“Bobby.” The mother screamed as she grabbed the four-year-old from behind and uprooted him from his standing position on the kitchen chair.
“Ow,” Bobby yelled.
“Just what do you think you're doing with that knife?” she asked, still breathing heavier than she ever felt she had.
“The toaster told me to.”
“What?”
“The toaster told me to.”
“What?”
“The toaster.”
“I know,” she interrupted, “the toaster told you to. My god.”
The mother set the child down, setting herself onto the chair his feet had just been in, and slowly turned him to face her.
“Bobby. You just put a knife into the toaster. Why would you do that? We've talked about danger, and things not to do, and this was definitely one of those things Bobby.” The mother inhaled deeply. still trying to catch her breath. “So why did you do it?”
“The toaster told.”
“Stop,” she yelled, before lowering her voice in an attempt at placidity. “Toasters can't talk. Please, Bobby, tell me what you were doing?”
“Mom, I told you the toaster.”
“Bobby,” the mother's voice continued to rise and fall, “there is no such thing as a talking toaster.”
“I beg to differ.”
“You what?” she asked as she grabbed Bobby's shoulders before realizing the sound hadn't come from him.
The mother looked toward the door, the window, and the old yellow corded phone sitting on its perch.
“See,” said Bobby as he pointed at the toaster.
“No, I don't see, Bobby. How did you do that?”
“Well it's not exactly magic, but it's a bit more complex than a tongue and a voice box,” replied the appliance that had previously been known only to take up space and occasionally burn bread.
“Pinch me Bobby.”
“Ow, what the ... Thanks.” The mother said as she picked up her son, still in his blue flannel superhero pajamas, and set him on her lap. One arm fell across the boys waist while the other hand held her own head as if suffering from a migraine.
“See,” said Bobby.
“Yes, I see Bobby. I see.”
The mother and son sat quietly in the kitchen. Not thinking, not talking, not waiting, just sitting.
“Well?”
The mother jerked her head at the sound of the still unfamiliar voice.
“You seem to be taking this better than I expected,” continued the toaster.
“The world is full of strange things,” she said as she set her son down once again and stood from the chair. “Bobby, why don't you go into the other room and play now.”
Bobby ran from the kitchen, his blue flannel pajama feet slipping a little with each step.
The mother turned to the counter and the 10-year-old toaster that had apparently learned to talk. She grabbed the cord right below the plug as if it were a skinny human throat.
“I've accepted the unacceptable here, and I really don't even care. I just want to know one thing.” The mother spoke directly to the toaster now. “Why in the hell did you risk my son's life by telling him to put a knife in you?”
“I'm sorry,” replied the crumbly voice, “I had to.”
“You what?”
“I had to.”
The Mother's hand squeezed the cord even harder, although it barely seemed to affect the toaster's voice as it continued.
“I've been talking for years, telling you to have a grapefruit, or a salad for lunch, or to even stay home from work, and you do. You listen. You listen, but you never talk back.”
The mother felt she knew where this was headed, but didn't say a word.
“I had to make it count. If there was nothing at stake you'd never grasp the truth. So I had to make it count. There had to be something to lose.”
“My god,” the mother said as she wrenched the cord from the outlet. “You're as bad as a human,” she let the toaster fall into the trash, “you think you're using logic.”
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