The Toynbee Convector by Ray Bradbury Page A

that man over there eating?” His father leaned and craned his neck, staring at the able across the way. “Looks good. Think I’ll have 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 ?”
    “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 glass. “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 glass 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 glass. 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.
    “No, it’s not, and you know it” The father picked up a fork and drew a picture of the place on the tablecloth. “It’s too damn small, too far from everywhere. No view. And, the heating, my God, the heating!”
    “Well, it does get cold in the winter,” admitted his mother.
    “Cold, hell. So cold it runs cracks up one side and down the other of all the places out there. Oh, and another thing. I don’t like some of our neighbors.”
    “You never liked neighbors anytime, anywhere, anyhow,” said his mother. “People next door moved out Thank God, you said. New people moved in: Oh, God, you said.”
    “Well, these are the worst, they take the cake. Son, can you do anything about it?”

“Do?” said the son, and thought my God, they don’t know where they’ve come from, they don’t know where they’ve been for twenty years, they can’t guess why it’s cold—
    “Too hot in summer,” added his father. “Melts you in your shoes. Don’t look at me