I say no and thank him. I lay the phone on my stomach and balance the glass on my chest. Reclining on the lounge chair, staring up at the stars, I realize I’m in the exact posture of an astronaut. One of the old boys. John Glenn in the Friendship 7. Space, Glenn told ground control, wasn’t black at all; it was blue. He reported something about being surrounded by dancing orbs of light, outside the window of his ship. He wasn’t scared, just amazed and exhilarated, but the more he talked about the lights, I’d heard, the more the men downstairs began to worry he was losing it. I can imagine what the guys in the Galaxy Lounge would say about that one.

Then I open the phone, dial Information, and try Chicago.

There are two listings for Joseph Kerrigan. I write both numbers on my palm. As I dial, I can feel my heart thumping.

An answering machine picks up. It’s a man’s voice, but it’s so hurried and monotone, there’s no telling whether or not it’s Joe. I’m not sure I would recognize his voice now, anyway. “Um, listen,” I say after the beep, “don’t have a heart attack or anything, but this is your father. Your dad. I have … something I want to tell you, but I’ll wait until we can actually talk. I hope you’re well.” What else is there to say? “I love you,” I say, and hang up.

Because the odds are fifty-fifty, I try the second number.

A woman answers.

“Is Joe there?” I ask.

She tells me to hold on.

A few seconds later, another voice comes on.

“Joe?” I ask.

“Yeah, this is Joe.”

“It’s your dad.”

“No it’s not,” he says. “My dad’s dead.” He doesn’t sound affronted or even sad. He sounds amused. I hear snickering in the background.

“Well, then, it’s your dad calling from beyond the grave. I just wanted to touch base with you, see how you’re doing. We haven’t talked in a while.”

“That’s true.”

“So how are you?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Well. Leona passed away. That’s part of the reason I’m calling.”

“Leona,” he says.

“I know you didn’t really know her—”

“I didn’t know her at all.”

“But I wanted to tell you about that.”

“Well, thanks.” I hear more snickering, and shushing.

“Listen,” I say, staring up at all those unfamiliar star patterns. “I just want to say I’m sorry. For everything. I’m sorry for what I did, letting go of you kids. Can you forgive me?”

“Sure,” he says. “Why not? I forgive you.”

“Honestly?”

“Yes. I honestly forgive you for everything you’ve ever done.” The room at the other end of the line erupts into laughter.

“I don’t have any good excuse,” I say.