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Show house/ 422 Brian was morose, sitting pale on the bed when I finally ent to him, an unread book open on his lap. Tucked inside he cover was his flight schedule and ticket for the plane that ould iH take him to San Diego on Saturday. I sat beside him, holding of unspoken thoughts is. hand, speaking of incidentals. The silenceAwas like a great lack bush growing up between us. Esgl I wandered into the kitchen and eered into the oven. I had never used it, couldn't even seem ;o find the proper knob to fire it up. I stared into the black nterior, imagining myself embracing a slippery turkey as I tuffed it - with what? - and baking a mysteriously-concocted de, all purchased with my good looks at the supermarket. '. imagined Brian coming to the dining room after precious hours spent thumbtwiddling and thinking, coming in to find the turkey 'rozen at the center, the pastry like rubber, the candles droopy. '• imagined him asking that I return the ring so that he can lock it for the price of supper. Oh, if only I could build i bonfire! I thought. I could cook in a bonfire. Potatoes, -orn, maybe even turkey. Bonfires were simpler, and warmer, too. The ringing of the telephone started me. Its echo filled "e with hope and fear. I t could be the call Brian had been siting for, from his CO. But it was my mother. "Honey," Her voice was sweet, sweeter than marshmellow yams. "The family is getting together for Thanksgiving dinner. It "ill be held at Uncle Arthur's garage - you know, where our meetings « n held? Can you come? And bring Brian along?" I had not told my mother that Brian and I wanted to marry/ ^^** afraid that something would go wrong - as it had, indeed, gjne all wrong. Bub aim Had. guided me from nightmares and washed |