The Toynbee Convector

The restaurant was empty when he arrived. It was six o’clock, early, the big crowds if they came would come later, which was perfect, for he had a dozen busy things to do. He watched his hands lay out the napkins in front of three places, then arrange and rearrange-the wineglasses, then place and replace the knives, forks, and spoons as if he himself were the maître d’ or some sort of latter-day sorcerer. He heard himself muttering under his breath, and part of the time it was a sort of mindless chant and the rest an incantation, for he really didn’t know how to do all this, but it had to be done.

He himself opened the wine, while the owners of the restaurant stood in the back, whispering with the chef and nodding at him as if he were the maniac-in-charge.

In charge of what, he was not quite sure. His own life? Not quite. Not by half. Sometimes not at all. But tonight, one way or another, it would have to change. Tonight might at least give him a few answers or a little peace.

He poured some wine in a glass, sniffed it, sipped it, eyes shut, waiting for the taste. All right. Not great, but all right.

He rearranged the cutlery for the third time, think ing, I have two problems. My daughters who might as well be Martians living on Mars’, and my mother and father, the greatest problem of all.

Because they had been dead for twenty years.

No matter. If he prayed, if he silently begged, if he summoned them with immense will, contr

olling his heart beat and restless mind, focusing his thoughts on the near grass meadow, it would happen. His mother and father would somehow recycle their dusts, arise, walk, stroll along the night avenues for three blocks, and step into this restaurant as matter-of-factly, just as if—

God, I haven’t even had a full glass of wine yet, he thought, and turned abruptly to step outside.

Out in the summer night, with the restaurant screen door half-open, he stared down the dusking street toward the graveyard gates. Yes. Almost ready. He was, that is. But... were they? Was the time right? For him, of course, but... Would the napkins placed, the cutlery arranged in symbols of need, the good wine waiting, would all of it truly do tile job?

Cut it out, he thought, and turned his gaze from the far graveyard entrance to the nearby phone booth. He let the screen door shut, walked to the booth, dropped in his dime, and dialed a number.

His daughter’s voice, on the answering machine, sounded. He shut his eyes and hung up, shaking his head, not saying anything. He tried a second number. The second daughter simply didn’t answer. He hung up, took a final look at that graveyard off away there in the growing dark, and hurried back inside the restaurant.

There he did the whole tiling over again, the glasses, the napkins, the cutlery, touching, retouching, placing and replacing, to energize it all, to make all the objects, as well as himself, believe. Then he nodded and sat down, stared hard at the cutlery, the plates, the wineglasses, took three deep breaths, shut his eyes, concentrated, and prayed very hard, waiting.

He knew that if he sat here long enough and wished Hard enough—

They would arrive, sit down, greet him as always; his mother would kiss him on the cheek, his father would grab his hand and tighten on it, hard, the loud greetings would at last quiet down and the last supper at this small-town restaurant would finally begin. Two minutes passed. He heard his watch ticking on his wrist Nothing. Another minute passed. He concentrated. He prayed. His heart sounded quietly. Nothing. Another minute. He listened to his own breathing. Now, he thought Now, dammit. Come on!

His heart jumped.

The front door to the restaurant had opened.

He did not look up, he trapped his breath, and kept his eyes shut. Someone was walking toward his table. Someone arrived. Someone was looking down at him. “I thought you’d never invite us to dinner again,” said his mother. He opened his eyes just as she leaned down to kiss him on the brow. “Long time no see!” His father reached out, seized his hand, and gripped it tight “How goes it, son?”

The son leaped up, almost spilling the wine.

“Fine, Dad. Hi, Mom! Sit down, my God, oh my God, sit down!” But they did not sit down. They stood looking at each other in a kind of stunned bewilderment until: “Don’t make such a fuss, it’s only us,” said his moth er. “It’s been so long since you called. We—”

“It has been a long time, son.” His father was still holding his hand in an iron grip. Now, he winked to show it was okay. “But, we understand. You’re busy. You okay, boy?”

“Okay,” said the son. “I mean—I’ve missed you!” And here he grabbed both of them, impulsively, and hugged them, his eyes watering. “How have you been—” He stopped and blushed. “I mean—”

“Don’t be embarrassed, son,” said his father. “We’re great. For a while there it was tough. I mean, it was all so new. How in hell do you describe it. You can’t, so I won’t—”

“George, for goodness sake, cut the cackle and get us a table,” said his mother.

“This is our table,” said the son, pointing at the empty places. He suddenly realized he had forgotten to light the candle, and did so, with trembling hands. “Sit down. Have some wine!”

“Your father shouldn’t drink wine,” his mother started to say. “For God’s sake,” his father said, “it doesn’t make any difference now.”

“I forgot.” His mother felt herself in a strange, tentative way, as if she had just tried on a new dress and the seams were awry. “I keep forgetting.”

“It’s the same as forgetting you’re alive.” His father barked a laugh. “People live seventy years and after a while don’t notice. Forget to say, hell, I’m alive! When that happens, you might as well be—”

“George,” said his mother.

“Look at it this way,” said his father, sitting down and leaving his wife and son standing. “Before you’re born’s one condition, living’s a second condition, and after you’re through is a third. In each state you forget to notice, say: Hey, I’m on first base, I’m on second! Well, hell, here we are on third, and like your mom says, she sometimes forgets. I can have as much damned wine as I want!”