The Boston Girl

Like always, Celia was mending clothes and not paying attention. She had dark circles under her eyes and she’d gotten so thin that her clothes hung off her like they were pinned to a clothesline.

Levine said it again. “What do you think about votes for women?”

She looked lost, so I said, “Of course women should be able to vote. In Australia, they vote, and in Denmark.” After a year in the Saturday Club, I’d heard a lot of lectures about suffrage and I was about to tell him all the states where women were already voting in America when Levine put his hands up.

“I’m not fighting with you. Mr. Louis Brandeis says that in Palestine women should vote; that’s good enough for me.”

“You are a modern man, Mr. L.,” said Betty.

“I hope so. And I want you all to come to eat by us for Thanksgiving, like real Americans with turkey and apple pie!”

Celia did hear that. “You never said anything before.” She looked terrified.

“Maybe you should have given her a vote,” I said.

“It’ll be fine, Celia,” he said. “Addie will help you. I’ll give her the whole day off from work—with pay.”

Mameh made a face. She had tried to teach Celia to cook, but Celia burned everything she put on the stove and nicked her fingers whenever she picked up a knife. She couldn’t boil water and chop carrots at the same time and whenever Mameh tried to correct her, she covered her face with a dishcloth. “Who would have thought a girl who sews with such golden hands would have trouble peeling a potato?”

Celia’s apartment was a wreck: pots and dishes piled up in the kitchen, dust in the corners, and a sour smell of dirty clothes. Mameh got so disgusted, she stopped going.

But I missed Celia and went to see her a lot, though I wasn’t sure Celia was always glad to see me. Instead of “hello” she would apologize for the mess and then try to clear the table so we could have tea, but first she had to wash the cups and then she couldn’t find the tea. She never seemed to finish anything and she never sat down.

But the worst thing was how Levine’s sons treated her. In the beginning, they were real monsters. Myron, who was six, was just plain nasty when Celia talked to him, and Jacob, the three-year-old, copied what his big brother did. Every time Celia gave the little one a bath, she got black-and-blue marks all over her arms.

But no matter what they did, she wouldn’t let anyone say a word against them. “Imagine how they must feel to lose their real mother. Who am I? A stranger.”

Things got a little better after Levine gave Myron a smack for talking back to her. But “better” meant that they just ignored her, which wasn’t hard to do since she was getting quieter all the time.

The day after the big discussion about Thanksgiving, Levine was waiting for me at the door when I got to work. “Your sister says no turkey. No matter what I tell her, she won’t have it in the house. It would be a nice thing for the whole family. I want you to talk to her. The boys would be so disappointed.”

I thought Levine was the one who would be disappointed, but I understood how he felt. Every year in school we learned about the Pilgrims and how the Indians gave them turkey. I wanted to have Thanksgiving like the pictures in the newspaper, too, but not if it was going to make Celia miserable. I couldn’t take his side against her.

I told him it would be better if he asked Betty to argue for the turkey, figuring she’d be able to talk Levine out of the whole thing. She was always telling Celia to stand up for herself.

But it turned out that Betty agreed with Levine. “It’s not such a big thing,” she said. “He doesn’t ask anything from us and we’re all better off because of him, you most of all. You have to help me to talk Celia into it.”

Betty hadn’t been to Celia’s apartment for a while and after being shocked at the mess, she took off her hat and gloves and started washing dishes like it was something she did all the time.

“You don’t have to,” said Celia.

“Of course not,” Betty said. “Now go comb your hair.”

After the sink was empty and the table was clean, Betty poured us tea.

“This is so nice,” Celia said and smiled like I hadn’t seen in months.

Betty patted her hand. “So what do I hear that you won’t make your husband a turkey?”

Right away, the light went out of Celia’s eyes.

“How can she cook a turkey in this place?” I said. “Do you see a pot big enough? Do you see an oven?”

“He’s her husband,” said Betty. “He pays the bills, he wants what he wants. I told Herman he could buy one of those cooked turkeys from the Italian butcher.”

“Treif meat in my house?” Celia whispered, like she didn’t want God to hear. She rubbed her hands up and down her cheeks. “No. If it has to be, you can come here to eat, but chicken from the kosher butcher.” The tea went cold while Betty came up with one argument after another, but nothing changed Celia’s mind. Finally she said, “Maybe you should go now. I have to make something to eat for him and the boys.”

As soon as we got outside, I said, “Since when are you calling him Herman?”