The Boston Girl

What I knew about Mrs. Morse—and it wasn’t much—came from Lucy, whose grandmother was a second cousin or something. I think everyone in Rockport was related to each other.

Her first name was Margaret and her husband had died when she was young. She had a son named George, who was a “disappointment.” But Lucy forgot to mention that Mrs. Morse had a sister named Elizabeth, who I met when she stopped by one Sunday afternoon after church.

I saw the resemblance right away: high foreheads, close-set gray eyes, and thick iron-gray hair. But Margaret Morse was round and mild, where Elizabeth Styles was thin and suspicious. She looked right over my head when I said, “Nice to meet you.”

I went outside so the two of them could talk in private, but Mrs. Styles was so deaf, I might as well have been sitting at the table with them.

She shouted, “I can’t believe you’re back here again.”

Mrs. Morse said, “It suits me,” and that she couldn’t afford to stop working.

Mrs. Styles thought she could do better in one of the big summer kitchens out on Eastern Point. But Mrs. Morse liked being in charge of her own kitchen and going home to her own bed at night. “And don’t worry about the money. I’m doing just fine.”

Mrs. Styles said, “I still don’t know how you stand it around here. All those foreigners would give me the willies.”

Mrs. Morse lowered her voice a little. “At first, I thought the Italians would steal. I was sure the Irish would smell bad, and I was a little afraid of the Jews. But, after all these years, I tell you some of them are nicer than Americans.”

“These days, they’re all trying to be flippers.”

“Flappers,” Mrs. Morse said. “Our mother would have fainted dead away to see all the leg they’re showing.”

Mrs. Styles said, “Mother would have taken a stick to them. Things were better back then.”

Mrs. Morse said she thought some things were better nowadays, but Mrs. Styles didn’t see it. Summer people had ruined the town and it was taking your life in your hands to cross the street what with all the automobiles. “And those bathing costumes? You can see all the way up to you-know-where. It’s terrible.”

Mrs. Morse said, “Well, there’s nothing you can do about it so why don’t I cut you a nice piece of chocolate cake?” She could fix almost anything with a piece of cake—or pie.

It’s not your problem, Addie.

On the hottest nights, when my room was stifling, I took my pillow and blanket to the porch and made a bed out of chairs and little tables. When you’re young you can sleep anywhere. One night when I was out there, the sound of the kitchen door woke me up. We never locked it and I figured that one of the upstairs girls had been gallivanting. But when I went inside for a glass of water, Mrs. Morse was holding on to the back of a chair, shaking all over, and there was blood on her mouth.

I made her sit down and ran a washcloth under cold water for her face. I asked if she wanted me to get Mrs. Lettis or her sister, but she shook her head. After we both calmed down, I did a pretty good imitation of Betty and ordered her to stay over and sleep in my bed. I took the biggest knife I could find and went back to the porch to keep watch.

I didn’t have to ask who had hurt her. Hannah said that Mrs. Morse’s son was mixed up with the rum-running going on all over Cape Ann. Canadian boats full of liquor would unload onto smaller boats off the coast, and the locals who ferried the stuff in made good money delivering booze to hoodlums who came up from Boston. Men like George Morse skimmed bottles to sell to the rich summer people, who never gave up their cocktails during Prohibition, but if too much went missing, well, those suppliers were very tough characters.

Mrs. Morse stayed in the kitchen the next day and kept her head down, so I was the only one who saw her swollen lip and the bruise on her jaw. She went home after supper but she was back with a valise after lights-out. She said she was going to sleep on the porch, but I knew she couldn’t risk Miss Lettis finding her. That woman was like a one-woman vice squad. The summer before, a girl had been sent home for drinking and another had eloped from the lodge so she was taking extra care to protect our reputation. No hanky-panky of any kind would be tolerated, which was the reason I could talk Mrs. Morse into staying in my room.

I camped out on the porch and when I heard someone walking toward the house, I ran inside. Mrs. Morse was waiting at the door and I begged her to go upstairs. She wasn’t having that. “You go. I’m going to take care of this.” I wasn’t going to win that argument so I went, but only as far as the dining room, where I could keep an eye on her.

She let him in when he started kicking the door. George Morse was an inch or two taller than his mother and broad in the shoulders, with big meaty hands that he clenched and unclenched like he was getting ready to punch someone. I could smell the booze on him from the other room.

They argued in whispers for a few minutes and then Mrs. Morse sank into a chair with her face turned away from George, who hung over her. “You know they’re going to kill me if I don’t get them the money. What do you need it for anyway? I know about your goddamn nest egg, so don’t tell me you don’t have any. You’re just a stingy old woman with one foot in the grave anyway. What kind of mother won’t save her son? Do you want to see me dead? Is that it? If you don’t give me that money, I’m going to burn down the house.”

When he grabbed her wrist, I ran into the kitchen and said, “Leave her a

lone.”

He looked me up and down and got a sickening look on his face. “Who is this little dish?”

I told him to get out or I’d call the police. He just laughed. “You’re not bad-looking. Maybe if you come outside and play patty-cake with me, I’ll let it go for tonight.”

Mrs. Morse said, “Let her be, George.”

He let go of her wrist and came toward me. “Come on, missy. I’ve got a little rum left. Or maybe you like wine? I can get that, too. I’m not a bad guy. Just got myself into a little jam.”

He was right up against me, breathing into my face. “Tell her, Ma. Tell her I’m a nice guy.”

But Mrs. Morse had gotten a knife and was behind him, jabbing him in the back. When he tried to turn around, she poked him hard enough to make him yelp. “I’ll run you through if I have to,” she whispered, using the knife to get him to the door. Before he left he said, “Next time I’ll bring my own knife and I won’t be so polite with your little friend.”