The Toynbee Convector

She leaned forward almost convulsively and shouted at him: “How could you possibly have promised God that?”

“I had to, I did, it was the only thing I could think of.” He slid down off the chair, and reaching the floor began to edge toward her, reaching out. “I was frantic, don’t you see? Frantic!”

She pushed herself back from him, to increase the space between as he advanced. She looked at the window, the door, as if seeking escape and then said, almost as loud as before:

“You know that I’m now a Catholic—”

“I know, I know.”

“A new one. Do you see the position you’ve put me in?”

“I didn’t put you in a position, life did, my daughter’s accident did. I had to make the promise to save her! What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m in love with you, that’s what’s wrong!”

She jumped up, wheeled about, then spun back to seize her own elbows and lean down at him.

“Don’t you see, you just can’t go around promising God things like that! You fool, you can’t take it back now!”

“I don’t want to take it back,” he replied, looking up at her, stunned. “You—you can’t make me!”

“Tom, Tom,” she explained, “I am deeply religious. Do you think for a moment I would demand such a thing of you? Christ, what a mess! A promise is a promise, you must keep it, but that puts me out in the cold. And if you broke that promise, I wouldn’t much like you any more for being a liar, a liar to my new God and my new faith. Good grief, you couldn’t have done a better, lousier job if you had planned it!”

Seated on the floor, he now had to push himself back, then wipe his cheeks with the back of one hand.

“You don’t think—?”

“No, no. After all, it was an accident, and she is your daughter. But you could have thought, taken time, considered, been more careful, what you said!”

“How can you be careful when you’re felling out of a twenty-story building and need a net?”

She stood over him, and her shoulders slumped as if he had shot her through the chest. She felt herself fell all the way down, even as he described it. If there was a net anywhere, he couldn’t share it. When she hit bottom and found herself still alive, she forced a few trembling words out:

“Oh? Tom, Tom, you—”

“I’m crying over two things,” he gasped. “My daughter, who almost died. And you, who might as well be dead. I tried to choose. For a wild moment I thought, there is a choice. But I knew God would see through any damned lie I tried to make up. You can’t just promise and pray and then forget it as soon as your daughter opens her eyes and smiles. I am so grateful now I could explode. I’m so sad about us, you and me, I’ll cry all week and my wife will think it’s just relief that Beth’s coming home.”

“Shut up,” Laura said, quietly.

“Why?”

“Because. The more you talk, the less I can find to answer you with. Stop driving me into a corner. Stop killing me in her place. Stop.”

He could only sit, growing heavy and immovable, as she turned and went in blind search of a glass and something to put in it. It took her a long while to pour and then a longer while to remember to drink whatever it was. Faced away from him, she looked only at the wall and asked:

“What did you say in your prayer?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Yes, you can. My God in heaven, Tom, what did you say that was so damned irreversible!” He flushed and turned his face this way and that, not able to look at her.

“Do you mean the exact words—”

“The ex

act ones. I want to hear. I demand to hear. I deserve to hear. Say it.”

“God,” he said, his breath uneven, “this reminds me of my mother making me say prayers when I was five. I hated it I was embarrassed, I couldn’t see God anywhere, I didn’t know who I was supposed to be talking to. It was so terrible, my mother gave up. Years later, I learned to pray, on my own, inside. All right, all right, don’t stare at me that way. Here’s what I said—”