Rollback

And he stopped cold, not because of his current failings in the category he’d just enumerated, but because of who had just entered at the back of the room, and was now taking a seat in the last row of pews. It had been thirty years since he’d seen his ex-sister-in-law Doreen, but there she was, dressed in black, having come to quietly say good-bye to the man she’d divorced all those years ago. In death, it seemed, all was forgiven.

He looked down at his notes, found his place, and stumbled on. "Bill Halifax worked hard at his job, and even harder at being a father and a citizen. It’s not often—"

He faltered again, because he saw what the next words he’d written were, and realized he’d either have to skip them, or else force the minister’s error into the light.

Screw it, he thought. I never got to say this when Bill was alive. I’ll be damned if I don’t say it now. "It’s not often," he said, "that an older brother looks up to a younger brother, but I did, all the time."

There were murmurs, and he could see the perplexed faces. He found himself veering from his prepared comments.

"That’s right," he said, gripping the pulpit even harder, needing its support. "I’m Bill’s older brother. I was lucky enough to have a rollback." More murmurs, shared glances. "It was… it wasn’t something I sought out, or even something I wanted, but…"

He stopped that train of thought. "Anyway, I knew Bill his whole life, longer than anyone else" — he paused, then decided to finish his sentence with, "in this room," although "in the world" would have been equally true; everyone else who’d known Bill since birth was long gone, and Mike Braeden hadn’t moved onto Windermere until Bill was five.

"Bill didn’t make many mistakes," Don said. "Oh, there were some, including" — and here he tipped his head at Doreen, who seemed to nod in acknowledgment, understanding that he meant things Bill had done in their marriage, not the fact of the marriage itself — "some doozies that he doubtless regretted right up until the end.

But, by and large, he got it right. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was sharp as a whip." He realized he’d mangled the metaphor as soon as he’d said it, but pressed on. "Indeed, some were surprised that he chose to work in the charitable sector, instead of in business, where he could have made a lot more money." He refrained from glancing now at Pam, refrained from conveying the point that Bill never could have afforded what Don himself had been given. "He could have gone into law, could have been a corporate big shot. But he wanted to make a difference ; he wanted to do good. And he did. My brother did."

Don looked out at the crowd again, a sea of black clothes. One or two people were softly crying. His eyes lingered on his children, and his grandchildren — whose children’s children he would likely live to see.

"No actuary would say that Bill was shortchanged in quantity, but it’s the quality of his life that really stands out." He paused, wondering how personal he should get, but, hell, this was all personal, and he wanted Sarah, and his children, and maybe even God to hear it. "It looks like I might get damn near" — he faltered, realizing he’d just sworn during a service, then went on — "double the number of years my brother did." He looked at the coffin, its polished wood gleaming.

"But," Don continued, "if out of all of that, I can do half as much good, and deserve to be loved half as much as Bill was, then maybe I’ll have earned this… this…"

He fell silent, seeking the right word, and, at last, continued: "…this gift that I’ve been given."

Chapter 35

Don and Sarah went to bed early the night after the funeral, both exhausted. She fell asleep at once, and Don rolled onto his side, looking at her.

He had no doubt the antidepressants Petra had given him were working. He was having a better time dealing with life’s little irritations, and, on a larger level, the idea of killing himself now seemed totally alien — the remembered joke about public speaking aside, not for one second had he wished today to trade places with his brother.

The hormone adjustments were working, too; he was no longer hornier than a hoot owl. Oh, he was still frisky, but at least he felt he had some measure of control now.

But although his lust for Lenore might have abated somewhat, his love had not. That had never been just raging hormones; of that he was sure.

Nonetheless, he had an obligation to Sarah that predated Lenore’s birth by decades; he knew that. Sarah needed him, and although he didn’t need her — not in the sense of requiring her assistance with day-to-day living — he did still love her very much.

Until recently, the quiet, gentle relationship they’d grown into had been enough, and surely it could still be enough, for whatever time they had left together.