The Boston Girl(53)
Luck, on the other hand, I believe in. And it was pure luck that I met your grandfather.
Aaron was living in Washington and the only reason he happened to be at Miss Chevalier’s house that Sunday afternoon was because Rita went into a coffee shop and ran into one of her law professors who was sitting with Miss Chevalier who was interested to hear about her brother’s work and asked if he would be willing to speak to some friends. It so happened that he was going to be in Boston at the end of March for Passover . . .
Luck. I’m telling you.
The night after we met was the first Seder, so he was in Brookline with his family and I was in Roxbury with mine. For most of the meal my mother was in the kitchen telling Betty what she was doing wrong, my father had his face in the Haggadah, and Levine was trying to make his sons sit still. I was thinking about Aaron and how we were planning to have breakfast before I went to work in the morning, but I must have been yawning a lot because Betty said that if I was so tired, I should sleep there. “You can take the trolley to work from here in the morning.”
I said “No!” so fast that she gave me a look like What’s going on?
I made up a story about having to be at work earlier than usual and asked Levine if he would drive me home. I was out of there before Betty could ask me anything else.
—
That week we were together as much as we could be. Thank God I didn’t live at home, where I’d have to explain where I’d been and where I was going. Aaron told his parents that he had a lot of meetings at the State House, but he thought Rita probably suspected what was going on.
We went to cafés and restaurants in out-of-the-way places. We took long walks and talked and kissed. The kissing was very nice. We were compatible that way, if you know what I mean.
One night it rained and we went to a movie. We held hands the whole time and sat with our knees touching. I was glad we were in the dark so I could smile without having to explain why.
When we walked past Symphony Hall, Aaron told me how his mother used to take him there when he was a boy. She wanted all of her children to love music.
I said I wanted to go to a concert one day—I’d never been. I didn’t mean it as a hint or anything, but he went inside and bought tickets for the next night. We got there early and watched the chauffeurs open limousine doors for the kinds of people who were always being mentioned in Serena’s Out and About column. It was a sea of white hair and black coats except for one woman wearing a green velvet cloak and waving at someone across the lobby, with bright red nails.
I grabbed Aaron’s arm. “Do you see that woman? That’s Tessa Thorndike. She’s the other reason we met.”
Aaron asked if I wanted to say hello.
I said, “She wouldn’t know me from a hole in the wall. I hope we’re not going to sit next to her.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry.”
When it was time to go in, the swells like Tessa went downstairs and Aaron and I headed to the balcony with the regular people: students, shopgirls, clerks. I even saw some laborers’ hands on the banisters as we climbed the stairs. I heard people talking Yiddish, Italian, German, and French. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood.
Our seats were in the last row of the highest balcony. Aaron held out his hands like he was handing me Symphony Hall on a platter and told me who the statues were and how many lightbulbs were in the chandeliers.
A man in a black suit walked out to the podium and stretched his arms wide, like one of the black seabirds in Rockport that hold their wings out to dry in the breeze. Aaron whispered, “Koussevitzky.”
The music was different from anything I’d heard on the radio or from the piano at the movies. Some of the slow parts made me feel like crying, but when it got faster and the violinists were sawing away, my heart pounded like I was watching a horse race. I was listening not just with my ears but with my hands and my heart, too. I can’t describe it. It’s like trying to explain what chocolate tastes like; you just have to try it for yourself.
When the music ended I clapped until my hands hurt. Aaron said, “I’m glad you like Mozart, too.”
Taking me to the symphony turned out to be part of his plan to make me a real Boston girl. He said it was too chilly for a Red Sox game, but he took me to Harvard Yard and the Bunker Hill Monument. He even stayed in Boston an extra day for the opening of the swan boats at the Public Garden. We were on the very first boat of 1926.
I took your mother and aunt to the opening day of the swan boats every year when they were girls, just like I took you and your sister when you were little.
Aaron got the night train to Washington and I went back to my room and cried myself to sleep. When I went to work the next morning, Katherine said I looked like death warmed over and sent me home. I knew I wasn’t going to feel better in my dark little room, so I went to see Irene.
She had married Joe Riley the year before, and they were living in a little apartment in the North End. They had met at work, where he was an electrician. It had taken him months to get her out on a date—she was off Irishmen at the time—but he finally got her to agree by getting down on one knee and singing “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” in front of God and everyone. Irene admitted that he had a nice voice but said, “I had to put a stop to it.”
She was nine months pregnant at the time, so I knew I’d find her at home.
I told her about Aaron and started crying about how awful it was that he had to leave. But instead of holding my hand and telling me, “There, there,” she grinned. “It’s about time you took a shine to a nice fellow, and this one sounds grand. I like the sound of his name, too. If I have a boy, maybe I’ll call him Aaron. Would you mind?”