Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (40 page)

I took out the journal but hesitated before opening it. I didn’t want Olive to be pregnant; except I did, so she could have Jane; except I didn’t want her to die; except if Jane didn’t live, Rob wouldn’t exist. I began to read. This time around, with any luck, no crying baby would arrive to share my bench.

“AS YOU KNOW,”
Miss Cohen said when I took the chair in front of her desk, “our sales have been quite impressive.”

When she’d called me in to her office, I had no idea why, though I dared to think it would be good news. The employee newsletter had named me one of the top salesgirls for the month of June. Lacking any real friends to speak of made it easy for me to put everything into my work.

“The lip pencils,” she continued, “are selling better than expected, and while the rouge hasn’t caught on as much as we’d hoped, the face creams continue to perform splendidly.”

“We’d sell even more Eternal Youth,” I added, “if it weren’t eternally running out of stock.”

“I’ll speak with our suppliers again.” She nodded and wrote herself a note. “So.” She set the pencil down. “The reason for this meeting. I’ve finally convinced management to move the dressmaking department upstairs. Cosmetics and toiletries will be taking its place.”

“How exciting!”

“This means we’ll be undergoing a major expansion and adding more merchandise. In addition to finding new brands of wrinkle creams, we’ll begin selling nail enamels, hair dyes, and tonics. The upshot is that I’ll be traveling to more trade shows, so I’ll need someone here I can count on to keep track of sales, inventory, and pricing.” She paused before getting to the point. “Would you be interested in a promotion to assistant buyer?”

I told myself to remain calm. “I would.”

“It will mean a lot more work and responsibility.”

“I understand.”

“And staying late on occasion.”

“That won’t be a concern, Miss Cohen. I have no one to answer to but myself.” If I weren’t pregnant, that is. My monthly was due to come any day.

“Excellent. Then you’ll now be on salary at five hundred dollars a year, but keep in mind, you shan’t be receiving commissions anymore, and there won’t be overtime.”

I’d no longer have to punch a time clock anymore, either. “That sounds just fine.” With my excitement over the new job title, I couldn’t even think about trying to negotiate.

“We’ll be hiring someone new to work behind the counter, so you’ll have more time to order stock and work with the advertising department and the window dressers. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to be able to rely on you, especially since Mr. Vogel insisted on taking such a long holiday. As you know, a great deal of his usual duties fell upon me.”

“I’m sure that’s been frustrating. I hope nothing is wrong with his health to keep him away from work so long.”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” She hesitated. “I’m really not at liberty to discuss it.”

“I heard . . .” I cleared my throat and spoke in a solemn tone. “There’s a rumor that he’s getting a divorce.” In truth, I’d heard no
such thing, but I hoped to encourage her to admit the truth, or to set the record straight, as the case may be. I raised my eyebrows and silently willed her to confide.

“Well,” she said, lowering her voice, “you must promise to be discreet.”

“Of course.”

She rose to close the office door. Instead of returning to her chair, she perched directly in front of me on the edge of the desk. “Please promise me you won’t repeat this to anyone.”

“I shan’t, I promise.”

She leaned forward and kept her voice low. “One of our employees made a complaint that he got her into trouble.”

“My goodness.” Angelina? Could Mr. Vogel be her gentleman friend? It couldn’t be; she’d taken precautions.

“He denied it, of course.”

“Were there repercussions?”

“Let’s just say that no action was taken against him.”

“What about the woman?”

“Fired.”

“Oh dear.”

“Well, it’s too bad she got herself into that mess. But she got her revenge by informing his wife.”

“And then what happened?”

“He whisked his wife off to Europe. Then we got a telegram saying he wasn’t coming back until the end of August.”

“So his wife forgave him?”

“First-class hotels have a way of doing that.”

“I should imagine.”

“At any rate,” Miss Cohen said, returning to her desk, “I have some work to finish up, and you probably want to get home. I’ll make sure the new salary is reflected in your next paycheck. By the way, I know you were planning on going down to Long Branch next week.”

“Yes.” I prayed she wouldn’t ask me to give up my vacation. “Do you need me here?”

She must’ve read my face. “I suppose I can get along without you. But I’ll need your undivided attention when you get back.”

“Don’t worry about that, Miss Cohen. I’ll be all yours. Thank you so much.”

“You’ve earned it, Miss Westcott. Have a good evening.”

Walking down Fifth Avenue, I tried to feel happy about my promotion, but the fear that I was carrying a child made any celebration impossible. And now there was the mystery of whether the woman in trouble was Angelina. How bizarre it would be if both of us were pregnant at the same time. Perhaps we’d reconcile and go through the ordeal together. The idea would’ve given me some measure of comfort if I hadn’t been consumed by anxiety and dread.

—

That evening, while changing into my nightgown, I felt a cramp.
Please, God, let it be my monthly.
I lay in bed and waited to see if another would come. I fell asleep, still waiting.

In the morning, my eyes shot open with the horrid bell. Was that a cold wetness between my legs? I took a peek and saw a red blotch on my nightgown and another on the sheet. Blood! My heart sang.
Thank you, God, for not punishing me.
Pressing my thighs together to keep more from seeping out, I rose from bed and joyously collected my belt and sanitary napkin. I’d never given that darn bloody mess such a welcome in my life.

July 10, 1908

The only way to find out the truth about Angelina is to go knock on her door. I could call on her this weekend. But what if she snubs me again? I’ll feel like a fool for having given her another chance to do so.

Sunday morning I sat in the parlor, reading the columns listing flats for rent in the newspaper. The page had a large advertisement for a new building on the upper West Side that boasted steam heat, hot water, a separate bedroom, and private bath. They even publicized the rent, which was surprisingly moderate and would be manageable, just barely, with my raise. It might be rather isolating to live all the way up there, but the subway would take me practically door-to-door. And how lovely it would be to have my own private bathroom! Hopefully, they wouldn’t hold my being a single woman against me.

But first I needed to read the society page. While I was skimming the gossip column, a familiar name caught my eye.

Mr. and Mrs. Fulton Winthrop of 107 East Sixty-fifth Street have sent out invitations for the wedding of their daughter, Vivian Winthrop, to Mr. Ralph Pierce. The ceremony shall take place at the St. Regis Hotel. In August the young couple, who were childhood sweethearts, will leave for a honeymoon in Niagara Falls, followed by a train tour out west.

He must’ve gone back to the girl he’d broken off with. A sense of failure came over me, as if our aborted evening had made him appreciate anew how much he loved his sweet and dutiful fiancée. Meanwhile, having willfully challenged his attitudes, I continued on alone. Were all women who tried to be treated as equals condemned to live solitary lives? Well, I didn’t have to be alone. If only Daisy would come back from Europe. My last letter from her was from before Christmas, and I never did manage to write back. Perhaps that explained her silence.

I folded up the newspaper. Daisy was across the ocean; Angelina lived a fifteen-minute walk away. Angelina, who had extended a hand to me when I was at my lowest. I couldn’t allow pride to stand between us now.

—

“This is a surprise.” Angelina didn’t look overjoyed to see me.

“I hope I’m not intruding.”

We stood on opposite sides of the doorway. She didn’t invite me in. It took all my willpower not to sneak a look at her belly. I held out the hat she lent me when we went to the Electric Show. “I came across your lovely hat, and I wanted to return it.”

“You could’ve kept it,” she said, but she accepted my offering.

“I was also hoping we might talk a bit, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“About what?”

“I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I thought you might . . . I was worried . . .” I finally had to look down at her stomach, which appeared to bulge out under a silvery-blue kimono embroidered with cherry blossoms. “Won’t you let me in so we can talk?”

Her cheeks colored ever so slightly. “If you dropped by to pity me . . .” She began to shut the door.

“Angelina, I’m here because I’ve missed you terribly. Please,” I asked, aware this would be my third time asking, “may I come in?”

As she stared intently at my face, I wondered if Father’s theory would work. Finally, she stood aside and allowed me inside. I took in the full view of her. When I’d last seen her almost two months ago, she’d managed to hide it. That wouldn’t have been possible now.

“Do you want some tea?” she asked grudgingly.

“Please don’t trouble yourself.”

We sat across from each other at her small wood table. I cast a look about the apartment. The night I slept here seemed ages ago.

“I should’ve figured Sadie would tell you,” she said.

I didn’t confirm or deny it. “And Mr. Vogel is the father.”

She nodded.

“And he doesn’t admit the truth?”

“Didn’t you hear? He left his wife to marry me. Soon as the baby’s born, we’re going to Paris for our honeymoon. Then he’s gonna buy me a mansion on Fifth Avenue, and we’re throwing ourselves a fancy ball so he can introduce me to all his friends.”

I winced. “There must be some way to make that man pay.”

“I tried. Looks like I’ll be paying the price all by myself.”

“And your family?”

“
Madonna mia!
” She went to fill the kettle with water. “You think I’m about to tell them? My mother would pretend I was dead. My father would kill me so she wouldn’t have to pretend.”

“Mr. Vogel is a rotten scoundrel for letting you go through this on your own.”

“When I told him, he said I must’ve been with someone else, because we took precautions, but I wasn’t, I swear.”

“The brute. Of course he doesn’t want the scandal. Or the responsibility.”

She sat back down and looked at me with pleading eyes. “I thought I was safe. He sent me to his own doctor. You should’ve seen the gent’s office—a fancy building on the Upper East Side with a grand marble lobby. I followed the instructions, kept my appointments, even made sure to rinse like he said. A lot of good it did me.”

“There must be some way to prove it was Mr. Vogel,” I said. “That doctor knows—”

“All he knows is who pays the bills. There isn’t anything to do.”

I pictured that gun in the Sears & Roebuck catalog. “We could buy a pistol and shoot him.”

“It wouldn’t solve anything.”

“Sure would feel good.”

“Would you do that for me?”

“I saw a nice one for sale with a pretty pearl handle.”

“You’d need a pearl necklace to go with it.”

“I’ll steal one from the store.”

“You’d never get away with it.”

“I’ll plead insanity. Harry Thaw got away with it.”

“I’ll be sure to visit you in the insane asylum.”

We exchanged shy smiles; I knew our friendship had been repaired. Then she looked down at the mound straining against her robe. “Along with the baby.”

Our smiles faded. The water had come to a boil. She got up to make the tea.

“Please.” I rose from my chair. “Let me.”

“I’m not a cripple,” she replied.

I sat back down. “I guess you’ve been keeping this secret a long time.”

“I suspected back when we went to Coney, but I didn’t want to believe it.”

“Even then?” No wonder she wasn’t interested in those incubator babies.

“Then that psychic . . . remember her?”

“Do I ever. ‘
Don’t regret the future
,’ ” I said ominously, “ ‘
or fear the past!
’ ”

“It made perfect sense to me,” Angelina said. “That’s when I made myself accept it. I knew I had to go through with it or I’d never forgive myself.”

“I couldn’t be as brave as you.”

“Is it brave when you’ve got no choice?” she asked while pouring us each a cup of tea.

I remembered saying something along the same line to Ralph Pierce. “I suppose we always have a choice; it’s just that it might not be the choice we want. I’m sorry this happened. You don’t deserve it.”

“I’m sorry I was so horrid to you when you didn’t deserve it.”

“I said some stupid things.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“That night at the Majestic . . .”