Evenings at Wilma's

At eleven years old, I was too young to be

left alone on Friday nights. My parents

brought me along to Wilma’s, their widowed

friend from the Canadian Air Force. My father

had been a pilot so my mother had more than

a few friends whose husbands had died in

crashes. These women were left alone

to raise children and provide for a family.

Wilma blew off steam each week by having

friends over to get absolutely shitfaced

to the point where they stayed up all night

filling ashtrays and emptying bottles.

I was left to play with Wilma’s daughters, long

haired and sturdy. We watched witch movies,

ate greasy pizza and made fun of our easy target

drunk parents, trying to make it all seem normal.

My parents didn’t care who they drank with,

whoever was willing to drink until they all ran

out of booze or passed out – these friends lived

in the south end, worked at General Motors.

I never saw Henry sober, he had a thing for

Wilma, was always there, glassy eyed with

a brown toothed smile. Once he took my hand

and commented that because my baby finger

curved out and in, that I was both talkative

and quiet. I took this in deep, no one had told

me anything about who I was and I wanted to

know something, that I was something like anyone.

Henry smelled of rye whiskey and cigarettes,

but I clung to this fortune telling moment

like a life raft buoyed in a sea of confusion,

my soul being glimpsed for a first time.

Then there was Jessie, a masculine woman

with no husband, a mystery no one would

answer, whose teenaged daughter, Megan,

was oddly protective - stood close to her mum,

loudly laughed at her jokes, fetched her drinks.

Jessie confused me with her short hair and pudgy

build, dressed in beige Dickie pants and buttoned

shirt - I had never seen a woman like her. She

smiled at me like she knew my fortune as well.

My face reddened - if my tomboy feelings meant

I was going to look like Jessie or end up with

someone who looked like her, I had better change

my ways because I wanted to be with someone who

looked like Samantha Stevens or Jeanie or That Girl.

By Saturday mornings, I felt doomed

to end up drunk and beige, talking too much

or not enough.