Inside they had a conversation about choices, about doing or not doing things, that either one of them could have predicted.

Dave Martyniuk refused Kim’s offer to share a cab and walked the mile west to his flat on Palmerston. He walked quickly, the athlete’s stride overlaid by anger and tension. You are too quick to renounce friendship, the old man had said. Dave scowled, moving faster. What did he know about it?

The telephone began ringing as he unlocked the door of his basement apartment.

“Yeah?” He caught it on the sixth ring.

“You are pleased with yourself, I am sure?”

“Jesus, Dad. What is it this time?”

“Don’t swear at me. It would kill you, wouldn’t it, to do something that would bring us pleasure.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Such language. Such respect.”

“Dad, I don’t have time for this any more.”

“Yes, hide from me. You went tonight as Vincent’s guest to this lecture. And then you went off after with the man he most wanted to speak with. And you couldn’t even think of asking your brother?”

Dave took a careful breath. His reflexive anger giving way to the old sorrow. “Dad, please believe me—it didn’t happen that way. Marcus went with these people I know because he didn’t feel like talking to the academics like Vince. I just tagged along.”

“You just tagged along,” his father mimicked in his heavy Ukrainian accent. “You are a liar. Your jealousy is so much that you—”

Dave hung up. And unplugged the telephone. With a fierce and bitter pain he stared at it, watching how, over and over again, it didn’t ring.

They said good-night to the girls and watched Martyniuk stalk off into the darkness.

“Coffee time, amigo,” Kevin Laine said brightly. “Much to talk about we have, yes?”

Paul hesitated, and in the moment of that hesitation Kevin’s mood shattered like glass.

“Not tonight, I think. I’ve got some things to do, Kev.”

The hurt in Kevin Laine moved to the surface, threatened to break through. “Okay,” was all he said, though. “Good night. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.” And he turned abruptly and jogged across Bloor against the light to where he’d parked his car. He drove home, a little too fast, through the quiet streets.

It was after one o’clock when he pulled into the driveway, so he entered the house as silently as he could, sliding the bolt gently home.

“I am awake, Kevin. It is all right.”

“What are you doing up? It’s very late, Abba.” He used the Hebrew word for father, as he always did.

Sol Laine, in pajamas and robe at the kitchen table, raised a quizzical eyebrow as Kevin walked in. “I need permission from my son to stay up late?”

“Who else’s?” Kevin dropped into one of the other chairs.

“A good answer,” his father approved. “Would you like some tea?”

“Sounds good.”

“How was this talk?” Sol asked as he attended to the boiling kettle.