SELLING THE LITE OF HEAVEN by SUZANNE STREMPEK SHEA

Author:SUZANNE STREMPEK SHEA
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: SOC035000
Publisher: POCKET BOOKS
Published: 1994-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

13

♦ ♦ ♦

WE WERE PASSING THIS GIGANTIC MAPLE TREE WHEN HE SAID it, and I remember I all of a sudden wished that I were that tree, which by then was about a half mile back, where it would be staying for the rest of its life, a span of seven or eight decades that never would include having to introduce its mother to its boyfriend.

Maybe during that time a few cars would slam into its trunk. Or somebody would take a chain saw to one of its limbs. Or some disgusting strain of beetles would bore through its bark and implant there an infestation of worms that would slowly eat into the wood and little by little, in a grossly disfiguring manner, kill it. Any of that I would have preferred to the prospect of subjecting perfect Eddie to the disapproving eyes through which my mother views everything but her own reflection.

So when Eddie said, “I think it’s about time I met your parents,” I turned and stared jealously at the maple, then said, “Nah, why don’t we wait a while?”

Eddie said he didn’t think that was a good idea. “It’s been eight months—and we’re in love,” he said. “Don’t you think it’s important that I get to know them, and they me?”

Eddie often said things like “and they me?” where I might say “and them get to know me.” The thing is, I never felt inferior because I realized my incorrect grammar through just listening to him—not his correcting me. As I thought of this, and of the fact that he unabashedly said things like “we’re in love,” I had another pang of affection for him, and thought OR, whatever he wants he can have.

When I backed down and told Eddie that we’d have to set something up someday, he asked how about Thanksgiving, since that was practically right around the corner? “In the same day,” he pointed out, “we could visit with both my family and yours.” This was said with great expression, like it was some kind of a good idea.

So that’s why I was up at 5 A.M., as I had been on Easter. Only this time I was watching my mother, who had just pushed the back of a safety pin into its catch and gently patted the engagement ring she had safely secured to the front of her apron, lean forward, and plunge her left hand far into a gaping cavity that not twenty-four hours ago held the functioning, pulsating vital organs of the bird that was to be our Thanksgiving turkey. Her eyes were fixed on the pantry door as she felt around inside the body for anything that might be out of place. “You never know,” she told me, “they could leave anything in here.” I didn’t want to know exactly what that might be. I had my own guts to think about, and right then they felt just like the turkey’s, pulled from their attachments and all gushed together in

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