Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (20 page)

“I found this organization with an amazing website. It has pictures of all these kids waiting for someone to adopt them. You can narrow it down by age and sex and state, and then you click on a picture, and there’s a profile describing the child’s background and personality.”

“Amazing. But can you trust them?”

“I know it sounds smarmy, but I’ve checked it out, and they’re legit. And we’ll be super-careful about who we pick.”

“Of course you will. And I bet those kids really need homes. So that’s exciting. I hope it works out.”

“Thanks.”

“Which reminds me: I had an exciting false alarm last night. My period is late, and I took a pregnancy test, but no bambino.”

“Your periods have been screwy all year, right?”

“Sort of. It’s just that I used to be regular as the rent, so when it’s a little off, I notice.”

“Hasn’t it been more than a little off?”

“There was that month I kept expecting it to come and it didn’t, and then it lasted, like, ten days the next month.” I didn’t mention the other month, when I only spotted.

“Look, I’m not a doctor, obviously, but this could be perimenopause.”

“Come off it, I’m too young for that.”

“Actually, you’d fall on the early end of the curve for normal—nothing diagnostically significant. You might want to have your FSH levels checked. You could be running low on viable eggs.”

Molly had seen so many specialists and doctors, she was ready to become one herself. “You’re saying the eggs I have left are drying up?”

“Don’t panic. It wouldn’t mean you aren’t fertile. I’m just saying your body might be transitioning into the early stages of menopause, so if you do want a kid, you might think about sooner rather than later. You know the statistics, right? On average, by the time she’s forty, a woman’s chance of getting pregnant is five percent.”

“Really? That bad?”

“I don’t mean to freak you out,” she went on, “but you know what I’ve been going through. And you’re a businesswoman. You understand how important it is to plan ahead.”

“One would think so. Hey, maybe I should have my eggs frozen.”

“You could.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“You know what you should really do?” Molly sat forward with excitement. “Have them fertilize some eggs and then freeze the embryos. They have a much better chance of surviving implantation than just eggs. At this moment in history, that’s your best bet.”

“Okay, and who would supply the sperm? Not that I’m taking this seriously.”

“I’m not suggesting it should be Jeff, if that’s what you’re thinking. They’ve got tons of sperm donors, and you can do searches to get exactly what you want.”

“I don’t know. Is it right to force my egg to have a one-night stand with a stranger’s sperm?”

“Very funny. Listen, five years ago they didn’t have this technology or I would’ve done it. Anyway, if you do want to look into in
vitro, there’s a website that has donor profiles. If you register with them, you can search through the listings.”

“You mean like Match.com?”

“Uh-huh. You can fix your egg up with the perfect sperm for that one-night stand.”

“Great. All of a sudden my life seems to be going down the tubes—no pun intended.”

“Maybe your real estate problem is a sign that your life is meant to change directions.”

“You mean the declaring-bankruptcy-and-going-on-welfare direction?” I rubbed my temples. I didn’t have a headache but should’ve.

“You could move in with your mom up in Woodstock. She’d help with the baby. That sounds kind of nice, doesn’t it?”

“In a nervous-breakdown sort of way.” Clearly, her judgment had been clouded by hormones stimulated by those photos of adoptive kids.

“I’m sorry, sweetie.” She reached across the table and gave my wrist a reassuring squeeze. “Just ignore me. I’ve been so preoccupied with my whole baby drama, and it’s probably the last thing you want to be thinking about now.”

“I know you’re just trying to be helpful. Anyway, we should probably get going. Almost time to open.”

“I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“It helps just to talk about it,” I said, though I pretty much felt worse than when I walked in.

“DO NOT STAND
in groups. Do not chew gum or tobacco. Do not eat, read books, or sew behind the counter.”

An efficient middle-aged woman named Mrs. Underhill taught the class of ten new female employees. She wore a severe black dress, a gold watch pinned to her bosom, a tight bun on the back of her neck, and a permanent frown.

“Do not be out of your place. Do not be late. Do not make noise in the elevators. Do not talk across the aisle or in loud voices. Do not keep your hat, coat, or umbrella where you are working. Do not gossip. Any questions?”

After barely a glance at our faces, Mrs. Underhill launched into instructions on filling out sales checks, holds, deliveries, and returns. The clock ticked forward as she gave painstaking care to elaborate on every way in which a mistake could be made. “Now,” Mrs. Underhill concluded, “we’ll go look at the tube room so you can see how the money is processed.”

We took the employee elevator down to the basement. As a
customer, I’d often wondered what was on the other end of the pneumatic tube, so I was quite curious while following Mrs. Underhill through a vaultlike door into a windowless room. The machinery made a dreadfully loud noise. Mrs. Underhill yelled to be heard. “You may feel superior to these workers! But they are the store’s most important employees!”

A row of twenty or so women sat behind a counter that ran along the receiving end of tubes lining the wall like organ pipes. Metal capsules continually shot out from the tube openings onto the counter. Each girl would open a capsule, remove the money and the sales ticket, put the correct change in the tube, and send it back. My heart broke for them, stuck in this horrid room all day, doing their dull, repetitive task.

“If the money isn’t handled correctly, there won’t be profit; if there’s no profit, there’s no store; if there’s no store,” she concluded, “none of you would have jobs!”

After we left the tube room, Mrs. Underhill dismissed us for lunch. She advised us to use the female employee’s cafeteria. “They serve quick, wholesome meals for a nominal charge. It’s imperative to give yourself time to relax and eat a nutritious meal so you can keep up your strength.”

—

Waiters rushed to serve the hundreds of workers passing through in the forty-five minutes allowed for breaks. The sound of female chatter echoed noisily off the walls. I sat with the other new girls and listened to them raving about some picture shows they’d seen. Some spoke with foreign accents; all used lower-class slang. By the time the waiter arrived with our plates of macaroni and cheese, buttered beets, and rhubarb pie, the break was nearly over, and I had to gobble down my food. Lunch might have provided some nutrition, but attending a riot would’ve been equally relaxing.

Back in the classroom, Miss Underhill issued each of us a
brown leather-bound sales book. I gripped it tightly on the way to the toiletries department while talking myself out of feeling shame over my lowly position. Unlike the day of my first job interview at Macy’s, I couldn’t afford to fall back on my pride.

A handsome woman stood by the toiletries counter, waiting to greet me. “Here you are. I’m Miss Cohen, the buyer for this section.” She wore a dark brown tailored suit the same color as her dark brown hair and eyes. I guessed she was in her late thirties.

My heart beat faster. I did want to impress her. “How do you do?”

“Welcome to the toiletries department.”

She moved aside so I could take my place behind the counter. I crossed over, making sure to appear as though I felt perfectly at ease.

“We’re quite busy here on the ground floor,” Miss Cohen was saying. “This department is different from any other. You need to know what product is best suited for a particular condition, almost like a doctor treating a patient, so it’s imperative that you take some time to learn the stock.”

“We’re the experts,’ ” I said with a nod. “We give free advice, which makes the customer more inclined to buy our product.”

“Exactly.” By her raised eyebrows, I could see she was favorably impressed.

“Thank you so much for the chance to work here. I intend to do my very best.”

“Sadie will answer any questions you might have,” she said, nodding to a young woman behind my counter. “I suggest you watch her today and begin helping customers tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get to a sales meeting.”

After Miss Cohen left, I turned to my coworker. Small and slim, she had a pale heart-shaped face framed by thick auburn ringlets swept up into a massive bun. At first glance, an indentation on her chin looked like a dimple; then I realized it was
a pockmark. I gave her a friendly smile and held out my hand. “Olive Westcott. How do you do?”

“Sadie Bernstein.” She gave my hand an obligatory shake and eyed me with suspicion. “Ever work in a store before?”

“Yes, but I’m sure I have loads yet to learn.”

“I’ll say.”

“Miss Cohen seems nice.”

“Don’t expect her to become your friend.”

“Of course, I didn’t mean—”

“If we don’t sell what she buys, it makes her look bad, and if she looks bad, you’ll be the first to go.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“The question is when
didn’t
I.”

Sadie left my side to fix her hair in the glass before going to help a customer. I began to familiarize myself with the products. Bleaches to remove freckles, scented soaps done up in fancy packages, treatments for facial eruptions, and depilatories for facial hair removal. I examined every box and bottle label—read about the ingredients and what they claimed to do. When Sadie helped customers, I listened in, but she didn’t come alive until the girl handing out candy samples came by. “What’s in the basket today?” she asked.

“Peanut brittle,” the girl said as Sadie sneaked a piece into her pocket. “No sooner do I fill it up than it goes empty again.”

She was quite lovely, with olive skin, black eyes, and lustrous black hair piled into a low, loose bun. The accent—a mixture of downtown, uptown, European—added an exotic flavor to her elegant beauty. I kept a smile on my face, unsure if she noticed me.

“Honestly,” she went on, “the richer they are, the more they like to bag the free stuff. Say, are you working with someone new, Sadie? Why don’t you introduce us?”

“She just started,” Sadie said, as if that was all anyone needed to know.

“Olive Westcott,” I said. “How do you do?” I forced myself not to stare at her high cheekbones, perfectly arched eyebrows, and full red lips.

“Angelina Spinelli. Here’s the store’s official welcome gift.” She sneaked a piece of brittle across the counter and then looked past me. “Uh-oh. McGillicutty’s giving me the evil eye. Gotta go.”

“McGillicutty?” I asked.

“Floorwalker,” Sadie said.

“He likes to come off like a bear,” Angelina added, “but he’s a sweetheart. See you next time around.”

I watched her offer Mr. McGillicutty a piece of peanut brittle. He shook his head with disapproval, then snatched a piece from her hand as she was about to take it away. She laughed and walked off as he popped it in his mouth.

“Sure is slow today,” Sadie said, leaning on the glass counter.

“If it picks up, perhaps I could start helping customers?”

“Miss Cohen said you should watch, and I don’t want no trouble. Here, this should keep you busy.” She handed me a stack of chamois and told me to roll up each one and tie it with a ribbon.

Before long, a matron wearing a fur jacket with a matching muff came to the counter. She kept asking Sadie to show her different brands of toilet water. Some other customers arrived, and I had to avoid their glares as they waited for Sadie’s attention. Finally, a young woman interrupted them with a question about shampoo. That was when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a bottle of honeysuckle toilet water moving from the counter to the inside of the woman’s fur muff. Was this truly taking place? On my first day? I considered pretending not to notice—it would make for such an embarrassing scene—but Mr. McGillicutty was patrolling nearby, so I motioned him to the other end of the counter and kept my voice low. “I believe you’ll find something that belongs to the store inside that woman’s muff.”

“Are you sure?” he whispered back.

I nodded solemnly. Then I watched with palpitating heart as Mr. McGillicutty confronted the matron.

“I assure you,” she said, “you’re quite mistaken.”

Mr. McGillicutty suggested the woman go with him to his office. “We can resolve the issue and send you on your way.”

The woman protested until she realized spectators had gathered to enjoy the show. Mr. McGillicutty motioned for me to come along. I followed them to his office, praying I hadn’t imagined her crime. In his office, I held my breath as he reached inside the muff. When he pulled out the bottle of toilet water, the poor woman fell to crying. My relief turned to pity.

“Please don’t tell my husband,” she pleaded. “He works for the mayor! It would be such an embarrassment. I promise not to do it ever again.”