Robert Sawyer - Hybrids

“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 breadwinner had been only one of the sources of friction in their marriage. Still, she shuddered to think how he’d react if she told him how much the Synergy Group was paying her.

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.

“Colm,” Mary said again, “I think it’s time that we…that we wrapped up unfinished business.”

Colm knit his brow. “Yes? I thought we’d settled all the accounts…”

“I mean,” said Mary, “it’s time for us to make our…the separation permanent.”

The server took that inopportune moment to arrive with salads: Caesar for Colm, mixed field greens with raspberry vinaigrette for Mary. Colm shooed the server away when she offered ground pepper, and he said, in a low volume, “You mean an annulment?”

“I…I think I’d prefer a divorce,” Mary said, her voice soft.

“Well,” said Colm. He looked away, at the fireplace on the far side of the dining room, the hearth stone cold. “Well, well.”

“It just seems time, that’s all,” said Mary.

“Does it?” said Colm. “Why now?”

Mary frowned ruefully. If there was one thing that studying Shakespeare inculcated in you, it was that there were always undercurrents and hidden agendas; nothing ever just happened. But she wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it.

No-no, that wasn’t true. She’d rehearsed the wording over and over in her head on the way here. It was his reaction she was unsure of.

“I’ve met somebody new,” Mary said. “We’re going to try to make a life together.”

Colm lifted his glass, took another sip of wine, then picked up a small piece of bread from the basket the waitress had brought with the salads. A mock communion; it said all that needed to be said. But Colm underscored the message with words anyway: “Divorce means excommunication.”

“I know,” replied Mary, her heart heavy. “But an annulment seems so hypocritical.”

“I don’t want to leave the Church, Mary. I’ve lost enough stability in my life as it is.”

Mary frowned at the dig; she was the one who had left him, after all. Still, maybe he was right. Maybe she owed him that much. “But I don’t want to claim that our marriage never existed.”

That mollified Colm and for a moment Mary thought he was going to reach across the linen tablecloth and take her hand. “Is it anyone I know-this new guy of yours?”

Mary shook her head.

“Some American, I suppose,” Colm continued. “Swept you off your feet, did he?”

“He’s not American,” said Mary, defensively. “He’s a Canadian citizen.” Then, surprised by her own cruelty, she added, “But, yes, he quite literally swept me off my feet.”

“What’s his name?”

Mary knew why Colm was asking: not because he expected to recognize it, but because a surname could reveal much, in his view. If Colm had a failing, it was that he was his father’s son, a plain-talking, thickheaded man who compartmentalized the world based on ethnic groups. Doubtless Colm was already mentally thumbing through his lexicon of responses. If Mary were to mention an Italian name, Colm would dismiss him as a gigolo. If it were a Jewish name, Colm would assume he must have lots of money, and would say something about how Mary never really was happy with a humble academic as a husband.

“You don’t know him,” said Mary.

“You already said that. But I’d like to know his name.”

Mary closed her eyes. She’d hoped, naively, to avoid this issue altogether, but of course it was bound to come out eventually. She took a forkful of salad, buying time, then, looking down at her plate, unable to meet Colm’s eyes, she said, “Ponter Boddit.”

She heard his fork bang against his salad plate as he put it down sharply. “Oh, Christ, Mary. The Neanderthal? ”

Mary found herself defending Ponter, a reflex she immediately wished that she’d been able to suppress. “He’s a good man, Colm. Gentle, intelligent, loving.”

“So how does this work?” Colm asked, his tone not as mocking as his words. “Do you play Musical Names again? What’s it going to be this time, ‘Mary Boddit’? And are you going to live here, or are the two of you going to set up house in his world, and-”

Suddenly Colm fell silent, and his eyebrows shot up. “No-no, you can’t do that, can you? I’ve read some of the newspaper articles. Males and females don’t live together on his world. Jesus, Mary, what sort of bizarre midlife crisis is this?”

Responses warred in Mary’s head. She was only thirty-nine, for God’s sake-perhaps “midlife” mathematically, but certainly not emotionally. And it had been Colm, not her, who had first acquired a significant other after they’d stopped living together, although his relationship with Lynda had been over for more than a year. Mary settled on the refrain she’d used so often during their marriage. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re damn right I don’t understand,” said Colm, clearly fighting to keep his voice down so that the few other patrons wouldn’t hear. “This-this is sick. He’s not even human.”

“Yes, he is,” said Mary, firmly.

“I saw the piece on CTV about your great breakthrough,” said Colm. “Neanderthals don’t even have the same number of chromosomes we do.”