could do about the world. Nothing they could
ever do.”
“Are you—”
“And what did they get for wanting? They wanted the world to be different, T. You can be sure of that. They wanted the world to be a good place, full of holiness and wonder. We all do.”
“It—”
“But what did they get? They got burning to death.” “Lis—”
“They got watching their children burn. Their children and their babies. Babies , T. Little children, toddlers holding their toys, babies with those wide eyes . . . mothers had to watch their children die right in front of them, trapped in the burning buildings. Children die faster than adults. And their mothers had to watch it. Choking from smoke inhalation while they burned to death. Hundreds and thousands of babies. Watching them cry that sweet baby cry as their little faces burned away to a crisp.”
She spooned up her soup, shaking her head. His own utensils lay untouched on the placemat.
“And you don’t like that poor china girl holding the cute baby sheep? Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
There was a tinge of hysteria, certainly.
She paused to reach for the salad tongs and he leaned forward and laid a hand on her arm.
“Mother. Listen,” he said gently. “Isn’t it sort of a stretch? The firebombing of Dresden and my opinion of a toilet ornament?”
She shook her head, frustrated.
“Your generation thinks that wanting means getting. But most of the people in the whole world . . . for them what they want has nothing to do with their life, with what their life actually is.”
“I realize that.”
“Here people want something, they get it, and they say that’s, you know, happiness. Or success. And those other people, those poor people everywhere . . . I mean there’s nothing to envy, they live in terrible privation and I pray for them every day, but one thing they have you and your friends will never have.”
“What’s that?”
“Longing, dear. Longing makes the soul. Without it . . .” She gazed at him sadly.
“. . . the soul has nothing. It just gets forgotten.”
What rose in him was tenderness—he was sorry. He wanted to comfort her.
•
His father called him one day at work. He stepped out of a meeting in his conference room to take the call at his desk.
“Hey, kid.”
A forced tone of good cheer. “Where the hell are you?”
“I’m just driving. Stopped for a cup of coffee. Wanted to let you know I’m doing A-OK.”
“You need to call my mother. You’ve been together thirty years, you can’t tell her you’re taking off?”
There was a dull buzz on the other end of the line. “Dad? You hang up?”
“You know, there comes a time . . .” His father’s voice trailed off.
“She’s staying at my house. Call her on the phone there. She’s the one you need to talk to.”
“Easier said than done, my boy.”
“I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m saying it’s your duty.” There was silence on the line again.
“It’s not a mid-life crisis, you know.”
“You already had one of those. When you got the hair plugs.”
“This is not a mid-life crisis.”
“I need for you to call her now. This is between the two of you. Seriously, you don’t think you owe it to her? A few words?”
“Did you ever have a dream so real it felt like you were awake?”
“Uh, yeah. I guess.”
“What if one day you woke up and you realized your whole life had been a dream like that? Your whole life, from some point where you fell asleep, was only a dream. The kind that tricks you into thinking you’re wide awake.”
T. was quiet, waiting. He looked around his office, the receiver pressed against his ear, and thought he saw a shade descend on it, roll dimness down the walls. A cloud had moved in front of the sun: his office had a weather all its own, and here he was, suddenly old. With the night coming on.
“My whole life was like that,” went on his father, over the static. “From when I left college, from
ever do.”
“Are you—”
“And what did they get for wanting? They wanted the world to be different, T. You can be sure of that. They wanted the world to be a good place, full of holiness and wonder. We all do.”
“It—”
“But what did they get? They got burning to death.” “Lis—”
“They got watching their children burn. Their children and their babies. Babies , T. Little children, toddlers holding their toys, babies with those wide eyes . . . mothers had to watch their children die right in front of them, trapped in the burning buildings. Children die faster than adults. And their mothers had to watch it. Choking from smoke inhalation while they burned to death. Hundreds and thousands of babies. Watching them cry that sweet baby cry as their little faces burned away to a crisp.”
She spooned up her soup, shaking her head. His own utensils lay untouched on the placemat.
“And you don’t like that poor china girl holding the cute baby sheep? Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
There was a tinge of hysteria, certainly.
She paused to reach for the salad tongs and he leaned forward and laid a hand on her arm.
“Mother. Listen,” he said gently. “Isn’t it sort of a stretch? The firebombing of Dresden and my opinion of a toilet ornament?”
She shook her head, frustrated.
“Your generation thinks that wanting means getting. But most of the people in the whole world . . . for them what they want has nothing to do with their life, with what their life actually is.”
“I realize that.”
“Here people want something, they get it, and they say that’s, you know, happiness. Or success. And those other people, those poor people everywhere . . . I mean there’s nothing to envy, they live in terrible privation and I pray for them every day, but one thing they have you and your friends will never have.”
“What’s that?”
“Longing, dear. Longing makes the soul. Without it . . .” She gazed at him sadly.
“. . . the soul has nothing. It just gets forgotten.”
What rose in him was tenderness—he was sorry. He wanted to comfort her.
•
His father called him one day at work. He stepped out of a meeting in his conference room to take the call at his desk.
“Hey, kid.”
A forced tone of good cheer. “Where the hell are you?”
“I’m just driving. Stopped for a cup of coffee. Wanted to let you know I’m doing A-OK.”
“You need to call my mother. You’ve been together thirty years, you can’t tell her you’re taking off?”
There was a dull buzz on the other end of the line. “Dad? You hang up?”
“You know, there comes a time . . .” His father’s voice trailed off.
“She’s staying at my house. Call her on the phone there. She’s the one you need to talk to.”
“Easier said than done, my boy.”
“I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m saying it’s your duty.” There was silence on the line again.
“It’s not a mid-life crisis, you know.”
“You already had one of those. When you got the hair plugs.”
“This is not a mid-life crisis.”
“I need for you to call her now. This is between the two of you. Seriously, you don’t think you owe it to her? A few words?”
“Did you ever have a dream so real it felt like you were awake?”
“Uh, yeah. I guess.”
“What if one day you woke up and you realized your whole life had been a dream like that? Your whole life, from some point where you fell asleep, was only a dream. The kind that tricks you into thinking you’re wide awake.”
T. was quiet, waiting. He looked around his office, the receiver pressed against his ear, and thought he saw a shade descend on it, roll dimness down the walls. A cloud had moved in front of the sun: his office had a weather all its own, and here he was, suddenly old. With the night coming on.
“My whole life was like that,” went on his father, over the static. “From when I left college, from
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