Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (25 page)

“So, I was wondering,” he said, “maybe you could suggest a good place for dinner. The neighborhood’s changed so much, I don’t know where to go anymore.”

“Dinner?” He didn’t mean with me, did he? Of course not, so why was I blushing? “There are tons of places. What kind of food do you like?”

“Pretty much anything.”

“There’s a good tapas bar on Ninth Street. And a great vegetarian place on Second Avenue. Or if you’re in the mood for comfort food, there’s a new place near your grandmother’s called Home Cooking that’s supposed to be really good.”

“I’m always in the mood for comfort food.” He hesitated. “You wouldn’t by any chance consider joining me?”

I had a moment of panic. Should I say yes? What about the
beard? The fact that he lived on the other side of the United States? Did I really need to follow my adulterous affair with a long-distance relationship? Not to presume he wanted anything other than company over dinner. And a one-night stand, perhaps. “That’s so nice of you to ask, but I stay open till eight, and then I have some bookkeeping I really should get to.”

“No need to explain. I know how it is. Running a business can eat up all your time if you let it.”

“It really can.”

“So I’ll get going. And thanks again. My grandmother likes knowing her things will be appreciated.”

“I’ll be sure to place them in the finest of homes.” If I didn’t go out of business first.

The door shut behind him. I took a few bites of my sandwich before checking my phone. Jeff had responded.

I’m sorry I hurt you. I love you.

Tears welled up in my eyes. He didn’t like the way things were any more than I did. But I couldn’t give in. He’d just pull me back under his spell. Damn. I had to distract myself. I queued up Ella Fitzgerald singing “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered” before turning to the computer. I Googled “perimenopause,” not because I put stock in what Molly said but just for the hell of it. One site had a checklist.

Hot flashes
. No.

Trouble sleeping.
Yes.

Irregular periods.
Sort of, okay, yes.

Weight gain.
Unfortunately.

Mood swings.
Doesn’t everyone’s?

Loss of libido.
Only when my married lover missed my birthday.

Trouble lubricating.
Same.

Feelings of dread, apprehension, anxiety, doom.
Yes, because my best friend told me I was running out of eggs.

Irritability.
Who wouldn’t be?

Disorientation, mental confusion.
Like getting spooked in my own apartment? Freaky dreams? Allowing a hypnotist to convince me I could find wisdom in a department store?

Maybe Molly was right: My eggs were numbered. I typed in “freezing embryo.” A zillion links popped up. It seemed that if you wanted to fork over fifteen thousand dollars, you could easily find someone to refrigerate your offspring. Every site agreed on one thing: The chances for a healthy baby decreased significantly after the age of thirty-seven. Some places wouldn’t take women thirty-eight and older because success rates dropped so much. Jesus. I wouldn’t even make the cut.

Three teenage girls arrived in a whirl of giggles. I kept an eye out in case anyone was contemplating a five-finger discount. They complained to one another over the lack of prom dresses from the eighties, a category of clothing I particularly loathed.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

One of the girls turned to me. “Where are your clothes from the nineties?”

“I don’t carry the nineties,” I said, resisting the temptation to suggest the nearest Goodwill.

“Oh, too bad,” she said.

After they left, I neatened up the mess they’d managed to make after twenty minutes in the store. Then I went back to Olive.

“I WANT TO
buy perfume.” A handsome man in a dark suit and fedora peered at the display of pastel boxes. “It’s for a lady who . . . She’s my sister.”

I noticed his wedding band. “Do you know what kind of scent she likes?”

He pulled at his collar. “I’m afraid I have no idea.”

I showed him a midpriced bottle of lavender perfume. After almost three months of working in the store, I was wise to all the married men buying perfume for their girlfriends. “This has a lovely, fresh fragrance.”

“I want her to feel appreciated.”

“Well, if you don’t mind spending a little more . . .” I turned to the glass cabinet behind me and selected one of our most expensive scents. “Women are always pleased with the latest from Paris.”

“Can it be gift-wrapped?”

“Certainly.”

“And . . .” He scratched his left eyebrow. “Can you send it to the Knickerbocker Hotel?”

I kept my voice neutral. “Of course.”

“It needs to be there by dinnertime.”

“I’ll make sure it reaches the hotel in time.” Smiling pleasantly, I offered him a lilac card with the store initials and a matching envelope. He wrote something and sealed it up. Wishing I could lecture him on the error of his ways, I accepted his money and gave my thanks.

At lunch I walked briskly in the cold to the dairy restaurant and ordered oyster soup. Joe and Angelina, along with a large group from the store, were sitting at two tables pushed together. When I sat down, it came as no surprise that everyone was talking excitedly about the big news: Harry Thaw had been acquitted of murder and taken to the State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, an asylum that happened to be just north of Cold Spring. Over the next few weeks, doctors would be evaluating his mental condition for a diagnosis. I quietly sipped my soup as they debated the decision.

“Obviously, he’s off his rocker,” Joe maintained. “You don’t need a parade of experts to figure that out. The point is, he killed the fellow and deserves to rot in jail.”

“But you’re wrong,” said Lucy from the handkerchief counter. “The point is whether he planned it or not.”

“He had a gun on him, didn’t he?” countered a young man who demonstrated vacuums in housewares.

“But it was a crime of passion,” insisted a girl who worked down in the tube room. “He was defending his wife’s honor. You can’t punish a man for being in love.”

I couldn’t resist joining in. “I don’t see why feelings of passion should excuse the fact that he murdered another human being in cold blood.”

Angelina jumped in right after me. “Maybe because you’ve never experienced real passion.”

As I turned crimson, some of the others hooted with laughter, perhaps even Joe—I didn’t want to know. Keeping my gaze down, I stirred my soup slowly, as if searching for a pearl in the broth.

“I’m sorry, Olive,” Angelina said. “That slipped out.”

I nodded and felt grateful when the vacuum demonstrator turned the conversation back to Harry Thaw. “They treated him to a feast at some hotel up in Fishkill before locking him up in the madhouse.”

“He sure won’t be enjoying his meals in there,” Lucy said.

My own appetite seemed to have evaporated, but I forced myself to finish the soup. As Miss Underhill had said on my first day, it was important to keep up your strength.

—

Angelina walked with me back to the store. “I shouldn’t have teased you back there. I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?”

I crossed my arms over my chest and hugged my jacket closed to keep out the chill. “Of course. I’m sure the others have already forgotten.” At least I hoped so.

“You’re a peach.”

“Goodness, I’m sick of the winter, aren’t you?” I still felt wounded but didn’t want to dwell on the matter any longer.

“February is evil,” she agreed. “You feel like winter will never end. And here I am, rehearsing the spring fashion show for next week.”

“Spring is a nice thought.”

“Hard to imagine going outside in those pongee dresses and cotton frocks. Anyway, thank goodness tomorrow is Sunday. Have any special plans for your day off?”

“I’d been hoping to go to the Electric Show at the Madison Square Garden. The employee association had free tickets, but when I went to pick one up, the social secretary said I was too late.”

“That’s too bad. Sounds like fun.”

We entered the warmth of the store. I returned to my counter,
wishing for something more to look forward to than sleeping late on my day off. The afternoon dragged. February was notoriously slow, and the weather didn’t help. At closing time, I went down to my locker and found Angelina waiting for me. She held up two tickets. “Still like to go?”

“The Electric Show? You’re pulling my leg! How did you get them?”

“That social secretary likes to hoard a few for herself in case she needs ’em. Sometimes it’s a good idea to check again at the last minute.”

“So that’s the secret. I’d love to go.” There was no one I’d rather spend the day with, even if everyone knew I’d never experienced passion.

On our way out, the guard warned us we’d better have umbrellas. Neither of us did. “You’re in big trouble,” he said. “Those clouds are about to burst!”

Angelina punched the time clock. “Wasn’t the sky clear this morning?”

I punched out after her. “This morning seems like ages ago. Who can remember?”

As soon as we stepped outside, gusts of wind swirled our skirts. “He was right,” Angelina said as we looked up at the sky. “It’s gonna pour. I better take the subway.”

“And the trolley for me.” I mentally subtracted the fare from my week’s budget. We walked side by side with our heads bent against the wind and our skirts billowing around our knees. With one hand, I clutched my skirt to keep it from blowing up; with the other, I clamped down my hat. By the time we reached the curb, raindrops were falling. A policeman signaled for us to cross, and we moved along with everyone else, forging a path between the fender of a delivery truck and a cabbie who was trying to keep his horse from charging.

On the other side of the street, carriages lined up in front of a
theater. The doorman blocked the way, forcing a sea of pedestrians to wait as a woman wearing a diamond tiara and an ermine fur coat descended from a carriage. Someone behind us whispered that she was Mrs. Vanderbilt Whitney, but I didn’t know whether to believe it. The rain came down harder and pelted the captive audience as a white-gloved man with the bearing of a prince escorted the woman under the awning. Finally, the regal pair disappeared into the brightly lit gilded lobby. The weather never touched them.

With the ermine coat safely inside, the doorman let everyone through. Angelina and I continued on. A gust of wind slapped a spray of rain in my face, and another squall took my beaver boater along with it.

“My hat!”

We watched it fly into the street, where a streetcar promptly ran over it. My hatpin dangled from my hair. I pulled it out, and we kept going. Just as we reached the corner, lightning struck and the storm let loose. We dashed through the downpour and took refuge under a narrow awning. I stood there, a wreck, my hair drooping.

“I should make a run for the trolley,” I said as one approached.

“You’ll never get on. It’s packed.”

“I might as well walk. I’m soaked anyway.” At least I wouldn’t have to wash out my waist that night.

“You’ll catch your death. Why don’t you come home with me? Then we can go together to the show tomorrow. The subway’s right across the street.”

I’d never ridden on the subway. “That’s very kind, but I shouldn’t impose.”

“I wouldn’t offer if I thought you would be.”

“It’s terribly sweet of you.” I stared at the entrance to the subway. For years I’d read about the excavations on Fourth Avenue: dynamite explosions, cave-ins, injuries, deaths. Aunt Ida liked to
say the devil lived down there. I wanted to see for myself. And, for that matter, have a glimpse of how Angelina lived. “You have your own apartment?”

“It’s not much, but it’s all mine.”

“Well then, yes, thank you. I don’t know why you bother being so kind to me.”

She laughed. “It’s purely selfish. I’m hoping some of your polish might rub off on me.”

“If it doesn’t turn to rust before I dry off, you’re welcome to it.”

We ran across the street and down the cement steps. After paying our nickels, we fed our tickets into the chopper and joined the others on the crowded platform. A train approached with a low rumble that gradually built into a horrendous shriek of metal. When the guard opened the doors, we had to push our way onto the already packed car.

Squeezed in on all sides while speeding through the tunnel, I stared at the only diversion my eyes could find—an advertisement picturing a large cigar. It had an absurd slogan underneath.
A man is known for the company he keeps. Men are in good company when they smoke our cigars.
I kept reading the slogan over and over, as if it would say something new the next time.

The train screeched to a stop at the Astor Place station, and we joined the exodus up to the street. The sky had darkened and the rain had stopped. Wet streets reflected the city lights. I took a deep breath and appreciated what a gift fresh air could be.

Knowing we were about to enter the streets of the East Side ghetto, I observed my surroundings with keen interest. Astor Place was only a few blocks south of the Shopping District, but as we walked south past the Cooper Union, I felt as if we were entering a foreign country. Along Bowery, pushcarts lit with gas torches lined the gutters. A mishmash of motor cars, trucks, and horses carved out paths between trolleys running on three sets of tracks.
The Third Avenue El roared past overhead. I’d never seen so much movement taking place in such a small area by so many human beings trying to get somewhere else.