t another bite of rich
chocolate.

#

"Got a comm?" I ask Doc Szandor, casually.

"What for?"

"Wanna get some of this down. The ideas for the hospital. Before I go back out
on the ward." And it *is* what I want to do, mostly. But the temptation to just
log on and do my thing -- oh!

"Sure," he says, checking his watch. "I can probably stall them for a couple
hours more. Feel free to make a call or whatever, too."

Doc Szandor's a good egg.

24.

Father Ferlenghetti showed up at Art's Gran's at 7PM, just as the sun began to
set over the lake, and Art and he shared lemonade on Gran's sunporch and watched
as the waves on Lake Ontario turned harshly golden.

"So, Arthur, tell me, what are you doing with your life?" the Father said. He
had grown exquisitely aged, almost translucent, since Art had seen him last. In
his dog collar and old-fashioned aviator's shades, he looked like a waxworks
figure.

Art had forgotten all about the Father's visit until Gran stepped out of her
superheated kitchen to remind him. He'd hastily showered and changed into fresh
slacks and a mostly clean tee shirt, and had agreed to entertain the priest
while his Gran finished cooking supper. Now, he wished he'd signed up to do the
cooking.

"I'm working in London," he said. "The same work as ever, but for an English
firm."

"That's what your grandmother tells me. But is it making you happy? Is it what
you plan to do with the rest of your life?"

"I guess so," Art said. "Sure."

"You don't sound so sure," Father Ferlenghetti said.

"Well, the *work* part's excellent. The politics are pretty ugly, though, to
tell the truth."

"Ah. Well, we can't avoid politics, can we?"

"No, I guess we can't."

"Art, I've always known that you were a very smart young man, but being smart
isn't the same as being happy. If you're very lucky, you'll get to be my age and
you'll look back on your life and be glad you lived it."

Gran called him in for dinner before he could think of a reply. He settled down
at the table and Gran handed him a pen.

"What's this for?" he asked.

"Sign the tablecloth," she said. "Write a little something and sign it and date
it, nice and clear, please."

"Sign the tablecloth?"

"Yes. I've just started a fresh one. I have everyone sign my tablecloth and then
I embroider the signatures in, so I have a record of everyone who's been here
for supper. They'll make a nice heirloom for your children -- I'll show you th