Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (12 page)

“Just squat and . . . you know . . . out it comes.”

Father cut my education short by firing her a few weeks later. He told me she talked too much behind the counter. I suspected her true crime wasn’t the quantity of words so much as her free use of them. I tried convincing him it was my fault for peppering her with questions, but he refused to reconsider.

Now here I was, twenty years old and still as ignorant about my body as a virgin could be.

After finishing with my bath, instead of immediately wrapping myself in a towel, I decided to look at my naked body in the mirror. Perhaps having the apartment to myself gave me the courage.

I stood before the glass and forced myself to take inventory: long torso, slim hips, small breasts, and that disconcerting triangular patch of hair. Even though I hadn’t the most curvaceous figure, there was no denying that the person reflected back was a grown woman.

October 25, 1907

Today I’m going to Wanamaker’s. They’re said to have the largest selection of books anywhere. I should like to see if they have some sort of medical book about female physiology. Since the store is off the beaten path, I’ll have the advantage of feeling anonymous if I do gather my courage to actually buy such a book.

It was astonishing how the red-haired doorman always seemed to be at his post; one would think he slept there at night standing up.

“Taxi, miss?”

“Yes, please.” I’d often wished he weren’t there to observe my comings and goings, but his presence was proving to be a comfort during Father’s absence.

I waited under the awning as he flagged down a motor taxi. It wasn’t only because of the distance that I was treating myself to a ride; my sanitary pads had an annoying tendency to slip and chafe when I walked. I supposed other women experienced the same problem, though I’d never discussed the embarrassing issue with anyone, not even Daisy.

“Where to?” the doorman asked as a taxi pulled up.

“Wanamaker’s, please.”

He opened the door for me and spoke to the driver. “Take the young lady to Wanamaker’s.”

I thanked him as he swung the door shut. Aunt Ida would say the city was spoiling me even more than I already was. And I would have to agree.

—

Organ music played in the background as I entered the main floor. I looked up and let my mouth hang open like a child full of wonder as my gaze followed the progression of balconies that rose to a domed skylighted rotunda. The glistening glass cabinets and wide aisles festooned with colored lights tempted me to wander about the bustling main floor. I marched to the store directory, saw that the book department was up on the eighth floor, and took a lift straight there.

A diligent search through the piles of books in the health section began to seem fruitless until one promising title caught my eye:
The Four Epochs of Woman’s Life: A Study in Hygiene.
The
author was Anna Galbraith, MD. A woman! After making sure no one observed me, I scanned the table of contents. “Puberty,” “Anatomy of the Generative Organs,” “Menstruation,” “Marriage”—all worthy topics—but when I saw the chapter titled “Sexual Instinct in Women,” my heart fluttered with the thrill of victory. I’d struck gold.

The salesgirl didn’t appear to notice the title, and I breathed easier as she wrapped it in brown paper. After paying with cash so no name would be associated with the purchase, I left the store as swiftly as I could manage, afraid some floorwalker would stop me. I felt certain I must look as guilty as a shoplifter.

—

The occasion of reading my book called for opening a box of chocolates Father had bought me from Maillard’s. After telephoning down to the concierge for a pot of orange pekoe, I changed my pad and put on my wrapper and a pair of slippers. Soon the tea arrived on the dumbwaiter, and I settled onto the sofa to educate myself.

CHAPTER 1

PUBERTY

Sexual Changes; Ages of Puberty; Physical Changes at Puberty;
First Onset of Menstruation; Psychic Changes at Puberty

I looked up at the empty room. Who was I trying to fool? I flipped straight to the most important chapter.

CHAPTER 8

SEXUAL INSTINCT IN WOMEN

Sexual Instinct in Women; Excessive Coitus;
Causes of Sexual Excitability

Dr. Galbraith categorized women into three classes: those with little or no sex feeling, those with strong passion, and the majority—a moderate appetite. At first I put myself into the “having little sex feeling” category, but that would have me in the same boat as Aunt Ida, so I settled on the middle category. At least the doctor said that most women experienced sexual appetite, and she didn’t bother preaching that it indicated a deficient character.

I popped a chocolate into my mouth, sipped my tea, and read on. The next paragraph had a surprise. When women experienced sexual excitement, it caused a congestion of blood in the genital organs. When the congestion peaked, there was a reflex movement called “orgasm.” I’d never heard that word. It was equivalent, she said, to the male orgasm that occurred when men ejected the seed of the baby.
In the woman this consists of a movement of the tubes and uterus, and it causes a suction that draws the spermatozoa up into its interior, resulting in pregnancy.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to experience such a thing. It reminded me of bathwater being sucked down the drain. She went on to say that if the man and woman experienced the orgasm simultaneously, a baby was likely to be conceived.

I paused to digest all this fascinating information while eating another chocolate and washing it down with some tea. I continued on, hoping for a description of what led up to that strange orgasm reflex.

The doctor said that too frequent activity in the uterus could cause inflammation of the genitals, warts, tumors, and cancer. She suggested ways to curb sexual excitement: gymnastics, cold baths, and the avoidance of alcohol. If all else failed, she said, use sheer willpower. I didn’t drink alcohol, so that wasn’t a concern, but the only thing I hated more than gymnastics was a cold bath. My willpower would have to do.

The chapter ended there. I turned the page.

CHAPTER 9

STERILITY

The Prevention of Conception and the Limitation of Offspring;
The Crime of Abortion; Infidelity in Women

How had we arrived at sterility? I flipped ahead to the following chapter. Maternity? I didn’t need to read about that. I turned back to the chapter on sexual instinct and skimmed through it again with disbelief. Dr. Galbraith had devoted the bulk of her attention to ways of avoiding sex, yet offered so few details on what occurred during it! Could it be there wasn’t anything else to know? Perhaps the woman needed only to lie there while the man took care of his needs. If so, I wished she’d taken the trouble to explain that. I finished off my tea and closed the box of chocolates. I felt exhausted. Even my bed seemed too far away. I stretched out on the sofa, closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep . . .

A knock on the door woke me up. I had no idea what time it was. Could it be the delivery of my suit from Siegel-Cooper? Probably Father, too lazy to fish out his latchkey.

But it wasn’t Father or my suit. A messenger boy handed over a yellow envelope addressed to me. A telegram. I handed the boy a few coins with my thanks. Then I shut the door and ripped open the envelope.

Your father is dead STOP Automobile accident STOP Please come home STOP I’m sorry STOP Aunt Ida

The room tilted. I sank onto the sofa and tried, as if anyone were observing me, to appear calm.

This couldn’t be.

I looked at the yellow paper again.
Your father is dead STOP Your father is dead STOP Your father is dead STOP Your father is dead

No. Must not think, must not feel. Someone had made a dreadful mistake.

Rising from the sofa, I walked in circles around the room. My body was going to burst through my skin.

I read it again.
Dead STOP Dead STOP Dead!
I crumpled the paper in my fist and let it drop to the floor. Then I wiped my tears, went to my room, and sat on the edge of my bed. He’d arrive at any moment, hungry for dinner after so many hours on the road.

I went to his bedroom as if I’d find him there. The maid had straightened up. His bed was made. His life was over. I lay down on the flat, neat cover and curled into a ball while moaning softly.
Don’t let it be true. Don’t let him be gone
 . . . My father, the only person in the world who truly loved me. I couldn’t bear it. How did it happen? I had to know. Now.

I went to the telephone and picked up the receiver. The ache in my heart cut off my breath. My lungs craved air, and I couldn’t speak. Setting the receiver back down, I forced myself to take in a few breaths. Then I asked the hotel operator to put me through and waited for Central to make the connection.

Aunt Ida, never comfortable using the telephone, spoke loudly. “Who is this?”

“Olive.” I gripped the cold metal handle as if it kept me tethered to the world.

“I would’ve telephoned,” she said. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t bring myself to. I’ve been sitting here waiting. It didn’t seem right to speak of such a thing over the wires.”

“It’s true?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” My throat choked up.

“I’m sorry, dear. So sorry.”

“How?” I held my breath as if about to go underwater.

“That machine,” she said. “Brakes failed. Didn’t get more than five miles from the house. They say he went careening down a hill
and was thrown. Landed on his head, and—” Her voice caught. “He died instantly.”

I could only whimper.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, “so sorry. I’m arranging everything, of course. The funeral. Don’t worry about that.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“What is that? I can’t hear. You’re upset, of course. You must come home immediately.”

“Now?”

“You mustn’t be alone at a time like this.”

“No.”

“What? You’ll have to speak louder.”

“Yes. The train. I’ll come.”

We rang off. Everything had changed too quickly. Father was supposed to return from Cold Spring; now I was supposed to go there? Pack, change my pad, remember to bring extras, go to the station, where we’d just said good-bye without knowing it was forever. I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t move. I had no choice.
The Four Epochs of Woman’s Life
sat on the side table. I needed a good place to hide it. Then I remembered: It didn’t matter. I had no father to hide it from.

I LOCKED THE
door to my apartment and secured the deadbolt. This had to be my worst birthday ever. The room was silent. Too silent, like a graveyard at midnight. I waited to see if a madman would leap out from the shadows wielding a butcher knife. No one leaped. The head vase, wearing the chakra bracelet, stared at me with a superior expression, as if she knew I’d been stood up by my married lover.

Okay, I had to get out of this mood.

First order of business: Open the wine and let it breathe. Then I changed into leggings and a T-shirt. After spooning some hummus into a bowl and getting out a bag of pita chips, I poured myself a glass of wine and nestled into the sofa to see what was happening with Olive. I was reading along happily, enjoying my little meal, when I read that her father was dead.

Dead?

Jesus. Usually, when you read someone’s diary—not that I made a habit of it—you start out hoping for all sorts of personal
details and get shopping lists and train schedules instead. Not death. God, poor Olive, to suddenly find herself so alone in the world.

I stared at the vintage travel poster on my wall of a glamorous couple riding in a carriage in Central Park. The idea of my parents’ death had always been unimaginable. I wanted to believe they’d never succumb to the laws of nature everyone else had to live by. Me, too, if possible. When either of them did die, I’d probably turn into a dysfunctional blubbering baby. I’d have no husband to anchor me, no kids to make me feel needed. I did have Molly, but she was married and starting her own family. There was my larger circle of friends, but really, people could be so flaky. I couldn’t be Jeff’s first priority, as this evening had made so painfully clear.

Here I was, scared to give him up because I’d be more alone. But that would be only temporary, theoretically; in time I’d be open to bonding with someone else. So staying with him made it more likely that I’d end up alone.

Maybe now was a good time to call him. Was it wrong to break up with a man when his wife was at the emergency room? What would Amy Vanderbilt say? I Googled “cut tendons” on my laptop to see how serious the injury was. A medical site explained how it would be sewn back up and the patient might have to wear a splint. That was bad, but not exactly life-threatening. Maybe Jeff was already home.

Maybe I’d wait until tomorrow.

I opened the journal but couldn’t read. Again I sensed that eerie quietness. The furniture seemed to be standing extra still, as if pretending not to have moved when I wasn’t looking.