Part 11 (2/2)
”You always did talk funny, son.”
”Pa,” said the mother.
”Well, he did and he does, dammit. Talk funny, that is. But go ahead, talk on, and while you're at it give me some more wine. Go on.”
The son poured wine and said, ”I can't figure them out So I've got two problems. That's why I summoned you. Number one, I missed you. Number two, I miss them. There's a joke for you. How can that be?”
”On the face of it-” the father began.
”That's life,” said the mother, nodding, very wise.
”That's all the advice you can give?” cried the son.
”Sorry, we know you went to a lot of trouble, and the dinner was fine and the wine jim-dandy, but we're out of practice, boy. We can't even remember what you were like! So how can we help? We can't!” The father lit a match and watched it flame around the cigar as he drew fire. ”No, son. On top of which, we got another problem here. Hate to mention it. Don't know how to say it-”
”What your father means is-”
”No, let me say it, Alice. I hope you'll take this in the kindly spirit with which I offer it, boy-”
”Whatever it is, Dad, I will,” said the son. ”G.o.d, this is hard.” The father slammed down his cigar and finished another gla.s.s of wine. ”d.a.m.n and h.e.l.l, the fact is, son, the reason why we didn't see you more often over the years is-” He held his breath, then exploded it: ”You were a bore bore!”
A bomb had been tossed on the table to explode. Stunned, all three stared at one another.
”What?” asked the son.
”I said-”
”No, no, I heard you,” said the son. ”I heard. I bore bore you.” He tasted the words. They had a strange flavor. ”I bore you.” He tasted the words. They had a strange flavor. ”I bore you you? My G.o.d! I bore you you!”
His face reddened, tears burst from his eyes and he began to roar with laughter, beating the table with his right fist and holding to his aching chest with his left, and then wiping his eyes with a napkin. ”I bore you you!”
His mother and father waited for a decent interval before they, in turn, began to snort, whiffle, stop up their breaths, and then let it out in a great proclamation of relief and hilarity.
”Sorry, son!” cried the father, tears running down about his laughing mouth. ”He didn't really mean-” gasped the mother, rocking back and forth, giggles escaping with each breath.
”Oh, he did, he did!” shouted the son. ”He did!”
And now everyone in the restaurant was looking up at the merry trio.
”More wine!” said the father.
”More wine.”
And by the time the last bottle of wine was uncorked and poured, the three had settled into a smiling, gasping, beautiful silence. The son lifted his gla.s.s in a toast.
”Here's to boredom!”
Which set them all off again, firing guffaws, sucking air, pounding the table, eyes gummed shut with happy tears, knocking each other's ribs with their elbows. ”Well, son,” said the father, at last, quieting. ”It's late. We really must must be going.” be going.”
”Where?” laughed the son, and grew still. ”Oh, yes. I forgot.”
”Oh, don't look so down in the mouth,” said his mother. ”That place isn't half as bad as Father makes out.”
”But,” said the son, quietly, ”isn't it a bit-boring-also?”
”Not once you get the hang of it. Finish the wine. Here goes.”
They drank the last of the wine, laughed a bit, shook their heads, then walked to the restaurant door and out into a warm summer night. It was only eight o'clock and a fine wind blew up from the lake, and there was a smell of flowers in the air that made you want to just walk on forever.
”Let me go part way with you,” offered the son.
”Oh, that's not necessary.”
”We can make it alone, son,” said the father. ”It's better that way.” They stood looking at each other. ”Well,” said the son, ”it's been nice.”
”No, not really. Loving, yes, loving, because we're family and we love you, son, and you love us. But nice? I don't know if that fits. Boring, yes, boring, and loving, loving and boring. Good night, son.”
And they milled around each other and hugged and kissed and wept and then gave one last great hoot of laughter, and there went his parents, along the street under the darkening trees, heading for the meadow place.
The son stood for a long moment, watching his parents getting smaller and smaller with distance and then he turned, almost without thinking, and stepped into the phone booth, dialed, and got the answering machine.
”h.e.l.lo, Helen,” he said, and paused because it was hard to find words, difficult to say. ”This is Dad. About that dinner next Thursday? Could we cancel? No special reason. Overwork. I'll call next week, set a new date. Oh, and could you call Debby and tell her her? Love you. 'Bye.”
He hung up and looked down the long dark street. Way off there, his parents were just turning in at the iron graveyard gates. They saw him watching, gave him a wave, and were gone.
Mom. Dad, he thought Helen. Debby. And again: Helen, Debby, Mom, Dad. I bore bore them. I bore them. I bore them them! I will be d.a.m.ned!
And then, laughing until the tears rolled out of his eyes he turned and strolled back into the restaurant His laughter made a few people look up from their tables.
He didn't mind, because the wine, as he finished it, wasn't all that bad.
Lafayette, Farewell
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