The Toynbee Convector

“God,” said John, his hand on the doorknob, not wanting to show the white feather in front of me. “She’s really there.”

He forced himself to turn the knob and open the door. The wind sighed in, bringing another faint wail with it John stood in the cold weather, peering down that long walk into the dark.

“Wait!” I cried, at the last moment.

John waited.

“There’s one thing I haven’t told you,” I said. “She’s out there, all right. And she’s walking. But... she’s dead.”

“I’m not afraid,” said John. “No,” I said, “but I am. You’ll never come back.

Much as I hate you right now, I can’t let you go. Shut the door, John.”

The sob again, and then the wail.

“Shut the door.”

I reached over to knock his hand off the brass door knob, but he held tight, cocked his head, looked at me and sighed. “You’re really good, kid. Almost as good as me. I’m putting you in my next film. You’ll be a star.” Then he turned, stepped out into the cold night, and shut the door, quietly.

I waited until I heard his steps on the gravel path, then locked the door, and hurried through the house, putting out the lights. As I passed through the library, the wind mourned down the chimney and scattered the dark ashes of the London Times across the hearth.

I stood blinking at the ashes for a long moment, then shook myself, ran upstairs two at a time, banged open my tower room door, slammed it, undressed, and was in bed with the covers over my head when a town clock, far away, sounded one in the deep morning.

And my room was so high, so lost in the house and the sky, that no matter who or what tapped or knocked or banged at the door below, whispering and then begging and then screaming—

Who could possibly hear?

Promises, Promises

When she opened the

door to her apartment, she could see that he had been crying. The tears had just finished rolling down his cheeks and he had not bothered to brush them away.

“Tom, for God’s sake, what’s happened? Come in!”

She pulled at him. He seemed not to feel her pulling, but at last looked down, saw that it might be a good idea, and stepped in. He looked around at her apartment as if she had changed the furniture and done over all the walls.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “Bother, hell.” She steered him across the room. “Sit down. You look awful. Let me get you a drink.”

“That would be nice, sitting down before I fell down,” he said, vaguely. “Having a drink. I don’t remember if I’ve had any food today. Maybe.”

She brought him some brandy, poured it, glanced at his face, poured some more. “lake it easy. Make it last.” She watched him gulp it down. “What happened?”

“It’s Beth,” he gasped, eyes shut, the tears running. “... and you.”

“Tb hell with me, what about Beth?”

“She fell and hit her head. She’s been in the hospital for two days, unconscious.”

“Oh, my God “ She moved swiftly to kneel and put her arms around him as if he might fell. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did, but I was at the hospital with Clara, and every time I called you, no answer. The rest of the time, Clara was so near, if she heard me talking to you—God—it’s bad enough having a daughter you feel might... at any moment... anyway I tried, and here I am.”

“Lord, no wonder you look so bad. Beth, now. She isn’t...? She didn’t...?”

“No, she didn’t die. Thank God, oh, thank God!”

And he wept openly now, holding the empty brandy glass and letting his tears drop and melt into his coat-front. She sank back on her knees and wept, too, holding tight to his hand.