The Wednesday Sisters look like the kind of women who might meet at those fancy coffee shops on University--we do look that way--but we're not one bit fancy, and we're not sisters, either. We don't even meet on Wednesdays, although we did at the beginning. We met at the swings at Pardee Park on Wednesday mornings when our children were young. It's been thirty-five years, though--more than thirty-five!--since we switched from Wednesdays at ten to Sundays at dawn. Sunrise, whatever time the light first crests the horizon that time of year. It suits us, to leave our meeting time up to the tilt of the earth, the track of the world around the sun. That's us, there in the photograph. Yes, that's me--in one of my chubbier phases, though I suppose one of these days I'll have to face up to the fact that it's the thinner me that's the "phase," not the chubbier one. And going left to right, that's Linda (her hair loose and combed, but then she brought the camera, she was the only one who knew we'd be taking a photograph). Next to her is Ally, pale as ever, and then Kath. And the one in the white gloves in front--the one in the coffin--that's Brett. ••• Brett's gloves--that's what brought us together all those years ago. I had Maggie and Davy with me in the park that first morning, a park full to bursting with children running around together as if any new kid could join them just by saying hello, with clusters of mothers who might--just might--be joined with a simple hello as well. It wasn't my park yet, just a park in a neighborhood where Danny and I might live if we moved to the Bay Area, a neighborhood with tree-lined streets and neat little yards and sidewalks and leaves turning colors just like at home in Chicago, crumples of red and gold and pale brown skittering around at the curbs. I was sitting on a bench, Davy in my lap and a book in my hand, keeping one eye on Maggie on the slide while surreptitiously watching the other mothers when this woman--Brett, though I didn't know that then--sat down on a bench across the playground from me, wearing white gloves. No, we are not of the white-glove generation, not really. Yes, I did wear them to Mass when I was a girl, along with a silly doily on my head, but this was 1967--we're talking miniskirts and tie-dyed shirts and platform shoes. Or maybe not tie-dye and platforms yet--maybe those came later, just before Izod shirts with the collars up--but miniskirts. At any rate, it was definitely not a white-glove time, much less in the park on a Wednesday morning. What in the world? I thought. Does this girl think she's Jackie Kennedy? (Thinking "girl," yes, but back then it had no attitude in it, no "gi-rl.") And I was wondering if she might go with the ramshackle house beyond the playground--a sagging white clapboard mansion that had been something in its day, you could see that, with its grandly columned entrance, its still magnificent palm tree, its long, flat spread of lawn--when a mother just settling at the far end of my bench said, "She wears them all the time." Those were Linda's very first words to me: "She wears them all the time." I don't as a rule gossip about people I've never met with other people I've never met, even women like Linda, who, just from the look of her, seemed she'd be nice to know. She was blond and fit and . . . well, just Linda, even then wearing a red Stanford baseball cap, big white letters across the front and the longest, thickest blond braid sticking out the back--when girls didn't wear baseball caps either, or concern themselves with being fit rather than just plain thin. "You were staring,̶ Excerpted from The Wednesday Sisters: A Novel by Meg Waite Clayton All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
