Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (26 page)

We soon turned a corner onto a narrow side street of six-story walk-ups. Despite the absence of office buildings and tall apartment houses, I had the sensation of being closed in on all sides. Black metal fire escapes zigzagged up the front of drab, grimy tenements. Wet garbage sat in piles along the sidewalk. We stopped in front of a doorway next to a smoke shop, entered a dark hall, and marched single-file up steep stairs barely lit by a flickering gas jet. After jiggling her latchkey to turn the sticky lock, Angelina pushed open the door.

I followed her into the small apartment. “Sorry about the mess,” she said, unpinning her soggy hat.

“I’m sure you don’t need to apologize.”

“I haven’t the time to fix it up, so there it is.”

I took in my surroundings: wide-plank wood floors, a low ceiling, only the most basic furnishings. A small coal stove and sink made do for a kitchen. An alcove in the back had a bed. A pink throw rug with a yellow border covered the center of the floor, and elaborately decorated hats hung on the walls. A light pink sheet on a clothesline separated off the back corner of the room.

“But you’ve made it lovely, really.” I particularly liked the wallpaper of purple roses climbing a jade-green trellis.

As I shook my wet hair loose, she put a coin in the gas meter. I wondered how Angelina could afford an apartment all to herself. She hadn’t ever mentioned any gentleman friend. I hoped there was another explanation.

“Sit down, take your shoes off. I’m getting out of these wet clothes. Let me find you a robe so you can change, too.”

We took turns using the bathroom down the hall and changing behind the pink curtain, where she had layers of clothing piled on
hooks. When she hung up my outfit to dry, she noticed I was missing a garment. “No corset?”

“I can’t stand them,” I said, twisting my hair into a knot and pinning it in place.

“And I feel naked without one.”

“But how do you breathe?”

“Simple: I let more air out than I let in.”

I laughed. “I’ve never understood why women are so willing to suffer for their looks.”

“So you can enjoy it when your suffering is over,” she said with a touch of wickedness. “I love letting a man undo me one hook at a time.”

My face turned crimson. Angelina smiled with indulgence. “Sorry, didn’t mean to shock you. Forgot you’re still an innocent
bambina
. How about I make us some dinner and warm the place up. You like spaghetti?”

“I love macaroni and cheese.” My mouth watered as she turned on the stove.

“I haven’t any cheese . . . but I do have a can of tomatoes and some garlic.”

“That would be grand.” I’d been craving butter and cheese something awful but didn’t let on. I’d never eaten spaghetti cooked with tomatoes.

Angelina put a pot of water on to boil. Then she chopped up some garlic and poured olive oil in a skillet. I’d always thought that kind of oil was only for salad dressing. When the oil was hot, she tossed in the garlic. As it sizzled, the aroma filled the room.

As she wrestled with a can opener and a tin of tomatoes, I took a closer look around. On her bureau was an untrimmed straw hat surrounded by all sorts of feathers, different-colored ribbons, wire, and glue. A tall stack of hatboxes took up a corner of the room. “Looks like you have a talent for hatmaking, too.”

“And buying.” She dumped the tomatoes into the pan. “It’s easier on my pocketbook when I make copies of the ones in stores, but sometimes a girl just can’t resist. So we’ll let that simmer and put in the spaghetti.”

She used noodles such as I’d never seen: thin sticks that were so long, they had to be broken in half to fit in the pot. By the time she served the bowls of spaghetti, I couldn’t keep myself from gulping down the hot soupy meal.

“This is the most delicious food,” I said, trying not to embarrass myself while slurping the slippery noodles into my mouth.

“Thanks, I make it all the time.”

“Did your mother teach you to cook?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Must be nice to have your own place. Or do you get lonely?”

“Joe lives right next door.” She nodded toward the wall.

“Right on the other side?” I ignored a small cockroach crawling up the wallpaper.

“You want me to invite him over?”

“Please don’t.”

“You sure?”

“Quite sure.” I seemed to be amusing her. “I’ve often wondered what it would be like having a brother—or a sister, for that matter.”

“Not missing much, dearie. Nothing Joe likes better than telling me how to live my life. The other four are just as cocky. But he got the best of the looks.”

“Except for his sister,” I said. “I bet men fall for you all the time.”

“Now and then, I guess.”

“Anyone now?”

“Well . . .” Her voice trailed off with uncertainty as she wrapped a tendril of hair around her finger.

“You don’t have to answer. I’m sure it’s none of my business.”

“Let’s just say I got my catch.”

“That’s good.”

“A well-heeled one, at that.”

“Even better.”

She let the tendril loose. “How else could I have my own place?”

I did my best to appear blasé. “He pays your rent?”

“Oh, he’s awfully generous.”

“That’s nice.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Are you shocked?”

“No.”

Now she drew her eyes into narrow slits, almost challenging me to disapprove. “You think it’s wrong.”

It didn’t sit right, but I had no wish to insult her. “I think it’s your decision to make. How did you meet him?”

“He saw me modeling in a fashion show at the store. When it was over, he asked me to dinner. You know where we went? The Café Martin. Can you imagine me sitting there with all those rich swells?”

A strange sensation came over me as Angelina described her visit to the restaurant I passed all the time while living at the Mansfield. How did I end up here, eating spaghetti with an Italian shopgirl who lived one step away from prostitution?

“Are you in love with him?” I asked.

“I like him well enough.”

“So you don’t hope to marry him.”

“Oh, he’s crazy to marry me. Loves to go on about how we should chuck everything and move to Paris so we can sit in cafés, meet artists, drink wine all afternoon . . .”

“Sounds romantic.”

“For a few weeks; then I’d be dying to come home.”

“You could go to the fashion shows and shop for clothes.”

“When you put it that way, it’s tempting.” She rose to clear the table. “But I see him enough as it is.”

Later that night, crowded next to Angelina in bed, I lay on my back with my arms at my sides, trying not to move an inch. I’d never shared a bed with anyone and didn’t want to brush against her by mistake.

“What are you afraid of more than anything?” she asked.

I stared into the dark before answering. “Childbirth. My mother died giving birth to me. Her mother died giving birth to her.”

“Mercy. So you may never have children?”

“I’d sooner ride in a barrel over Niagara Falls. What’s your greatest fear?”

“Being penniless,” she said. “Ending up in the poorhouse or on the street.”

I wished I could honestly reassure her that could never happen. “Life is so terribly uncertain.” As we lay there in silence, I cursed the world for being such a heartless, lopsided place. Why should comfort and pleasure come so easily to some while others had to demean themselves simply to get along? “Does your brother know about . . . your gentleman friend? Seems like it would be hard to keep it a secret if he lives right next door.”

“My gentleman friend,” she said with an edge of bitterness, “is the reason Joe lives next door. He was still living at home when I helped him get work at the store, and then he happened to find out.
Madonna mia,
” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Joe threatened to tell my parents and kill that man who turned me into a whore. So I talked my gent into pulling a few strings, and he got Joe the apartment next door so he could ‘look after me.’ ”

“That satisfied Joe?”

“Oh, he was delighted, and you can be sure he doesn’t care two cents about leading his girlfriends down the same path.”

“Isn’t it interesting how men adjust their opinion as to a woman’s behavior depending on how it best suits their needs?”

“I’ll say.”

“It’s utterly galling.” Though I couldn’t shake my own distaste over the idea of Angelina compromising herself for money.

At the same time, I was intensely curious to know exactly
how
she compromised herself. Did she allow this man to have his way with her completely? Did it feel good? Did it hurt? Had she ever experienced the orgasm? Exactly how much money did he give her?

I tried to reassure myself; one day I’d know what I needed to know. Meanwhile, I ought to count myself lucky to find someone so kind and refreshingly open. Daisy was more educated and refined, but Angelina was more worldly-wise. Before too long, the steady rhythm of her breathing lulled me to sleep.

—

“Would you mind terribly lending me a hat?” We were just about to leave for the Electric Show when I remembered the sight of my poor white beaver boater being squashed under the wheel of that trolley.

“Sorry,” Angelina said with a mischievous glint in her eyes, “I have no extras.”

I pouted. “Please?”

She pretended to take pity. “I suppose I could spare one for the day.”

I scanned the assortment of hats scattered about the apartment. “How should I ever be able to choose?”

“May I suggest this one?” From the wall, she took a felt toque trimmed with a turquoise velvet bow. “Or . . .” She selected a wide-brimmed black beaver with long pink and green ribbon tails. “This?”

“They’re both lovely. The toque has less chance of flying off my head . . .”

“But the brim on the beaver is better protection from the rain.”

“And the ribbons are darling. You decide!”

“Why don’t we each wear one and then switch at lunch.”

“Perfect!”

“Now we’d better skedaddle or we’ll never have time to see everything.”

Following her out, I remembered Joe lived right next door. It was funny to think he might be only a few feet away. I let Angelina start down ahead of me and peeked back at his door. I didn’t want her to see—she’d be sure to tease me for being sweet on him. The truth was, I found her much more interesting.

—

“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to give you a glimpse into the future,” said the pretty young woman who led our tour through the most popular exhibit on the floor: a replication of an entire modern apartment with everything powered by electricity. The attention to detail was exacting, down to bric-a-brac on the fireplace mantel, a bookshelf filled with classics, and a box of chocolates sadly wasted on phantom residents. I couldn’t believe the sheer audaciousness of creating it all just for show.

The last room on the tour was the most impressive: a kitchen fitted out with all the latest gadgets. “Clothes can be washed, rinsed, dried, and ironed with ease,” she said while opening and closing an electric laundry machine. Her voice sounded so automatic, I thought she might be a machine, too. “Temperatures can be set so low, it’s possible to store your food for days.” She opened the door to a refrigerator. “No need for an iceman anymore.

“Soon electricity will be the new servant,” our guide concluded, “and even your servants will be able to afford it.” Most of her audience chuckled at the notion. As we left the apartment, an automatic piano played “All She Gets from the Iceman Is Ice.”

“The idea of living with all those machines sounds dreadful,” Angelina said as we walked on. “People will never accept it.”

“Do you really think so?”

“What could be more romantic than dinner by candlelight?”

“You wouldn’t have to give that up. Simply turn down the lights
after your meal is made, and imagine how much easier it will be to make it.”

“Given the choice, I’d rather have servants do it for me.”

“And perhaps one day you will.”

We passed exhibits for curling irons, weight reducers, coffee percolators, and toasters. Women gaped at the new appliances with longing. Unlike Angelina, I suspected that people in the future would embrace all these new devices, and the department stores would need to make lots of space for them.

When we stopped to watch the demonstration of a waffle iron, the heavenly scent put us both in mind for lunch. After waiting for the chance to sample a piece of waffle, which was quite delicious, we walked toward the entrance to find the restaurant. “So you don’t find it tempting?” I ventured to ask. “The idea of living in a house done up with all those gadgets to help you raise a family?”

“A house? In the suburbs? With scads of kids running about? Never. I’m a city girl, and if I ever do get hitched, I’m not having sons. Girls only. I always wished I could have a sister. When I think of what Mama went through, raising the pack of us! Of course we’re Catholic, so there was hardly a time she wasn’t pregnant or nursing. That’s why I’m stopping at two.”

“But how, if I may ask, would you put a limit on it?” I couldn’t believe my boldness, and asking in public, no less.

“My gent makes sure that’s taken care of.”

“So he uses those rubber bags you mentioned?”

“No, he doesn’t like ’em, so he sent me to his fancy doctor uptown, had me all checked out, and fit me up with a pessary.”

“What’s that?” It seemed I could have an intimate conversation surrounded by hundreds of people in New York City, while exchanges of importance had utterly eluded me in the quiet town of Cold Spring.

“Like a rubber but for a woman. Goes inside and blocks his seed.”

“Sounds awfully uncomfortable.”

“After it’s in, you can’t feel a thing. Anyway, it’s a bother no matter how you manage—except the old-fashioned way, of course.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re the limit!” she said with a laugh. “Make him withdraw before it’s too late.”

By “too late,” I supposed she meant before the orgasm. Dr. Galbraith’s book said both the man and the woman needed to have one for pregnancy to occur.