CoffeeBeanShop

Wednesdays

by Jaime Nawojski (bio at end of story)

My dad was a true child of the '50's. Sure, he grew his hair out and smoked pot and tripped on acid like most of the other flower children in their twenties, but when it came right down to it, his view of what married life should be was straight out of a "Leave It to Beaver" episode. Every morning, my mom woke up at five a.m. to pack his lunch in a black plastic lunch pail. Sleepwalking in her blue terry cloth robe, she made his salami sandwiches with mustard on white, cut them into triangles and wrapped them carefully in waxed paper.

A pro by the time she was twenty-five, Mom had lunchbox packing down to a science, fitting the sandwiches perfectly between Dad's apple, his potato chips and his cookies so that no natural disaster in the world would disturb even one crumb on his precious Oreos. She had it timed just right-- when the bathroom door creaked open, the percolator was sputtering its last breath of the morning. When Daddy was tying up his work boots, Mom was pouring the steaming coffee into his stainless steel thermos with the handled lid. When Daddy walked out the back door without a kiss or a thank you, Mom poured me a bowl of cereal, some coffee for herself, lit a cigarette and waited for the sun to rise.

She and I had an understanding: as long as I was quiet until my brother woke, I was allowed to stay out of bed. Every weekday, we sat for an hour at our dining room table listening to the music of morning. It was a new composition each day-- the crunch of my cereal and the inhale and exhale of my mom's smoke kept time to the tune of doors slamming, newspapers thumping onto porches, wives shouting one last reminder to their husbands and old cars sputtering back to life. Watching my mother stare off into nothing each morning held more magic for me than any cartoon ever could. I was witnessing a great mystery and spent each day trying to decode the expressions that washed over my mother's pale face. Free of make-up, charcoal hair tied back, my mother's face was honest in the morning. I learned to read the story behind her eyes and by the age of five, knew that it wasn't a happy one. That was the day I acquired something of my own to ponder while staring off into nothingness.

When my father came home from the Volkswagon plant carrying the crusts of his sandwich and an apple core in his lunch pail, dinner was waiting for him on the table. He read the paper while he ate. By seven, he was out the door to go bowling, play softball or drink at the VFW. Sometimes Mom would have Grandma or Mary from next door over, but mostly it was just her and my brother and me. Wednesdays were the exception. On Wednesdays Mom dabbed on some perfume and lipstick. On Wednesdays, my mother smiled.

Every Wednesday night my mother, aunts and their friends would get together at one woman's house for a night they called, "Stitch and Bitch," their very own version of a quilting bee. The hostess provided the coffee and tea (and sometimes the liquor) and each guest brought some sort of snack along with whatever project they were working on at the moment: crocheting, cross-stitching, knitting. My father wouldn't agree to let my mother go unless she took me along with her, so Aunt Debbie brought my cousin, Mandy, to keep me company. Every house, it seemed, had a child-sized table and Mandy and I were expected to stay within a three feet radius from every one of them. Usually, we occupied ourselves with coloring books and finger paints, or with setting up house underneath the table, but things got more interesting when one of our mothers was hosting Wednesday night.

On one particular Wednesday when Stitch and Bitch was at Mandy's house, we played dress up and decided to have our own tea party while our mothers were having theirs. Dressed in Aunt Debbie's discards, faces smudged with lipstick and blush, Mandy and I were prepared to throw a party that would put our mothers party to shame. Aunt Debbie laid a table cloth on the small table and let us choose which cookies and pastries we wanted. Mandy and I were quite happy with our table setting. We put some plastic flowers in a vase, made place-mats for our guests and even had the Fisher Price record player set up nearby in case anybody was struck with the urge to dance to "Old MacDonald." Our party was shaping up nicely until we realized that Aunt Debbie meant for us to serve Kool-Aid to our stuffed animal guests.

It was an outrage! Our guests wouldn't stand for that! How were we to have a real tea party without any real tea? Mandy and I polled the ladies at the big table to find out what they were drinking. They were all drinking coffee and we decided that if coffee was what they were drinking, coffee was what we would be drinking. Mandy and I planned our strategy: ask nicely and if that didn't work, well, then we'd just cry and pout and whine until they were so annoyed they'd let us do anything we wanted as long as it shut us up. Piece of cake. We were in a room full of mothers who were having their one night of peace and quiet away from their own kids. It didn't take much whining to get our mothers to agree.

Mandy and I sat in our small chairs and waited patiently for Aunt Debbie to serve us our coffee. She dipped the coffee carafe slightly over each of our cups, then instructed us to put a teaspoon, and one teaspoon only, of sugar into our cups. Next she filled the cups to the rim with milk.

At holidays and family functions, Mandy and I were always the center of attention, the two blonde cousins dressed in frilly dresses, looking cute and knowing it. We knew how to work a room, but our antics never seemed to impress the ladies at the big table. For the first time in all of the Wednesdays, Mandy and I had their complete attention and we didn't intend to waste it. They all watched with smiles as we stirred our coffee and carefully placed our spoons on our saucers, just like they did. With my pinky finger straight up, I lifted my cup, nodded at Mandy and took a sip.

"Quite good!" I said, and smacked my lips. My mother, aunts and their friends all laughed. Knowing how to ride the wave, Mandy waited for the laughter to die down a bit before she took her cup in hand, just as I had. She took a dainty sip.

"The best coffee I've ever tasted!" she said, and was greeted by more laughter. We hammed it up for awhile, making our own conversation from snippets of what we had heard our mothers say. They seemed surprised that we had been listening so closely. Eventually the spotlight faded, but the glow of triumph lasted until bedtime.

Mandy and I knew that we had achieved something great that night. It was as if we were finally initiated into their world, the secret world of women. Wednesday was when they got together and gossiped about other family members, bitched about their husbands and gave each other advice on raising children. Wednesday was when our mothers became women instead of just mothers; when they swore, told stories, cried and laughed together.

And somehow, I know that my mother decided to divorce my father on a Wednesday, surrounded by other women drinking coffee, eating pastries and feeling safe. The day my parents divorced was the day I decided I'd never fill a man's thermos before I filled my own, not even if he kissed me and said thank you. I tasted what it was to be a woman when I took that first sweet sip of coffee milk and I never looked back. I wanted to be the woman that my mother was on Wednesdays. Wednesday was when my mother smiled.

© Jaime Nawojski. All Rights Reserved.

Finalist - Wednesdays by Jaime Nawojski

Jaime Nawojski recently earned her BA in Creative Writing and Psychology from Hampshire College. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and a novel. She lives in Pittsburgh with two very special guys, her boyfriend, Ahren, and their cat, Blooford. Jaime never writes anything of significance without a hot cup of coffee.

Editor's Note: "Wednesdays" was chosen for the first round for the following reasons: When a person uses a day for a title, it seems intriguing, like one is about to read a personal diary. This is a fine piece of intimate writing with a detailed and wham-bam lead-in. Jaime gives this story an interesting twist on the theme, as the main character's love for her mother builds into the character's self-defiant love for herself. Correct punctuation, no spelling errors. What stole the show for this piece: Authentic, poetic voice - even we forgot sandwiches had been wrapped in wax paper before plastic bags came on the scene. Wonderful slice of life, told in one great sentence after another, to be savored like a great cuppa.

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