The Boston Girl

“I know talent.” He squeezed my thigh. “That was a real lucky night for me. But then, I’m a lucky man.”

Harold stopped the busboy from refilling my coffee cup and asked for the bill. “I’ve been assigned to the coast guard commander’s office. My father may have had a hand in that. But I don’t care; it’s a way out of that damn barrack.”

I told him that was wonderful.

“Of course, it means I’ll be moving to Washington,” he said, as if he were talking about a change in the weather. “I ship out tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

I felt as if I’d been knocked down—like when the tide had pulled my feet out from under me at the beach. Miss Holbrooke had said, “That’s the undertow. A girl was dragged out to sea last month. They never found her body.”

Harold said, “I didn’t want to tell you until everything was settled. And I’ve got another surprise for you.” He put his arm around me and walked me to the elevator. “I got us a room so we can have a proper goodbye.”

That was the moment I couldn’t fool myself anymore. Filomena had been right and I had been an idiot.

I said, “You think I’d go to a hotel room with you? Is that what you think of me?”

A bell sounded and an old man in a red cap opened the elevator grate.

Harold leaned over me and whispered, “Don’t give me that. You let me buy you fancy meals. You didn’t squawk when I pawed you from one end to the other. You can’t say I haven’t been patient. So shut up and do as you’re told.”

I tried to pull away from him but he tightened his grip on my hand.

“You’re

hurting me,” I said—and not in a whisper.

Harold looked around to see if anyone was listening and said, “Aw, sweetheart,” to make it seem like we were having a lovers’ quarrel. “Now, be a good girl.”

He pushed me into the elevator, but I said, “Let me go,” loud enough so the elevator man said, “What’s going on?”

Harold had murder on his face. “Do you know what that room cost me, you little sheeny bitch?”

When he reached for the grate I bit him. I really sank my teeth into his hand.

He howled and made a fist. I started screaming, “Don’t hit me, don’t hit me.”

When Harold saw the bellmen come toward us, he backed away from me, turned up the collar on his coat, and started to walk across the lobby—not in any big hurry—as if he were taking a stroll through the park. I watched him, feeling like that drowned girl in the undertow.

When the doorman opened the door for him and he disappeared, I realized that everyone was staring at me and I took off in the opposite direction from the door. I was running without knowing where. I guess I was looking for another way out, but all I found was a stairway going down, so that’s where I went and ended up in the basement, where I was almost hit in the face by a big tray loaded with cups and saucers.

It stopped an inch from my nose and I heard “Jesus Christ!”

It was the busboy who had poured my coffee. He put down the tray and asked what I was doing in the basement and what happened to my sailor.

I started to cry.

He was so nice. He said, “It’s okay. I didn’t think you looked like the type.”

I guess everyone in the restaurant thought I was a floozy, to put it nicely.

—

I walked back to the North End as fast as I could. I kept my head down, thinking about how stupid I’d been.

I liked to think of myself as smarter than most girls, but I had talked myself into believing I was in love with a man who thought I was easy, who insulted me, who was ready to force me. So stupid.

The thing is, I should have known what kind of man he was from when we were on the dance floor. When Harold leaned down to tell me to meet him on the porch, he—I can’t believe I’m saying this to you—he stuck his tongue in my ear. I was disgusted that anyone would do such a thing, but I was also thrilled—from one end to the other, if you know what I mean.