Astor Place Vintage: A Novel Page 4

  Despite his interest, a considerable obstacle remained. Aunt Ida considered Manhattan a den of vice to avoid at all costs; she wouldn’t take a day trip to the city, much less move there. The woman had uprooted her life to take care of us. How could we leave her alone in Cold Spring?

  As fate would have it, the financial crisis provided a solution. Margaret, a neighbor and dear friend of Aunt Ida’s, had kept most of her savings in the stock market. The crash wiped her out, and she had to sell her house for income. Since people were strapped and banks were nervous to lend, she didn’t get nearly what it was worth—or had been worth. Aunt Ida proposed that Margaret move into one of our extra bedrooms.

  Father and I welcomed her into the household. She was a plump, sweet-natured woman who baked the best pies in the world. Of course, it didn’t escape me for a moment that her presence would enable our move to New York. It wasn’t until the end of summer that we officially knew Father had been appointed manager of the Thirty-fourth Street store.

  “Number seventy-five? Seventy-five!”

  I snapped to attention as my number was called. An assistant directed me to my interviewer’s office. A thickset woman who appeared to be about forty sat behind a large wood desk covered with neat piles of cards. Her nameplate said MISS LILLIAN HAPGOOD.

  “Olive Westcott?”

  “How do you do?”

  Without bothering to introduce herself, she told me to sit on the chair across from her desk. I folded my hands together as she read my card; by the time she looked up, my grip was tight enough to strangle a cat.

  “And your letter of reference?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring one.”

  Miss Hapgood raised her thick eyebrows. “Why not?”

  “I practically grew up in a store. My father manages the Woolworth’s on Thirty-fourth Street, and before that, he managed the one up in Cold Spring. I’ve been working behind the counter since I can remember. You can be sure I know all about the dry goods business.”

  “How much were you paid?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “So you don’t have any actual work experience.”

  “I’ve got lots of work experience; I just wasn’t paid for it.”

  She smiled with tight lips. “We’re looking for girls with paid experience.”

  I tried to keep the irritation from my voice. “Even though my father didn’t pay me, I had the same responsibilities as the other countergirls. We could telephone him,” I said, though he might tell her to send me straight home. “I’m sure my father would be happy to speak with you.”

  “That’s not necessary. We need to see a written reference from a previous employer showing you’re an experienced salesgirl.”

  “Oh, but I’m not here for a sales position. I’m here for the job as assistant buyer.”

  “Even more to the point. If you want to become an assistant buyer, you’ll have to start as a countergirl. How could we put you in charge of our salesgirls if you’ve never even worked?”

  I felt my cheeks get hot. “I’m sure I could learn anything I need to know in a flash.”

  “Then learn it. And come back. With a letter of reference.” She put my card on a pile. “Thank you for coming in.”

  I took my leave with all the dignity I could muster. This was the limit. To be dismissed so out of hand! Exiting past the other applicants, I strained to keep the tears from sneaking out until I’d made it through the green door. Tears! How mortifying. I refused to be so easily broken and wiped them off quickly. It wasn’t as though I needed the money. To think she didn’t see me as qualified for the lowly position of salesgirl!

  I found my way to the ladies’ lounge, a lair of femininity decorated with pink-and-white-striped wallpaper, magenta drapes, and plush pink carpeting. Women clustered in front of a brightly lit mirror while freshening up and redoing their hair; puffs and curls lay scattered on the counter. At least the other ladies hadn’t a hint of the humiliation I’d just suffered. After splashing some water on my face, I eked out a place in front of the glass so I could fix my sagging Psyche knot.

  The woman next to me powdered her face while telling her companion about an article in the morning paper. “They say Harry Thaw is getting his meals catered by the Astor House restaurant while he’s locked up in the Tombs! Can you believe it?”

  “Next thing you know, they’ll hire an orchestra for him.”

  People couldn’t get enough of the dreadful scandal surrounding Stanford White’s murder. I had no sympathy for the deranged Mr. Thaw, who’d shot the famous architect dead.

  “If they let me sit on that jury,” the woman next to me replied, “I’d put him away for good.”

  “It would be grand to see Evelyn Nesbit on the stand, if only to see what she’ll wear.”

  I left the lounge and took the moving staircase down. On the fourth floor, a heavenly scent lured me to investigate the gourmet food section, where a small crowd watched a young woman sautéing mushrooms in a chafing dish. “Chafing dish cookery,” she proclaimed, “is the ideal way to solve the problem of small kitchens in New York apartments.”

  Still smarting from rejection, I had no intention of buying a chafing dish, though it was a clever idea. The Mansfield apartments didn’t have kitchens—a detail my aunt found unbelievable. Father would be delighted if I made him dinner now and then.

  When the mushrooms finished cooking in the buttery sauce, the young woman spread them on a tray, stuck a toothpick in each one, and invited us to try a sample. My fellow spectators descended on the mushrooms like soldiers starving on the front lines. I stepped in and took one before they disappeared. It tasted delicious. Still, I turned away without buying one. Even the prospect of pleasing Father with a home-cooked meal couldn’t compete with my wounded pride.

  AMANDA

  THE BUTTON CLICKED as Dr. Markoff turned on a cassette recorder. Did they still manufacture those?

  I want you to stare at the ceiling.

  His ceiling was much higher than mine. I bet the walls were thicker, too.

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

  This was exciting. I was good at not blinking. Maybe I was good at being hypnotized.

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

  I blinked.

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

  Relief.

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

  He went slowly, lingering on every part. I relaxed. This was nice. I just wanted to lie there listening to his rhythmical, soothing, monotonous voice.

  We’re going to let your unconscious hear what it needs to hear while you think about your relationships with other people.

  Well, that wasn’t going to relax me. I didn’t want to think about Jeff or why I couldn’t give him up.

  Life is not always a straight line. You take detours and go backward and forward and sideways.

  It wasn’t like I’d been pining away for Jeff after we lost touch. He was the one who came to me at the store on Mott Street.

  It’s impossible to know everything from the beginning.

  I sold him a white alligator bag. Then he asked me to dinner.

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

  By the time we were on dessert, he’d confessed that his marriage was a failure.

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

  We began to see each other regularly, just as friends, though his wife didn’t know.

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

  One night, when I was hopeless about finding anyone I wanted to be with more than him, we made love.

  We can’t tell the future.

  I told myself we’d have our fling, and then I’d move on to t
hat serious relationship I couldn’t seem to find anyway.

  We don’t know how we’ll affect the people we cross paths with.

  Months passed and then a year. Jeff talked about leaving his wife but couldn’t bring himself to do it. His two sons needed him. His wife would never agree to a divorce. They both came from money, and fighting over a settlement would get ugly.

  You’ve faced many challenges before, and you can face new ones.

  I’d suffered through my parents’ divorce, so I understood the difficulties—minus the coming-from-money part. I hated the woman my father left us for. Did I want to become the other woman? Give his kids a reason to hate me?

  Not by making something happen but by allowing it to happen.

  It took me a year to tell my mother about my affair. It took her two years to stop telling me it was wrong every chance she got. Eventually, we learned to avoid the subject.

  Because you’re strong, you’re independent.

  I knew I was behaving dishonorably. Still, I couldn’t give Jeff up, just hovered like a shoplifter waiting for the right moment to pocket the loot.

  You’re able to open up to new ways of thinking.

  Molly had a theory: Since he was my first love and my first sexual relationship, all my intense reactions to him were physiologically imprinted on my brain. Now it was chemical, like an addiction.

  Even though it’s frightening to you.

  After a while I realized he’d never leave her. We began to fight a lot, make up, fight. He said he wanted to marry me, but it was impossible.

  It’s scary to let him go.

  I told him it was over.

  It’s scary to feel alone again.

  I deleted his number off my phone. Accepted congratulations from my friends. Joined Match.com, JDate, and Chemistry. Tried speed dating, wine-tasting mixers, cooking-for-singles workshops.

  But in the end …

  I missed Jeff.

  We are all alone.

  He called one day during that horrible week between Christmas and New Year’s. Said he was miserable without me. Had to end his marriage. Wanted to see me.

  And opening up to new challenges may lead to the feelings of purpose and intimacy that you desire so much.

  Much as it annoyed me, my heart filled with hope. He picked me up in a limo and took me to Le Bernardin, the most expensive seafood restaurant in New York City. I wore a black tulle strapless cocktail dress with embroidered dots and velvet trim.

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

  He told me he’d decided to divorce his wife. He would do it after his younger son went to college.

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

  His younger son was in the second grade. If I still wanted him when the time came, we’d be together.

  Opening up to new challenges that will make you feel more vital and alive.

  We ended up at my place, having the greatest sex ever. Started seeing each other as if we’d never broken up. I put his number back on speed dial.

  So now I’d like you to go to that place where you feel strong and secure.

  When I told my friends we were together again, they didn’t want to hear about it.

  The place of wisdom.

  I felt like an idiot.

  The department store.

  I wasn’t getting any younger. Soon no man would want me. I’d be dead stock.

  Wandering up and down the aisles, looking at dresses … shoes … handbags. Everything you could ever want.

  Dr. Markoff was really trying to make this department store concept work.

  It’s a wonderful place, isn’t it? So many tempting things, but also wisdom.

  It wasn’t gonna work.

  Somewhere in Altman’s, there’s a department of wisdom where you can find everything you need to know.

  If only. Right behind the shoe department, past the escalator …

  When you visit this place, you’ll achieve a sense of calm that will allow you to fall into a deep, restful sleep.

  Don’t bet on it.

  I’m going to stop talking now. You can take as much time as you need to let your mind wander wherever it needs to go.

  This was idiotic. I didn’t even like department stores anymore. I should’ve picked something else, like my mother’s backyard. Why didn’t I think of that before?

  But no, actually. Altman’s probably was the right choice. Elegant but not snobby, it was the place where I went for peace and quiet. I could escape from the sound of my parents fighting in the next room and transport myself back to a more innocent time, or just wander around when I wanted to be alone but not lonely. The bulk of their customers were secretaries from the Empire State Building across the street, or little old ladies who wore hats and gloves and rubbers over their shoes. Those ladies had shopped there for years and loved being served by gray-haired saleswomen who knew their names. I found it all tremendously reassuring.

  The clothing selection wasn’t the best, and almost everything they sold could be found cheaper somewhere else, but the atmosphere was all on the house. Even the ladies’ room was more luxurious than our living room. Red velvet chairs, ornate gold-framed mirrors, marble drinking fountains with a spout in the shape of a dragon’s head. Not exactly a home away from home; more like a mansion away from home.

  The highlight of any visit—whether alone or with my mom—was the Charleston Gardens Restaurant on the top floor. One side of the room had an actual re-creation of a Southern plantation facade, complete with white columns, shuttered windows, and lit lamps. Trees painted on the walls made it feel like a pretend outdoor garden. Grandmotherly waitresses wheeled around carts of tea sandwiches, and they had the best peach pie for dessert.

  In the nineties, when they announced Altman’s was closing for good, I couldn’t believe it. Hadn’t the store existed forever? Wouldn’t it stay until the end of time? Now it remained only in my imagination, or should I say the collective imagination of those old enough to remember.

  So.

  Dr. Markoff’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts.

  Now I’m going to count from ten to one. When I reach one, you will open your eyes. Ten, nine, eight, seven, five, four, three, two …

  I didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to open my eyes. No wisdom had been found. It hadn’t worked.

  When he reached “one,” I forced my eyes open. Had I been in a trance? I wasn’t sure. Maybe I was still in it, but no. This felt like regular, everyday, sucky reality.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you want to tell me what came into your mind?”

  Red carpets. Dragons. Pie. “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s fine,” he said neutrally. “It’s up to you.”

  But I knew: I’d disappointed him. Failed at my trance. Couldn’t be hypnotized.

  He removed the cassette from the recorder. “Here’s the tape. I suggest you listen to it in the evening before you go to bed. Train yourself to focus on that positive place of wisdom. Eventually, you won’t need the tape; you’ll be able to go there all on your own, and falling asleep won’t be so hard anymore.”

  I sat on the edge of the couch. “Is it a matter of suggestion? The power of suggestion? Isn’t that what hypnosis is all about?”

  “You already know the answers,” he said in his kind, deep voice. “It’s a matter of allowing yourself to hear them.”

  That sounded all nice and reasonable, but I didn’t know the answers, so how could I hear them? I thanked him and showed myself out.

  OLIVE

  WHEN I STEPPED outside, the sky looked ominous with gray storm clouds. The stuffy heat inside the store had made me forget about the weather. A man on the corner hawked cheap umbrellas, but I didn’t stop to buy one. Instead, I bustled through the crowds on the sidewalk. At first, the sprinkles felt refreshing on my face, but then they turne
d into raindrops that rapidly turned into a downpour. Dashing under the marquee of a small shoddy theater, I tried to ignore the barker yelling through a megaphone. “Come on in, ladies and gents, and witness the powers of Lola Cotton, the most amazing mentalist in the world! Next show in five minutes!”

  I had no interest in seeing a ridiculous mentalist.

  “Ladies without escorts welcome!”

  The rain came down in torrents. The box office queue grew longer.

  “Only five cents admission!”

  Lightning struck. I bolted to secure a ticket before they sold out.

  Inside the lobby, a young boy handed out paper and pencils. “Ask Miss Cotton any question, any question at all, and she’ll give you the answer!”

  “Can she predict the future?” asked a bald man with a white beard.

  “You bet,” the boy said.

  I watched the man write something on his paper and seal it inside an envelope. The boy placed the envelope inside a cigar box.

  “Do you have a question for Miss Cotton?” the boy asked me.

  The offer tempted me, but only to prove Lola Cotton wrong. I had no real wish to embarrass her—or myself—so I declined politely and entered the theater.

  The small auditorium smelled like mold, and the pianist yawned while playing ragtime, but at least it was warm and dry. I sat on a hard wood seat in the last row. Soon every seat was filled. By the time a skeleton-thin man in a bone-white suit appeared onstage, I was ready to be entertained. “Thank you for coming to witness the amazing powers of my daughter, Lola Cotton.”

  The audience applauded as Lola came onstage and stood next to him. She wore a simple white tea dress. Younger than I would’ve expected, fifteen or so, she had a lovely, serene face.

  “You may be skeptical of my powers,” she said, as though reading my mind, except that most likely was what everyone was thinking. “I would be, too, if I didn’t know them to be real and genuine.”

  “I ask everyone to send out your best thoughts,” her father said. “You must keep your mind open so her guides will be willing to communicate.”

  The boy came onstage and held out the cigar box. Lola reached inside for one of the envelopes. With posture as straight as the long braid that hung down her back, she held it up to her forehead with her eyes closed. “I’m getting the name Horace,” she said. Then she peered into the audience. “Is a man named Horace in the room?”