The Toynbee Convector (11 page)

“Your father,” said his mother, “has always ordered this way. If that man was having carpet tacks and pork bellies, he’d order that.”

“I remember,” said the son, quietly, and drank his wine. He held his breath and at last let it out “What’ll you have, Mom?”

“What are you having, son?”

“Hamburger steak—”

“That’s what I’ll have,” said his mother, “to save trouble.”

“Mom,” said the son. “It’s no trouble. There are three dozen items on the menu.”

“No,” she said, and put the menu down and covered it with her napkin as if it were a small cold body. “That’s it My son’s taste is my taste.”

He reached for the wine bottle and suddenly realized it was empty. “Good grief,” he said, “did we drink it
all
?”

“Someone did. Get some more, son. Here, while you’re waiting, take some of mine.” The father poured half of his wine into his son’s glass. “I could drink a soup bowl of that stuff.”

More wine was brought, opened, poured.

“Watch your liver!” said his mother.

“Is that a threat, or a toast?” said his father.

As they drank, the son realized that somehow the evening had got out of hand; diey were not talking about the dungs he most dearly wanted to talk about

“Here’s to your health, son!”

“And yours, Dad. Mom!”

Again he had to stop, flushing, for he suddenly re membered that meadow down the street from which they had come, that quiet place of marble huts with great names cut on the Grecian roofs, and too many crosses and not half enough angels.

“Your health,” said the son, quietly.

His mother at last raised her glass and nibbled at the wine like a field mouse. “Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sour.”
“No, it’s not, ma,” said the son, “that’s just the cellar

taste. It’s not a bad wine, really—”
“If it’s so good,” said his mother, “why are you gulping it so fast?”

“Mother,” said his father. “Well!” And here his father exploded a laugh, brisked his palms together, and leaned on the table with false earnestness. “I suppose you are wondering,” he said, “why we are here?’

“You didn’t call, father. He did. Your son.”

“Just a joke, Ma. Well, son, why did you?”

They were both staring at him, waiting.

“Why did I what?’

“Call us here!”

“Oh, that—”

The son refilled his glass. He was beginning to per spire. He wiped his lips and brow with his napkin. “Wait a minute,” he said. “It’ll come to me—”
“Don’t push, Father, let the boy breathe.”
“Sure, sure,” said his father. “But we took a lot of trouble to dress up and find time and come here. On top of which—”
“Father.”
“No, Alice, let me finish. Son of mine, good boy, that place you got us into is not of the best.”

“It’s all right,” said his mother.

“No, it’s not, and you know it” The father picked up a fork and drew a picture of the place on the tablecloth. “It’s too damn small, too far from everywhere. No view. And, the heating, my God, the heating!”

“Well, it does get cold in the winter,” admitted his mother.

“Cold, hell. So cold it runs cracks up one side and down the other of all the places out there. Oh, and another thing. I don’t like some of our neighbors.”

“You never liked neighbors anytime, anywhere, anyhow,” said his mother. “People next door moved out Thank God, you said. New people moved in: Oh, God, you said.”

“Well, these are the worst, they take the cake. Son, can you do anything about it?”
“Do?” said the son, and thought my God, they don’t know where they’ve come from, they don’t know where they’ve been for twenty years, they can’t guess why it’s cold—

“Too hot in summer,” added his father. “Melts you in your shoes. Don’t look at me that way, Mother. Son wants to hear. Hell do something about it, won’t you, son? Find us a
new
place—”

“Yes, Dad.”

“You got a headache, son?”

“No.” The son opened his eyes, and reached for the bottle. “I’ll look into it I promise.”

I wonder he thought, has anyone ever moved anyone out of a place like that to another place, all for a view, all for better neighbors? Would the law allow? Where could he take them? Where might they go? North Chicago, maybe? There was a place there on a hill—

The waiter arrived just then to take their orders.

“Whatever
he’s
having.” His mother pointed at the son.

“Whatever that man over there is eating,” said the father.

“Hamburger steak,” said the son.

The waiter went away and came back and they ate quickly. “Is this a speed contest?”
“Slow down, boy. Whoa.” And suddenly it was all over. Exactly one hour had passed as the son put down his knife and fork and finished his fourth glass of wine. Suddenly his face burst into a smile.

“I
remember
!” he cried. “I mean, it’s come back to me. Why I called, why I
brought
you here!”

“Well?” said his mother.

“Spit it out, son,” said his father.

“I,” said the son.

“Yes?”

“Yes, yes?”

“I,” said the son, “love you.”

His words pushed his parents back in their seats.

Their shoulders sagged and they glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes, quietly, with their heads lowered.

“Hell, son,” said his father. “We know that.”

“We love you, too,” said his mother.

“Yes,” said his father, quietly. “Yes.”
“But we try not to think about it,” said his mother. “It makes us too unhappy when you don’t call.”
“Mother!” cried the son, and stopped himself from saying: you’ve forgotten again!”

Instead, he said: “I’ll call more often.”

“No need,” said his father.

“I will, believe me, I will!”

“Don’t make promises you can’t live up to, is what I say. But now,” said the father, drinking more wine, “son, what else did you want to see us about?”

“What else?” The son was shocked. Wasn’t it enough he protested his great and enduring love—”Well....” The son slowed. His gaze wandered through the restaurant window to the silent phone booth where he had placed those calls.

“My children—” he said. “Children!” The old man exploded. “By God, I’d forgot myself. What were they now—?”
“Daughters, of course,” said the wife, punching her husband’s arm. “What’s wrong with you?”

“If you don’t know what’s been wrong with me for twenty years, you’ll never know.” The father turned to the son. “Daughters of course. Must be full-grown now. Little tads, last time we saw—”

“Let son tell us about them,” said the mother.

“There’s nothing to tell.” The son paused awkwardly. “Hell. Lots. But it doesn’t make sense.”
“Try us,” said the father. “Sometimes—”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes,” the son continued, slowly, eyes down, “I have this feeling my daughters, mind you, my daughters have passed away and you, you’re alive! Does that make any sense?”

“About as much sense as most families make,” said the father, taking out, cutting, and sucking at a fresh cigar.

“You always did talk funny, son.”

“Pa,” said the mother.

“Well, he did and he does, dammit. Talk funny, that is. But go ahead, talk on, and while you’re at it give me some more wine. Go on.”

The son poured wine and said, “I can’t figure them out So I’ve got two problems. That’s why I summoned you. Number one, I missed you. Number two, I miss them. There’s a joke for you. How can that be?”

“On the face of it—” the father began.

“That’s life,” said the mother, nodding, very wise.

“That’s all the advice you can give?” cried the son.

“Sorry, we know you went to a lot of trouble, and the dinner was fine and the wine jim-dandy, but we’re out of practice, boy. We can’t even remember what you were like! So how can we help? We can’t!” The father lit a match and watched it flame around the cigar as he drew fire. “No, son. On top of which, we got another problem here. Hate to mention it. Don’t know how to say it—”

“What your father means is—”

“No, let me say it, Alice. I hope you’ll take this in the kindly spirit with which I offer it, boy—”
“Whatever it is, Dad, I will,” said the son. “God, this is hard.” The father slammed down his

cigar and finished another glass of wine. “Damn and hell, the fact is, son, the reason why we didn’t see you more often over the years is—” He held his breath, then exploded it: “You were a
bore
!”

A bomb had been tossed on the table to explode. Stunned, all three stared at one another.

“What?” asked the son.

“I said—”

“No, no, I heard you,” said the son. “I heard. I
bore
you.” He tasted the words. They had a strange flavor. “I bore
you
? My God! I bore
you
!”

His face reddened, tears burst from his eyes and he began to roar with laughter, beating the table with his right fist and holding to his aching chest with his left, and then wiping his eyes with a napkin. “I bore
you
!”

His mother and father waited for a decent interval before they, in turn, began to snort, whiffle, stop up their breaths, and then let it out in a great proclamation of relief and hilarity.

“Sorry, son!” cried the father, tears running down about his laughing mouth. “He didn’t really mean—” gasped the mother, rocking back and forth, giggles escaping with each breath.

“Oh, he did, he did!” shouted the son. “He did!”

And now everyone in the restaurant was looking up at the merry trio.

“More wine!” said the father.

“More wine.”

And by the time the last bottle of wine was uncorked and poured, the three had settled into a smiling, gasping, beautiful silence. The son lifted his glass in a toast.

“Here’s to boredom!”

Which set them all off again, firing guffaws, sucking air, pounding the table, eyes gummed shut with happy tears, knocking each other’s ribs with their elbows. “Well, son,” said the father, at last, quieting. “It’s late. We really
must
be going.”
“Where?” laughed the son, and grew still. “Oh, yes. I forgot.”
“Oh, don’t look so down in the mouth,” said his mother. “That place isn’t half as bad as Father makes out.”

“But,” said the son, quietly, “isn’t it a bit—boring—also?”

“Not once you get the hang of it. Finish the wine. Here goes.”

They drank the last of the wine, laughed a bit, shook their heads, then walked to the restaurant door and out into a warm summer night. It was only eight o’clock and a fine wind blew up from the lake, and there was a smell of flowers in the air that made you want to just walk on forever.

“Let me go part way with you,” offered the son.

“Oh, that’s not necessary.”

“We can make it alone, son,” said the father. “It’s better that way.” They stood looking at each other. “Well,” said the son, “it’s been nice.”
“No, not really. Loving, yes, loving, because we’re family and we love you, son, and you love us. But nice? I don’t know if that fits. Boring, yes, boring, and loving, loving and boring. Good night, son.”

And they milled around each other and hugged and kissed and wept and then gave one last great hoot of laughter, and there went his parents, along the street under the darkening trees, heading for the meadow place.

The son stood for a long moment, watching his parents getting smaller and smaller with distance and then he turned, almost without thinking, and stepped into the phone booth, dialed, and got the answering machine.

“Hello, Helen,” he said, and paused because it was hard to find words, difficult to say. “This is Dad. About that dinner next Thursday? Could we cancel? No special reason. Overwork. I’ll call next week, set a new date. Oh, and could you call Debby and tell
her
? Love you. ‘Bye.”

He hung up and looked down the long dark street. Way off there, his parents were just turning in at the iron graveyard gates. They saw him watching, gave him a wave, and were gone.

Mom. Dad, he thought Helen. Debby. And again: Helen, Debby, Mom, Dad. I
bore
them. I bore
them
! I will be damned!

And then, laughing until the tears rolled out of his eyes he turned and strolled back into the restaurant His laughter made a few people look up from their tables.

He didn’t mind, because the wine, as he finished it, wasn’t all that bad.

Lafayette, Farewell

There was a tap on the door, the bell was not rung, so I knew who it was. The tapping used to happen once a week, but in the past few weeks it came every other day. I shut my eyes, said a prayer, and opened the door.

Bill Westerleigh was there, looking at me, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Is this
my
house or
yours
?” he said.

It was an old joke now. Several times a year he wandered off, an eighty-nine-year-old man, to get lost within a few blocks. He had quit driving years ago because he had wound up thirty miles out of Los Angeles instead of at the center where we were. His best journey nowadays was from next door, where he lived with his wondrously warm and understanding wife, to here, where he tapped, entered, and wept. “Is this your house or mine?” he said, reversing the order.

“
Mi casa es su casa.”
I quoted the old Spanish saying.

“And thank God for that!”

I led the way to the sherry bottle and glasses in the parlor and poured two glasses while Bill settled in an easy chair across from me. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose on a handkerchief which he then folded neatly and put back in his breast pocket.

“Here’s to you, buster.” He waved his sherry glass. “The sky is full of ‘em. I hope you come back. If not, well drop a black wreath where we think your crate fell.”

I drank and was warmed by the drink and then looked a long while at Bill.

“The Escadrille been buzzing you again?” I asked.

“Every night, right after midnight Every morning now. And, the last week, noons. I try not to come over. I tried for three days.”

“I know. I missed you.”

“Kind of you to say, son. You have a good heart. But I know I’m a pest, when I have my clear moments. Right now I’m clear and I drink your hospitable health.”