"What's Left Of Tuesday"
-Haze McElhenny
What's Left of Tuesday She holds her hands tight in a knotted ball of fingers, twisting the ring of five silver bells and five thin threads that weave twice around the fourth. She catches light with both hands, spills it carelessly into the center. She catches the light once more and tells him a story. "Tell me again." he says. Nodding, pressing her with a soft "please" drawn out in a long breath. He presses until she unfolds her hands, palms down; until she licks her lips and begins again.
"By Thursday the shine from Grandmother's brushing is worn from my hair and I'm left with the memory of language, drilled and learned by rote, until the rotation of please and thank you is flawlessly rendered in Yiddish and crisply brought out from the back of my German throat. By Thursday I'm in the kitchen with my mother and she is worn; a graying, squat and battered mother, faded as the green apron with far-more-faded yellow flowers. The apron has a hole in the pocket. She says her life fell through that hole so she leaves it, tattered at the edges, hoping her life will return the very way it left. Sometimes it's best to stay quiet and I stay very quiet. I watch as Mother's hands redden, working against the grease in the dishpan and the residue of dinner on the plates. I watch as steam from the too hot water twists up towards her face and disappears in the sick pallor of fluorescent light. I watch and dry each dish as she brings it out. Turning it then, face down, to the table where an old blue towel is spread for the stacks of dinnerware. Plates, utensils, pots and pans are left there until they are absolutely dry, only then to be put back up into the cupboard. I watch mother's back and the veins of her legs coiling varicose to her knees. I 'm caught by the thought that those veins, the ones that weave their way beneath her skirt, are the same color as the towel. I'm caught in something that sounds like Grandmother's voice, something that sounds like "I should never have veins the color of my mother's towels." I'm caught but I remain quiet knowing that sometimes it's best. In three days I will be taken, bags and baggage, to Grandmother's house. I will be taken and left in a warm house, in the care of a grandmother whose veins are less like my mother's towels. On Saturday mornings by 9 AM, I'm in her kitchen, an eager pupil properly-poised and straight-backed, properly repeating the words that churn effortlessly from her throat. On Saturday mornings, by 9AM, the lessons of "coming out" begin with the lessons of language, denied by her father as shame, and with the lessons of etiquette my father abhors as useless. By noon my hair shines from her brushing and I become a different girl in a brand new dress, a different girl with a touch of powder and blush, a different girl who will not have varicose veins the color of old blue towels. By noon on Saturdays, I am an Arian-Jewish girl schooled under Grandmother's Third Reich edict. I am her prodigy being taken to tea. Sometimes, "Tea" is served in Scranton, within the elegantly flocked walls of proper Victorian parlors where aging ladies-in-lace pass small, crust-less sandwiches and share their stories of past lives. Other times we join Grandmother's clique at The Patio where "Tea" is served with strawberry pie. The strawberry pie is piled with six inches of whipped cream, filled and garnished with fresh, red fruit. These ladies share their stories too. But these are stories of cotillion, of granddaughters photographed for the "Society Section" in frou-frou hair, scratchy lace, and tight-toed shoes. These are stories where everyone has the proper "my life is perfect" smile permanently etched on perfectly powdered faces. There is no past here. There is only the future, a future that promises the right wedding to the right boy on just the right day in the perfect month of June. At this particular time, I am still too young to be debbed but not too young to be encouraged. I am encouraged to speak with proper diction, encouraged to smile with just enough sincerity, and encouraged to leave at least half of the wonderful sweet dessert on my plate. I am encouraged to beam and speak in German and then again in Yiddish. I am encouraged to dazzle. If I shine brightly, grandmother pats my knee, smiles appropriately, and says that she has taken me under her wing. She says that I will not be like my mother and that I will never work in the mill. Each of grandmother's clique nods approvingly and offers further encouragement. Each blesses my future and recites their acknowledgement that I will, surely, be accepted by the committee. I leave half of the pie on my plate, the fork to the side, tines down. No matter how much I long for another bite, I leave the fork as it lies. The waitress asking if I would like it wrapped and grandmother's swift decline only serves to encourage me further. I smile and nod folding my hands in my lap while the pie is taken away. After the check is passed and paid, the ladies rise and smooth their skirts. They smile and nod, taking my grandmother into the fold of their pack. They lead with swift scented breezes and I follow, head down, still thinking about the pie. Saturday turns to Sunday and there is the endless droning of what I must learn; what my mother does not teach me because, "She simply doesn't know". There is more sitting in the kitchen, identifying the proper fork; more remembering to leave at least half of what is brought on the plate, to be taken away. There is the incessant sound of the brush and more brushing up. My hair shines in the afternoon sun as father collects me. Nodding sternly at his mother, he loads my bags into the car. There is no talk on the way home, nothing but brooding and silence. At home, my mother is in the kitchen, standing over the dishpan, hands working in steaming water. My sister has taken my place behind her never looking at her legs. There is only the sudsy sound of washing, only the drying squeak and the blue towel, grandmother's voice in my head."
She looks away. Decades passed and the tearing of "weekend have-weekdays have not" still blisters on her face. He moves to her, holds her, and smoothes her hair. She knots her hands in his sleeve, silver bells and woven threads catch in the folds. She wonders what's left of Tuesday, if it really must be left on the plate.
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