Tiffany Girl

by Deeanne Gist

  It was the same for all women on streetcars this time of day, whether they were students or working girls. This was the time reserved for men who rushed home to their wives who served up meals, fetched slippers, and birthed children. At least the glass strikers hadn’t been outside of Tiffany’s at the conclusion of the day, so she and the others had gone unmolested to the streetcar stop.

  Still, the men on the five o’clock cars didn’t like them being there, and even though she knew better, it felt as if they’d all had some secret meeting and agreed to teach women students and laborers a lesson: if you want to enter into a man’s world, then don’t expect to be treated differently.

  But the women were treated differently. They were touched inappropriately under the guise of being helped on and off the car. They were groped by “bustle pinchers” taking advantage of crowded conditions, and they had things whispered to them the men would never dare to utter under normal circumstances.

  She tightened her hold on the creaking strap. No matter how stiff she made herself, she couldn’t keep the men from brushing against her in an intimate fashion. All pretended it wasn’t happening, but all were very aware it was.

  In an effort to distract herself, she tried to imagine what it would be like if she were to be the one selecting glass instead of restocking it. She’d realized at once it was the most critical step of the entire window-making process.

  She definitely would have chosen a different piece for the Virgin Mary’s hair. The flow, density, and texture of the piece Nan had chosen was lovely—all of Mr. Tiffany’s glass was lovely—but Flossie had run across some others that were even better. She’d considered showing them to Nan, then recalled Nan had seen them and set them aside, which was why Flossie was having to restock them in the first place.

  “West Fifty-Seventh!” the driver shouted, pulling the horses to a stop.

  Excusing herself, Flossie pressed her way to the front and had almost made it to the door when her coat caught on something and her backside received a strong pinch. Squealing, she whirled around, grasping her coat and swatting the area behind her.

  She made eye contact with each of the men in her vicinity and they with her. She let her irritation and disgust be seen. They offered amused indifference in response.

  Clasping her coat closed, she refused help dismounting, then hurried down the street. The brisk wind combined with the cold air made her nose hurt and her ears sting. Cabs, drays, and wagons slung snow up behind them. Drivers shouted at their horses.

  She pressed her lips together. Bustle pinchers. She’d had to deal with them when she was returning home from the School of Applied Design, and she’d have to contend with them now as well. The only way to avoid them was to walk home, but that wasn’t a viable option, either. The winter days were short, and women traveling alone after dark did so at their own peril.

  Maybe she’d save a little money each month and buy a bicycle come spring.

  PLACE CARD 8

  “After giving her a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder, he went in search of his place card. It had chickadees painted on it, of all things. He hated chickadees.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  Tilting her head to the side, Flossie studied the long, scarred table stretching across the expanse of Klausmeyer’s dining room. The mingled aromas of stew and soda bread drifted in from the kitchen. In twenty minutes the dinner bell would ring and the house’s boarders would descend. Boarders who simply sat down, ate, and then returned to their respective rooms.

  And why shouldn’t they, when the table offered no cloth or centerpieces to soften its rough wooden surface? When the seats of its mismatched chairs were sunken from overuse and their uneven legs kept everyone off balance? When the fireplace’s mantle held no decorations or candelabras? When the blank, stained walls had nothing to soothe the spirit or inspire the imagination? And worst of all, when the boarders didn’t offer up anything resembling conversation?

  Well, that was going to change. She desperately missed her parents and was more homesick than she was willing to admit. Still, she’d spent her whole life as an only child and now she’d inherited a new family, a very big family. She wasn’t about to sit idly by while they acted as if they weren’t all sharing the same house.

  First thing on the agenda was to switch up the seating arrangement. The same people sat in the same spot night after night, never bothering to engage those around them.

  Not tonight. Tonight everyone was going to introduce themselves.

  She fingered the place cards in her hand. She’d spent every night of the past week painting songbirds on them, then penning each person’s name. That had been the easy part. The hard part was deciding who to put where.

  AT THE SOUND OF the dinner bell, Reeve glanced up at his clock, startled to see it was already seven. Though his exposé had run in the back section of the paper, it had evidently been read by plenty of women—all of whom had strong opinions.

  He placed his pen into its holder, then capped the inkwell. Women may not have the right to vote, but it didn’t keep them from being heard. They’d gone to the World’s office with his article in hand and demanded a rebuttal. The office had invited them to submit one, but Reeve would be surprised if they ran it. He hoped they would, though. The controversy would draw attention to his pieces, and if there was ever a topic that needed attention, the women’s movement was it.

  He’d never said anything to their new boarder about the picketers or about her returning home. It would have been wasted breath on his part, and he had no desire to engage in a discussion with her—especially not an unpleasant one.

  Standing, he grabbed his jacket from his chair, shrugged it on, and stepped across the hall to Mrs. Dinwiddie’s room. “I believe I heard the dinner bell, Madame. Shall we head that way?”

  Setting her knitting aside, the elderly widow lumbered to her feet, her white hair reminding him of spun glass. As usual, she’d twisted it up in an old-fashioned style that had probably been popular in her youth. He couldn’t imagine the time it must take her to wrap those rolls of hair around her head like stacked sausages.

  “Would you like me to get your cane for you?” he asked.

  She waved her hand in a negative gesture. Her gray gown didn’t favor the large puffy sleeves most women wore, but instead had sensible, straightforward ones. “No, no. I’ll just hold on to you.”

  He gave a slight bow. “Then I shall be the most fortunate of men.”

  “Oh, hush. No need to waste your sparking on me. You’d best save that for the young ladies who’ll appreciate it.” The pleasure in her tone, however, belied her words.

  He gently cupped her elbow. “I only have eyes for you, as you well know.”

  “Fiddlesticks.” Pink scalp peeked through a swath of matted-down white hair on the right side of her head. “Have you noticed our new boarder? Now there’s a piece of calico for you.”

  He smiled to himself, not only at the antiquated saying, but that it was coming from such an unlikely source. “We’ve a new boarder?”

  Adjusting the round glasses propped against her nose, she harrumphed. “You’ve noticed. You’re just not wanting to admit it.”

  “What I’ve noticed is the lovely scent you’re wearing this evening. Is it new?”

  Her eyes lit. “Why, it is. Just arrived from Montgomery Ward. They call it Meadow Blossom.”

  He lifted her wrist to his nose. “Just like its name.”

  She tsked, but when they entered the dining room, her smile was broad, her step a bit lighter.

  At the threshold, the new boarder greeted them as if she were the hostess in a receiving line and they her invited guests. “Good evening, Mrs. Dinwiddie. I believe your place card is right here closest to the door. Yours, Mr. Wilder, is there, at the other end.”

  He gave her a sideways glance. How did she know his name? He’d never so much as said word-one to her, although he knew all about her due to the thin walls.

 
; “Place cards?” Mrs. Dinwiddie asked.

  Other residents of the house circled the table, exclaiming over various place cards. Even their landlady, a drawn, reedy woman, set down a bowl of potatoes, then showed an uncharacteristic bit of animation as she looked over Miss Love’s shoulder and examined these additions to her table.

  “That’s right,” Miss Jayne said. “I thought it would be fun to sit by someone new tonight.”

  He suppressed a growl. What was this?

  “You didn’t put me by Mr. Oyster, did you?” Frowning, Mrs. Dinwiddie leaned close to Miss Jayne, but didn’t bother to lower her voice. “He’s going the way to destruction, I’m afraid. You mark my words.”

  The mercantile clerk looked up at the mention of his name. Anyone addressed as Oyster ought to be bald, pale, and clammy. Instead, he had a full head of hair in a constant state of disarray, a warm complexion, and a smile always at the ready when a woman was nearby. He caught Miss Jayne’s eye, waggled his eyebrows, then winked.

  Reeve would have to keep an eye on the man. When the ladies were absent, Oyster talked of nothing but his past conquests—especially if the girl had been a New Woman on her own. Miss Jayne might be a magpie and a complete disruption to the peaceful solitude Reeve prized, but Mrs. Dinwiddie had been right. Miss Jayne was also a stunner—and ripe for being duped by a bounder like Oyster.

  Reeve stalled Mrs. Dinwiddie with a slight increase of pressure when she started to move away. “I’m afraid Mrs. Dinwiddie and I always sit together.”

  Miss Jayne smiled. “Yes, I noticed. That’s why I put you at the other end of the table from her.”

  “But I don’t want to be at the other end of the table from her.”

  Mrs. Dinwiddie patted his hand. “Now, now, Mr. Wilder, it’s all right. It’s just for one night. Besides, it’s not as if I don’t see you every afternoon for a spot of tea.”

  He frowned. That wasn’t the point. Their teas were a way to keep him from working straight through the day without stopping and a way for her to break up the monotony of her afternoons. It had nothing to do with dinner.

  Still, rather than create a scene, he escorted her to her seat and held out her chair. Miss Jayne had not only put her across from Oyster, but had placed her next to Mr. Nettels, a condescending music master who disparaged everyone else to make himself look better. The poor woman was going to have a miserable dinner.

  After giving her a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder, he went in search of his place card. It had chickadees painted on it, of all things. He hated chickadees. They made the most obnoxious noise and once they got going, never ceased chattering.

  Settling into his chair, he spread his napkin on his lap and glanced at the new table arrangement. She’d placed everyone boy-girl, boy-girl and stuck him beside her roommate, with the house’s newlyweds assigned to sit across from him. He’d be subjected to their ridiculous billing and cooing the entire meal.

  Mr. Holliday, a man of forty who’d recently taken a girl of sixteen to wife, seated his wife and gave her arm a gentle pat. Miss Jayne sat in the middle, where she could preside over the table. She’d piled her mountain of black hair atop her head in the haphazard way Charles Gibson had made famous with his numerous pen-and-ink drawings. Her brown eyes and ready smile might hypnotize everyone else at the table, but not him.

  “While we pass the bread,” she said, “I thought it might be nice if we played a little game.”

  He eyed her. She could not possibly be serious.

  “Beneath everyone’s plate is a question written on a slip of paper.”

  Mr. Oyster reached for his plate.

  “Wait, wait!” She touched his arm. “No peeking. Not until you know the rules.”

  To her left, Mr. Holliday held the bread basket up to her in a wordless question. She gave a genteel nod. “Yes, please.”

  He placed a roll on her plate, then sent the basket past her to Mr. Oyster.

  “During the course of dinner,” she continued, “we will take turns reading the questions beneath our plates. But the question you read is not for you, it’s for the person across from you. That way, you can’t cheat and formulate an answer while no one is looking.”

  Several in the group chuckled. Reeve shifted his position on the unfamiliar lumps of an unfamiliar chair. Looking at her husband, the young Mrs. Holliday clapped her hands together. The man gave her an affectionate smile and chucked her under the chin.

  “Mr. Wilder?” Miss Jayne drew his attention. “Why don’t you start us off, then we’ll go all the way around the table.”

  All eyes turned to him. Heat rushed up his neck. “I mean no disrespect, Miss Jayne, but—”

  From the corner of his eye, Mrs. Holliday’s expression crumpled. He realized with a start it was her question he’d be reading, for she sat directly opposite him.

  Sighing, he wiped a hand on his napkin, then withdrew the piece of paper from beneath his plate. Its borders were painted with tiny figures. Two were in a toboggan. Two were having a snowball fight. One was making a snow angel. And in the bottom corner, a couple skated across a frozen pond.

  The paintings were simple, but charming. Almost childlike.

  “Mr. Wilder?” Miss Jayne prompted.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes. Right. So . . .” He looked at Mrs. Holliday. “What is your favorite winter activity?”

  Her mouth made a tiny O. Her wide blue eyes sought her husband’s. “Oh, my. There’s so many to choose from. I’m simply not sure. Let me see . . . I guess I’d pick ice-skating?”

  Miss Jayne’s expression lit. “Truly? That’s my favorite, too.” She looked around the table. “Does anyone else like to skate?”

  Not knowing what to do with the paper, Reeve tucked it inside his jacket, only listening with one ear as the others answered in the affirmative. Though he’d grown up in New Jersey and had had a pond directly behind his house, he’d never actually skated—not because he hadn’t wanted to, but because he hadn’t been allowed to. He’d stood at the window of his second-story bedroom and watched the rest of the town skate. His classmates. Other families. Young lovers. Old-timers. But never him.

  To his left, Miss Love removed her piece of paper. Painted onto its borders were tiny figures reading books. A man in a chair smoking a pipe. A young girl in a window seat. A boy stretched out on a carpet. A woman reading to a group of children collected about her feet.

  “What is the last book you read in its entirety?” she asked Mr. Holliday.

  Reeve studied the man, wondering what a girl of sixteen would see in him. He was comely enough, Reeve supposed, and well built, but he was old enough to be the girl’s father and already a touch of gray had begun to show in his thick dark hair and mustache.

  Stroking his chin, he smiled at Miss Love. “The Last of the Mohicans, by James Cooper.”

  “Oh, I’ve never read that,” Miss Jayne said. “It’s about some girls being captured by Indians, is it not?”

  And so it went, all the way around the table, all the way through dinner. It didn’t take Reeve long to realize Miss Jayne had made a careful study of everyone in the house. Her questions were too specific to be accidental.

  Mrs. Holliday had probably made snow angels and ridden in toboggans as recently as last year. He wondered if ice-skating really was her favorite winter activity or if it was simply the one she considered most suitable for a married woman. Though her husband was a photographer, he often had a book tucked beneath his arm and was thrilled to give a synopsis of Mohicans while Mrs. Klausmeyer brought in stew from the kitchen.

  Miss Jayne had stuck to a safe topic with Mr. Oyster and asked what food he’d give up if he were forced to choose one. Mrs. Dinwiddie said the key to a happy marriage was making sure the person you chose loved you more than he loved himself.

  The music master’s favorite holiday was Christmas. Miss Love’s favorite smell was that of honeysuckle, and Miss Jayne confessed her favorite thing to do as a child was to go on walks with her
father—even in the rain.

  Turning away, he wiped his mouth with his napkin. What a charmed life she’d led. A mother who garbed her in clothes worthy of a princess and a father who treated her as if she were one. Walks in the rain? He’d never walked anywhere in the rain for the sheer pleasure of it. Never even crossed his mind.

  “Mr. Wilder?” Mrs. Holliday’s bright eyes looked at him with expectation, a notecard in her hand.

  He flushed. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening. Is it my turn?”

  “It is.”

  “Could you repeat the question, please?”

  She looked to her husband, as if to ascertain whether Reeve was serious or merely toying with her, but the man nodded his encouragement and she read her paper again.

  “If you were to change one thing about society, what would it be and why?”

  He swung his gaze to Miss Jayne’s. Her expression was one of polite interest. Nothing to indicate she’d studied him so thoroughly that within two weeks of moving in she’d sensed the passion he held for the preservation of home and community.

  Certainly, the walls between their rooms were thin, but he had no one in his room to confide in. Any visiting he did occurred in Mrs. Dinwiddie’s room, not his. So, she hadn’t overheard him say anything. Neither he, nor anyone else that he knew of, gathered in the parlor in the evenings. She rode the streetcar to work in the mornings, while he stayed in his room to write. So how did she know to ask him such a question? Unless she’d read his articles. Still, was he that transparent? That easy to see through?

  “Mr. Wilder?” Mrs. Holliday’s tone held a touch of uncertainty.

  “I’m sorry.” He again wiped his mouth with his napkin. “That’s a rather big question. One I couldn’t possibly answer succinctly. What if I told you what my favorite season was instead?”