The Boston Girl(22)

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Celia was buried in a cemetery in someplace called Woburn—way outside the city. Levine made arrangements for the plot, the coffin, and a hearse. He paid for a car to take the family to the burial, too, but I stayed home with Myron and Jacob.

I couldn’t decide which was worse, watching them put Celia into the ground or not being there to see it. Either way, I was sure there was no punishment I didn’t deserve.

It wouldn’t have happened if I had been there.

That’s what I thought about first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Celia would still be alive if I hadn’t been with that horrible man, if I hadn’t been such a fool.

It was my fault.

All week, neighbors and strangers walked in and out of the apartment. The men were quiet when they came for prayers before work and again in the evening. In between, women walked in and out with food and stayed to drink tea, wash dishes, and talk.

They never ran out of stupid things to say. All of them had a sister or a cousin who lost a child and never got over it. Mrs. Kampinsky had heard of a woman who dropped dead exactly one month after her son was hit by a car.

Mameh repeated the story of Celia’s accident again and again: the plans for a big meal, the knife that slipped, the policeman, the funeral in a terrible ugly place too far away to ever visit. Then she would burst into tears and scream “Ai, ai, ai,” and they would have to grab her hands to keep her from tearing her hair out. They said how sorry they were and then they raised their eyebrows behind her back. Whenever I heard my mother’s version of what happened, I felt sick to my stomach.

On the last day of shiva, the men hung around afterward, eating and drinking, talking about layoffs, the price of coal, the weather—as if it didn’t make any difference that Celia was under the ground.

I hated them.

Betty and Levine took the boys for a walk and Mameh went to lie down on my bed late in the afternoon after the last cup was washed and put away. Papa fell asleep, sitting up on the sofa.

I stood at the window without seeing the color of the sky or the people on the street. Celia was dead and I had no right to think about anything else. I would keep her in my mind forever. I would stop going to Saturday Club and get a second job. I would give my parents every nickel like Celia used to. I would be a better person. I would be a different girl.

Someone knocked on the door.

Papa woke up. “It must be Gilman,” he said. “Addie, go tell him he’ll get his rent next week.”

But it wasn’t the landlord.

Rose held out a little bouquet of violets. “It’s from all the girls at the club,” she said. Her fair skin was chapped from the wind. Gussie wore a checkered scarf wrapped all the way to her nose. Helen had a new red hat. Irene took my hand and wouldn’t let go. Filomena kissed me on both cheeks.

I felt like I was seeing them for the first time and I couldn’t believe how beautiful they were.

“Get your coat,” Filomena said. “We’re taking you out for some fresh air.”





| 1917–18 |





It was like waking up from a bad dream.

If it hadn’t been for Filomena I don’t think I would have gone out of the house after work or on weekends all that winter. She dragged me to Saturday Club a few times, but I really wasn’t ready to be in a room full of happy girls, so she took me to Sunday movie matinees instead. I only wanted to see sad pictures, which meant we saw a lot of people cough themselves to death; Filomena always picked a comedy. “Life is hard enough,” she said.

She took me to the art museum, too. It was free admission in those days. I had never been, but Filomena knew where everything was. She knew something interesting about a lot of the paintings, and when no one was around, she ran her fingers over the sculptures. She said it let her see them better.

When it got to be spring, she said we should pick a week to go to Rockport Lodge. I told her I wasn’t going.

“If it’s money, I’ll help,” she said.

When I said it wasn’t the money, she said, “Is it Celia?”

The sound of her name made me flinch. I hadn’t heard it in months. I think my parents were always bickering about stupid things—about nothing, really—because they were afraid of saying it. Levine and I talked only about work.

“Celia would want you to go with me,” Filomena said.

Hearing her name wasn’t any easier the second time and I snapped at her. “You don’t know what Celia would want. Even I don’t know. I never asked her how she was feeling or what her day was like. I treated her like she was . . . a chair.”

She knew I felt responsible for Celia’s death and I’m almost positive that she had figured out that I was late getting to her house that day. She might have suspected that I’d been with a man, because when she asked me where I’d been the two Saturdays that I had missed club meetings, I fumbled and muttered something and probably didn’t look her in the eye. Maybe she even guessed it was Harold.

Filomena touched my hand and said, “You know that she loved you and she wanted you to be happy, right? No matter what you think you did.”

I couldn’t argue with that so I didn’t answer.

“Addie, if you don’t go, then I’m not going, and I’ll be heartbroken. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” Italians are just as good as Jews when it comes to guilt.