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Kerry returned and scribbled something down on a little “Welcome to Boston” pad. Her short nails were painted purple. She produced a map from below the counter and as she leaned forward, she tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “Here. Here’s a nice place,” she said quietly, looking around her and ringing the location with a pen. “She has a vacancy. A Mrs. Hale.”
“Thank you.”
“But I have to tell you…” She lowered her voice even more. “She’s not registered, exactly. Not like, officially. But I know her. She’s a bit, um … she’s really nice. I think you’ll like her.” She looked at Iris, quizzically, as if to see that she understood.
But Iris’s eyes were scrambling over the map to see how close this was to St. Botolph Street.
“Okay. That sounds okay.”
“Good.” Kerry smiled. “See here? This is the T stop, just a few blocks away.” She outlined with her pen. “You can walk from the T to here, and then, here.”
“The T?” Iris flagged her hair against the back of her neck and wondered for a second if jet lag made you hotter.
“Public transport. It’s called the T.” She laughed. “You can take it straight there. I’ve done it many times. Or you can take a taxi. But it’s Friday. Rush hour, you know.”
“Is it far?”
“On the T? No. And it’s a lot cheaper. Don’t worry. I know Mrs. Hale. She’s my mother’s friend. They play te
“What’s Berklee?”
“Berklee College. It’s near the South End. Near St. Botolph Street. Where you’re going. Look. You take the Silver Line”—Kerry indicated with a wave of her arm across the concourse in the direction of the T—“to Newton Street Station. Then walk here. Where St. Botolph Street is.” She circled it, too. “Very close.” She handed over the map but Iris didn’t want to move away from the information booth.
“Thank you. Kerry.”
As if sensing the lady in front of her wanted something more, Kerry said, “Are you Irish?”
“Yes.” Iris’s face brightened.
“Me, too! My grandmother’s from County Kerry.” She pointed to the name tag. “That’s how I got my name.” Her Boston accent was now, Iris noted, heavily pronounced with its missing Rs. “One day I hope to get over there.”
This brief recognition was just what Iris needed, one tiny co
* * *
Mrs. Hale’s was only a few blocks from the station stop but with each step—pulling a resistant brown suitcase whose wheels seemed to have swollen in the heat—Iris withered. She stopped on a corner and looked up. Tremont and West Newton. My God, it was hot. Heat rose from the sidewalk and cha
It was commuter time. People passed around her. Well-dressed women in ru
She rang the bell, and after a few moments a middle-aged woman with a shock of cropped golden-white hair and the reddest-painted lips opened the door. She was a good few years older than Iris.
“Oh, hello!” the woman beamed. “Come in. Come in. Hot out there, huh? Yes. The heat is just gruesome today. We’re having a heat wave. Right?” It was like she was giddy with it. Iris stepped in. Air like a cool breeze rushed toward her.
“Mrs. Bowen, yes? Have I got it right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Grace Hale.” She offered her hand. “Not up for this heat, are we? Not even we Bostonians are. And golly, look what you’re wearing. You must be ready for a tall glass of lemonade. Or something.”
Iris took Grace’s hand, which was cold, and said, “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
“Here, let me take that,” the woman said, begi
Mrs. Hale explained that she’d had a phone call from Kerry and was happy to let out the room. “It’s a little arrangement Kerry and I have.” Iris followed her up two flights of old wooden stairs and into a small room with wallpaper patterned with bird boxes. “Kerry only sends me special people.” The bed was tidily made up with linen pillowcases and a dresser held a small pile of books and brochures. “I’m not exactly registered with the tourist board, you know.” Everything in the room was wooden except for a soft leather armchair. “Maybe next year I’ll apply for my license.”
“I’m very grateful,” Iris said, feeling she should say something, but now wondering if she should have declined Kerry’s booking and found a Best Western or something.
At the window Grace Hale moved the voile curtain aside and said, “It’s not much to look at, but you’ll be glad because this corner is nice and quiet in the morning.”
“I’m not here for the view.”
Grace Hale didn’t follow up; she just smiled. “You’ll find everything you want.” Grace’s round eyes opened wider and she sca
“Really? If it isn’t too much trouble,” Iris said, thinking how she’d love a glass of that lemonade she’d been offered at the door. “Thank you.”
“Gosh. Not at all. I couldn’t send you out into this heat.” Grace Hale leaned slightly out the door. “Billy?” she called down the stairs, then turned back to Iris. “Lemonade? Or … something stronger?”
Iris paused. She was unable to match this woman’s energy and before she could reply, Grace laughed. “I’m famous for my chicken sandwiches. Wouldn’t that be nice? Yes? Toasted?” She spoke quickly, as if used to one-sided dialogues. “I’ll get that and I’ll leave you now, unless there’s something else—”
Of course there was something else. “No. That would be wonderful. Thank you, Mrs. Hale.”
Grace stood a moment longer. “It used to be Mrs. Hale,” she said “but my husband, Bob, died a while ago.” There was a tiny puckering around the corners of her eyes then, a little resigned upturn on her lips, as if it was a story she was finally able to tell without crying. “Please, call me Grace.”
* * *
A young man with black hair and a black T-shirt and khakis finally appeared with Iris’s suitcase. “Hi, I’m Billy. Welcome to Boston. If you need anything I’m usually downstairs. I’m helping Grace out—” He was about to say more when they both heard Grace calling “Billy!” from below, and he shrugged and said “That’s me,” and headed off down to her at a saunter. “Coming, Mrs. Hale.”
Iris closed the wooden door, stood a few moments feeling at a loss, then unpacked. And as if she needed evidence that she had made her decision to come too rashly, here it was: no nightgown and too many cardigans. Three. “Well done, Iris. If they get a sudden freeze, you’ll be fine.” She pulled aside the curtain and looked down into an alleyway, listening to the sounds, inside and out, of the early evening. A soft whir of traffic hummed. Someone walked by her door outside. The floors creaked. A vent above the door to the bathroom made a hissing noise, but Iris didn’t mind. She was glad of the cool air. She checked the bathroom and was grateful to see a tub. A white cotton bathrobe hung on a hanger on the back door. It was belted at the empty waist. She could sleep in that.