Astor Place Vintage: A Novel Read online

  I tried to keep the trembling out of my voice. “Lots of girls go to New York to make a living. I daresay some of them have less brains than I do.”

  “It’s not your brain I’m worried about. Those stores are full of men just waiting for a chance to prey on a woman’s weakness.”

  “I should hope you’d have more faith in me.”

  “You’ll be especially vulnerable, my dear. After a lifetime of getting everything you want? How will you feel, standing on the other side of a counter day after day, selling things you can no longer afford?”

  “I’ll feel that I’m working toward a respectable career—one that has the potential to pay quite well, I might add. Even if you disapprove of women working outside the home, I should think that under the circumstances, you’d welcome my ambition.”

  “You’re talking nonsense! You’ll have no place to live, no contacts, no money to establish yourself. Instead of running off to the city, you should take some time to rest and pull yourself together.”

  “I don’t need rest—I need to keep busy.”

  “So keep busy here, where you have friends and family. Before too long, I’m sure you’ll find some nice young man to marry. What do you find so dreadful about that?”

  My eyes flashed back and forth between the two older women as I fought the temptation to pose the same question. “I’m sorry you don’t agree with me, Aunt Ida, but my mind is made up. I’m moving back to New York.”

  “Your father would never allow you to go there by yourself. As your guardian, I strictly forbid it!”

  “As my guardian, the only way you can stop me is to withhold money.” I looked at Father’s empty chair on the opposite side of the table. “Regrettably, there is none to withhold.”

  —

  The next day, when I came downstairs with my suitcase, Aunt Ida was dusting out the chimney of a lamp. “You’re making a mistake,” she said without looking up. “You don’t realize the state you’re in. Pale. Thinner than ever. Your eyes are bloodshot. Do you even know anyone in that city who might help you?”

  The only person I could think of was Ralph Pierce, though I couldn’t bear the idea of him pitying me because of my change in circumstances. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  “I know you think I’m hopelessly old-fashioned,” she said while trimming the wick, “but I raised you the only way I knew how. I’ve never wanted anything but to make a good home for you and Charles.”

  “And you did that, and I’m awfully grateful, truly I am. I didn’t mean to be unkind last night. I’m terribly sorry if I was rude.”

  “I know you loathe the idea of living here, but as long as we have this house, the door shall be open should you wish to return.”

  “It’s not that, Aunt Ida; I simply don’t belong here. I never have, for some reason, and I need to be somewhere I fit in.”

  She filled the reservoir with oil. “Well, I hope you find what you want.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be sure to write as soon as I have news.”

  After replacing the chimney, she set the lamp aside and stood up. “Good-bye, then.”

  I stepped forward, managed to place a dry peck on her hollow, sagging cheek, and softly said, “I love you.” A twinge of vulnerability drove my gaze toward the floor.

  She mumbled something that included the word “love” and told me to take care of myself. I thought she might offer to walk me to the train station and felt relieved when she didn’t. At least our leave-taking was done.

  AMANDA

  I TOOK ONE of Jeff’s white button-down shirts out of my bureau. Even the tiniest stain prompted him to toss them out, so I tried to rescue the ones I could, to use as pajamas. It did seem wrong to encase myself in his shirt right after telling him we were through, but it was an incredibly soft Brooks Brothers Egyptian-cotton dress shirt that retailed for almost two hundred dollars. I loved how the oversize shoulders and sleeves made me feel petite.

  After brushing and flossing, I dug my old boom box out of the closet with satisfaction. Sometimes what people would call “hoarding” turns out to be “saving something for the day you might just need it.” I set it up on my nightstand and replaced Michael Jackson’s Thriller with Dr. Markoff. Then I lay down in the dark, stared up at the ceiling, and waited to be lulled by that reassuring voice.

  I want you to stare at the ceiling.

  Cracks all over the place. I needed to call the super and get him to paint.

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

  The wind blew through my open window.

  You very much want to blink, but I want you to resist that urge.

  I should close it, but that would involve getting out of bed.

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

  Poor Olive. Would she stay in New York on her own?

  Now I want you to focus on your body by relaxing each part.

  She needed to find someone to comfort her.

  The soles of your feet …

  Caress her.

  Your calves …

  She needed to be touched.

  Your thighs …

  So did I.

  We’re going to let your unconscious hear what it wants to hear …

  By a real person.

  … while you think about yourself and your relationships with other people.

  Not a ghost.

  Life is not always a straight line.

  What’s that noise?

  You take detours and go backward and forward and sideways.

  A woman … moaning.

  It’s impossible to know everything from the beginning.

  Maybe my neighbor got lucky.

  We need to live in order to learn about ourselves and the world and other people.

  But was it ecstasy … or pain?

  We wouldn’t grow if we didn’t make mistakes.

  She could be having really good sex …

  So it doesn’t make sense to blame yourself for living your life.

  Or getting murdered.

  We can’t tell the future.

  I turned off the tape and listened, but the noise was gone. That was weird. Maybe it had been on the tape? It didn’t make sense.

  This hypnosis business clearly wasn’t working; I’d have to get to sleep on my own. So I fluffed up my pillow, closed my eyes, and hoped for the best. After spending twenty minutes mentally rearranging the display in my store window, I opened my eyes, feeling wide awake, and realized it was going to be another long night.

  Might as well get some work done. After replacing Dr. Markoff with Michael Jackson, I got out my sewing box and a pile of clothes I’d bought at a recent estate sale. Then I settled in on the couch to do some alterations.

  A simple cosmetic repair can often rescue a piece of clothing from being tossed or ignored or unappreciated. Hooks, eyes, snaps, buttons. Sometimes all that needs fixing is the closures. A forties white rayon top with red piping on the sleeve cuffs was missing two buttons; since I couldn’t match the remaining ones, I removed them all. Then I whipstitched the buttonholes closed and covered them with deliciously glossy red casein buttons from my stash. When that was done, I added snaps underneath to do the actual fastening. Voilà. My version was better than the original.

  Next up was a caramel-colored leather coat from the sixties—nice but not too exciting, and the collar and cuffs were worn and blemished. I remembered two fur sleeves left over from an old raccoon coat that would contrast nicely with the leather. Using the leather collar and cuffs as pattern pieces, I cut the fur and sewed it on. Now I had a glamorous fur-trimmed coat worth double the price.

  As I held up the coat to admire my handiwork, a sudden loud bang scared me half to death. Not a gunshot, just the bathroom door. A gust of wind must’ve blown it shut. I opened it and froze with terror. Someone—!

  No one. Just Jane Kelly’s shift dress hanging over the bathtu
b, swaying ever so gently in the breeze from the still-open bathroom window. I was freaking myself out over nothing.

  I closed the window, then the door; while I was at it, I checked inside my closet to make sure the ax murderer wasn’t lurking in there and, just to cover all the bases, got down on my hands and knees to look under the bed. Nothing there but lots of dust balls and a crumpled piece of paper. I reached for it. Foil, actually. A condom wrapper from one of my nights with Jeff.

  I got back up and sat on the edge of the bed. While smoothing out the empty packet on my thigh, I noticed the expiration date. My eyes widened. That date came and went six months ago.

  I opened my nightstand drawer to check the box. All the condoms had the same expiration date. That meant Jeff and I had been using no-good condoms for months!

  Oh my god. And my period was still MIA. I got dressed to go back outside. I didn’t care that it was one in the morning. I needed a pregnancy test. Now.

  —

  Venturing under fluorescent lights that could illuminate a ball field, I searched up and down the drugstore aisles past the vast assortment of cosmetics, snack foods pretending to be dietary, and lotions preying on fear of wrinkles. The pregnancy tests turned up right between the Tampax and Trojans. One brand claimed to give results five days before your first period. Ninety-nine percent accuracy. One easy step. Digital technology. I decided to go for it. I grabbed a package of tampons for good luck and—why not—some lubricated Trojans, making sure to check the expiration date first.

  Placing my purchases on the counter, I tried to project a casual nonchalance, as if splurging in the Genital Care aisle were something I did all the time. After the cashier scanned the bar code on the pregnancy test, she glanced at me with a friendly smile and wished me good luck. As she bagged my items, I wondered which result she considered the lucky one.

  When I got back to my apartment, I ripped open the box with fumbling fingers and unfolded the instructions. My hands shook as I read the tiny print. Place the tip in urine stream for five seconds. Results in three minutes.

  My heart raced as I sat on the toilet. My hand trembled while I did my best to aim the pee. Departing the bathroom, I held the stick in front of me like a lit candle threatening to go out. My Westclox said 1:45 A.M. I turned on the TV and continued to hold the stick. As the disembodied humans jabbered away on the screen, I told myself that the condom had probably been perfectly good; they put those dates there so people would dump them to buy new ones.

  1:46 A.M.

  Except I’d missed a period. Had bloated breasts. The truth was obvious. I didn’t need a test to tell me. I was pregnant. A woman knows!

  1:46 A.M.

  Oh god, how could I go through with an abortion? I couldn’t. This would probably be my last chance to get pregnant. A baby would change the entire equation. Jeff would see that I was the one who needed him, so maybe he’d actually leave his wife. Wow. This could be the best mistake that ever happened to me.

  Still 1:46 A.M. Was that clock broken?

  But maybe he’d think I was trying to trick him into marriage. I could just hear Jeff: “You gave me an expired condom? Are you insane?”

  This did resemble a hackneyed soap-opera plot with me as the scheming, jealous diva using pregnancy to force a man to commit.

  Maybe I was trying to trap him into marriage. How long had those condoms been there? For all I knew, they were bad when I bought them; I never thought to check. My carelessness could’ve been part of an unconscious plan to get him to leave his wife. My ex-therapist would’ve had a field day. But aren’t the stores supposed to keep an eye on things like expiration dates?

  I looked at the clock. 1:48 A.M. How did that happen? The results were in. Time to look at the objective, nonjudgmental stick. The future was now.

  Not pregnant.

  Oh.

  Okay. Not pregnant.

  Damn.

  Except that was good. I should be relieved. Right?

  I threw the stick in the garbage.

  Just my luck.

  OLIVE

  I OPENED THE door of the apartment, half expecting to see Father sitting in his overstuffed chair, reading the paper. The maid had cleaned up, and everything looked spotless, almost like the day we moved in.

  The Four Epochs of Woman’s Life still sat on the end table next to the box of chocolates. I blushed, imagining the maid seeing the book. Perhaps she sat down to read it and learned all about the orgasm. Or perhaps she knew all about that and laughed at the ignorance of the girl who’d left it there.

  The first order of business was to go straight to Father’s bedroom for the money in his leather box. He’d owned that box since I could remember. I used to adore sifting through when I was little, knowing its contents rarely changed. Cuff links, collar buttons, scarf pins, an extra pocket watch. A leather fob I once gave him, with a metal charm of a baseball player. And now, to my relief, a twenty-dollar bill. My inheritance, so to speak. I sent up thanks to my father, returned to the living room, and put the money in my purse.

  Many dreadful tasks lay ahead. Packing would be unpleasant enough. Even worse, I had to speak to the manager and find a way around paying the November rent. It was all too overwhelming. My eyes settled on Father’s cigar box and the picture of the one beautiful woman whispering to the other. Remembering his enjoyment over that simple pleasure made my eyes fill with tears.

  A rapping on the door forced me to pull myself together. Peering through the peephole, I saw a man with a handlebar mustache. “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Redstone,” he said, “the manager.”

  I gritted my teeth and opened the door.

  “I don’t mean to disturb you,” he said. “The doorman told me you’d arrived. I’ll have the porter bring your trunks up from the storage room. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “I need to ship some things back to Cold Spring.”

  “Just call down to the lobby when you’re ready. The porter will help you with a cab. By the way, in case you’ve not made other arrangements, I decided you can stay here tonight. If someone complains, I’ll explain that I’m bending the rules out of decency.” He puffed up his chest as though I should think he was a hero.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now then.” He cleared his throat. “There is the matter of the November rent. As I mentioned on the telephone, we require payment in advance.”

  “Mr. Redstone, since I can’t stay on here, I’m still very much hoping you might waive the November rent.”

  “Yes, I’m very sorry about that, but as I explained, we rent on a month-to-month basis, and you’re well beyond the required fourteen days’ notice required.”

  “But my father died after the fourteen-day period had elapsed.”

  “I know this must seem insensitive, Miss Westcott, but as it is, we’re almost a week into November. Since you’ve not vacated the premises, you’re legally responsible for the rent.”

  My blood boiled, but I kept my tone steady. “I’m not allowed to live here anymore. And my father is no longer among the living. Under these circumstances, do you honestly think it’s fair to charge either of us for living here?”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but I have to answer to the owners of the building. It’s not within my authority to allow our tenants to stay here free of charge.”

  “You must carry out your duty to your employers. That’s your first priority, of course. But my father’s death has brought about an overwhelming financial hardship.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Westcott.”

  “The truth is, I haven’t any funds available, and I’m hoping for your compassion. I’ll do my best to empty the apartment as soon as possible.”

  “Perhaps you have some family members who can help you out?”

  Father once told me that if you wanted something, you needed to ask at least three times. After the third request, the opponent’s willpower often crumbles. “Sadly, I don’t. I’m on my own now, Mr. Redstone, an
d I don’t know how I’m going to make do. Wouldn’t you please reconsider? I’d be most grateful.” I appealed to him with my most helpless expression. My heart pounded so hard, I thought he must be able to see my chest throb.

  “Well …”

  His first sign of wavering. If I suggested a compromise, he might relent with his pride intact. “Would you allow me to pay you twenty dollars in cash right now? I could manage that much, though just barely. And perhaps you’d be willing to leave it at that?”

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I suppose we could manage some such arrangement. It would have to be off the record, though.”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice soft and hushed. “Off the record, of course.” I retrieved the precious twenty-dollar bill from my purse and handed it to him.

  “So,” he said, slipping the bill in his waistcoat pocket, “we’ll consider the balance paid.”

  “Thank you,” I said with gravity.

  “As agreed, you’ll vacate the premises in twenty-four hours.”

  “I don’t suppose, since twenty dollars covers the week—”

  “I’m already bending the rules for you, Miss Westcott.”

  “Very well. Tomorrow.”

  After he left, I turned the lock and leaned against the door to steady myself. Reaching under my collar, I pulled out my locket and rubbed the smooth gold with my thumb; the familiar indentation of the star somehow gave me reassurance. I’d need all the strength I could muster to endure the next few days.

  Soon the porter arrived with the two steamer trunks. He also had a box from Siegel-Cooper, delivered while I was gone. My tailored suit. Father would never have the chance to tease me for being a suffragette. I reached into my purse once more and handed the porter a tip. Judging from his expression, it should’ve been more.

  After he left, I dragged Father’s trunk to the doorway of his bedroom. I would ship his things back to Aunt Ida. She could sort through it all and sell off what she wished.

  I opened the top drawer of his bureau. Inside were neat rows of silk four-in-hand ties, bow ties, Windsor ties. It seemed too intimate to handle the clothing that had touched his body. And too cruel, as if I’d be folding him up and putting him away. Of course, it wasn’t him and there was no use putting it off. The only way to end the ordeal was to suffer through it.