Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (23 page)

“I love it!” She held out her arms. “The sleeves are so gorgeous, and they camouflage my fat. You’re a genius. Thank you so much. Now I can actually look forward to tonight.”

While she changed back into her street clothes, I returned the other dresses to the rack. This was why I liked my work. Selling online could never bring the same satisfaction.

After she left, I ordered a turkey sandwich from the deli and went back to that text.

Also want to pay back the IOU. Will figure out payment schedule and begin mailing checks to your accountant after going over my books.

I resisted confessing my lease crisis and hit send. That would’ve been too much of a mixed message. He’d take it as a call for help, then he’d offer money, and I’d be sorely tempted to take it. Just as I took out Olive’s journal, a woman in her fifties wearing a sixties shift came in and went straight to the sale rack.

“Can I help you find anything in particular?” I asked.

“No thanks, just looking.”

I nodded with a friendly smile, recognizing her as one of my regular customers and the dress as one she’d bought from me. Letting her alone to enjoy the hunt, I began to read.

SADIE INTRODUCED ME
to her landlady and then left me to fend for myself. Mrs. Almond was a rotund woman trying to hide a pitted complexion behind a thick layer of powder. She lost no time before casting doubt on my moral character and virtue.

“No visitors allowed in your room,” she said with irritation, as if I’d just asked how late my beau could stay. “I run a respectable place.”

At least I knew enough not to take it personally. “I don’t expect to have company.”

She narrowed her eyes with suspicion. “I lock the door promptly at ten.”

“I plan to be asleep every evening by nine.”

“Six dollars a week—includes your own room, breakfast, and dinner.”

“That would be acceptable.”

She raised her chin so I’d know who was boss. “If you’re one week late, out you go.”

“I’ll be paying in advance.”

“I got my own bills to pay,” she said with a sniff. “None of you girls seem to understand that.”

I took that as my acceptance and opened my pocketbook.

November 16, 1907

I haven’t even included anything for clothing, medicine, or entertainment. Before too long the money from Matilda will run out. What will happen to me then? So many people think it’s degrading for women to work. They’re living in the past. It’s no longer a matter of should or shouldn’t. According to Miss Underhill, Siegel-Cooper employs three thousand salespeople and 76 percent of them are female. The real issue is how to expect women from degrading themselves when employers don’t pay them enough to live.

I lay on my narrow bed, staring at a cockroach on the peeling wallpaper. I’d traded the El train outside my window for a dark
airshaft. My room was smaller—not even space for a table. The bureau drawers didn’t open without a fight, and the scuffed floor was only partially obscured by the previous tenant’s faded green rag rug. I threw a shoe at the cockroach. The shoe missed. The cockroach didn’t budge. After staring at its waving tentacles, my eyes drooped shut and I enjoyed the most deliciously deep sleep of my life.

—

A clanging bell startled me awake. I’d been living at the boarding house for a week and couldn’t get used to that loathsome sound first thing in the morning. Only the fear of missing out on breakfast roused me from bed. I dragged myself down to the ground-floor dining room and found an empty seat next to a teacher who was reading a stack of student essays. Sipping my weak coffee, I listened to a telephone girl across the table complain about her boss. A fresh slice of bread was ruined by margarine instead of butter. No jelly. Time to go.

Girls poured out the front doors on their way to work. Since we were so far east, most everyone headed west. Some walked, some rode the trolley, others ascended to the El, and others descended into the subway. I caught a glimpse of Sadie lined up for a trolley. Riding inside the crowded car didn’t seem worth the nickel, so I fell into step with the others marching down Fourteenth Street. When I reached the employee entrance, clogged because of the time clocks, I found myself bumping elbows with Angelina’s brother.

“
Buongiorno
, Miss Westcott.”

“Good morning, Mr. Spinelli.”

As we inched forward, I couldn’t think of what else to say, too aware of him standing so close, towering over me with his tall, athletic build. We took our turns punching in. He tipped his hat and said “
Ciao
” before turning in to the men’s locker room.

In the women’s locker room, everyone jostled and pushed in a
mad rush to reach their departments on time. After taking my place on the sales floor, I could breathe easy. I had my territory. The crowds bumped and swayed on the other side of the counter.

Staring into the commotion with glazed eyes that hadn’t adjusted to being awake, I mused that my encounter with Joe Spinelli that morning had been my most pleasant one yet. The sight of him could make a girl truly appreciate the male version of our species—until he had something to say.

Sadie appeared next to me. “What the devil are you smiling about?”

I gave her an innocent look. “Nothing.”

I straightened up and asked a customer if she needed help. While showing her a bottle of toilet water, I scolded myself for daydreaming about Joe Spinelli. If I hoped to get a raise, I’d need to impress Miss Cohen and stand out from the other girls. I resolved to speak with her that day about my idea.

Instead of going to lunch, I stopped by her office and asked if she had a minute to talk.

“Now is as good a time as any,” she said, motioning toward the chair opposite her desk.

I launched into my theory that we should be offering samples of our creams and lotions. “I’ve missed out on sales when a customer was afraid to try something new. If we allow them to try it out in the store, like they already do in the grocery section and housewares, we’re certain to sell more merchandise. All we have to do is keep one container open.”

“Allow all sorts of people to stick their fingers into the cold cream?”

“That way they can see it, and touch it, and smell it. They won’t have to worry about the bother of returning something they don’t like, and we won’t have as many returns on opened products.”

“But it’s not sanitary. At least when it comes to food, we can hand out individual portions.”

“If they’re getting something for free, they won’t care about the germs—not most of them, anyway. And it’s not as though we’d be forcing anyone. We’d simply be giving the opportunity.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Once they stop in front of the counter to take that little bit, I’ll have a chance to tell them how well it works. I wager they’ll be more disposed to pay for it.”

“I think you may be on to something. I’ll discuss it with Mr. Vogel.”

Mr. Vogel, a distinguished-looking man I’d seen on the floor a few times, was one of the vice presidents. “That would be grand,” I said. “Thank you, Miss Cohen.”

“Thank you, Miss Westcott.”

I rushed to the cafeteria to get something in my stomach before returning to my counter. The meeting had gone so well, I didn’t even regret missing out on lunch with the crowd down the street.

—

When a letter arrived from Aunt Ida, I tore open the envelope, anxious to hear the latest news on our financial affairs. I was thrilled to find she’d included a letter from Daisy. I hadn’t heard from my friend in months. I decided to save it and read my aunt’s letter first. She reported that the bank had agreed not to charge interest on the debt for a year, as long as she made a payment every month. She’d taken lodgers to bring in some income, and Margaret had an arrangement with the town grocer to sell her baked goods. She already had large orders for the holiday, and my aunt urged me to come home for Christmas to help out. My bedroom, however, was no longer available; I’d have to sleep on a cot in the study. It didn’t sound like the most inviting way to spend my time off. I put her letter aside.

Daisy’s letter was disappointingly brief, and what little she said
I didn’t want to hear. First she apologized for being such a rotten letter writer. Then she told me that London continued to be heavenly. Even though her courses at the art school were finished, she and her mother had no plans to return and were considering spending a few weeks in Rome.

I couldn’t bring myself to write back. She knew nothing about the changes in my life—not even that Father had died. How could I tell her the best I could look forward to was an extra day off for the Christmas holiday? Now even that bright spot didn’t sound so merry. Still, I wrote Aunt Ida that I would come. After all, she was my only family, and I hadn’t been back in Cold Spring since the funeral.

—

The Christmas rush arrived with a wallop, along with freezing temperatures. Customers shopped in a frenzy that made the past two months seem like naptime in the nursery. The stock market had begun to recover and appeared to be driving everyone wild to spend, as if splurging would ensure that hard times were gone for good. We stayed open until ten every night to oblige the armies of customers desperate to buy.

The long hours were not so accommodating for us salesgirls. I fought off a constant state of exhaustion and could only manage to perform mechanically, like that fortune-teller in the glass booth at the Eden Musee.

December 23, 1907

The store was scheduled to close at six o’clock, but last-minute shoppers refused to leave. Mr. McGillicutty had to call the police to force them out the doors! I took the trolley home, gobbled down some bread and cheese, and changed into my nightgown. Now I’m in bed, feeling just as excited as when I
was a little girl, knowing I’d be waking up to presents. Except now my “present” is time off from work. Too bad I have to spend it in Cold Spring.

I never heard the morning bell ring. Every now and then I woke, only to fall back into a dream. Eventually, I dressed and went downstairs. A woman who worked in a hotel restaurant sat in the dining room, sipping a cup of tea. We wished each other a merry Christmas, and I joined her at the table with my breakfast.

“Looks chilly out there,” I said, dreading my trip to Cold Spring.

“It’s below freezing.” She handed me the morning paper. “They say it might snow.”

An article warned travelers to expect the worst. The never-ending construction at Grand Central meant late trains and beastly crowds. “I thought everyone would’ve left the city by now.”

“I’d say we’re lucky to be right here, comfy and warm, even if it does make for a dull holiday.”

“And I think you’ve helped me come to a decision. Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

I went to the telephone in the front hall. It would be best to get the conversation out of the way so I could enjoy my breakfast. A man answered—one of the boarders. It was odd to think of a stranger living in my house. I told him who I was and asked him to fetch Aunt Ida.

“She’s cooking up a storm,” he said. “Hold on.”

I tried to calm my nerves while waiting. A minute later, the man returned. “Sorry, miss, couldn’t pry her from the stove.”

I silently cheered. “Do tell her how very sorry I am that I can’t come. And wish her a merry Christmas for me, please.”

“Surely will. Sorry you’ll be missing out, though. You should smell the pies baking in the oven.”

I thanked him and said to eat a slice for me.

December 25, 1907

My first Christmas without family. Missing Father more than I can say. If I didn’t feel so content relaxing by myself, with no demands on my time, I’m sure I’d feel utterly miserable and lonely.

The last week of 1907, the store continued to be overrun. Customers swarmed back to return gifts and reap profits on end-of-year clearance sales. When closing time on New Year’s Eve finally came, I laid the black velvet cover over the countertop with relief.

“Miss Westcott?”