The Boston Girl(20)

I told him that was wonderful.

“Of course, it means I’ll be moving to Washington,” he said, as if he were talking about a change in the weather. “I ship out tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

I felt as if I’d been knocked down—like when the tide had pulled my feet out from under me at the beach. Miss Holbrooke had said, “That’s the undertow. A girl was dragged out to sea last month. They never found her body.”

Harold said, “I didn’t want to tell you until everything was settled. And I’ve got another surprise for you.” He put his arm around me and walked me to the elevator. “I got us a room so we can have a proper goodbye.”

That was the moment I couldn’t fool myself anymore. Filomena had been right and I had been an idiot.

I said, “You think I’d go to a hotel room with you? Is that what you think of me?”

A bell sounded and an old man in a red cap opened the elevator grate.

Harold leaned over me and whispered, “Don’t give me that. You let me buy you fancy meals. You didn’t squawk when I pawed you from one end to the other. You can’t say I haven’t been patient. So shut up and do as you’re told.”

I tried to pull away from him but he tightened his grip on my hand.

“You’re hurting me,” I said—and not in a whisper.

Harold looked around to see if anyone was listening and said, “Aw, sweetheart,” to make it seem like we were having a lovers’ quarrel. “Now, be a good girl.”

He pushed me into the elevator, but I said, “Let me go,” loud enough so the elevator man said, “What’s going on?”

Harold had murder on his face. “Do you know what that room cost me, you little sheeny bitch?”

When he reached for the grate I bit him. I really sank my teeth into his hand.

He howled and made a fist. I started screaming, “Don’t hit me, don’t hit me.”

When Harold saw the bellmen come toward us, he backed away from me, turned up the collar on his coat, and started to walk across the lobby—not in any big hurry—as if he were taking a stroll through the park. I watched him, feeling like that drowned girl in the undertow.

When the doorman opened the door for him and he disappeared, I realized that everyone was staring at me and I took off in the opposite direction from the door. I was running without knowing where. I guess I was looking for another way out, but all I found was a stairway going down, so that’s where I went and ended up in the basement, where I was almost hit in the face by a big tray loaded with cups and saucers.

It stopped an inch from my nose and I heard “Jesus Christ!”

It was the busboy who had poured my coffee. He put down the tray and asked what I was doing in the basement and what happened to my sailor.

I started to cry.

He was so nice. He said, “It’s okay. I didn’t think you looked like the type.”

I guess everyone in the restaurant thought I was a floozy, to put it nicely.

—

I walked back to the North End as fast as I could. I kept my head down, thinking about how stupid I’d been.

I liked to think of myself as smarter than most girls, but I had talked myself into believing I was in love with a man who thought I was easy, who insulted me, who was ready to force me. So stupid.

The thing is, I should have known what kind of man he was from when we were on the dance floor. When Harold leaned down to tell me to meet him on the porch, he—I can’t believe I’m saying this to you—he stuck his tongue in my ear. I was disgusted that anyone would do such a thing, but I was also thrilled—from one end to the other, if you know what I mean.

But even after that night in the doorway when I had bruises all over my back? Even then I kept fooling myself.

I’m still embarrassed and mad at myself. But after seventy years, I also feel sorry for the girl I used to be. She was awfully hard on herself.





It was my fault.

It was barely eleven o’clock when I got to Celia’s house but the kitchen was already a disaster. There were pots and dishes on every surface and a hill of unpeeled potatoes on the table, where Celia was standing over some thick and sticky syrup that was dripping onto the floor. Jacob ran toward me, his hands and face smeared with the spill but Celia stared at me as if she wasn’t sure why I was there.

And then she started to sink, as if her knees were letting go in slow motion, until she was sitting on the floor between the table and the stove. That must have been when I realized that the pool on the floor was blood because I screamed, which scared Jacob, who started crying.

Celia’s hands were bleeding from cuts on her fingers and palms, all the way to her wrists. “What happened?” I said. “Does it hurt?”

She didn’t seem to be in pain. She smiled at me and watched me try to wrap her hands with the dishcloths as if it had nothing to do with her.

Meanwhile, I was begging her to tell me what happened. She just shook her head.

I tried to lift her onto the chair, but even though she was nothing but skin and bones, for some reason I couldn’t budge her. I kept saying, “Celia, stand up. Celia, please. Celia, talk to me.”

By then, her eyes were closed and I’m not even sure she heard me.

Finally I propped her up so she was leaning against the stove. I picked up Jacob, who was sobbing, and told Celia I was going to get help.