The Boston Girl(6)
When we got close to the dock, Rose started jumping up and down and waving at a heavyset woman in a big hat.
“I can’t believe they sent Mrs. Morse to get us,” she said. “She is the best cook in the world.”
Mrs. Morse didn’t seem so excited to see us. She hurried us into a real old-fashioned horse-drawn cart, and we had to sit on the floor between sacks of flour, with our feet hanging off the back.
It’s good that we were wedged in so tight because whenever we hit a bump in the road everyone flew up in the air—like in a roller coaster. It was kind of fun but my behind was plenty sore by the time we stopped.
Rockport Lodge was more beautiful than I had imagined; a big white-painted farmhouse with black shutters, two stories, and porches on each side of the front door. Vines with button-size red roses climbed through the railings, almost up to the upstairs windows, where white curtains puffed in and out. Next to the house, there was an orchard with benches in the shade.
Filomena met us at the door and said that she had asked to have me as her roommate. “I hope that’s okay with you.”
I couldn’t believe it. Since we met at Saturday Club, we had only said a few words to each other in the pottery studio. I was a little bit in awe of her, not just for her looks and her talent, but also for her self-confidence.
Filomena was the only girl in the studio that Miss Green trusted to decorate the really big vases—the ones that went to art shows and sold for a lot of money. I know some of the other girls would have liked the chance to do that, but she didn’t apologize for being chosen. I don’t mean that she bragged. Filomena just knew who she was, which wasn’t so easy back then. I guess it’s still not easy, is it? It took me until I was almost forty before I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.
I followed her up the front stairs to a long hallway where all the doors were open and I could see girls unpacking and changing clothes, talking and laughing like it was a party. Our room was at the very end.
“It’s small but there’s only the two of us; some of the others have four girls crammed in.”
The room was just big enough for two narrow beds, a bureau, and one wooden chair. It was all very plain: white walls and a worn wooden floor, but the light from the window bounced off the walls and made the white bedspreads seem to glow.
Filomena stretched out on one of the cots, but I didn’t want to wrinkle anything so I stayed by the door.
“When you bring up your valise, you can put your things in the bottom drawers.” When Filomena said “valise,” I dropped my lumpy pillowcase and thought, Oh, no. What am I doing here?
But she caught on right away. “Aren’t you smart to pack light. I always bring too many clothes and part of the fun is sharing.”
That was so nice of her I could have cried with relief, but thankfully, someone rang a bell downstairs.
“That’s lunch,” Filomena said. “They’re always telling you how fresh air works up an appetite, and they must be right because I’m always starving when I’m here.”
In the dining room, there were six big oak tables all set with plates, glasses, silverware, and white cloth napkins—which I’d only ever seen in movies. Filomena pointed me to where Rose was sitting with Helen and Gussie Frommer. “See you later,” she said, and went to a table full of dark-haired girls who could have been her cousins.
Rose was sitting next to a pale, skinny girl with green eyes, carrot-colored hair, and a million freckles. Rose said, “This is my roommate, Irene Conley. She’s from Boston, too.” I said hello but Irene shrugged and looked right past me. Rose, who always had a smile on her face, glared at her. “Do you have a toothache or something?”
Irene shrugged again and crossed her arms.
Helen asked if I was settled in my room and did I need anything. She was like a mother hen, as nice as she was pretty, and that day she was wearing a pink shirtwaist that made her look like a flower. But when I started to say how good she looked, she stopped me. “Has my sister introduced you to everybody? Gussie is the mayor of Rockport Lodge.”
Gussie was plain as a brick but people liked her because she made them feel important. Whenever she met someone new, she wanted to know everything about them. Helen teased Gussie about her “cross-examinations” but it was flattering to be asked to talk about yourself. At my second Saturday Club meeting, Gussie got me in a corner and asked about school, my favorite movie stars, my family, and what I thought about the temperance movement. When I said I didn’t understand it very well, she explained how it was a good idea that couldn’t work.
Gussie never forgot a name or anything you told her. She would have made a great politician.
When she noticed me looking over at Filomena’s table, she said, “They’ve been friends forever. The Italians stick together, like everyone. The girls behind us all come from one club in Arlington. The table next to them is one hundred percent Irish. Sometimes there’s a Jewish bunch, but our table is like the Saturday Club, all mixed together.”
I said, “Like mixed nuts.”
Rose laughed. “I love that. We should call ourselves the Mixed Nuts—crazy enough to talk to anyone who talks to us.”
Gussie made a toast with her water glass. “To the Mixed Nuts.”
Before lunch, we met the women who were in charge of Rockport Lodge that year. Miss Holbrooke and Miss Case reminded me a little of Miss Chevalier and Miss Green. They were much younger and didn’t look anything like the Ediths, but they were smart and wore sensible shoes. And no lipstick.