The Boston Girl

I almost laughed when I saw her, because she was practically a cartoon of a flapper. Her eyes were smudged with kohl and her hair was short and wet, which ma

de her look like a seal. Her toenails were painted a weird shade of orange and she was wearing a man’s sleeveless undershirt and a pair of trousers rolled up over her knees. I thought she might be about Filomena’s age.

“Sorry I’m such a mess,” she said. “But who are you?”

I said I was Addie Baum and this was Filomena Gallinelli.

“Filomena?” she said. “What a spectacular name. I’m Leslie Parker but I’m trying to get people to call me Lulu.”

Filomena handed her the letter. “You met my teacher, Edith Green, in New York last summer and made her promise that I’d call on you when I was in Rockport.”

Leslie wrinkled her nose. “Edith Green? Can’t place her.”

“You were talking about glazes.”

She remembered: “Oh, the lady potter! But look at us standing around like a bunch of horses. Sit down, sit down.” She waved us toward the couch and stared at us with smudgy raccoon eyes and asked me if I was a potter, too.

Filomena said no, that I was staying at the lodge with her.

“Did you bring her along for protection in case I was some kind of crank? And I suppose I am. But why don’t you tell me all about yourselves: your work, your love life.”

I had never seen Filomena act so stiff or talk so formally. “I work with Miss Green in the Salem Street Pottery. Miss Green is an instructor at the Museum of Fine Arts school and a published illustrator of books for children.”

“I remember her perfectly,” Leslie cried. “She works in the style of William Morris, n’est-ce pas? Arts and Crafts. Very sweet, but I’m really crazy about African ceramics. The masks, and those figurines: shocking, don’t you think?”

I could almost see smoke coming out of Filomena’s ears—not that Leslie noticed. She was digging through a pile of magazines and papers on the coffee table. “Thank God,” she said, holding up a pack of cigarettes. “Addie, dear, do you see my lighter anywhere?”

It was still unusual for women to smoke in those days, at least for any of the women I knew, so I asked if her family minded about the cigarettes.

Leslie answered as if being an orphan was a little detail, like losing her keys. “My parents died when I was a baby. My uncle has taken care of me ever since; wonderful man and devoted to me. He’ll be back next week.

“But it’s so perfect that you’re here now. Uncle Martin bought a potting wheel and a kiln a few months ago. He lost interest after ten minutes, as usual, but the whole kit and caboodle is sitting out back, and I hope you don’t mind, Filomena, dear, but would you give the studio a once-over? A friend is coming up this afternoon. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Robert Morelli? He works mostly in bronze, but he mucks around with clay, too.”

Filomena was on her feet. “I’d be glad to.”

“It’s out the side door through the kitchen, to the left,” Leslie said. “Do you want me to show you the way?”

“We’ll find it,” said Filomena. “Come on, Addie.”

When we got outside I said, “What a character.”

Filomena was furious. “She’s horrible. Did you hear how she talked about Miss Green? Who ever heard of Leslie Parker? And what a chatterbox. I thought she’d never shut up.”

The “studio” was nothing but a shed, a ten-foot-square wooden box so stuffy and dusty that we both sneezed when Filomena opened the door. She peeked into barrels of clay and looked over the tools and dried sponges. “Most of these have never been used.”

When she took the cover off the potter’s wheel, she gasped. “It’s brand-new.” She pushed the stone disk and it started spinning. “Miss Green hires men to work the wheels and the kiln; I’ve never even touched one of these before.”

Leslie poked her face through the door and asked, “What’s the verdict?”

Filomena said, “I’d kill for the chance to work here.”

“Exactly whom would you kill?” Leslie said. “Don’t answer that. Do you think the place is up to snuff?”

“It seems fine, but you should make sure the lids on those barrels are tight; it would be a shame for all that clay to go to waste.”

Leslie thanked Filomena and told her to use the place all she wanted. “Don’t be a stranger.”

When we were walking back to the lodge, I said, “Leslie really rubbed you the wrong way, didn’t she?”