Karin and Patricia, two old friends I’d known since middle school, had both sent birthday wishes. Karin had suggested getting together for dinner on Saturday at the Greenwich Grill, a sushi place in Tribeca. Patricia had responded with another option, a new place on Fourteenth Street called Home Cooking. The fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits were supposed to be amazing, she said.
It sounded great, but to protest the audacity of calling a restaurant “home cooking,” I voted for sushi. Then I opened an e-mail from my mom.
Hi sweetheart, thinking of the moment I first looked at your darling face that beautiful day you came into this world. Did you get my present? I couldn’t resist. Love you, xo, Mom
My mom used to work in PR for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one of those New York City jobs that offer an attractive setting and interesting coworkers in exchange for a salary that keeps you on the edge of financial ruin. Retired now, she lived up in Woodstock in a cottage my parents had bought when I was a baby, for escapes from the city. Like me, Mom wasn’t much of a country person. She felt comfortable there despite all the nature—partially because it was filled with disaffected ex–New Yorkers and had good restaurants, and also because of the plethora of yard sales and flea markets.
When I was a kid, we’d have the best time driving around to find bargains. She taught me to fearlessly ask sellers if that was their best price, pretend I had only a certain amount in my pocket, and assume a forlorn expression before asking: will that do? When we accumulated too much stuff, we’d hold our own yard sale.
My father loved Woodstock because the spiritually enlightened hippie town indulged his fascination with transcendental meditation, yoga, and adultery. An affair with the woman who taught his Reiki class broke up their marriage. After a few months of fighting with my mother, he moved to an ashram in Northern California with his girlfriend. When the official divorce came a couple of years later, Mom got the Woodstock house in the settlement.
Done with e-mails, I turned to my letters and noticed that something had come from the managing agent of my building—probably about my lease coming up for renewal. I set it aside; he’d already warned me about the 6 percent rent hike. No hurry to look at the numbers in black and white, especially with packages waiting to be opened.
Since I knew what was inside, I opened my eBay package first, ordaining the extravagant purchase as a birthday present to myself. Removing the bubble wrap, I admired my new set of Homer Laughlin Kitchen Kraft dishware from the forties. The pattern of red tulips and blue pansies sprouting from flowerpots was so cheerful and adorable! I shouldn’t have; the last thing I needed was dinnerware for eight. My Formica dinette seated four, and my sewing machine occupied half the surface. But maybe one day, if I ever married and moved to a larger apartment, I’d make use of it.
Next I unwrapped my mother’s present, another head vase, most likely. Over the years she’d given me half a dozen of these vases in the shape of a head with a hole on top for stems. Some people collected baby heads, clown heads, Madonna heads … They were popular in the forties and fifties. Mine were all heads of attractive women wearing some variation of accoutrements, such as a faux pearl necklace, dangling earrings, a pillbox hat. My mother always wrote a pun on the card. It’s good to get aHEAD … Two HEADS are better than one …
I opened the box: a head vase. I smiled while shaking my head at my new head. She wore a powder-blue hat with a large yellow bow on the side of the floppy brim. Her chin rested on a white-gloved hand. The card said, Have a happy birthday, but don’t lose your HEAD.
Time to open my father’s present. His Reiki instructor was ancient history; he now lived in a Costa Rican ecovillage community of about forty people. They grew their own food, bathed in waterfalls, and were devoted to taking care of the planet for future generations. Fine, but couldn’t he have been around a little more to take care of me, his own future generation? I opened the box to find a bracelet made with pink and green stones. I read the printed enclosure.
Wearing this jewelry clears the energy center to restore optimism, dissolve grudges, and revive hope. For best results, wear for ten days.
Ten days? I wouldn’t wear it for an hour. Did he really think that after all these years, he’d convert me into a Zen zombie? He’d written a note on a plain white card made from 100 percent post-consumer waste.
Dear Amanda,
The fourth chakra affirmation evokes clarity of the heart. The rose quartz heals emotional wounds. Jade is the stone of wisdom. The stones have been energized to increase their healing properties. FYI, it’s okay to take it off at night.
Why don’t you come down to visit? It’s beautiful and amazing here. You really should come. Have a beautiful birthday. I miss you, love, your dad.
Costa Rica probably was amazing, but I had no desire to fly to the other side of the equator and ride in some rented Jeep down unpaved roads to a tiny village between mountain ranges. If he truly missed me, he could come here.
I set the head vase on my maple bureau. Later I’d take her down to the store so she could sit with the others I kept behind the register. They made good conversation pieces. I put the chakra bracelet around the neck of the head vase. Maybe it could help her.
I’d just turned to clean up the wrappings from my presents when I heard something behind me; it sounded like a woman sobbing. I turned back—not that I expected to see anyone. The head vase stared at me with an eerie grin. Strange. Sometimes I got street noise, but the window was closed. Must’ve been a neighbor, or else I’d imagined it.
As I folded up the bubble wrap to use later, I thought of calling my mom to thank her, but she’d ask how I was celebrating, and I didn’t want to admit to spending my birthday with Jeff. Instead, I went to my laptop and replied to her e-mail:
Hi Mom,
Thanks so much for the vase. I love her floppy hat with the bow! I’m thinking of HEADing up there Sunday night for a visit. I really, really need to sit out in the garden and get some sun. Does that work for you? Let me know. Love and kisses, your daughter
Bolstered by that accomplishment, I decided to go ahead and e-mail my thanks to Molly, too.
Hey there, I had my session with Dr. Markoff and have now been officially hypnotized. It’s amazing, but after leaving his office, I had absolutely no temptation to smoke! Seriously, he was really great and I can’t wait to see if it helps me sleep. Thank you so much for setting that up! XOXO Amanda
Now that I was on a roll, I decided to e-mail my dad, too. Resisting the temptation to say I’d love to visit him down in Costa Rica if it didn’t Costa so Mucha, I wrote a nice, polite e-mail and hit “send” with relief.
Time to try on the hourglass dress. I opened my hobo bag, pulled out the stash from Mrs. Kelly, and held up the gorgeous blue dress. So Marilyn. Jeff would love how sexy I’d look. If it fit. It had to fit. Please fit.
It didn’t fit. Too damn tight, especially the bust … and my belly … and my hips. I struggled to pull it off, almost ripping a seam in the process. Jeez. I hoped this was just bloat. My period was late. At least a week, maybe two. I couldn’t be pregnant. Jeff and I always used a condom.
Though if I was pregnant, that would be kind of exciting. Inconvenient, but at my age … No. Had to be stress messing with my cycle, that’s all.
I opened my closet. What to wear, what to wear. Had to look great, preferably in something Jeff had never seen. My clothing was packed in there so tightly that it probably could’ve stayed suspended in midair without hangers. In the dark shadows to the rear of the closet, a place I considered synonymous to the back of my mind, hung a dress I’d been meaning to alter: a forties black taffeta with gold rickrack around the hem. The sweetheart neckline showed just the right amount of cleavage. The only problem was the waist was too loose. A couple darts would do the trick, and I’d been meaning to put them in. I had a few hours before I needed to leave for the restaurant. Today was the day.
After putting the dress on inside out, I pinned the da
rts. Then I pulled the dress back up over my head, careful not to stab myself with the pins.
My worries receded as I leaned over my reliable old Singer, cupped the metal wheel to position the needle, and pressed down on the foot pedal. It was my grandmother who taught me to sew. First a pillowcase, then an apron, then a dress using a Simplicity pattern we bought at my local Woolworth’s on Twenty-third Street—God rest its soul. I remembered the joy of shopping there for supplies. Choosing a pattern from one of the big catalogs; picking out a fabric; finding the exact color of thread and zipper to match. Then we’d go home, spread our supplies out in the living room, and get to work. I loved to whiz down seams like a race car driver gunning for the finish line. Transforming a flat piece of fabric into a three-dimensional finished outfit seemed like magic.
After finishing the second dart, I tried on the dress in front of my closet door mirror. Now it fit perfectly. It needed pressing, but ironing taffeta was not a good idea. I’d steam it out later while taking a shower. I was about to pull it off when inspiration hit: A diamond necklace Jeff bought me might be just the thing to go with it.
I took out a shoe box from behind my cleaning supplies on the top shelf of the cabinet over the sink. That was the safest hiding place I’d come up with for my half dozen or so pieces of upscale jewelry, all presents from Jeff over the past few years. I rarely had the opportunity to wear them, and a while back I’d asked him to stop giving me more. For one thing, I liked picking out my own jewelry. For another, it made me feel like a prototypically “bought and paid for” woman. But he said it made him happy, and he went right on doing it.
I selected the necklace I had in mind—a yellow-gold choker with clusters of diamonds set between each link—and checked myself out in the mirror. It looked brazenly expensive, but it did go beautifully with the neckline of my dress. Just as I was undoing the clasp, I caught a glimpse of something in motion behind me: a dark blur. I spun around.
Nothing. Obviously, my brain was short-circuiting from lack of sleep. I put the necklace on my bureau and returned the shoe box to its hiding place above the sink.
OLIVE
AS THE HORSE clip-clopped past Madison Square, I gawked like a tourist. The city seemed even more dazzling at night, with brilliant arc lights lining the avenue and crowds hunting for entertainment. Diners packed the Café Martin, Anna Held performed to sold-out crowds, and audiences lined up at Proctor’s to see moving pictures and vaudeville.
“I remember when this was a lovely, quiet residential neighborhood,” my father said.
“And dull as doornails, no doubt.”
“What’s exciting about stone towers replacing quaint old houses?”
“You’re the limit, Father. People come from all over to see the sights.”
“I heard they’re closing down the Fifth Avenue Hotel. It used to be one of the most fashionable addresses in the city. Now they can’t fill their rooms—too old-fashioned for you thrillseekers.”
“Well, I like having lots of people around me. Cold Spring is too quiet. Everyone shuts themselves away in their houses.” Sometimes I used to imagine that everyone else on earth had died and left me alone.
“People can be lonely in the city, too,” Father said. “I’m glad we’re getting out tonight.”
“So am I.” The manager of the Woolworth’s on Fourteenth Street had invited us to meet for coffee and dessert at what he claimed was the best Italian café in the city. “It was terribly sweet of this man to think of us.”
“I think Mr. Pierce is in need of company, too. He lost his wife last year.”
I nodded, thinking that he and Father had something in common. I wished Mr. Pierce had a daughter for me. After a month in the city, I still didn’t have anyone I could call a friend. As for my employment search, I didn’t dare go to another interview without a reference, and I couldn’t bring myself to raise the unpleasant subject with my father.
Veering down Broadway, we passed the brightly lit store windows of Brooks Brothers, Lord & Taylor, and Arnold Constable’s. At Union Square we crossed Fourteenth Street, farther downtown than I’d been yet. “One day I’d like to go all the way down to the seaport,” I said.
“No need for you to go any farther than this, Olive.”
“The Jewish quarter, Little Italy, Chinatown … it all sounds so exotic, and I’m sure it’s perfectly safe in the daytime.”
“Decent young woman don’t wander around the slums.”
I pressed my lips together. He’d been poisoned by a stew of recent newspaper stories about white slavery. They’d have us believe that every woman who took a walk by herself ended up in a house of ill repute.
“There’s St. Mark’s,” Father said as we passed an old church. “Beautiful, isn’t it? A hundred years old. Now here it is, surrounded by all these blasted tenements. Did you know Peter Stuyvesant’s farm once stood here? Can you imagine all this as green fields instead of concrete?”
“Why not go even further back, to the Indians? They must’ve been horrified to see men razing forests for their farms. And a hundred years from now, I wager New Yorkers will feel sentimental over the very tenements you’re complaining about.”
“Hard to imagine, but I suppose you might be right. The old always yields to the new—that’s life.” He patted my hand. “You’re too smart for your own good, young lady.”
I basked in his praise, such as it was, until we turned onto First Avenue, a wide shabby street, gritty from neglect, with El tracks running overhead. “I didn’t think the El ran down First Avenue.”
“This is the Second Avenue El. It only runs on First Avenue as far as Twenty-third Street; then it turns over to Second Avenue and goes clear up to the Bronx.”
The driver pulled over on Eleventh Street, and Father took out his wallet. The Bronx was yet another part of New York I couldn’t imagine. Stepping down from the carriage, I promised myself that one day I’d know all the ins and outs of the city.
Father took my arm as we walked down the street. Tenements lined both sides of the block, with the neighborhood shops on the ground floor and apartments above. An assortment of foreign-looking people passed by. A dark-skinned young man wore the oddest cone-shaped fur hat. A scrawny old woman wore wooden clogs and hunched under a yellow shawl. We reached a storefront with CAFFE PUGLIESE stenciled on the plate glass. A waif in a tattered sweater sat on the sidewalk by the door.
“Can you help me, ma’am, please?” She reached out with an open palm. “Just a penny for a piece of bread …”
Such sad eyes. Gaunt face. I buried my hands inside my muff, wishing I’d brought some coins. Father pretended not to notice her while opening the door. And then we entered yet another world. This one was warm, cheerful, and brightly lit, with a wonderful scent in the air.
“Is that licorice?” I took in a deep breath to make it linger in my nose.
“Anise.”
A long wood counter displayed trays of pastries. Tarts piled with glistening fruit, cakes slathered with buttercream flowers, rows of rainbow-colored cookies … So much rich food for us, while that hungry waif would be grateful for just one bite. A dark-haired woman behind the counter welcomed us with a buona sera, took our coats, and directed us to the back, where the scent of anise faded to the less alluring odor of tobacco. Lots of men and very few women sat drinking coffee and reading the evening papers. Lively strains of Italian and English bounced off the tile walls.
“Someone appears to be with him,” Father said, leading me to a table.
I looked eagerly to see the fourth person; it wasn’t a daughter. Father introduced me to his manager friend Howard Pierce, who in turn introduced his son. “Ralph came by just before I was leaving, so I invited him along.”
“How do you do?” he said, bowing slightly.
As I returned the greeting, I wondered if this had been a matchmaking scheme set up by the two fathers.
Sitting across from Ralph Pierce, I supposed most women would find him attractive.
He had a clean-shaven face, boyish features, and dark brown hair. A waiter wearing a white ankle-length apron came to the table, and the older Mr. Pierce ordered for all of us, using the Italian names. Then he took up my father’s current favorite subject. “Marble counters, porcelain syrup tanks, copper sink … Just keeping those soda fountains clean will be a nightmare.”
“Not to mention,” my father added, “the bother of keeping the syrups stocked and the water carbonated. Frank Woolworth can’t leave well enough alone.”
I sat up straight. “But he’s right.” All three men looked at me with surprise. “Men have their bars and saloons. Where can women sit by themselves for a quick refreshment without being conspicuous? A soda water fountain.”
“No one wants to deny women their ice cream soda,” my father said. “But let them get it somewhere else.”
“That’s right,” Howard Pierce chimed in. “We’re in the business of selling dry goods.”
“If the sodas draw in more customers,” I replied, “you’ll be selling more dry goods.”
Ralph Pierce chuckled. “I think she won that argument.”
“And she’s prettier than any of us,” his father added.
I refrained from rolling my eyes at the patronizing comment.
A waiter arrived with our drinks and called me a bella donna while pouring steamed milk into my coffee. It seemed to be my night for compliments, but after the waiter set down our desserts, I couldn’t compete. Rum baba cake, canoli, biscotti, and something called sfogliatelle, with crisp thin layers of buttery dough, sweet cheese filling, and chunks of candied orange. “I’ve never tasted anything so delicious,” I said after savoring my first bite.
My father took a bite of rum cake before asking Ralph Pierce if he was in retail.
Astor Place Vintage: A Novel Page 6