“You don’t have to answer. I’m sure it’s none of my business.”
“Let’s just say I got my catch.”
“That’s good.”
“A well-heeled one, at that.”
“Even better.”
She let the tendril loose. “How else could I have my own place?”
I did my best to appear blasé. “He pays your rent?”
“Oh, he’s awfully generous.”
“That’s nice.”
She arched her eyebrows. “Are you shocked?”
“No.”
Now she drew her eyes into narrow slits, almost challenging me to disapprove. “You think it’s wrong.”
It didn’t sit right, but I had no wish to insult her. “I think it’s your decision to make. How did you meet him?”
“He saw me modeling in a fashion show at the store. When it was over, he asked me to dinner. You know where we went? The Café Martin. Can you imagine me sitting there with all those rich swells?”
A strange sensation came over me as Angelina described her visit to the restaurant I passed all the time while living at the Mansfield. How did I end up here, eating spaghetti with an Italian shopgirl who lived one step away from prostitution?
“Are you in love with him?” I asked.
“I like him well enough.”
“So you don’t hope to marry him.”
“Oh, he’s crazy to marry me. Loves to go on about how we should chuck everything and move to Paris so we can sit in cafés, meet artists, drink wine all afternoon …”
“Sounds romantic.”
“For a few weeks; then I’d be dying to come home.”
“You could go to the fashion shows and shop for clothes.”
“When you put it that way, it’s tempting.” She rose to clear the table. “But I see him enough as it is.”
Later that night, crowded next to Angelina in bed, I lay on my back with my arms at my sides, trying not to move an inch. I’d never shared a bed with anyone and didn’t want to brush against her by mistake.
“What are you afraid of more than anything?” she asked.
I stared into the dark before answering. “Childbirth. My mother died giving birth to me. Her mother died giving birth to her.”
“Mercy. So you may never have children?”
“I’d sooner ride in a barrel over Niagara Falls. What’s your greatest fear?”
“Being penniless,” she said. “Ending up in the poorhouse or on the street.”
I wished I could honestly reassure her that could never happen. “Life is so terribly uncertain.” As we lay there in silence, I cursed the world for being such a heartless, lopsided place. Why should comfort and pleasure come so easily to some while others had to demean themselves simply to get along? “Does your brother know about … your gentleman friend? Seems like it would be hard to keep it a secret if he lives right next door.”
“My gentleman friend,” she said with an edge of bitterness, “is the reason Joe lives next door. He was still living at home when I helped him get work at the store, and then he happened to find out. Madonna mia,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Joe threatened to tell my parents and kill that man who turned me into a whore. So I talked my gent into pulling a few strings, and he got Joe the apartment next door so he could ‘look after me.’ ”
“That satisfied Joe?”
“Oh, he was delighted, and you can be sure he doesn’t care two cents about leading his girlfriends down the same path.”
“Isn’t it interesting how men adjust their opinion as to a woman’s behavior depending on how it best suits their needs?”
“I’ll say.”
“It’s utterly galling.” Though I couldn’t shake my own distaste over the idea of Angelina compromising herself for money.
At the same time, I was intensely curious to know exactly how she compromised herself. Did she allow this man to have his way with her completely? Did it feel good? Did it hurt? Had she ever experienced the orgasm? Exactly how much money did he give her?
I tried to reassure myself; one day I’d know what I needed to know. Meanwhile, I ought to count myself lucky to find someone so kind and refreshingly open. Daisy was more educated and refined, but Angelina was more worldly-wise. Before too long, the steady rhythm of her breathing lulled me to sleep.
—
“Would you mind terribly lending me a hat?” We were just about to leave for the Electric Show when I remembered the sight of my poor white beaver boater being squashed under the wheel of that trolley.
“Sorry,” Angelina said with a mischievous glint in her eyes, “I have no extras.”
I pouted. “Please?”
She pretended to take pity. “I suppose I could spare one for the day.”
I scanned the assortment of hats scattered about the apartment. “How should I ever be able to choose?”
“May I suggest this one?” From the wall, she took a felt toque trimmed with a turquoise velvet bow. “Or …” She selected a wide-brimmed black beaver with long pink and green ribbon tails. “This?”
“They’re both lovely. The toque has less chance of flying off my head …”
“But the brim on the beaver is better protection from the rain.”
“And the ribbons are darling. You decide!”
“Why don’t we each wear one and then switch at lunch.”
“Perfect!”
“Now we’d better skedaddle or we’ll never have time to see everything.”
Following her out, I remembered Joe lived right next door. It was funny to think he might be only a few feet away. I let Angelina start down ahead of me and peeked back at his door. I didn’t want her to see—she’d be sure to tease me for being sweet on him. The truth was, I found her much more interesting.
—
“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to give you a glimpse into the future,” said the pretty young woman who led our tour through the most popular exhibit on the floor: a replication of an entire modern apartment with everything powered by electricity. The attention to detail was exacting, down to bric-a-brac on the fireplace mantel, a bookshelf filled with classics, and a box of chocolates sadly wasted on phantom residents. I couldn’t believe the sheer audaciousness of creating it all just for show.
The last room on the tour was the most impressive: a kitchen fitted out with all the latest gadgets. “Clothes can be washed, rinsed, dried, and ironed with ease,” she said while opening and closing an electric laundry machine. Her voice sounded so automatic, I thought she might be a machine, too. “Temperatures can be set so low, it’s possible to store your food for days.” She opened the door to a refrigerator. “No need for an iceman anymore.
“Soon electricity will be the new servant,” our guide concluded, “and even your servants will be able to afford it.” Most of her audience chuckled at the notion. As we left the apartment, an automatic piano played “All She Gets from the Iceman Is Ice.”
“The idea of living with all those machines sounds dreadful,” Angelina said as we walked on. “People will never accept it.”
“Do you really think so?”
“What could be more romantic than dinner by candlelight?”
“You wouldn’t have to give that up. Simply turn down the lights after your meal is made, and imagine how much easier it will be to make it.”
“Given the choice, I’d rather have servants do it for me.”
“And perhaps one day you will.”
We passed exhibits for curling irons, weight reducers, coffee percolators, and toasters. Women gaped at the new appliances with longing. Unlike Angelina, I suspected that people in the future would embrace all these new devices, and the department stores would need to make lots of space for them.
When we stopped to watch the demonstration of a waffle iron, the heavenly scent put us both in mind for lunch. After waiting for the chance to sample a piece of waffle, which was quite delicious, we walked toward the entrance to find the restaurant
. “So you don’t find it tempting?” I ventured to ask. “The idea of living in a house done up with all those gadgets to help you raise a family?”
“A house? In the suburbs? With scads of kids running about? Never. I’m a city girl, and if I ever do get hitched, I’m not having sons. Girls only. I always wished I could have a sister. When I think of what Mama went through, raising the pack of us! Of course we’re Catholic, so there was hardly a time she wasn’t pregnant or nursing. That’s why I’m stopping at two.”
“But how, if I may ask, would you put a limit on it?” I couldn’t believe my boldness, and asking in public, no less.
“My gent makes sure that’s taken care of.”
“So he uses those rubber bags you mentioned?”
“No, he doesn’t like ’em, so he sent me to his fancy doctor uptown, had me all checked out, and fit me up with a pessary.”
“What’s that?” It seemed I could have an intimate conversation surrounded by hundreds of people in New York City, while exchanges of importance had utterly eluded me in the quiet town of Cold Spring.
“Like a rubber but for a woman. Goes inside and blocks his seed.”
“Sounds awfully uncomfortable.”
“After it’s in, you can’t feel a thing. Anyway, it’s a bother no matter how you manage—except the old-fashioned way, of course.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re the limit!” she said with a laugh. “Make him withdraw before it’s too late.”
By “too late,” I supposed she meant before the orgasm. Dr. Galbraith’s book said both the man and the woman needed to have one for pregnancy to occur.
“And they say,” she went on, “your chances are best during your monthly.”
“Best to get pregnant?”
“Best not to.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure—the doctor told me so.”
“Thank you for being frank with me. Honestly, I feel like such a dunce when it comes to men and anything having to do with, well, you know.”
“Sex?”
“Yes,” I said shyly. “And you’re so worldly.”
She laughed. “My family would say wicked, not worldly. God knows, I’m well on my way to hell if everything the Church says is true.”
“If you ask me, too many who preach religion are just trying to impose their own views on other people.”
“I think so too,” she said. “At least I hope so, seeing as I stopped going to confession. I got my fill of telling the priest what a sinner I am. Do you think that’s awful?”
“Not at all. My aunt who raised me is a devout Christian. She never hesitated to make sweeping pronouncements about what is and isn’t God’s will. I have to say, I find it very suspicious when any mere mortal claims to know with certainty what God wants.”
“That makes perfect sense, and I never could’ve put it so well. You may not know much about men, Olive, but you sure are clever.”
“Why, thank you,” I said, feeling pleased as punch—until we reached the restaurant. “Oh, my.” A terribly long line of customers stood waiting.
“This is mad.”
“We could leave the Garden and find someplace nearby.”
“I’m too beat. Let’s stick it out.”
“I bet the line will move fast,” I said, observing the vast sea of tables.
I bet wrong. Having claimed their bits of real estate, the seated patrons seemed happy to remain settled for good. Nor did they appear to be moved by the hungry, tired, and outright hostile looks coming from those of us in line.
“I almost forgot,” Angelina said after we’d been waiting awhile. She began to unpin her hat. Thus reminded, I did the same. We made our trade as people around us watched with perplexed faces. Then each of us made sure the other’s hat and hair were in place.
“I have this crazy idea,” she said after the exchange was accomplished.
“I hope you’re going to tell me what it is.”
“You must promise not to laugh.”
“I give my word.”
“Someday I want to own my own millinery shop. Someplace elegant, on Fifth Avenue, where I can sell my own designs to an exclusive clientele. Or to the less exclusive clientele on Sixth Avenue,” she added with a modest smile. “Or even”—she laughed—“the Bowery, if I must. Of course it’s just a pipe dream.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know a thing about owning a shop.”
“You could learn.”
She shook her head. “I’d be a dreadful businesswoman. My heart has a knack of ignoring my good sense.”
“Even if you’re selling your own creations?”
“Especially if I’m selling my own creations.”
When we were finally seated, it took half a century for the waiter to take our order. After he scurried off, I feared we might never see him again. “I don’t think owning your own shop has to be a dream,” I said. “May I ask something that’s none of my business?”
“Ask away. Then we’ll see if I answer.”
“How much does he pay you?”
She knew who I meant. Her eyes refused to meet mine. “Plenty.”
“I can’t even guess what that would be.”
“Five, usually, after spending an evening together.”
“May I ask how he gives it to you?”
“Cash.”
“Yes, but how? Isn’t it awkward?”
“He slips it in my purse when I’m in the bathroom, freshening up. And let me tell you,” she said, finally looking me square in the face, “the chance to use that porcelain tub instead of a tin bucket makes me want to be the one to pay him. He keeps a room at the Plaza, you know, that new hotel that just opened up on Central Park.”
“Does he really?” I took care to hide my disapproval so she could have the chance to impress me.
“Everything is so grand. The water closet flushes simply by pressing a little button, can you imagine?”
Her choice of detail made me smile. “That truly is a luxury.”
“You should see the room, all done up with the most elegant furniture, a gorgeous marble fireplace, and it’s up on the fourteenth floor. I can look out the window and see a glorious view: little people way down on the sidewalk; the traffic going by; horse cabs all lined up in front of the park; the mansions on Fifth Avenue …”
“It does sound lovely.” The Plaza Hotel most certainly would have turned me away that night when I had nowhere to go.
“The best part is, we can telephone to the kitchen, day or night, for food. He lets me order anything I want off the menu, no matter how expensive, and a bellboy rolls a table on wheels right to our room.”
“What fun,” I said, remembering the pleasures of breakfast delivered on a dumbwaiter.
“If he ever does throw me over, I can’t imagine going back to counting pennies.”
“You must have a good amount saved.”
“How much do you think?”
“I don’t know.” I took a wild guess. “Two hundred dollars?”
“If only! Closer to fifty.” She confessed the number as if admitting a crime.
“That’s a good sum.”
“I should be saving more. Seems like there’s always something to spend money on.”
“True enough. Perhaps you ought to draw up some sort of plan.”
“Of what sort?”
“For your business. So you’d know how much capital you’d need to get established.”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Let’s pretend the rent would be twenty a month for any place decent. Plus the cost of coal and oil. And you’d need at least thirty a month for food and clothes and other necessaries.”
“So much?”
“You can’t scrimp on health or the way you look if you’re going to run a business.”
“I suppose.”
“Multiply all that by twelve, and you’ll have a general idea of how much
would be required for a year. There are also onetime expenses like furnishings, and you’d need insurance … and let’s not forget the cost of supplies so you could make your hats!”
“Mercy, I’m snowed under just thinking about it. You do have a mind for business, don’t you.”
“Mostly, it’s common sense. But I suppose I picked up a few things from my father.”
“More than a few things. Say, you know what? We should become partners.”
“Partners?”
“It’s brilliant! We’ll open my hat shop together. I’ll handle the artistic side, and you’ll take charge of the business part.”
“But I don’t know anything about owning a shop.”
“You know more than you think, and you’ve obviously got the smarts and good sense.” She put her hand on my mine and squeezed. “Say you’ll do it, won’t you?”
“My goodness.” I couldn’t resist humoring her. “It does sound like an intriguing idea.”
“Just imagine! We’ll be our own bosses, do what we love most, and make tons of money so we can buy beautiful, expensive clothes and eat in all the swank restaurants.”
“Listen to you, spending our profits before we’ve made any.”
“See?” she said. “You’re my perfect partner.”
I blushed. I liked the idea of being important to her. In fact, the scheme was growing on me by the second. By the time the waiter brought our food, we were discussing how the shop ought to be decorated, and I no longer knew if I was simply humoring her or not.
AMANDA
AFTER CLOSING FOR the day, I took the two garbage bags full of Mrs. Kelly’s Edwardian clothes up to my apartment. I’d spend an exciting evening sorting through to see what needed washing and mending. Except before doing any of that, I really needed to go over my accounts.
I glared at my laptop. Facing those numbers seemed incredibly depressing. How had my life turned into such a disaster?
Nothing to do but go across the street and have a stiff one. Carol would be on tonight. She’d worked as a bartender at Phebe’s ever since I’d moved to the block. Carol gave me courage, and not just the liquid kind. She was surviving her fifth decade just fine—living with a longtime boyfriend, looking great, still pursuing an art career with zest. Life could continue on just fine after your first half century.
Astor Place Vintage: A Novel Page 19