The Boston Girl (8 page)

A loaf of bread fell on the floor and Leslie spilled a bag of peaches as she went to pick them up. “I got us some lunch,” she said. “But don’t get your hopes up. I’ll just be opening some cans, as usual.”

“I’ll help,” Filomena said, but Morelli put his hand on her elbow. “Wouldn’t you like a try at the wheel?”

“Come on, Addie,” Leslie said. “Let’s let them play in the mud. We’ll make our own fun.”

And I did have fun. Right off, Leslie talked me into trying on a pair of pants, which is all she seemed to own. It turned out to be much more than playing dress-up. When I put them on, my whole body felt different and I wanted to see what it could do. I took giant steps around the room and sat cross-legged and rolled around on the floor. I ended up in front of a mirror.

I never wanted to take them off, and it wasn’t just the physical feeling. I told Leslie, “It makes me want to try riding a bicycle and ice skating and all kinds of things.”

She asked what other kind of things. And do you know what popped out of my mouth?
“I’d go to college.”

She asked if I wanted to be a teacher or a nurse or something like that.

I said, “I’m not sure what I want to do.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll figure it out when you’re there,” she said, as if going to college were as easy as walking into town.

When I told her I hadn’t even finished high school, she said, “You know the Ayer School? Uncle Martin could put in a word if I asked.”

Ayer was a girls’ prep school in Boston. “I doubt they’d be interested in a Jewish girl.”

She said, “Oh dear. I thought Baum was German. Not that it matters a bit to me. I have loads of friends who are . . . why, half of the instructors at the Art Institute in New York are . . .” she stopped. It wasn’t polite to use the word
Jew
back then. So she said, “There must be other places.”

“There’s Simmons College,” I said. “They even accept the Irish, if you can imagine.”

That got her back up. “Don’t try to pin that kind of snobbery on me. There are lots of reasons women don’t go to college—if they’re Irish or Hottentot or whatever. Nobody gives a damn if a girl goes—in fact, it’s easier not to. But that shouldn’t stop someone who’s prancing around in trousers and telling her innermost thoughts to a complete stranger.”

—

When Morelli and Filomena came in to wash up, she laughed at the sight of me in Leslie’s pants. I said, “Leslie thinks someday all women are going to wear them.”

Morelli said, “The serious potters already do.”

Leslie brought out a tray with peaches, crackers, and boiled eggs, but Filomena was too excited to eat. “It was so hard at first,” she said. “I made some colossal messes, and one of them flew off the wheel and all the way across the room. I was ready to give up but Bob wouldn’t let me. And then, just like that, I got the hang of it and he’s going to fire the last little bowl I made.”

He said, “She’s a quick study.”

She said, “He’s a good teacher.”

They seemed more relaxed with each other. He wasn’t staring at her anymore and she couldn’t stop talking about the feeling of clay spinning between her hands. Maybe I’d been wrong to think they’d been flirting. Besides, Filomena was too smart to fall for a married man.

Morelli stood up and walked to the balcony door. “I’m going out for a smoke.”

Filomena picked at the clay under her fingernails, brushed the dust off her skirt, cleared her throat, and followed him outside.

“Love is in the air,” said Leslie.

I said, “But he’s married!”

She shrugged. “The wife is crazy as a bedbug—a real nightmare. They’ve been separated for years but he won’t divorce her because of the little boy. Bob is the last of a dying breed—a true gentleman.”

I couldn’t believe she was talking about adultery as if it was no big deal. As if Filomena wouldn’t get her heart broken—or worse.

When they came inside, I said it was time we got back to the lodge.

Instead of answering me, Filomena turned to Morelli, who looked at his watch and said, “I have to go into town to make the telephone call I told you about.”

Then she said, “Okay, Addie, let’s go.”

Filomena was silent on the way back so I rattled on about what it was like wearing pants and my conversation with Leslie about college. “I know you don’t like her,” I said, “but she’s not such a bad egg.”

When we got to the porch, Filomena stopped before we went inside and said she was going back later. “And tomorrow, too. I don’t need another hike through Dogtown.”

But the next day wasn’t a hike; it was a schooner sail around Cape Ann and we had talked about how much fun that would be.

Filomena just shrugged.

“He’s married,” I said.

“What does that have to do with me studying with him?”

I wanted to shake her and tell her not to be a fool and that it was going to end badly. I wanted to say, do you think he really cares about your pottery? Why can’t you see he’s a wolf, too, just like Harold Weeks?

But all of that stayed inside my head. What I said—and it came out sounding prudish and angry—was “What are you going to tell Miss Case?”

Her answer was just as chilly. “I am not going to miss the chance to learn from a master.”

It was awful. We never talked to each other like that, so I tried to lighten things up. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt that the teacher looks like Rudolph Valentino.”

Filomena didn’t think it was funny. “I know what I’m doing.”

—

I didn’t see much of her for the rest of the week. She left before breakfast and didn’t get back until right before the door was locked. There was one night she didn’t come back at all. I worried about her but mostly I was mad.

I had been looking forward to staying up late and talking—and so had she. We never ran out of conversation, and even when we talked about other people, it was never gossip. I always felt I understood myself better after we spent time together. And the way she laughed at my wisecracks and thanked me for my opinions made me think maybe I was as smart and funny as she said I was.

But she had chosen to be with Morelli instead of me.

I suppose I was more hurt than angry, but I walked around in such a foul mood, Irene handed me a bottle of Lydia Pinkham’s and said, “I figure you’re either constipated or you have cramps.”

“You don’t think this stuff works, do you?” I asked.

“Whatever’s bothering you, there’s enough spirits in there to cheer you up.”

I decided not to waste the rest of my vacation stewing about Filomena and threw myself into everything: lawn tennis, croquet, cards, charades, you name it. The only thing I didn’t do was go to the dance; I told everyone I had a terrible headache that night.

After Filomena disappeared, there was a lot of whispering and staring at our table. Gussie moved the empty chair—Filomena’s—and we sat closer together and acted as if nothing had changed. Someone saw Filomena walking with Morelli on Main Street and Miss Case stopped talking to any of the Mixed Nuts, as if it was our fault.

We didn’t talk about Filomena among ourselves until Friday morning, when Rose said, “Do you think there’s a chance she’ll show up for the banquet tonight?”

Gussie said, “I don’t know if she has that much brass.”

Irene said, “I bet she’d come if Addie asked her.”

Helen chimed in. “Would you?”

They were all looking at me when Rose said, “You know, Helen is getting married this year, so it would be the last time with all of us together at the lodge.”

I couldn’t say no to that and the truth was, I was glad for an excuse to see her.

Leslie’s door was open, so I walked in and found Filomena and Morelli sitting on one of the couches. Her head was on his shoulder and he was running his hand through her hair. He said, “Hello, Addie.”

I had never seen Filomena’s hair unbraided and loose like that, and it was as if she was naked. I kept my eyes on the wall behind her and asked if she was coming to the final banquet tonight. “The girls wanted me to ask you. Rose, especially.”

I looked at Morelli. “There’s a singing contest and skits.”

“It sounds like fun,” he said.

“It’s childish, but we enjoy it,” I said. “I’d better go; lots to do before tonight.”

Filomena gathered her hair and stood up. “I’m coming with you.”

She offered Morelli her hand. “Goodbye, Bob. I can’t begin to thank you.”

He drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them slowly, one at a time. I had never seen anything so sexy or so sad.

And then she ran out of there like she was late for a train.

—

Filomena didn’t touch her dinner and went upstairs before I read my poem. I didn’t get back to the room until late and she was already asleep.

In the morning, I found a note on her pillow and I remember every word because I counted them—all fourteen.

Dear Addie,

I’m taking the early train. I’ll see you soon.

Your friend,

Filomena

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

Levine changed his business from ladies’ shirtwaists to men’s shirts. Mostly he sold local but some of his customers were Jewish shopkeepers in the South. The day he got a typewritten order from a small town in Alabama, he decided that sending out handwritten bills made him look small-time. So he bought a secondhand typewriter to keep up and told me I should take a class so I could use it “professionally.”

Typing was not what I had in mind for my first night school class, but it was a good thing to know and it meant a night out of the house without an argument. Even better, there was an English class that met right afterward.

The typing class was in a cramped room with a low ceiling on the basement floor of the high school I should have graduated from. All twenty seats were filled, and except for two American girls, the rest were daughters of immigrants like me.

The teacher was Miss Powder, a tall, skinny lady—I couldn’t tell if she was twenty-five or forty-five. She stood up straight as a broomstick all the way to her hair, which was pulled into a tight little bun on top of her head.

Before we even touched the machines, she talked like she expected us to be a disappointment. “None of you will take this advice seriously, but there is nothing more important for the typist than hand position and posture.” She said, “An erect spine translates into accuracy on the page. Slouching is slovenly. Also men will make certain
assumptions
about the kind of girl who slouches.”

Miss Powder roamed around the room whenever we were practicing, slapping our hands if they weren’t in exactly the right position and pinching back our shoulders. As soon as we knew the basics, she brought in a stopwatch and bell to time us for two minutes as we typed
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,
as fast as we could, as many times as we could.

The bell made everyone nervous except Maureen Blair, a dark Irish beauty who was the best in the class. I was second best and Miss Powder held us up as examples for the others. She always blamed their mistakes on posture, but I thought it probably had more to do with the fact that most of them could barely read.

One evening, Miss Powder showed up with her hair pulled so tight that she looked a little Chinese around the eyes. She was spitting mad. “You will notice an empty chair tonight,” she said. “Miss Blair has informed me that as she is now engaged to be married, so she has no
need
to continue.

“I trust that none of you are considering doing anything so . . . so . . .” She couldn’t think of a strong enough word. “When I think of the poor girls who were turned away in favor of someone like
that
.” I don’t think Miss Powder could have been any more outraged if Maureen Blair had murdered her own mother.

After typing class, I ran upstairs to the second floor and Shakespeare. I don’t think I would have picked a whole class on just one writer, but it was my only choice and it turned out to be a good one. Strange, but good.

The teacher was Mr. Boyer, a short, chubby man with bright blue eyes and a thick white moustache. He had a deep voice and talked as if every other word started with a capital letter. “It is my Privilege to introduce you to the Greatest Writer in the History of the English Language,” he said. “Have any of you had the Pleasure of seeing the Great Bard’s Work on the Stage?”

Nobody had.

“A shame,” he said. “In this class, at least, you will hear the Immortal Words of one of his Greatest Works,
The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.
”

And then he opened a book and started reading the play and didn’t stop until the bell rang. He picked up where he left off in the next class and the one after that.

At first, I didn’t understand half of what was going on; there were too many words I’d never heard before and I had trouble with all those names. But it was a little like listening to music—Mr. Boyer read with a lot of feeling—and somehow after a while it started making sense.

By the time he finished the play, there were only ten students left out of the twenty-five who started. A moment after he closed the book, Sally Blaustein wailed, “They both died? After all that?” I felt exactly the same way.

Mr. Boyer’s face lit up. “Our first Question,” he said, and then, without any explanation, he started reading the play all over again. But this time, he stopped after every scene and made us ask questions about what we’d heard.

I learned a lot from those questions—not just about the play but about the other people in the class, too. Iris Olshinsky asked Mr. Boyer for definitions of a lot of words—sometimes the simple ones, and usually more than once. He never got annoyed or impatient with her or with any of us. Actually, he seemed to be delighted when anyone asked anything at all.

Mario Romano didn’t seem to like any of the characters except the Nurse. Sally Blaustein felt sorry for everyone but especially Paris, who also died for love. Ernie Goldman wanted to get the facts right: Who was a Capulet and who was a Montague? Was there really a drug that would make everyone think you were dead when you really weren’t?

I asked about Juliet; in some scenes I thought she was wonderful but in others I thought she was an idiot.

Mr. Boyer timed it so that on the last day of class he read us the last scene, and even though we all knew what was going to happen, there were gasps when Romeo drank the poison and tears when Juliet woke up and found out he was dead. When he got to the last word of the play, I felt like a dishrag.

Mr. Boyer motioned to Ernie and handed him a pile of papers and announced, “Mr. Goldman will distribute these for your Final Examination.”

He had never mentioned a final examination before. We must have looked scared to death.

“There is no cause for worry, my friends,” he said. “All I ask is that you pose One Question that has most Intrigued or Confused you about the Play.”

That seemed easy enough and everyone finished up in a few minutes. But when Ernie started to collect the papers Mr. Boyer stopped him and said—actually, he never just “said” anything. If he wasn’t reading the play, he usually
pronounced
or
declared
—but this time he lowered his voice like he was telling us a secret.

“One more thing, my friends. Please be so kind as to answer your own question.”

Everyone went right to work, but I froze. “
Was Juliet a great heroine or a foolish little girl?”
I couldn’t just choose one or the other and I didn’t see how I could say she was both at the same time like I did with Paul Revere.

Other people were turning in their papers and I still hadn’t written a word. I was starting to panic until out of the blue I remembered my father saying that Jews answered questions with more questions. So that’s what I did.

“
Was Juliet a better poet than Romeo? If Juliet found out about Rosaline, would she still love Romeo? Should Juliet have given Paris a chance? Why is love so dangerous for Juliet? Why are Juliet’s parents so blind? Was the Nurse Juliet’s friend or enemy? Would Juliet have killed herself if she had been twenty-five years old instead of thirteen?”

We sat and watched Mr. Boyer read our papers. He nodded, he smiled, he shook his head, he frowned, he laughed a little, and he sighed a lot.

When he was finished he said, “Congratulations to you, one and all, on Completing the Course. Each of you will receive the Highest Grade I am permitted to bestow. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I send you on your way. A Sweet Sorrow.”

I waited to be the last one to leave the room to tell him thank you and to ask what he was teaching next term and if I could take it.

“I am flattered,” he said, but he was retiring. I had taken the very last class he would ever teach. “That explains my unorthodox methods,” he said. “I am now Beyond Reproach. But I would like to give you an assignment, if I may.”

I said yes, of course.

He told me to go and see the play “on its feet.” You know, onstage, in person. He said he was sure I would understand Juliet if I saw her walking and breathing and speaking her poetry. “You might even come to love her.”

I’ve seen
Romeo and Juliet
maybe twenty times since then: movies, Broadway, even high school performances. Remember when I took you to see it in the Berkshires, under the trees? I do love Juliet now, but every single time I understand something different about her. That’s probably why Shakespeare is a genius, right?

Stumbling into Mr. Boyer’s class was one of the best accidents that ever happened to me. When I started teaching, I remembered how he talked to us, and you know what? If you treat every question like you’ve never heard it before, your students feel like you respect them and everyone learns a lot more. Including the teacher.