I was waiting tables on a not-so-busy evening at the Old Mill the summer before my final year of actuarial science, a discipline where you use probability to think rationally about death.

            Cycling to work was twice as dangerous as riding a bus, so Jenna argued I shouldn’t do it. I explained to her I spent far less time cycling than riding the circuitous bus route, so in fact cycling was my safer option. That’s the kind of rational approach to death I’ve been trained to evaluate.

            Moreover, cycling took my mind off the new state of relationship limbo we had entered. Jenna’s period was late by one week and counting. Our summer fling was about to end—or enter a new phase, I wasn’t sure which. I knew I had to stand back and let her make the decision “away from the bedroom,” in her words. Whatever she decided, I would stand by it. Be supportive. Be a gentleman.

            I wasn’t used to waiting. Anxiety gnawed at my stomach.

            That evening at the Old Mill restaurant I was polishing spoons, fretting about the future. A party of eight swooped in and banished my boredom: a scrum of glossy, perfumed, well-dressed individuals. Voices babbling, purses swinging, eyeglasses glinting under the track lights, they slowly paraded to the grandest table. I eavesdropped like crazy, as any properly attentive waiter should do.

            The reservation had been called in by Robert Benchley the day before. I’d been struck by how devil-may-care he sounded. Positively merry. “Will this be a special occasion requiring a cake or special set-up?” I asked. He hesitated. Here it comes, I thought, my resentment like a small blue pilot light ready to flare up. Birthday? Promotion? Anniversary? For a blind second I hated Robert Benchley and the entire spectrum of possible happy occasions he might be celebrating.

            “No… not for tomorrow,” he said.

            I pressed the phone hard against my ear. Robert Benchley was in a great mood over something—and apparently would soon have an even better reason to celebrate. How greedy of him, I thought, aware that I was being childish and irrational. Yes, irrational, because happy occasions are correlated with bigger tips, so I ought to have wished him a dozen joyous occasions at the Old Mill that summer. But I was in limbo.

            The party of eight were people my parents’ age, except for two younger wives, Vanessa and Natasha, who were blonde and exquisitely groomed, like two ornate golden trophies. Robert Benchley seated himself at the head of the table and generously invited the drabbest couple to sit next to him and his wife, Vanessa. Jim and Mary quivered like two sparrows in a flock of peacocks. They were sturdy, shapeless folk dressed in modest brown clothes. Mary’s thin mousy hair was scraped into a tiny bun and Jim’s gray hair was matted around his shiny dome in a tonsure. Jim and Mary were out-of-towners, which became evident from the many exhortations from the other couples, about sights they absolutely must see while visiting the big smoke.

            I took orders for the round of starter drinks and appetizers. By reflex, Jim and Mary declined. After hearing everyone else order, Jim partially recanted and asked me about the non-alcoholic drink options. I rattled them off, and he said, “Reckon I’ll have a Coke.” He stared hard at Mary, who shook her head no.

            When it came time to order food, I went through my spiel. I was a little off my game that night. Usually I introduce myself right away, before taking orders for drinks, but in the tumult of getting everyone seated, I forgot. Fun fact: tips are higher if the waiter introduces himself by name. A classy name doesn’t hurt, either. So, I leapt to it.

            “Hello, my name is Chad and I’ll be your server to—t—t…tonight,” I began. To my horror, I began to stutter. I could not complete my first sentence. I’d said it hundreds of times this summer, but at that moment in front of Robert Benchley’s entourage, I suddenly remembered Jenna lying half-dressed on the chenille bedspread in early May, making me rehearse my two-minute spiel time and again. After I’d mastered it, she became flirtatious with her “naughty waiter / needy customer” role-play and we had fervently, urgently made love on that nubby old chenille as if sealing a pact. I would work hard at my joe-job here; she would work hard at her joe-job at the shoe factory—and we’d save up for our future together. It was an unspoken pact. And now its very existence seemed doomed.

            After a suspenseful moment—eight pairs of eyes staring at me as I sought to control my tongue—I regained my composure and recited the menu flawlessly. New York striploin grilled to perfection, flame-kissed Atlantic salmon, delectable wild mushroom ravioli…. I had to keep the adjectives straight and know what each dish was about.

            Everyone, except Jim and Mary, knew what they wanted. Robert Benchley asked me to clarify a couple of options I’d glossed over: “Tilapia—what kind of fish is that?” and “Could you remind me what celeriac is?” I could tell he was asking on behalf of Jim and Mary, trying to demystify the fancy menu. I played along.

            The wine card was energetically discussed among six of the eight, who agreed on a Uruguayan tannat to complement the steaks. When I distractedly placed an empty wine glass in front of Mary, her mouth clamped shut.

            “Loosen up,” Jim murmured to her. “You know this means the world to her.”

            I glanced around, wondering who “her” referred to.

            Meanwhile, Robert Benchley was orchestrating the gathering. He did not monopolize or interrogate; he effortlessly drew everyone into the conversation with questions geared to their interests, especially Jim, who replied with shy disclosures about the ridiculous open-market prices of barley, wheat, and corn.

            Four more people arrived, and I rushed about rejigging tables, finding narrower chairs, and distributing new place-settings to accommodate everyone. The newcomers, about my age, galvanized the first group. Brandon was Robert Benchley’s son; Felicity was Jim and Mary’s daughter—and Brandon’s fiancée. Now everything made sense: the first overtures between the parents.

            Felicity greeted her parents without any physical touching. Reticence: the family style.

            Mary’s eyes darted to Brandon, who was hugging Vanessa, his stepmother. I watched her taking it all in: The young man’s hold on the stepmom’s ribcage, their bodies briefly pressed together.

 

            What story would I tell Jenna about this family? I liked to amuse my beloved with elaborate tales and impersonations of diners at the Old Mill. I picked an animal to represent Mary. With her pebbly skin, unblinking eyes, and wide, downturned mouth, she reminded me of those Brazilian toads that can shoot venom from their heads. Perhaps I would cast the story in faux medieval style, where Robert’s kingdom would, in due time, be passed along to Brandon. But then it hit me: Jenna was sequestered, deciding her own fairy tale. She deserved a prince, yet she was sharing her bed with a commoner. Would my stories sway her—or annoy her? Anxiety gnawed at me again; the Old Mill was a citadel of intrigue.

            The foursome settled themselves at the far end of the table, Felicity moving with silken ease closer to Brandon, who gave the impression he had an arm around her—without actually touching her. How I envied him: cushioned by every convenience born to a well-off family, with no unexpected news throwing panic into his world.

            “Hello, my name is Chad,” I said to the four, this time without stuttering, and I recited the menu. I hurried to take their orders because patrons always expect twelve orders will arrive simultaneously, no matter if the last order was placed forty minutes after the first.

            I hustled the order to the kitchen then returned to distribute water.

            “Your daughter is beautiful,” Robert said.

            Mary waved his words away like a toxic vapor. They were the Amish among us, these two who feared compliments would spoil a child.

            “I hear she volunteers in the pediatric cancer ward,” Robert continued. “Tell me more.” In this way he mollified her parents.

            Soon a warm conviviality enveloped the gathering like the aromas wafting from their sizzling entrées. Cutlery clinked on plates; toasts were proposed to nuptials and the couple’s adorable future children, blah blah blah. Robert Benchley leaned back, visibly relieved, like a conductor who could now step away from the podium and watch his ensemble playing together.

            I caught his eye, and he gave the briefest smile, a sunbeam piercing a shady grove. I tried to picture myself as Robert Benchley. I wanted to be the spark bringing family and friends together, enjoying social occasions in harmony and good cheer. People would hasten to accept my invitations, knowing it would be a delightful evening together. I leaned forward to refill Robert Benchley’s wine. Today I was his attentive server but ten, twenty years from now, I yearned to play his role: the benevolent ringmaster, the celebrant of significant milestones. The gracious host showing magnanimity toward the awkward outsiders.

            My own parents resembled the bumbling peasant and his disapproving wife, clearly stuck in the dark ages. I recognized the types all too well: Mother insecure and demanding, Father, humble and appeasing, pinching his soul to fit the niche his wife designed for him.

~

​

            Robert Benchley touched the edges of his plate of half-eaten food: delicately browned rösti, a medium-rare steak au jus, and a vivid flourish of red and green vegetables. He chewed a few bites while Vanessa described the antics of baby skunks that regularly traipsed through their backyard, prompting witty interjections from the others. More anecdotes followed, about close encounters with raccoons and possums.

            Vanessa dared to poke the bear. “And how about you, Mary, any recent run-ins with wildlife?”

            Mary’s stare froze her out. I began loading an empty tray with dirty salad and soup bowls and I heard Robert Benchley’s genial prompt: “How about it, Mary? Do you have deer wandering into your yard? I hear they’re like pests…” He broke off, chewing a morsel of steak.

            I brought the tray to the kitchen and felt the buzz of Jenna’s text. Packing to go see my sister. Back in two days.

            “Please stay one more night, we need to talk,” I texted back. I already had an inkling what her decision would be.

            The chef intercepted me, scowling because I should not have been texting. He told me to push the crème caramel tonight.

            “Too bland,” I said. “This is a flambé crowd.”

            “Not up for negotiation,” he said. “I have a shitload of crèmes and the margin’s way higher.”

            I nodded and headed back to the big table.

            Robert Benchley’s chair was empty—not a big deal. My rule of thumb is that, for a table of twelve, there’s a 90 per cent probability at least one chair will be empty at any given time. I noticed that he had dropped his fork and napkin on the floor, which seemed a little untidy, a little un-Benchley-esque. I stooped and put them on the clean-up tray.

            To the table I recited the dessert menu, emphasizing the crème caramel (by pausing and smiling toothily when I said it, a trick to emphasize “a real treat”), and took orders. Two crème caramel; three cherries jubilee. Mary demanded to know the pie menu, so I recited the six types.

            Out of the blue, Jim blurted, “Excuse me, Chad. Robert’s been gone a while.”

            “What, are you the bathroom monitor?” Mary scoffed.

            Jim said softly, “Oh my, you are funny.”

            I ignored their tiff and looked around the table. “Does anyone know what Robert would like for dessert?”

            Seconds went by while Mary dithered over pie and finally chose lemon.

            “It’s just that he left so… abruptly,” Jim tried again, causing Mary to snort. He excused himself and headed to the washrooms.

            I repeated the dessert orders, along with the beverages. As if on cue, Jim bellowed for help. All heads turned to the washrooms.

            “Oh heavens, what is it?” hissed Mary, squinting.

            The biggest man heaved himself up from the table, but Brandon beat him to the washroom. Seconds later, he shouted, “Does anyone know CPR?”

            Thanks to my actuarial studies, and St. Johns first aid course, I knew a little about choking. Because the larynx descends in the neck after the first year of life, humans are prone to choking episodes more than other mammals. With babies, the soft palate fits between their tongue-base and their epiglottis. This protects their airway when they swallow. Sometime between age one and two, as they develop the ability to speak, their larynx descends lower in their neck. But the descent of the larynx increases the shared space for breathing and swallowing—and thus the risk for choking.

            Choking on steak in a restaurant is “commoner than one might think,” the instructor had told us. But I had never dreamed I would be so close to life and death. Anything I had learned to do vanished from my mind.

            Even as I marched to the kitchen and clipped my dessert order to the wheel, I assumed the situation was under control. The professionals would resuscitate him… they would set the world ten or fifteen minutes back in time.

            I stared through the smeary window of the kitchen door. Everyone looked grim. While I watched, the EMTs labored. Brandon hunched over to one side. Felicity had her arms around him. Jim and Mary bowed their heads and prayed. In a ripple of movement, the others remaining at the table joined hands. The outsiders were no longer the most awkward but the most appropriate.

            The EMTs quickly took Mr. Benchley away, then the rest of the dinner party straggled out. I could barely stop trembling.

            Robert Benchley had an enviable life. A self-made man. A man destined to be head of the table. Welcoming, celebrating. In control. This was the life I aspired to.

            A bite of Robert’s steak went down the wrong way, and he thought he could control that, too. He assumed his trouble was a “temporary discomfort,” an “embarrassment.” In that moment, Robert Benchley did not reach out to anyone. He went off-stage, as it were, to a dimly lit washroom. He willed his body to right itself, to regain its even keel. He hid away from his guests. Away from friends and family. Even from his wife.

            In the steaming, clanking kitchen, I texted Jenna, I don’t know, maybe a customer died. The restaurant is closing early. My fingers had trouble typing the words. Please don’t go see your sister.

            I waited for her reply and heard the bustle of the final customers leaving. Please don’t go, I texted again.

            I stared at my phone, waiting. I thought about Robert Benchley. And death. And about how we are all swimmers in untested waters of life, waiting for someone to save us.