The Toynbee Convector

“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?”