Transfiguration
by Marianne Leone
Downtown Crossing, Boston; unknown photographer
Rita and Christina had lunch at the place that served the ninety-nine cent clam dinners across from Filene’s Basement. Mother and daughter sat facing each other like strangers forced to share a booth during the lunchtime rush and, like strangers, said little besides pass the salt, or hand me a napkin. It was the first time they had ever eaten in a restaurant alone together. They were calmed by the bustle of the lunchtime crowd, the clink of china, the indifferent voices of secretaries and shoppers that swaddled them. Rita had come on the subway, all the way into town, to see Christina’s apartment for herself, and to gauge how much her changeling daughter had changed in the month since she had packed her bags and left ...
