Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (32 page)

I clenched my hand so it wouldn’t reach up to brush a curl of black hair off his forehead. “I’m sorry. I really do have other plans.”

“So break ’em.” He leaned over me, one arm propped against the wall. As his face came toward mine, I had every chance to laugh, slap him, run away; instead, I froze—apart from the tremors coursing through my body. After all, it was about time I received my first kiss.

His lips pressed lightly against mine. I barely felt the scratch of his mustache before he pulled away. Nevertheless, my disappointment over the brevity of the kiss didn’t keep me from ducking under his arm and darting for the exit.

“Don’t be late,” he said as the door closed behind me.

Did he mean to my counter—or the dance hall? Not that it mattered.

I took my place behind the counter and greeted Sadie with a surprisingly cheerful “good afternoon.” A customer walked up and asked for something to remove blemishes. I reached for a brand currently on sale and smiled. My first kiss. Short but sweet. Finally, I’d gotten it. And my headache had gone away in the bargain.

DINNER WITH ROB
left me too excited to even think of going to sleep, so I delved into the two bags of clothing I’d brought up from the store to examine them more closely for stains or rips. Settling into the couch, I aimed my lamp to get the best light and began to empty the pillowcases. I was pleased to see that only minor alterations would be needed. Anything with stains must not have been kept, because I didn’t find a single one.

In the next bag I found the green satin dress with a purple sash that I’d admired at Mrs. Kelly’s apartment. Olive had described a dress just like it in her journal. I’d been assuming everything from the trunk belonged to her; now I felt sure. Next I pulled out a nightgown, beautifully made, in perfect condition. It had a lace-trimmed neckline with a narrow pink ribbon woven though that tied in front. Teensy white buttons ran down the front. I decided to try it on, curious to see what I’d look like as a resurrected virgin.

Modeling it in front of the mirror, I felt soft and pretty. Sweet and innocent. Girlish. It thrilled me to know this very material had
been on Olive’s body and was now on mine. I decided to keep it on for the night. A classic bona fida nightgown might put me in a better mind-set to sleep than an ex-lover’s reject button-down shirt.

After flicking off the lights, I snuggled into bed. Does anything feel better than going to sleep when you’re tired? Moments after closing my eyes, I began to sink into luscious oblivion.

My cell phone jingled. My eyes opened. Oh god. Was that Jeff answering my drunk text after I told him not to? Yep.

We really should talk. Tomorrow night. My place. Come over after you close, ok? I miss you. xoxo

His place, meaning his office—not his home up in Katonah. Before getting married, Jeff lived in an apartment on Thirtieth and Park Avenue. He held on to it and converted the living room into an office, keeping the rest as a pied-à-terre. It turned out to be a perfectly convenient place to have our little trysts.

Now I was wide awake. I got out of bed, sat down on the sofa, and stared at my phone. I didn’t want to say yes to him and didn’t want to say no, so I tossed the phone aside and turned on the TV. The only thing that appealed to me was
Top Hat,
a Fred Astaire movie I’d seen a couple of times before. Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, I watching Fred do a soft-shoe in Ginger’s hotel room to help her fall asleep. Back in high school, Jeff and I went to old movies all the time. Silent-film festivals at Lincoln Center, film noir at the Thalia, independents at Theatre 80 on St. Marks . . . We were total snobs about rejecting all the new “garbage” churned out by Hollywood.

My education in fashion flourished with the help of Joan Crawford, Katharine Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn. If they’d taught American history in my high school using movies instead of textbooks, I would’ve aced the class. Fred Astaire moved so wonderfully; I didn’t want to take my eyes away.
By the end of the dance, Ginger had dozed off. I decided to give that hypnosis tape another try. I turned off the TV, replaced Michael Jackson with Dr. Markoff, and lay down in bed.

I want you to stare at the ceiling.

If only Fred Astaire lived above me. He could do a soft-shoe every night to put me to sleep.

Keep your eyes focused on the flat white surface and try not to blink.

It didn’t matter that Fred was too skinny and had a receding hairline. He danced like the best lover in the world.

You very much want to blink . . .

Jeff was a good lover.

. . . but I want you to resist that urge.

Was Rob?

Your lids feel so heavy, the temptation to close them is too great. So now you can close your eyes if you like.

Damn. There she was again. That moaning woman.

Now I want you to focus on your body by relaxing each part. The soles of your feet . . . your calves . . . your thighs . . .

Maybe I should call the police. But what if she was just having sex? That would be embarrassing.

We’re going to let your unconscious hear . . .

Maybe it was on the tape.

. . . what it needs to hear while you think about your relationships with other people.

Maybe some woman had been moaning in the next room while Dr. Markoff hypnotized me.

Life is not always a straight line.

I sat up and turned Dr. Markoff off. The moaning continued. It was going to drive me crazy. I went to the bathroom to get a pair of earplugs from the medicine cabinet. When I came out, two women were in my room wearing long skirts and shirtwaists. Olive and Angelina?

“
May I suggest this one?
”

Olive was trying on hats.

“
They’re both lovely.
”

“Hello?” I said. “Can you hear me? How did you get it my apartment?”

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

Except it wasn’t my apartment. It was Angelina’s apartment, just as Olive had described it. A small coal stove and an iron sink. A bed back where my bed should’ve been, and the prettiest wallpaper I’d ever seen, with green trellises and purple roses.

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

They walked out the door. I yelled, “Wait for me!” and ran to catch up, but the door wouldn’t open. Though I yanked and pushed and pulled and turned the knob this way and that, it didn’t budge, so I tried to scream for help, but my throat closed up, and I couldn’t get it to make a sound, no matter how hard I tried. The effort of trying to scream finally woke me up.

I stared up at the ceiling. My heart pounded. My hands were balled into tight fists, as if I’d actually been pounding hysterically on the door. The sound of a man’s voice made me sit up and look around.

So rather than feel ashamed for your past, you should feel proud of every experience you’ve had.

The tape. Dr. Markoff was still going. I must’ve dreamed I’d turned it off.

Because to be alive is to be engaged, take chances and live in the present.

I pushed the off button. At least the moaning had stopped. Maybe it really was on the tape. I’d check it in the morning, in the light of day. Not now.

I turned the TV back on. For all I’d been through—or imagined I’d been through—I’d missed hardly any of
Top Hat
. Fred was
pretending to be a hansom cabdriver with Ginger as his passenger. I watched him drive her to the park. They danced together on the pavilion and fell in love.

I reached for my sewing box. While watching Ginger resist Fred’s charms, I mended seams, replaced buttons, realigned a zipper. When
Top Hat
ended,
Shall We Dance
came on. It turned out to be a Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers marathon. Next
Swing Time
started, and I watched Fred win over Ginger for the third time that night. I didn’t end up falling asleep until after the opening credits of
Flying Down to Rio,
my least favorite Ginger and Fred collaboration. I woke up to Jimmy Stewart as a young Abe Lincoln. My Westclox said eight o’clock. I’d snoozed about three hours total. Thanks very much, Dr. Markoff, for one of the worst night’s sleep of my life.

A CLUTCH OF
girls gathered in the parlor and stared at Ralph Pierce while I pinned on my hat. He wore a dark blue suit with thin white stripes. I’d pressed my green satin gown into service again. Dressing was much simpler when one had nothing from which to choose.

Opening the door for me, he pretended not to hear one of the girls call him a “lady-killer.” She offered up a smile that suggested she wouldn’t mind being slain. I pretended not to notice his dismay at how far down in the world I’d come.

“You’ve not been square with me,” he said, as we walked to the corner.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve had a rough time of it, much more than you let on. You should’ve come to me for help.”

“We barely know each other.”

“Even so, considering the conditions you’re living in.”

“You’d be surprised what a person can get used to.”

He stepped off the curb to flag a cab without thinking twice about it. Though he wasn’t strikingly gorgeous, like Joe, Ralph Pierce cut a handsome figure, with his impeccable wool overcoat, leather gloves, and fur felt hat. I couldn’t decide if I was disappointed or relieved that he didn’t rouse the same trembling excitement.

I slid into the cab and straightened my skirts without letting on that this was a forbidden luxury. As we sped up the avenue, the world outside my window didn’t seem quite so menacing or indifferent. A sense of security descended on me—something I hadn’t truly felt since my father’s death. “Sometimes I think my past was a dream,” I said, leaning my head back against the seat. “I’m losing my memory of what it was like before and who I was.”

He gave me a gentle smile. “Perhaps I can help you remember.”

“You already have, Mr. Pierce.”

“Please, won’t you call me by my first name?”

“Only if you’ll agree to call me by mine. Where are we going, by the way?”

“I was thinking the Café Martin.”

“The Martin?”

“Is that all right?”

“It sounds grand. I’ve always wanted to go there.”

Sadie’s comment echoed in my mind. Ralph had already paid for the cab, and later, he’d pay for the meal, an expensive one at that. I resolved to ignore it and enjoy myself.

—

The maître d’ pulled out the table so I could take my seat. When the waiter came by, Ralph proposed ordering a bottle of wine, but I declined. “Soda water is fine for me.”

“Then I’ll just have a glass, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, go ahead.” Peeling off my gloves, I took in the festive surroundings. Tall arched windows, colored bulbs strung around white columns, closely spaced tables. Lively chatter vibrated off the walls and nearly drowned out a string quartet playing
on the balcony. Charles Dana Gibson was said to be a regular, and Ethel Barrymore, too, but I detected no famous faces in the crowd.

“They say Stanford White ate his last meal here,” I said. “The poor man.”

“Only the way he died,” Ralph replied. “The man spent a fortune on food and women.”

An attractive couple to our left sipped coffee. The man smoked a cigarette while insulting the actors in an “atrocious” play that had just received rave reviews on Broadway. The woman laughed with venom between sneaking puffs from a cigarette hidden behind her fan. Her face was heavily painted with rouge and lip pencil. The neckline of her maroon silk dress plunged. The spectacle of her was so entertaining, I decided not to spoil my fun by disapproving.

The waiter delivered our drinks. Then he turned to our neighbors and spoke to the man as if the woman didn’t understand English. “We don’t permit ladies to smoke in the restaurant. Would you please ask her to stop?”

“We were done anyway,” the man replied. “You can bring us the check.”