The Boston Girl(50)

I didn’t answer him and from then on he got nothing but the cold shoulder from me. Finally he went back to acting like I didn’t exist, which was a relief.





Never apologize for being smart.

I didn’t see much of Miss Chevalier. She didn’t have a lot to do with the Saturday Club anymore and neither did I. Gussie was still a gung-ho member, but after Irene got married I sort of lost interest.

So when I ran into Miss Chevalier on the street after work, it was like seeing a rainbow. Except for a little gray in her hair and a few lines on her face, she hadn’t changed much in ten years. She was still wearing the same sensible tie-up shoes and her smile still made me feel like I’d won a prize. I asked about the library and Miss Green. She asked about my family and how I liked my job.

I don’t know why, but instead of saying what you’re supposed to say, which is, “It’s fine,” I went off about how the men in the office treated me like I was a servant and that I hated writing about how Mrs. Porridge served pink petits fours in honor of Mrs. Pudding, or who won the dahlia competition. I said, “I’m glad my name isn’t on that damn column.” It just spilled out of me.

Miss Chevalier said, “Oh dear.”

I was still writing Seen and Heard, but with strict orders to stay away from Cambridge and anything “controversial.” I also had to stick to the top of the Social Register and talk only to hostesses or chairladies, which meant that every program was “enlightening” and every speaker “distinguished.”

There were a lot of times I wanted to change “distinguished” to “over the hill,” but I didn’t want to lose my job. It wasn’t perfect, but in a newsroom at least you’re never bored, what with the crackpots on the telephone, the reporters’ tantrums, and the excitement when a story comes in late and a whole section has to be changed at the last minute.

But why was I kvetching to the woman who was my . . . what should I call her? My mentor? My guardian angel?

I said I was sorry.

“Never apologize for being smart,” Miss Chevalier said. “Why don’t you come to my house on Sunday afternoon. I’m hosting a few friends and I promise there won’t be any petits fours. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the conversation.”

I went, of course. I was curious to see where she lived and I wanted to say hello to Miss Green. Even though we had never had much to do with each other, she was the only person I knew who cared as much about Filomena as I did. I was missing Filomena a lot. She sent me a postcard every month, so I knew she was thinking of me, but it wasn’t much comfort when I was feeling blue.

The Ediths were living in an old brownstone in the South End—the kind where you go up a flight of stairs to get to the front door and all the rooms have high ceilings and tall windows. It was on one of those wonderful blocks with a strip of grass and trees in the middle of the street. There was an elegant marble fireplace in the living room, but the paint was peeling on the woodwork and the rug was a little threadbare. Shabby-genteel, if you know what I mean.

There were no tea cakes or even tea, just as Miss Chevalier promised. She served sandwiches and coffee, which seemed much more modern to me.

I was sorry that Miss Green was under the weather and didn’t come downstairs. But when I saw her paintings on the walls, in my mind I started writing a letter to tell Filomena about how her teacher’s purple skies and yellow hills reminded me of the tinted postcards she sent from New Mexico. I could imagine Filomena reading that and smiling.

Miss Chevalier introduced me to her friends, and what an impressive bunch. I met the president of the Women’s Educational and Industrial Union, the director of the Boston school lunch program, a history professor from Wellesley College, and a lady doctor with a thick German accent.

The room was buzzing with conversations about politics and books—I didn’t hear a single word about dahlias or summering in Manchester. I remember thinking how nice it was that these old ladies had such good friends.

Ha! Those “old ladies” were probably in their fifties. Being eight-five gives you perspective. It also gives you arthritis. Maybe you should stitch these pearls of wisdom on a sampler. Do you even know what a sampler is?

Not everyone was “old.” There were a few girls like me, in their twenties, and they were interesting, too: a social worker for the city health department, a librarian, a high school teacher, and a law student.

When I found out that Rita Metsky, the law student, was going to Portia Law School, I said I knew someone who had graduated from there. “Do you know Gussie Frommer?”

She smiled. “Everybody knows Gussie.” We traded stories about my outgoing friend, but Rita kept looking at the clock on the mantel and frowning. “My brother is supposed to give a talk and he should have been here by now. I told him I’d kill him if he kept these women waiting.”

When he did arrive—out of breath and carrying a suitcase—he said the train from Washington was late and apologized like he had nearly missed his own wedding. Miss Chevalier told him to take a minute and have a cup of coffee. He winked at Rita. “My sister would tell you I don’t deserve it.”

You couldn’t miss the resemblance between Rita and Aaron Metsky. They were both about four inches taller than me, with dark brown eyes; thick, almost black hair; and thin, straight noses, except that his was a little bit flattened on the end, like a hawk—but handsome.