Zucchinis In The
Night
by Mary J. Breen
On Sunday,
Father’s sermon was on Ecumenism.
What’s wrong with Adultery or Impure
Thoughts or The Widow’s Mite? Anyway, he
wanted to remind us that even though we’re
still the One True Faith, everyone’s praying
to the same God. Except for heathens, of course.
So, coming
home from Mass, I thought I’d be charitable
and say Good Morning to that Joy Gibson, even
though I’ve never been able to stand her
smarty-pants English accent. There she was on her
knees in front of a tomato plant instead of
whichever God she happens to think worthy of her.
“Smashing
day, Miss Daly,” she warbled.
“Bountiful harvest! Must give you some.
Share the wealth and all that. Here, have
a—”
“No,
thank you very much,” I said as I kept on
walking. “No need for that. I'm just fine.”
Don’t need handouts from Protestants,
I wanted to say. That poor Harry Gibson, saddled
with her all these years. Probably told him she
was in the family way—it couldn’t have
been her beauty—but of course that’s
what those shameless War Brides did, all of them
trying to get a free ticket to the Promised Land
on the arm of some lonely, unsuspecting Canadian
soldier. Sure they were desperate to get away
from the rationing and the bombs, but never a
thought for the women over here, women like my
sister Edna, waiting all those years for her Tom
who, when he finally showed up, had got himself a
French wife drenched in cheap perfume and wearing
dresses that were no better than underslips. I
know the likes of Joy Gibson.
Then on Monday
morning, when I went to bring in the milk, I
nearly fell down my porch steps. There on the mat
was a pile of those zucchini vegetables. Could
have broken my hip! That Joy Gibson must have put
them there in the middle of the night. Who else
grows those things? And their shape! Besides,
zucchinis are Italian, and I have my loyalties.
Don’t want my brother to think he fought
against those Italians for nothing, even if they
are Catholics. Carrots, peas, tomatoes, corn are
perfectly good vegetables for Canadians. So that
night I set my alarm for 4 a.m., crept over to
Joy’s, and dumped them all back on her porch.
Tuesday
morning the zucchinis were back. And what did I
tell you about Protestants! Not only was there a
huge vulgar one sitting in my porch chair, this
time she’d arranged rows of tomatoes and
carrots around it, looking for all the world like
they were bowing down before a false green idol.
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