The Boston Girl(18)

“What are you mad about?” said Betty. “You’re the one who told him to talk to me. He doesn’t know what to do with her anymore. She’s crying all the time, even in her sleep. So I told him how she didn’t talk for a whole year when Papa brought us to America. At first, she cried so much she would make herself throw up. She walked in her sleep, too. She’s not a strong person, our Celia. She is afraid of everything.”

Betty lowered her voice. “And I mean everything. Since the wedding night she hasn’t let him near her. I mean in the bed. Can you imagine? All these months? He could divorce her for that.”

I tried to think where Levine and Betty could have talked about such a thing: across from each other in a restaurant where strangers could hear? In his office after I left? In Betty’s room?

“I give him credit,” Betty said. “He’s doing his best with her. I told him, if worse comes to worst, I can bring the turkey from the Italians. Celia doesn’t have to eat it.”

But it never came to that.

Somehow, Celia won the turkey argument and Levine said we would have Thanksgiving chicken at five o’clock, which was a ridiculous hour since usually no one got off work until six. But Levine said that was when regular Americans ate, so we would, too.

Papa made fun of the goyishe simcha, the gentile party, but the week before the holiday he asked me to tell him the story about the Pilgrims and the Indians. Mameh decided that she would make a tsimmes of mashed carrots, “So at least there will be something to eat.” Betty said she would help Celia clean the apartment and Papa went to the barber. I thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.





I thought I was in love.

You remember my cadet, Harold Weeks? Well, I did see him again.

I was on my way to Saturday Club when a man in a dark overcoat walked up to me and said, “Pretty hat on a pretty girl.”

When I realized who it was, all I could say was “What are you doing here?”

He said, “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

He’d gotten posted to Boston and “looked me up.” He remembered that I’d said something about my Saturday-night meetings and did some snooping.

Who knew you could be too happy to speak? He had gone to all that trouble to find me when I was sure he’d forgotten all about me. It was like a dream.

He said he wanted to take me to dinner and I said yes.

He talked as we walked, though I was practically running to keep up with those long legs of his. He told me he didn’t like being in the coast guard anymore. He was bored all the time and his shipmates were stupid. He didn’t sleep at all when they were at sea, and the Boston barracks were disgusting. His uniform didn’t fit and he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks.

We went to a famous restaurant that I’d never heard of where everyone was eating things that didn’t look like food to me: clams, oysters, lobsters. But I thought it all had to be good, because everything was so elegant. The tables were set with heavy silverware and wineglasses, and the waiters wore big white aprons and moved around the room like they were on roller skates.

The women were wearing beautiful dresses and gorgeous hats with big feathers. I thought I must look like a weed in a rose garden but Harold didn’t seem to mind. He was excited about the menu and ordered a huge amount of food and a whole bottle of wine.

I tasted the lobster, which wasn’t bad. But the clam was so slimy I swallowed half a glass of wine to wash the feeling out of my mouth. So then I was tipsy, another first for me.

I could hardly look at Harold eat the oysters. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he said.

He was better-looking than I remembered. His teeth were perfectly white, his fingernails were perfectly clean, and in the gaslight his eyes were blue-black. When he talked, I could feel his voice vibrate inside my head, as if I were standing next to a big bell.

When the waiter brought coffee, Harold said, “I haven’t shut up all night, have I? What about you? Are you still working at a shop?”

I couldn’t remember what lie I’d told him and was trying to think of a way to change the subject when I recognized a man sitting across the room.

“See the old man by the potted plant?” I said. “The one with the white beard who looks like he’s going to fall asleep in his soup? I heard him give a lecture about Longfellow once.”

Harold took my hand under the table and moved his leg so it was touching mine. “Longfellow, eh? I didn’t realize that you were such a highbrow.”

I forgot all about time until we walked outside and I asked how late it was. If I got home past nine thirty, Mameh might send my father out to find me, and if he went to the settlement house, Miss Chevalier would think I had used the club as an excuse to do something I shouldn’t. I hated the thought of disappointing her—never mind what would happen at home.

Harold said it wasn’t even nine o’clock and his curfew wasn’t until eleven.

When I told him I had to start for home right away, he stopped smiling. “After a meal like that, I figured we’d take a walk and have a little fun.”

I said I was sorry but I couldn’t be late.

He took off up the street with his shoulders bunched up around his ears and I really did have to run to catch up. Eventually he slowed down and put his arm around me. “I never stopped thinking about you, Addie,” he said, and when he leaned down to kiss me, I kissed him right back.