Cursing Thursdays
by Madeline Ewanyshyn
It’s a Thursday when Dad tells me that Mom has died, so I’m allowed to swear to my heart’s content.
“Oh fuck,” I say, while feeding my tortoise Henry a piece of kale, “Oh dammit what rotten luck and terrible terrible shit.”
“Mom has died. She’s dead now,” I console Henry by lightly petting his head with my ring finger.
Like me, Henry didn’t know Mom so well. But I think her reputation precedes her. My Mom was very creative. I think she was the one who started Cursing Thursdays. It’s really not so bad for us to swear on Thursdays, because that way we let go of any pent up feelings that we have during the rest of the week.
I also know that my mom loved all the fancy things in life. That’s why she named me Armani.
Names are important. Peggy taught me that. When I see Peggy at breakfast, I say “Hello Peggy, and how are you this morning?” because she likes to be asked.
Peggy is having her after-breakfast cigarette and she points into the kitchen to let me know that the toast is ready.
“Did you hear the news?” I ask.
Peggy doesn’t answer. I look up from buttering my toast. She stares at Dad for a long time, speaking a silent and secret language.
I join Peggy at the table and write her name on the table with my finger. Some people would call her Grandma or Grandmother or Grandmama, but Peggy is what she prefers. When she was in the first grade, her aunt Margaret died. Everyone said calling her Peggy made them too sad, so they made her change her name to Edith. Now that Peggy is grown up, she wants to make up for lost time.
“Do you remember what Mom was like?” I ask politely. There are certain things which you should not talk about at the dinner table. I am not as sure about the breakfast table, which is the same table, really.
“Do you remember?” My big sister Chanel walks into the kitchen with a scowl on her face. Now that she’s seventeen, she doesn’t typically join breakfast conversations.
Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s a big hand that smells of motor oil and furniture polish. He gives Chanel a look. More silent speaking.
“Are you coming with me today?” I ask Chanel. Today is not a Professional Development Day, but Dad thinks we should stay home. Of course, that doesn’t mean we should be relaxing. It’s days like these that we must work extra hard.
Our Dad taught us all about hard work. He’s a businessman. During the day, he’s always coming up with ideas. At night, he’s a janitor at the high school. Sometimes we come to visit him. I’ve learned to mop pretty well, and we bounce ideas off each other for business ventures.
We are responsible for the local newspaper delivery route. I like to think of it as the family business.
“No,” Chanel says. She crosses her arms and presses the side of her face against her shoulder. She reminds me of a snail retreating into its shell.
“You go ahead,” Dad tells me plainly. No one else is swearing today, which I find puzzling.
“Alright,” I say, and stand up from the breakfast table as loudly as I can, “I’ll do it all by my freaking self.”
I stomp away because I want Chanel to feel bad. No one realizes the burden I have. But I can’t give up now because I am saving money for a ball python—the greatest of snakes. I have wanted one since I was eight years old (I am now ten). As a future Herpetologist, I am fascinated by reptiles.
I am already wearing my best jacket with the deep pockets, so I’m ready to go. I walk out the front door and into the garage. It’s always open because the thing that closes the door doesn’t work anymore. Dad’s going to fix it.
We got my jacket at the local Sally Anne, which is a really great place that I would recommend. We get all kinds of things there. For example, the baby strollers. Our garage is full of them.
When you are looking for baby strollers, there are some important things to think about. The wheels have to work well and there should be lots of space inside. It’s okay if the frame is a little wonky or it smells damp. If you follow these rules, you should find yourself a baby stroller for under $15.
I look around the garage and consider my options. Today, I think I will take out the Cosco Flash Stroller because the hood isn’t broken, and it might rain today. I stuff as many newspapers as I can inside, and put the safety bar up so they don’t fall out.
I push my stroller out of the garage and onto the sidewalk, and look back at the house. It’s Peggy’s house. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s big enough for all of us and has a yard with long grass and plenty of space for what Chanel calls “the graveyard”. But it’s not as morbid as that. Sometimes Peggy buys a potted plant for the living room. But we aren’t so good at remembering to water them. Every time one dies, we say a little prayer and put it outside with the rest of them.
This morning, Dad had said “I don’t know if we will have a funeral.” I understand why he is conflicted. Why should we have a funeral for someone we don’t know any better than a potted plant? But I pretend I don’t care about this, because I don’t want to upset him.
I set off on my delivery route, starting with the house right next to us. This is The Andersons’ house. They are a pretty boring family, except for the Grandpa. Sometimes he comes outside when I deliver the papers and we have the most wonderful conversations. He told me how he used to work at an umbrella factory. Peggy says he’s full of crap.
I was hoping he’d be here today, because I could use some advice from a Grown-Up. But no one comes to the door when I loudly slam the mailbox shut, so I keep walking on my route.
Here’s what I know about my mom: she has—had—blond hair like me. I’ve seen photos, but they don’t match my memories (she’s smiling and her eyes are too blue). My mom, like my dad, had a multitude of jobs. She and my Dad decided not to be married anymore when I was five. We lived with Mom for a while, and then with Dad and Peggy. I don’t know why.
There is a house at the corner of Dallas and Windsor with a white picket fence and a porcelain cat in the window. They have a white door with gold trim and a gold knocker. It’s not real gold. I knock and Mrs. Kowalski answers the door. She’s wearing green slippers. I hand her the rolled-up papers.
“Well. Thank you, dear. But you can just put them in the mailbox,” she points to it, as if I don’t know what a mailbox is.
“Oh, I know. I just wanted to deliver them to you personally to provide exemplary service,” I say, hoping for a tip.
Instead, Mrs. Kowalski smiles and says “What a big vocabulary you have.”
“Thank you, Ma’am. I have a dictionary at home that I read regularly,” I reply. She doesn’t give me any money, so I leave and walk to the next few houses.
I’d almost said “my Mom gave it to me.” At least, I think she did. But I guess Mrs. Kowalski doesn’t need to know that.
At the next house, I accidentally give them flyers even though they have a neatly printed “no flyers” sign taped to their mailbox. I don’t realize until it’s too far to turn back.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. My shoulders are starting to tense from pushing the stroller. I roll them back and try to calm myself. “Everybody makes mistakes,” I say.
Earlier, in the kitchen, I wish I’d told Chanel that I do remember some things about Mom. I didn’t like the way she stared at me, like she knows so much more than I do. It’s only that some of the memories are fuzzy in my brain, like cotton balls or dandelions when they’re ready to blow away.
When we lived with Mom, we used to go to Zellers, which is much bigger than Sally Anne. I remember Chanel and I riding in the grocery cart, even though we were a bit too big. I wish I had a grocery cart with me now. I kick at my stroller’s wobbling wheel, hoping to straighten it. What did we buy at Zellers? I remember eating cookies straight out of the packets on the shelves, and hiding boxes of Kraft Dinner under my shirt. Mom would wheel us triumphantly out of the store...without any receipts. Or was I remembering that wrong?
My stomach grumbles as I approach the next house. It turns and twists—am I hungry or nervous? I’ve started throwing the papers on people’s porches. No one is around to tip me, anyway.
I remember we ate McDonald’s a lot, before we moved in with Peggy. In my head, I can picture Chanel and I sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the warm pavement of the Mickey-D's parking lot. I think Mom used to call it McToad’s, which makes me laugh.
“McToad’s,” I say, “McToad’s, McToad’s, McToad’s.”
“Fucking McToad’s,” I add.
I’m almost at the end of the street, where the library is. I like the library a lot. There are so many good books you can read. Mostly I read about reptiles, but probably my favourite thing is the Consumer Reports.
Mom would take us to the library sometimes. Our favourite game...yes, that’s right...I remember our favourite game was to open up a dictionary, find a big word, and make up our own meaning for it. I would run down the aisles and play hide and seek with Chanel, peeking my head through the shelves and sometimes knocking over books. I remember my Mom hitting me…
I frown. Is that right? Yes.
I remember Mom hitting my face and telling me to stop running around.
“Your name is Armani. You are something special, something civilized. I will not have people saying that I can’t look after my children. Do you understand?” she had said. And I think I did understand, only I’d forgotten. But how could I forget? Because afterwards, she’d said “you need to grow up now, Armani.”
I lurch forward and scream, pulled out of my thoughts. The Meyers’ dachshund is pulling on the fabric of my stroller’s seat with his teeth.
“Get off!” I shout and wave my arms to shoo him away. He shuffles back to his yard, his tail tucked between his legs. I didn’t mean to scare him.
Right now, I don’t know how I’m feeling. I can’t think of any words that would describe it. I decide to leave my stroller behind and walk to the library. The wheel’s busted and, for once, I don’t want to deliver papers.
I stomp up to the front desk and clear my throat because the Librarian is writing something down. She has a steaming mug of coffee to her right.
“Hello I would like some help,” I say.
“Library card?” The Librarian says. She doesn’t look up from her work, but holds out her hand. I always carry my library card, so I give it to her. She scans it with a beep noise and hands it back to me. She frowns.
“Armani?” She asks and I nod. “Well, honey. I don’t know if anyone’s spoken to you about this yet, but you have quite a few fines on your account.”
“That’s not what I need help with,” I say.
“One moment, let me just get my manager,” she says. I watch her walk into the secret room in the back, and can hear her quietly talking.
The Librarian returns with Librarian Number Two, who is older and wearing her glasses on a chain like a necklace.
“Sweetie, you have over $400 in fines on your account. It seems that you’ve lost or damaged quite a few of our books. You won’t be able to take out any more books until you can pay us,” she explains.
“Oh Jesus Hell Dammit,” I say and stare at the floor, feeling quite bad for myself. It’s not only my fault—Peggy reads those little romance books they keep on the rotating rack, and sometimes she spills water on them or leaves them on the bus.
“Excuse me, young lady. You can’t speak like that here. I’m going to ask you to leave,” Librarian Number One says.
Suddenly I feel overcome with emotion and I start to shake. My face gets hot and I know I’m going to cry. I don’t like to cry but I can’t help it. I start to blubber.
“Let’s call your mother,” Librarian Number Two suggests, grabbing a landline phone, “What’s the number? We can explain to her what’s going on. It will be alright.”
This makes me cry even harder and now snot is running down from my nose to the top of my cupid’s bow. These Librarians really don’t know anything, and I am so frustrated I want to scream.
I run out the door and all the way back home. I sit myself down in the backyard, among all the plants. All the dead plants. And suddenly I feel very sorry for them. I wonder if they watch as each new plant is brought into the house and then neglected, knowing what will come next.
“Are you done with the papers?” Dad asks, coming up from behind me in his coveralls. He brushes past a tall fern with dried-up leaves, drooping to the ground.
“In a manner of speaking,” I say, sniffling sharply. “But I broke the stroller.”
I reach my hand into the tall grass, past the lifeless Peace Lily, where a patch of bright dandelions have secretly been growing. I pull them up. Maybe Henry will like these as a snack.
“Well...shit,” Dad says. I think about mom and her legacy of Cursing Thursdays which is how I think I’ll remember her. I laugh. Sometimes all you can do is laugh, even when your insides hurt and your baby stroller is broken.
ABOUT THE CREATOR
Madeline Ewanyshyn is a queer writer who resides in the unceded territory of the Kwikwetlem First Nation. She is currently writing a young adult novel, running children's writing workshops, working for BCLA as the Summer Reading Club Provincial Assistant, and is an MLIS candidate. She loves to write on the themes of childhood, family, and mental health. @_madelinewrites on Instagram.