The Boston Girl(69)

At an Indian wedding, the bride drinks from one side, the groom drinks from the other, and then they’re married. If the husband or wife dies, the other one is supposed to give it to a young couple getting married. It sounded sort of Jewish to me.

Anyway, I’m giving mine to the grandchild who gets married first. I don’t think you should rush into anything with Brian just to get a nice piece of pottery. But it’s something to keep in mind.

—

I wish Levine had taken a picture of me with Aaron and Filomena and the pitcher. He took a dozen of us in front of the wedding cake Mildred had baked—four layers and white frosting. My mother would have called it goyishe, but it was delicious and there wasn’t a crumb left over.

I noticed my father bringing a slice to an older lady I didn’t know. I figured she was with the Metskys, but it turned out that she was a member of the synagogue. Betty said, “She was at Mameh’s shiva, but there’s no reason you would remember her.” There had been a whole flock of widows at the house after the funeral and they brought pots of soup and kugel over to the house for weeks afterward. Betty called them “the vultures,” which was kind of mean but kind of true. Whenever an older man lost his wife, there was a competition to get him. Of all the widows, Edna Blaustein had brought strudel as well as casseroles. She was one of the younger ones and kept herself looking nice. She was also the only one with the chutzpah to invite herself to the wedding party. I’m pretty sure that she asked Papa to marry her.

Betty thought it was terrible that Papa didn’t wait a whole year to marry her, but he said there was no law against it so they did and he moved into her house, a triple-decker that gave her a nice little income.

It turned out that Edna had expected Papa would take care of the building like her first husband had, but my father didn’t know anything about fixing sinks or putting glass in a broken window. And after a few years of reading and teaching in shul all day, he wasn’t about to shovel coal for the furnace.

“I almost feel sorry for her,” Betty said. “Almost.”





You’re that Addie, aren’t you?

Aaron and I went on a little honeymoon: three nights at the Hotel Edward in Rockport, Massachusetts. Our room faced out to the sea and the full moon on the water was so bright that we had to close the curtains to sleep. It was very beautiful, very romantic.

During the day, I showed him everything. We took the train that used to run around Cape Ann. We walked on the beaches and up to the big rocks in Dogtown. We poked around in the art galleries and bought taffy to bring to our nephews. We ate fish every day and ice cream two times a day.

The cliff house where Filomena and I had met Morelli was gone. Washed away in a storm, I guess. All that was left were the granite steps and the slab that used to be in front of the red door.

Of course, I took Aaron to see Rockport Lodge. The woman who answered the door didn’t want to let us in but I kept saying that I had been a lodge girl myself and please could we just look around. She finally said I could come into the parlor for a moment but not Aaron. The house was quiet, so I knew the girls had to be on an outing; there was no good reason to keep him out. “We won’t be long,” I said. “It’s our honeymoon. It would mean so much to me.”

I didn’t stop talking until she let us both inside, where she didn’t let us out of her sight, as if we were going to steal something. I don’t know what she thought when the first thing I did was head straight to the kitchen.

The closet I’d slept in was back to being a pantry and there was a big new refrigerator and fresh linoleum on the floor. The cook was standing at the door, blowing cigarette smoke through the screen. Mrs. Morse would have thrown her out for sure. But when she turned around, I realized it was her sister, Mrs. Styles. She was thinner and grayer but she still had that “Who do you think you are?” look on her face.

I had sent her a letter when I heard Mrs. Morse had died, saying how sorry I was and how I would always remember how good she’d been to me, but I wasn’t sure she even got it.

Mrs. Styles said, “I know you. You’re that Addie, aren’t you?”

I was surprised that she remembered my name.

“Maggie used to talk about you and what a big fuss you made over her pies. I never understood why she did so much baking when she was here. There’s nothing wrong with a plate of stewed fruit, and you only have to make it twice a week.”

I introduced her to Aaron, who said he liked a plate of stewed fruit himself. Mrs. Styles might have been flattered, but it was hard to tell.

A few weeks later, I got a note from Mrs. Styles with a recipe for piecrust. “My sister would be glad for you to have this. I never bother with it myself.”

I know you think my pies are the best in the world, but believe me, they’re not nearly as good as Mrs. Morse’s. Sometimes I wonder if that sister of hers left something out on purpose. Or maybe it’s just because I use butter instead of lard.





| 1931 . . . |





Some of the best years of my life.

Your grandpa loved his work. His whole life he tried to make things better for poor children, but his real calling was being a father. It was a talent with him.

As soon as our girls could sit up, he was wheeling them to the library and taking out books to read them bedtime stories. I used to listen, too. It was the first time I’d ever heard some of those fairy tales, and I was surprised at how scary some of them were. Your mother didn’t sleep for a week after “Rumpelstiltskin.”