Good Harbor

by Anita Diamant

  “Okay, Ma,” said Lena. “Everyone knows you’re all there, Ma.”

  Taking Rabbi Hertz’s arm, Father Sherry quietly explained that Theresa had been prescribed two medications that shouldn’t be taken together. “No old-heimer’s,” Theresa repeated, guessing that the priest was talking about her.

  Lena’s teenage son, Mike, walked over to the statue, where Steve had already dug a trench around the concrete base. “Hey, Joe,” Steve called out. “This thing could have lasted until the next ice age.” Joe Loquasto acknowledged the compliment with a wave.

  The guests gathered around the Madonna. Safety goggles in place, Steve started the drill, which set up a painfully loud, high-pitched squeal. Five minutes later, Mike and Frank helped him lift the Madonna onto a hand truck. Lena and Theresa wrapped the statue in woolen blankets and tied it with bungee cords for the short trip to their house.

  As they covered the face with a towel, Joyce realized she was sad to see “her” Mary leave. Early that morning, before Frank or Nina had been awake, she’d gone outside to say good-bye. “I’m sorry if there’s any indignity to all this,” she had whispered. “I won’t let anyone look up your skirt. But I think you’ll be happier with the Lupos.” She had slipped her palm under the Virgin’s outstretched hand, but the mild face seemed turned away.

  Father Sherry raised his paper cup and, in a jovial but decidedly formal voice, began, “Ladies and gentlemen?

  “I would like to take a moment to thank our hosts, the Tabachniks, for turning this moment of transition into a celebration, indeed, an affirmation of our community.

  “You know, we Catholics are enamored with the idea of incarnation. We speak of the incarnation of God’s love in the person of our Lord, Jesus Christ. This sublime metaphor — the creation of an all-powerful metaphor-maker — is extended in our tradition to include the saints, and especially the Blessed Mother.

  “Nevertheless, the idea that God’s love is incarnate in the world is not limited to Catholics, I think. For all of us here” — the priest nodded toward the rabbi — “Jews and Christians alike, God’s love indeed does take shape in the world. In the glory of sky and sea. In the beauty of forest and garden. And most of all, in the faces of the people who surround us with understanding and compassion, with friendship, respect, and with love.”

  Father Sherry raised his glass above his head to murmurs of “Amen,” “Salud,” and “L’chayim.”

  He beamed, turned to Michelle, and said, “Rabbi?”

  “I was tempted to tell one of those jokes that starts ‘A rabbi, a minister, and a priest were in a rowboat.’ But maybe I won’t,” she said. The Loquastos looked relieved.

  “We Jews like to say blessings,” the rabbi continued in a more sermonic tone. “There are Jewish blessings for almost everything that happens in the course of a day. There is a blessing for waking up, a blessing before and after eating, a blessing for seeing planets in the sky. There is even a blessing to say if you should hear bad news.

  “If we happen to forget which special blessing we’re supposed to use, or on a uniquely happy occasion such as this, there is an all-purpose blessing of thanks. It is called the Shehecheyanu, and it praises God for the gifts of the moment. So at this precious moment of fellowship and good feeling, I am moved to say:

  “Baruch Ata Adonai, eloheynu melech ha-olam: Holy One of Blessing, Your presence fills creation.

  “Shehecheyanu: You have kept us alive to reach this glorious afternoon among our neighbors.

  “V’keyamanu: You have sustained us with bonds of friendship.

  “V’higianu lazman hazeh: And you have enabled us to reach this precious moment in this sun-drenched place of beauty.”

  At that moment Jack emerged from the kitchen with an enormous tray, and the rabbi quickly added, “And this amazing strawberry shortcake.”

  Nina and Sylvie squealed in high-pitched unison at the sight of the desserts. Everyone laughed.

  “Amen,” said Father Sherry, reaching for the first plate.

  As people helped themselves and found seats, Kathleen and Joyce walked into the kitchen.

  “How’s it going?” Kathleen asked in a low voice.

  “It’s going,” Joyce said with a slight shrug. She turned on the faucet and started rinsing whipped cream from the beaters. “Frank started his new job last Monday. We’re being nice to each other. The money situation makes things kind of tense, but at least that’s out on the table. Taking care of Nina pulled us together — we’re both so grateful she’s okay.”

  “Nina looks good.”

  “She’s on the stationary bike for hours at a stretch, trying to keep her legs in shape while the bone heals.”

  “Did you find out what she was doing in that tree?”

  “It was a dare from one of the boys,” Joyce said. “I thought she was smarter than that, but she’s not only a jock, but a show-off. She feels pretty stupid about doing it. She did tell me that.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’m writing about bus safety. And you’ll be glad to hear that I’ve finished sixty pages of Magnolia’s Haven.”

  “Joyce! That’s great!”

  “Jordan had to go so Magnolia could have a new love interest.”

  “Poor man. How did he die?”

  “A shipwreck off Rafe’s Chasm, but back then it was called Rafe’s Crack.”

  “You’d better go with the old name, or the local history buffs will hang you out to dry.”

  “The other big news is that I started therapy,” Joyce said. “I’m still trying to understand why I did what I did.”

  Kathleen frowned. “You made a mistake.”

  “Yes, but I still need to work it out. She says that Frank’s absence was a big part of —”

  Jack poked his head through the door. “We need more ice.”

  “Be right there,” Joyce said.

  “We need a walk at Good Harbor,” Kathleen said.

  Joyce nodded. But with Nina starting school and deadlines piling up, it would be at least a week before she could come back to Gloucester. “Give me the headlines.”

  “Oh, dear,” Kathleen said. “There is so much to tell. We all went to the cemetery on the anniversary of Danny’s death. Jack and Hal brought pebbles from Good Harbor to leave at the grave, and Hal said the kaddish. Afterward we went out for coffee ice cream. I forgot to tell you that Danny loved coffee ice cream.

  “Hal remembered the funniest things about him. Like the way he used to kiss the dog’s ears.” Kathleen paused for a moment. “Jack asked about a hundred questions about Danny. It was a good day — sad but good.

  “And what else; Jack is moving into Ed’s apartment until he finds a place, and we’re invited to dinner there next week. Hal is going to read from the Torah on Yom Kippur. I’ve got an appointment to talk to an oncologist about tamoxifen.”

  “That is a lot. And by the way, you look wonderful. This haircut —”

  Nina and Sylvie walked in looking for the ice. Michelle followed, in search of napkins.

  Kathleen and Joyce smiled at each other. That would have to do for now. They could catch up on the phone, and they would walk on the beach next week. Rain or shine, they promised.

  They would meet on the footbridge and exchange a hug. They’d take off their shoes and walk from one end of Good Harbor to the other, then take another turn, back and forth.

  They would talk about their husbands and their children, their work and their bodies. Next week and the week after. Wet feet and dry feet, barefoot and shod, in heat and fog, and then bundled up against the cold.

  With Kathleen’s dog racing ahead. With Buddy and Frank walking a few paces behind. With Joyce’s old friends, visiting from out of town. With red and yellow plastic buckets for the grandchildren, eventually. Together, at Good Harbor, they would see how it all turned out.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Janet Rustow, MSW, at the Faulkner Breast Centre for her thorough and generous consultat
ion on the emotional and medical course of breast cancer treatment. I also learned a great deal about radiology treatment for breast cancer from Dr. Tania I. Lingos, Sarah Susi, and Karen Donnelan at the South Suburban Oncology Center; and from Karen Thompson. For careful readings and insightful comments, thanks to William Camann, MD, Judi Hirshfield-Bartek, RN, MS, Beth Israel Deaconess BreastCare Center and to Judith Paley, MD, of femailhealthnews.com.

  The members of my writing group (past and present) were indispensable: Janice Brand, Ellen Grabiner, Marcy Herschmann, Amy Hoffman, Renee Loth, and Marla Zarrow. Louisa Williams was an expert and thoughtful editor at a crucial juncture.

  I am indebted to Amanda Urban at ICM for hooking me up with my wonderful editors, Sarah McGrath and Nan Graham, at Scribner.

  Thanks to all of these experts, cheerleaders, hand-holders, family members, and friends (you know who you are and which is which): Susan Beattie, Emilia Diamant, Helene Diamant, Judith Himber, Judy Jordan, Karen Kushner, Stephen McCauley, Valerie Monroe, Regina Mooney, Edward Myers, Marlee Nelson, Rabbi Barbara Penzner, Jane Redmont, Rabbi Liza Stern, Sebastian Stuart, Diane Weinstein, Tom Wolf, Bob Wyatt, and Ande Zellman.

  Thanks again and always to my husband for his unconditional love.

  Continue reading for a preview of Anita Diamant’s

  The Boston Girl

  A Novel

  Available from Scribner December 2014

  | 1985 |

  Nobody Told You?

  Ava, sweetheart, if you ask me to talk about how I got to be the woman I am today, what do you think I’m going to say? I’m flattered you want to interview me. And when did I ever say no to my favorite grandchild?

  I know I say that to all of my grandchildren and I mean it every single time. That sounds ridiculous or like I’m losing my marbles, but it’s true. When you’re a grandmother you’ll understand.

  And why not? Look at the five of you: a doctor, a social worker, two teachers, and now you.

  Of course they’re going to accept you into that program. Don’t be silly. My father is probably rolling over in his grave, but I think it’s wonderful.

  Don’t tell the rest of them, but you really are my favorite and not only because you’re the youngest. Did you know you were named after me?

  It’s a good story.

  Everyone else is named in memory of someone who died, like your sister Jessica, who was named for my nephew Jake. But I was very sick when you were born and when they thought I wasn’t going to make it, they went ahead and just hoped the angel of death wouldn’t make a mistake and take you, Ava, instead of me, Addie. Your parents weren’t that superstitious, but they had to tell everyone you were named after your father’s cousin Arlene, so people wouldn’t give them a hard time.

  It’s a lot of names to remember, I know.

  Grandpa and I named your aunt Sylvia for your grandfather’s mother, who died in the flu epidemic. Your mother is Clara after my sister Celia.

  What do you mean, you didn’t know I had a sister named Celia? That’s impossible! Betty was the oldest, then Celia, and then me. Maybe you forgot.

  Nobody told you? You’re sure?

  Well, maybe it’s not such a surprise. People don’t talk so much about sad memories. And it was a long time ago.

  But you should know this. So go ahead. Turn on the tape recorder.

  —

  My father came to Boston from what must be Russia now. He took my sisters, Betty and Celia, with him. It was 1896 or maybe 1897; I’m not sure. My mother came three or four years later and I was born here in Boston in 1900. I’ve lived here my whole life, which anyone can tell the minute I open my mouth.

  | 1915–16 |

  That’s Where I Started to Be My Own Person.

  Where I lived in the North End when I was a little girl wasn’t so quaint. The neighborhood smelled of garbage and worse. In my building to go to the bathroom, we had to walk down three flights from our apartment to the outhouses in back. Those were disgusting, believe me, but the stairways were what really scared me. At night, you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face and it was slippery from all the dirt and grease. One lady broke a leg on those steps and she never walked right again afterward.

  In 1915, there were four of us living in one room. We had a stove, a table, a few chairs, and a saggy couch that Mameh and Papa slept on at night. Celia and I shared a bed in a kind of narrow hallway that didn’t go anywhere; the landlords chopped up those apartments to squeeze in more people so they could get more rent. The only good thing about our place was that we had a window that looked out on the street so there was a little light; a lot of the apartments faced the air shaft, where it was always the middle of the night.

  Mameh didn’t like it when I looked out the window. “What if someone saw you there?” she’d say. “It makes you look like you have nothing better to do.”

  I didn’t understand why it bothered her but I kept my mouth shut so I wouldn’t get a smack.

  We were poor but not starving. Papa worked in a belt factory as a cutter and Celia was a finisher at a little shirtwaist factory upstairs over an Italian butcher shop. I don’t think we called it a sweatshop back then, but that’s what it was. And in the summer, it was steaming hot. When my mother wasn’t cooking or cleaning, she was mending sheets for the laundry across the street. I think she got a penny apiece.

  Together, they made enough money for rent and food. Mostly I remember eating potatoes and cabbage, and I still can’t stand the smell of cabbage. Sometimes Mameh took in a boarder, usually a man right off the boat who needed a place to flop for a few nights. I didn’t mind because she didn’t yell so much if one of them was in the house, but they made Celia nervous.

  Celia was “delicate.” That’s what Mameh called her. My sister was thin and had high cheekbones like my father, blue eyes, and fine brown hair like him, too. She would have been as pretty as the drawings in the magazines, but she was so shy that she winced when people talked to her, especially the men Mameh pushed at her.

  Celia didn’t like to go out of our house; she said it was because her English was so bad. Actually she understood a lot but she wouldn’t talk. My mother was like that, too. Papa managed a little better, but at home we only spoke Yiddish.

  When Mameh talked about Celia to the neighbors, she said, “Twenty-nine years old already,” like it was a death sentence. But in the next breath she’d brag, “My Celia has such golden hands, she could sew the wings on a bird. And such a good girl: modest, obedient, never gives me any trouble.”

  I was “the other one.” She never talked about Betty at all.

  “The other one is almost sixteen years old and still in school. Selfish and lazy; she pretends like she can’t sew.” But I wasn’t pretending. Every time I picked up a needle I stabbed myself. One time, when Mameh gave me a sheet to help with her sewing, I left so many little bloodstains she couldn’t wash it out. She had to pay for the sheet, which cost her I don’t know how many days of work. I got a good smack for that, I can tell you.

  You wouldn’t know Celia and I were sisters from looking at us. We had the same nose—straight and a little flat—and we were both a little more than five feet. But I was built like my mother, solid but not fat, and curvy starting at thirteen. I had Mameh’s thin wrists and her reddish-brownish hair, which was so thick it could break the bristles on the brush. I thought I was a real plain Jane except for my eyes, which are like yours, Ava: hazel, with a little gold circle in the middle.

  I was only ten years old when my oldest sister, Betty, moved out of the house. I remember I was hiding under the table the day she left. Mameh was screaming how girls were supposed to live with their families until they got married and the only kind of woman who went on her own was a “kurveh.” That’s “whore” in Yiddish; I had to ask a kid at school what it meant.

  After that, Mameh never said Betty’s name in public. But at home she talked about her all the time. “A real American,” she said, making it sound like a curse.


  But it was true. Betty had learned English fast and she dressed like a modern girl: she wore pointy shoes with heels and you could see her ankles. She got herself a job selling dresses downtown at Filene’s department store, which was unusual for someone who wasn’t born in this country. I didn’t see her much after she moved out and I missed her. It was too quiet without Betty in the house. I didn’t mind that there was less fighting between her and Mameh, but she was the only one who ever got Celia and my father to laugh.

  Home wasn’t so good but I liked going to school. I liked the way it felt to be in rooms with tall ceilings and big windows. I liked reading and getting As and being told I was a good student. I used to go to the library every afternoon.

  After I finished elementary school, one of my teachers came to the apartment to tell Mameh and Papa I should go to high school. I still remember his name, Mr. Wallace, and how he said it would be a shame for me to quit and that I could get a better job if I kept going. They listened to him, very polite, but when he was finished Papa said, “She reads and she counts. It’s enough.”

  I cried myself to sleep that night and the next day I stayed really late at the library even though I knew I’d get in trouble. I didn’t even want to look at my parents, I hated them so much.

  But that night when we were in bed, Celia said not to be sad; that I was going to high school for one year at least. She must have talked to Papa. If she said something was making her upset or unhappy, he got worried that she would stop eating—which she did sometimes. He couldn’t stand that.

  I was so excited to go to high school. The ceilings were even higher, which made me feel like a giant, like I was important. And mostly, I loved it there. My English teacher was an old lady who always wore a lace collar and who gave me As on my papers but kept telling me that she expected more out of me.

  I was almost as good in arithmetic, but the history teacher didn’t like me. In front of the whole class he asked if I had ants in my pants because I raised my hand so much. The other kids laughed so I stopped asking so many questions, but not completely.