“You really believe that?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Hollus, as he watched more gliders dance across my computer screen. “I really do.”
8
When I was a boy, I belonged to the Royal Ontario Museum’s Saturday Morning Club for three years. It was an incredible experience for a kid like me, fascinated by dinosaurs and snakes and bats and gladiators and mummies. Every Saturday during the school year, we’d go down to the museum, getting in before it opened to the public. We’d congregate in the ROM theater — that’s what it was called before some overpriced consultant had decided we should rename it Theatre ROM. It had been quite grotty back then, and upholstered entirely in black; it’s since had a face-lift.
The mornings would start off with Mrs. Berlin, who ran the club, showing us a 16 mm movie, usually some short from the National Film Board of Canada. And then we’d head off for a half-day of activities in the museum, not just in the galleries but also behind the scenes. I loved every minute of it and made up my mind that someday I would work at the ROM.
I remember one day we were getting a demonstration from the artist responsible for many of the museum’s dinosaur reconstructions. He asked our assembled group what kind of dinosaur a pointed, serrated tooth he was showing us had come from.
“A carnosaur,” I’d said at once.
The artist had been impressed. “That’s right,” he said.
But another kid berated me later. “It’s carni vore , he said, not carnosaur.
Carnosaurwas, of course, the correct word: it was the technical name for the group of dinosaurs that included tyrannosaurs and their kin. Most kids don’t know that; hell, most adults don’t know it.
But I knew it. I’d read it on a placard in the ROM’s Dinosaur Gallery.
The original Dinosaur Gallery, that is.
Instead of our current dioramas, that gallery had had specimens mounted so you could walk right around them; velvet ropes kept the public from getting too close. And each specimen had a lengthy, typed explanation in a wooden frame that would take four or five minutes to read.
The centerpiece of the old gallery was a Corythosaurus, a huge duckbill standing erect. There was something wonderfully Canadian, although I didn’t understand it as such at the time, about the ROM’s showcase dinosaur being a placid vegetarian instead of the ravenous T. rexes or the fiercely armed Triceratopses that were the major mounts at most U.S. museums; indeed, it wasn’t until 1999 that the ROM put a T rex cast on display, over in the kid’s Discovery Gallery. Still, that ancient Corythosaurus mount was wrong. We know now that hadrosaurs almost certainly couldn’t stand up like that; they probably spent most of their time as quadrupeds.
Every time I went to the museum as a kid, I made a point of looking at that skeleton, and the others, and reading the placards, and struggling with the vocabulary, and learning as much as I could.
We still have that skeleton at the ROM, tucked to the side of the Cretaceous Alberta diorama, but there’s no explanatory text associated with it anymore. Just a small Plexiglas sign that disingenuously glosses over the erroneous stance, and says little else:
Corythosaurus ExcavatusGilmore
A crested hadrosaur (duck-bill) mounted in an upright alert posture. Upper Cretaceous, Oldman formation (approximately 75 million years), Little Sandhill Creek, near Steveville, Alberta.
Of course, the “new” Dinosaur Gallery was a quarter-century old now. It had opened before Christine Dorati had come to power, but she considered it a model of what our displays should be like: don’t bore the audience, don’t weigh them down with facts. Just let them gawk.
Christine had a couple of daughters; they were grown now. But I often wondered if, when they were kids, she had been embarrassed at a museum. Perhaps she’d said, “Oh, Mary, that’s a Tyrannosaurus rex. It lived ten million years ago.” And her daughter — or, worse, some smart-aleck kid like I’d been — had corrected her with information that had been written on a lengthy placard. “That’s not a tyrannosaur, and it didn’t live ten million years ago. It’s an Allosaurus, and it lived 150 million years ago.” But whatever the reason, Christine Dorati hated signage that conveyed information.
I wish we had the money to redo the Dinosaur Gallery again; I’d inherited it in its current condition. But money was scarce these days; the axing of the planetarium was hardly the only cutback.
Still, I wondered how many kids we were inspiring these days.
I wondered—
It wouldn’t be my Ricky; that would be too much to ask. Besides, he was still at the stage where he wanted to be a firefighter or a police officer and had evinced no particular interest in science.
Still, when I looked at the tens of thousands of school-aged children who came on field trips to the museum each year, I wondered which if any of them would grow up to follow in my footsteps.
Hollus and I were at an impasse over the interpretation of the game of Life, and so I excused myself, and went to the washroom. As I always did, I opened the faucets on all three sinks, to make some background noise; the public washrooms at the ROM all had faucets controlled by electric eyes, but we didn’t have to put up with that indignity in the staff facilities. The running water drowned out the sound as I crouched down in front of one of the toilets and vomited; I tossed my cookies about once a week, thanks to the chemo drugs. It was hard on me; my chest and lungs were already strained. I took a few moments, kneeling there, just to regain my strength, then I stood up, flushed the toilet, and headed to the sinks, washing my hand and turning off all the taps. I kept a bottle of mouthwash at the museum and had brought it in with me; I gargled, trying to kill the foul taste. And, then, at last, I returned to the paleobiology department, smiling at Bruiser as if nothing unusual had happened. I opened the door to my office and went back inside.
To my astonishment, Hollus was reading the newspaper when I came in. He’d picked up my copy of the tabloid Toronto Sun from my desk and was holding it in his two six-fingered hands. His eyestalks moved left to right in unison as he read along. I’d expected him to be aware of my presence at once, but maybe the simulacrum wasn’t that sensitive. I cleared my throat, tasting a little more unpleasantness as I did so.
“Wel” “come” “back,” said Hollus, his eyes now looking at me. He closed the newspaper and faced the front page toward me. The sole headline taking up most of the front page, declared, “Abortion Doc Killed.” “I have seen many references to abortion in your media,” said Hollus, “but confess to not understanding precisely what it is; the term is bandied about, but never defined — even in the article that apparently relates to this title.”
I moved to my chair and took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts, wondering where to begin. I’d read the story myself on the way into work this morning. “Well, um, sometimes human women get pregnant unintentionally. There is a procedure that can be done to terminate the fetus, putting an end to the pregnancy; it’s called an abortion. It’s, ah, somewhat controversial, and because of that it’s often done in special clinics rather than at regular hospitals. Religious fundamentalists disapprove strongly of abortion — they consider it a form of murder — and some extremists have taken to using bombs to blow up abortion clinics. Last week, a clinic was blown up in Buffalo — that’s a city just over the border in New York State. And yesterday, one was blown up in Etobicoke, which is part of Toronto. The doctor who owned the clinic was inside at the time, and he was killed.”