After Filomena disappeared, there was a lot of whispering and staring at our table. Gussie moved the empty chair—Filomena’s—and we sat closer together and acted as if nothing had changed. Someone saw Filomena walking with Morelli on Main Street and Miss Case stopped talking to any of the Mixed Nuts, as if it was our fault.
We didn’t talk about Filomena among ourselves until Friday morning, when Rose said, “Do you think there’s a chance she’ll show up for the banquet tonight?”
Gussie said, “I don’t know if she has that much brass.”
Irene said, “I bet she’d come if Addie asked her.”
Helen chimed in. “Would you?”
They were all looking at me when Rose said, “You know, Helen is getting married this year, so it would be the last time with all of us together at the lodge.”
I couldn’t say no to that and the truth was, I was glad for an excuse to see her.
Leslie’s door was open, so I walked in and found Filomena and Morelli sitting on one of the couches. Her head was on his shoulder and he was running his hand through her hair. He said, “Hello, Addie.”
I had never seen Filomena’s hair unbraided and loose like that, and it was as if she was naked. I kept my eyes on the wall behind her and asked if she was coming to the final banquet tonight. “The girls wanted me to ask you. Rose, especially.”
I looked at Morelli. “There’s a singing contest and skits.”
“It sounds like fun,” he said.
“It’s childish, but we enjoy it,” I said. “I’d better go; lots to do before tonight.”
Filom
ena gathered her hair and stood up. “I’m coming with you.”
She offered Morelli her hand. “Goodbye, Bob. I can’t begin to thank you.”
He drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them slowly, one at a time. I had never seen anything so sexy or so sad.
And then she ran out of there like she was late for a train.
—
Filomena didn’t touch her dinner and went upstairs before I read my poem. I didn’t get back to the room until late and she was already asleep.
In the morning, I found a note on her pillow and I remember every word because I counted them—all fourteen.
Dear Addie,
I’m taking the early train. I’ll see you soon.
Your friend,
Filomena
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
Levine changed his business from ladies’ shirtwaists to men’s shirts. Mostly he sold local but some of his customers were Jewish shopkeepers in the South. The day he got a typewritten order from a small town in Alabama, he decided that sending out handwritten bills made him look small-time. So he bought a secondhand typewriter to keep up and told me I should take a class so I could use it “professionally.”
Typing was not what I had in mind for my first night school class, but it was a good thing to know and it meant a night out of the house without an argument. Even better, there was an English class that met right afterward.
The typing class was in a cramped room with a low ceiling on the basement floor of the high school I should have graduated from. All twenty seats were filled, and except for two American girls, the rest were daughters of immigrants like me.
The teacher was Miss Powder, a tall, skinny lady—I couldn’t tell if she was twenty-five or forty-five. She stood up straight as a broomstick all the way to her hair, which was pulled into a tight little bun on top of her head.
Before we even touched the machines, she talked like she expected us to be a disappointment. “None of you will take this advice seriously, but there is nothing more important for the typist than hand position and posture.” She said, “An erect spine translates into accuracy on the page. Slouching is slovenly. Also men will make certain assumptions about the kind of girl who slouches.”