My mother never came home Saturday nights. I didn't find this odd because it had always been the case. My mother was a housewife and Monday through Friday she was there- cooking, cleaning, and instructing us boys to do this and to do that. My mother would blurt out instructions in the form of questions with a pleasant, high-pitch, raspy tone of voice. My brother and I would move our lips to the sound of her voice at her predictable instructions to mimic her, and then giggle jubilantly at our own mischief. When dad came home in the evenings, my mother would listening to him complain about unruly co-workers, the strange smells on the train, body aches and whatever else bothered him at the moment while running his bath. Every day was the same. On Saturday nights however, my mother would walk down the stair dressed up in a scantly dress with full make up and hair flowing lavishly down her fur coat. She would quietly leave the house around six, after dinner and wouldn't return until Sunday afternoon.
My mother wasn't missed Saturday nights. My brother and I took her absents as an opportunity to fool around while my father always invited his male friends from the mill over for poker. He seemed more than content to serve himself and his friends, snacks and beverages - a job mom would assume any other night. They would eat and drink until the brink of sloth and inebriation. Once my father's eyes glazed over and his button-up shirt laid open with his work pants unbuttoned- all decorated with multi-colored stains from chip crumbs, that in the same festive mood as their consumer avoided their intended destination and went astray, my brother and I would rummage over and collect the half-drunk, bottles of gin, whiskey, and wine. We would then have our turn getting drunk and full of junk food. My father's friends would wake up one by one through the night and exit the back door mumbling incoherent farewell to unaware ears and scratching themselves. We would wake up to an empty house and make the long journey up the stairs and into our beds.
I never wondered where mom went on Saturday nights- that is until she didn't come home one Sunday afternoon. Usually, when she returned Sunday afternoon she would immediately make lunch and leave it on the table so that when my brother and I woke up from our opportunistic drunkenness, we could eat. We would wake up to the smells of fresh bread and coffee and the sound of the shower running. My mom would stay in the bathroom for at least an hour- 50 minutes longer than any other day. When she came out, she was out of the tight, audacious dress she left in the night before. Her face was clean of make-up, and her hair was re-pinned in a modest bun instead of the garish hairdo she left with. My mother would join us at the kitchen table for lunch. My mother would re-assume her role as head of the household and we resume or life as if she had never left.
