The Boston Girl

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 a

bout 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.”

We liked the Little House on the Prairie books so much that he would run to the bookstore whenever there was a new one and we’d stay up late to find out what was going on with the Ingalls family.

Aaron was heartbroken when Auntie Sylvia and your mom were old enough to read on their own and “fired” him. When your sister and you were born, it was as if he’d been holding his breath for all those years. Sometimes, we’d drive to your house and stay just twenty minutes so he could read you a story. He had most of Dr. Seuss memorized. Do you remember how you jumped all over him for Hop on Pop?

We were the only ones on either side of the family to have daughters, and the aunts went overboard. Betty bought every doll she ever saw, and Rita, who had two boys, kept our girls in pink until they were in high school. Grandma Mildred taught them how to bake bread and took them to the flower show every spring and bought them corsages.

It was like we were in that fairy tale where all the fairy godmothers bring gifts to the princess. Gussie bought savings bonds for every birthday. Helen, who was the best-dressed woman I ever knew, gave us her daughter’s beautiful hand-me-downs. Miss Chevalier gave them books, and Katherine Walters bought them each a new diary every year.

When Betty found out we had asked a neighborhood girl to babysit, she read me the riot act. That was her job.

—

When I was pregnant, I was petrified about being a good mother. I would lie awake at night and worry about all the mistakes I was going to make: dropping, yelling, nagging, even poisoning. It took me a few years to get the hang of cooking.

It’s a good thing babies don’t give you a lot of time to think. You fall in love with them and when you realize how much they love you back, life is very simple. Of course, I was fascinated by every sneeze and yawn, and when my babies started to talk, I was sure they were geniuses and your grandfather and their aunties agreed.

I remember Irene saying everyone thinks their children are geniuses until they go to kindergarten. I was a little offended by that until I saw that two other children in class had started to read three months before mine did.