"No."
"Yes, you are. Isn"t Isn"t he, Mom?" he, Mom?"
"You papa," said his wife, "as you well know, cries at telephone books."
"No," he said, "just one hundred fifty steps and a piano. Remind me to show you girls, someday."
They walked on and he turned and looked back a final time. The woman with her husband and son turned at that very moment. Maybe he saw her mouth pantomime the words, So long, Ollie. Maybe he didn"t. He felt his own mouth move, in silence: So long, Stan.
And they walked in opposite directions along the Champs-Elysees in the late light of an October sun.
I Suppose You Are Wondering Why We Are Here?
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 winegla.s.ses, then place and replace the knives, forks, and spoons as if he himself were the maitre 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 gla.s.s, 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, controlling his heart beat and restless mind, focusing his thoughts on the near gra.s.s 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- G.o.d, I haven"t even had a full gla.s.s 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 gla.s.ses, 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 winegla.s.ses, 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 pa.s.sed. He heard his watch ticking on his wrist Nothing. Another minute pa.s.sed. 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 G.o.d, oh my G.o.d, 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 embarra.s.sed, son," said his father. "We"re great. For a while there it was tough. I mean, it was all so new. How in h.e.l.l 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 G.o.d"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, h.e.l.l, 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, h.e.l.l, here we are on third, and like your mom says, she sometimes forgets. I can have as much d.a.m.ned wine as I want!"
He poured wine all around, and drank his, much too quickly. "Not bad!"
"How can you tell?" said the son, then bit his tongue.
But his father had not heard, and patted the seat beside him. "Come on, Ma!"
"Don"t call me Ma. I"m Alice!"
"Ma-Alice, come on" His mother slid in on one side, and the son slid in on the other side of his father. For the first time, as they got settled, the son had a chance to really look at what his parents were wearing.
His father wore a tweed jacket and knickers for golfing and high, brightly patterned, Argyle socks. His shoes were a light sunburnt orange, highly polished, his tie was black with tangerine stripes, and on his head he wore a cap with a broad brim, made of some brown tweed stuff, very fresh looking and new.
"You look great, Dad. Mom-"
She was wearing her good Lodge go-to-meeting coat, a gray woolen affair, under which she wore a blue and white silk dress with a light blue scarf at her neck. On her head was a kind of mushroom cloche, the sort of cap aging flappers wore, with ruby stickpins thrust through to hold it tight to their marcelled curls.
"Where have I seen your outfits before?" asked the son.
But before they could answer, he remembered: a snapshot of himself and his brother on the front lawn some Memorial Day or July 4 long years ago. There they were, secretly pinching one another, dressed in their knickers and coats and caps, their folks behind them, squinting out at a noon that would last forever.
His father read his thoughts and said, "Right after Baptist service, Easter noon, nineteen twenty-seven. Wore my golf clothes. Ma had a fit."
"What are you both yammering about?" His mother fussed in her purse, drew forth a mirror, and checked her Tangee mouth, etching it with her little finger.
"Nothing, Alice-Ma." His father refilled his gla.s.s but this time, seeing his son watching, drank the wine slower. "Not bad, once you get used to it It"s not the hard stuff, though. Whiskey is more like it Where"s the menu? h.e.l.l, here it is. Let"s have a look."
His father took a long time angling the menu and peering at the print "What"s this French stuff on the list?" he cried. "Why can"t they use English? Who do they think they are are?"
"It is in English, dad See. There." The son underlined several items on the menu with his fingernail. "h.e.l.l," snorted his father, staring at the lines, "why didn"t they say so?"
"Pa," said his mother, "just read the English and choose choose."
"Always had trouble choosing. What"s everyone else eating? What"s that man over there there eating?" His father leaned and craned his neck, staring at the able across the way. "Looks good. Think I"ll have eating?" His father leaned and craned his neck, staring at the able across the way. "Looks good. Think I"ll have that that!"
"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 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 gla.s.s. "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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s. 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.