Анита Диамант - The Boston Girl

It had been the best night of my life, and if I hadn’t walked into a puddle and soaked my shoes, I would have walked all the way to Rockport Lodge—wherever that was.

What are friends for?

I’ll never forget when I took your mother to see The Wizard of Oz. You know the scene when everything changes from black-and-white to color? That’s what it felt like the first time I went to Rockport. Everything was in color, everything was new, even things I’d seen my whole life.

The ocean, for example. Boston Harbor was a few blocks from where I grew up, and sure, the water there was filthy and the docks were smelly and dangerous, but how could I not know about low tide and high tide? I had never seen a cloud change the color of the sea in a second, or heard water crashing so loud you couldn’t hear the person standing right next to you.

That first week I was at Rockport Lodge, I saw corn growing out of the ground, and goats, and lighthouses. When I closed my eyes at night, I could still see fireflies blinking. I couldn’t get over those fireflies.

It was the first time I ever slept in a bed by myself. And the sheets? Ironed! It felt like sleeping on silk. I got my own towel and a pillow that smelled like flowers. So many new smells: beach roses, seaweed, smoke from a bonfire. I ate hot dogs and cherry pie and saltwater taffy that got stuck in my teeth.

It didn’t cost a lot to go to Rockport Lodge in 1916. I think it was seven dollars for a week, which was seven dollars more than I ever had. When Miss Chevalier found out that I couldn’t afford to go, she gave me a job as her assistant. Actually, she made a job out of thin air.

I took her letters to the mailbox, I helped in the baby nursery when one of the regular attendants was sick, and I put away books in the library. I swept up in the pottery studio, too, where I got to watch Filomena and the other girls paint Miss Green’s designs on the plates and vases they sold in a little gift shop they ran on the ground floor.

When Miss Chevalier ran out of things for me to do, she had me sit in her office and read books by Charles Dickens for us to talk about. I got very friendly with her dictionary.

She paid me fifty cents a week, but I was getting so much more than that. I had a private class in literature, the chance to watch artists work, and time to read. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but what did I know? I was fifteen years old.

I didn’t say a word to anyone at home about what I was doing. I would have told Celia, but my sister could never keep a secret or tell a lie. My parents didn’t know what a vacation was. And what was I going to say? That I was earning money so I could go away and do nothing? That I had money but wasn’t helping to pay the bills, when Celia handed over every penny? I did feel guilty about that. I tried to make up for it by eating less. I’m sure nobody noticed.

—

The day I went to Rockport was my sixteenth birthday, July 10.

I didn’t have to do a lot to get ready. I could wear just about all the clothes I owned and the rest I stuffed into an old pillowcase I bought from a ragman’s cart for a few pennies. I left a note in Celia’s shoe to say I was going on a vacation with some nice girls I knew. I also left two dollars—all of my spending money—even though I knew it wouldn’t make any difference to my mother. I put chicken fat on the door hinges so they wouldn’t squeak in the morning; I was very proud of myself for thinking of that.

I didn’t close my eyes at all the night before I left. I was out of bed the second it started to get light and I held my breath until I got to the stoop and stopped to put on my shoes.

It was strange to be outside so early. The streets were completely empty and quiet. Not even the milkman was there. No one. It was spooky.

Without the people, I could see how dirty it was. There was garbage piled all over the place and I saw rats running in and out. In the gutters there was all kinds of filth, the worst you can imagine. I ran as fast as I could to get out of there and down to the harbor where Gussie and Helen and Rose were waiting.

Most of the girls were taking the train to Rockport but Miss Chevalier had gotten boat tickets for us. It was a gorgeous day—the sea was calm and the sun was warm—and I stayed at the front railing for the whole trip. I didn’t want to miss anything. I wish I’d been keeping a diary, but I still remember how the water was slapping against the hull of the ship and that to me it sounded like clapping. A seagull flew down and hung in the air maybe ten feet from my shoulder and I could see all the little markings on his wings and how his eye looked like a gray marble rolling around in his head. By the time we got to Gloucester, my face hurt from smiling.

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.”