“Well, you ever get into any trouble, you call me,” he said. He reached into his pocket and produced a light blue business card with black print. His full name was Thaddeus Bogosian. Under his name was written “Insight Books” and his address and phone number.
“I had a small bookstore, specializing in religious, philosophical material. My wife’s the one who made the living in our family,” he said. “She was a crackerjack real estate agent. She married me because she said she needed a dreamer. You ever have need for a dreamer, you call,” he said.
I told him I would and watched him walk away. He looked as if he were holding on to an invisible woman beside him.
As soon as he was gone, I found my way to the train station. I was still undecided about where I would go or what I would do, but it felt safer to keep myself moving in almost any direction. The distance I had traveled from home gave me a sense of security. I had taken the magazine from the plane and continued to read about Quincy. It was the birthplace of John Adams, John Quincy Adams, and John Hancock. It shared a border with Boston, and its bay was actually part of Boston Harbor. It had several beaches and a community college. The train schedule showed me how to get there. I had no idea what I would do immediately once I was there, and I had no idea why I had such faith in myself, but I continued as if it had been my plan all along.
First, I went into a shop and bought a decent-size travel bag. A girl my age who arrived anywhere without a stitch of clothing or any possessions would surely attract more attention, I thought, recalling that it already had, so I then went into a department store and bought socks, undergarments, some pants and shirts, and a few simple dresses. I even bought myself a cap. After I had those things and some basic toiletries, I felt more confident about traveling alone.
I discovered that Quincy was connected to the regional subway system and was the fourth stop. At the
station in the city, I found a magazine advertising hotels and apartments. One in particular caught my attention because it looked so historic and yet unpretentious. It was the Winston Rooming House. I went to a pay phone and called to see if I could make a reservation. The woman who answered sounded old, maybe as old as Thaddeus Bogosian. Mrs. Winston seemed very suspicious. I was tempted to ask her if I was the first person ever to inquire about available space.
“Where did you get my number?” she asked with a tone of suspicion.
“You have an advertisement in the Daily Tripper,” I said.
“I do? Well, it was probably something my nephew, Ken, did without telling me. He thinks I need looking after, but I’ve been running this rooming house for close to thirty-five years, thank you. I always believed the right sort of people would find their way here without me doing a song and dance about how nice and clean my place is.” She paused as though she wasn’t going to say any more, but before I could speak, she asked, “How long do you plan on staying?”
“I’m thinking about looking for a job in Quincy,” I said. “At least a few weeks, if not longer.”
“Um. You sound very young. I should warn you that this is a very quiet place. I have some long-term regulars who demand it as much as I do.”
“That’s exactly what I’m looking for, Mrs. Winston, a very quiet place.”
“Um,” she said skeptically. She still hadn’t told me whether she had space available. “Well, you stop in, and we’ll see what we see,” she said, clearly sounding like someone who wouldn’t take just anyone into her rooming house.
“Okay.” I nearly laughed at her obvious New England independence, but then I thought that she and her place might be exactly what I needed in order to keep a low profile. Besides, from what I could see, there were quite a few other possibilities if that one didn’t work out. I headed for the subway train to Quincy. When I arrived, I looked for a taxi to take me to the Winston Rooming House. The driver not only knew it well, but he also knew Mrs. Winston, who was apparently quite a local character.
“Her family line here goes back to the mid-eighteenth century,” he said, “and she’ll let you know it every chance she gets. There are lots of people around here who are that way. They aren’t unpleasant or anything, but they’ll let you know they have a special claim on Quincy, a claim even on the air you breathe. Where you from?”
“Out west,” I said. The less anyone knew about me, even a taxi driver I might never see again, the better it was, I thought.
“Yeah, well, wherever that is, it’s different here,” he said. He glanced at me in the rearview mirror but then stopped talking, as if he was used to people who didn’t care to talk about themselves with strangers. I could see in his face that he was full of questions for a young girl like me arriving in Quincy and heading for a rooming house, but I turned my attention to the city.
There was a calmness in the way people moved about. The late-spring sunshine seemed already to be a great contrast with the darkness I had traveled through to get here. Everything had a lazy, laid-back atmosphere. We had been living in Los Angeles long enough for me to feel at home there, but it was so much larger and so much more populated that even though I was still in a city with close to a hundred thousand people, I felt as if I had stepped into a small town. It was just large enough for me to disappear safely but small enough for me to feel I was in a friendlier, warmer community. Maybe it was all wishful thinking, but I needed wishful thinking right then. I had lived most of my life believing I was an orphan. My father had plucked me out of anonymity and given me a name, and although I didn’t have a real mother living with us, I had Mrs. Fennel looking after me the way a mother might, and I had sisters. I had a family. Now I was all alone again. This time, I was truly an orphan, but this time, my chances of finding a family and acquiring a name were next to nil.
The taxi wound its way through busy city streets before turning off and following a more circuitous route to a very quiet side street with about a dozen houses. Some were relatively modern, but interspersed were much older structures. He stopped before a large, rectangular, two-story wooden building with rows of windows, chimneys at both ends, and a grand-looking portal centered in the façade. Of all of the houses on the street, it appeared to have the most land, with a richly green lawn cut in a perfect rectangle. The driveway was gravel, and except for some potted flowers in the front, the property looked quite simple and unpretentious. Just off the street, a very small wooden sign in script read “Winston House, 1748.”
The taxi driver got out to open my door and get my bag out of the trunk. “You’re not exactly right on top of all the action here,” he said, looking down the very quiet street. No one was outside of any house. Nothing was moving. It looked more like a three-dimensional painting.
“Thank you,” I said, and paid him the fare without any other comment. He looked at the front of the Winston House, shrugged, and got back into his taxi. I stood watching him drive off and then rolled my bag along the slate walkway toward the front entrance.
There was an old-fashioned door ringer that you had to turn. I did so and waited. No one came to the door, so I did it again. Twenty or thirty seconds later, the door was tugged open, and a tall, thin woman with charcoal-gray hair in a chignon stood glaring out at me as if I were an unwanted vacuum-cleaner salesperson or something. She held a dish towel and was drying her hands. There was a small sign next to the door that read, “No solicitors permitted.”
“Yes?” she said.
“My name is Lorelei Patio. I called earlier about a room.”
“Just a moment,” she said, and closed the door.
I thought that was quite rude. For a few moments, I debated turning around and walking off to find another rooming house or hotel. The taxi driver was right about the neighborhood, however. I saw nothing remotely resembling a place to stay. It was a good three or four blocks back to the busier street.
The door opened again, and this time, a much shorter woman in a gray dress with a white lace collar looked out at me. Her dark brown hair, which looked at least shoulder-length, had been gathered into a soft knot at the top of her head. Some strands had been pulled from under her hair band and curled over her forehead.
She raked over me with her soft hazel eyes, sizing me up and then nodding. “Just as I thought. You’re pretty young. I hope you’re eighteen at least, otherwise you’re wasting your time and mine,” she said. Her voice was firm but not nasty.
“I am,” I said. “Are you Mrs. Winston?”