had to wear such things before.

In a few minutes, he would present the eulogy, and he’d reach back into his brother’s past for anecdotes and revelatory incidents, things that would show what a great guy Bill had been. But at his own eventual funeral, there would be no one who could speak to his childhood or his first adulthood, no one to say anything about the initial eighty or ninety years of his life. Every single thing he’d done to date would be forgotten.

He excused himself from Pam and Mike, who had moved on from Bill’s love of maple syrup to extolling his general prudence. "Whenever we were playing street hockey and a car was coming, it was always Bill who first shouted, ‘Car!’" Mike said. "I’ll always remember him doing that. ‘Car! Car!’ Why, he…"

Don walked down the aisle, to the front of the church. The hardwood floor was dappled with color, thanks to the stained-glass windows. Sarah was now sitting in the second row, at the far right, looking weary and alone, her cane hanging from the rack that held the hymn books on the back of the pew in front of her.

Don came over and crouched next to her in the aisle. "How are you doing?" he asked.

Sarah smiled. "All right. Tired." She narrowed her eyes, concerned. "How about you?"

"Holding together," he said.

"It’s nice so many people came."

He scanned the crowd again, part of him wishing it were fewer. He hated speaking in front of groups. An old Jerry Seinfeld bit flitted through his brain: the number-one fear of most people is public speaking; the number-two fear is death — meaning, at a funeral, you should feel sorrier for the person giving the eulogy than for the guy in the coffin.

The minister — a short black man of about forty-five, with hair starting to both gray and recede — entered, and soon enough the service was under way. Don tried to relax as he waited to be called upon. Sarah, next to him, held his hand.

The minister had a surprisingly deep voice given his short stature, and he led the assembled group through a few prayers. Don bowed his head during these, but kept his eyes open and stared at the narrow strips of hardwood flooring between his pew and the one in front.

"…and so," the minister said, all too soon, "we’ll now hear a few words from Bill’s younger brother, Don."

Oh, Christ, thought Don. But the mistake had been a natural one, and, as he walked to the front of the church, climbing three stairs to get onto the raised platform, he decided not to correct it.

He gripped the sides of the pulpit and looked out at the people who had come to bid farewell to his brother: family, including Bill’s own son Alex and the grown children of Susan, Don and Bill’s sister who had died back in 2033; a few old friends; some of Bill’s coworkers from the United Way; and many people who were strangers to Don but doubtless meant something to Bill.

"My brother," he said, trotting out the first of the platitudes he’d jotted down on his datacom, which he’d now fished from his suit pocket, "was a good man. A good father, a good husband, and—"