Astor Place Vintage: A Novel

by Stephanie Lehmann

  I took my favorite seat at the end of the bar, but where was Carol? Instead of her mop of red curls, a head of straight black hair on a young skinny body took my order. She had the de rigueur trendy piercings—tongue, nostril—and a butterfly tattoo on her wrist. When she set down my Jack Daniel’s with Diet Coke and a bowl of peanuts, I asked about Carol.

  “She had to take off for a couple days. Death in the family.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve known Carol for years. Do you know who it was?”

  “Her mom. Sucks, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Awesome top,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “My name is Hadley. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  Poor Carol. Poor me. Poor everybody. Mothers shouldn’t die. It just shouldn’t be allowed. I reminded myself to call my mom about going up to Woodstock on Sunday night. Then I downed a nice big sip of my drink. Goddamm it. Was I ever going to be a mother? Had I already blown my chance? Molly was right to freak me out. Suddenly, her idea of chucking it all and moving in with my mom to raise my baby appealed to me.

  I could become a Woodstocky, tie-dyed hippie, natural-foods single mom. All I needed was the sperm. Forget the anonymous donors, though. I’d get Jeff to contribute. Didn’t he owe me after using up my most fertile years? Bonus points: If I were raising his baby, I wouldn’t have to feel obligated to settle my financial debt. After his kids were off to college, he’d come for me in Woodstock, ask for my hand in marriage, and whisk me back to the city.

  I finished off my drink. Dizzy and a little buzzed but perfectly in charge of my facilities … faculties … whatever … maybe I should’ve gotten something to eat.

  Hadley came by and asked if I wanted another.

  “Okay.”

  I watched her mix the drink while I chomped on some peanuts. My new plan had me all excited. Only fear could stop me now. I should text him immediately, before changing my mind. As Hadley set down my drink, I took out my cell phone and began typing.

  Hi there. Nice casual opening. I’ve been thinking. I’m not getting any younger. Delete. I’ve been thinking. I wasted my thirties on u. So u really do owe me. Delete. So I had this wild and crazy idea. No. Hi, how are ya? We have something very special. And circumstances have kept us from being able to be together. But I love you, and I want to have your child. Oh my god, did I really just type that? Delete, delete, delete. It was absurd to be texting something important like this. At the very least, I had to be businesslike. It was business, after all. Didn’t Molly say so? And no one gives away the important information until they have to. I have an idea and need to discuss it with u.

  I stared at the screen. Sipped my drink. Went back and changed the “u” to “you.” That was it. Sure, I could wait to send it in the morning, when I might be thinking more clearly, but then I might chicken out. Chicken out on my eggs, ha ha. Except maybe I didn’t want to think clearly. I moved my finger to the send button.

  No! Don’t do it! Don’t be a fool!

  I moved my thumb to delete.

  Don’t be a coward! Move things forward! You aren’t getting any younger!

  Was this my mood swinging here? Was I experiencing the apprehension, anxiety, doom, and mental confusion of a perimenopausal thirty-nine-year-old? Screw that. I pressed send.

  Damn. Why did I do that? Now it was gone … into the ether, cyberspace, wherever it went, impossible to retrieve. I texted him again.

  PLS IGNOREPREVIOUS TXT. THX

  Before I could convince myself that text was equally pitiful, I pressed send.

  —

  Back in my apartment, I put a package of frozen mac and cheese in the microwave and sat down in front of my laptop with the honorable intention of opening Quickbooks. The whiskey was in my system, though, and my level of concentration, not to mention motivation, was not conducive to getting anything done. I checked my e-mail.

  My friend Karin had agreed to sushi in Tribeca. She added that we should seriously consider Home Cooking next time because The New York Times said they had the best pancakes in the world. After emailing back that I looked forward to my tuna roll, I clicked on the Home Cooking website. The decor was retro midcentury modern, so “in” these days. I was pretty sure Olive wrote about going to a Child’s restaurant that used to be on the same corner—maybe in the very same building. To think I could’ve gone there with Rob Kelly instead of drunk-texting Jeff for his sperm.

  I checked the time. Ten o’clock. I was too weary to be productive, but if I drank coffee, I’d be up all night.

  The microwave bell rang. I got out the tray of mac and cheese, pulled off the plastic, and sat down for my scrumptious meal. Two bites later, I pushed it away with disgust. I needed real comfort food, and this wasn’t making the cut. Why sit around getting depressed when I could go and enjoy the best pancakes in New York? I grabbed a black sweater and went out into the night.

  OLIVE

  THE SIEGEL-COOPER EMPLOYEE association had organized a trip to Coney Island for the first Sunday of spring. I’d never been, and when the day finally came, I bubbled with the same excitement I might have for a holiday abroad. We’d been warned that lots of the shows weren’t scheduled to open until the summer, and rides that burned down the year before had yet to be replaced. Starved for the sun, none of us gave a hoot. I couldn’t wait to breathe in the fresh air after suffering through the toughest winter of my life.

  The journey itself was a diversion. Surrounded by my fellow employees, I had no fear of the subway, as I did that first time. Or at least not until someone mentioned we were traveling inside a metal tube underneath the East River. I sat prone until we reached Brooklyn, where the train ran aboveground and I could contentedly look out my window at the scenery. Our route passed endless rows of square brick houses, but the drabness of the dwellings was relieved by the variety of backyards. Some had toys scattered about; some had gardens; some were trimmed and orderly; some were ramshackle. I wondered if the residents thought about how their yards served as entertainment for the passing train riders.

  Some of the girls sitting around me were trying to plan out which attractions were the highest priority, since there was never enough time to do everything. Sadie couldn’t wait to ride the loop-the-loop. Angelina longed for the beach. A girl who worked in the tube room was set on the shooting galleries. And Helen, who worked in housewares, raved about an exhibit of “incubator babies.”

  “Is that part of the freak show?” Sadie asked.

  “Goodness, no,” Helen said. “Haven’t you heard about it? A doctor rescued tiny babies that were born too soon and keeps them alive inside glass boxes that keep ’em warm. It’s a genuine medical marvel!”

  Having no interest in wasting time at Coney Island looking at babies, I turned back to the window. The landscape had become more suburban, with the occasional school, church, ball field, and train station surrounded by a cluster of shops. We stopped occasionally to let more people on; the aisle was packed by the time we reached the white dunes of the island.

  When the train pulled up to Surf Avenue at the end of the line, everyone clamored to get outside. As I stood up, my hatpin fell to the floor and rolled away. I had to squat down to conduct my search. It ended up next to a piece of paper soiled with a footprint. The caption in bold letters caught my eye: THE WIFE’S FRIEND. Then the subtitle: HOW TO PREVENT CONCEPTION. I folded the flyer and stuffed it inside my jacket pocket.

  Having exited the car, I stood still on the platform and let the sun bathe my face while breathing in the salty sea air. What good luck to come on such a lovely day. I pinned on my hat, adjusted the brim to shade my eyes, and went to join the others.

  Those first impressions of nature evaporated as I descended the stairs to the fairgrounds. Vendors shouted, people shrieked on rides, and a brass band in one direction competed with an orchestra in the other. Our group was immediately squabbling about where to go first and pulling in different directions. The majori
ty seemed intent on visiting the incubator babies.

  Angelina sidled up to me. “You don’t want to see the bambini, do you?”

  “Not in the least. Shall we walk to the beach?”

  “Perfetto.” She hooked her arm in mine, and the two of us ambled off on our own. As we passed a camel chewing cud while waiting to be hired for a ride, I couldn’t resist asking why Joe hadn’t come.

  “He finally gave notice and bought his train ticket to San Francisco. All he can think about is moving. I guess he’ll be getting all the fresh air he wants soon enough.”

  “How exciting!” I said, taking care not to sound sorry to hear the news.

  “He’s been talking about it long enough.”

  “Oh, but you’ll miss him.”

  “If you say so.” She stopped in front of a blue tent decorated with gold stars. A wood sign said: ANNIE SMITH, WORLD-FAMOUS PSYCHIC! COMMUNICATE WITH THE SPIRIT WORLD! “I’ve never been to a psychic, have you?”

  “Never,” I said, but then I remembered Lola Cotton.

  Next to the tent stood a woman, the sort they called an albino, with acutely pale skin and white hair and eyebrows. “Only a nickel,” she said. “Money back if you’re not satisfied.”

  “Let’s give it a go.” Angelina pulled me forward through the slit in the tent. Since I was mildly curious, I didn’t bother to object. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I made out a rotund woman sitting at a square table. One gold candle on the table cast an eerie glow.

  “Welcome,” she said. “I’m Annie Smith. Are you ready to contact the spirit of a loved one who’s gone on to the next world?” She motioned to the empty folding chairs on either side of her. “We will begin.”

  Angelina and I sat across from each other. I thought a proper psychic ought to have an exotic accent—Spanish or Hungarian, perhaps—but this woman sounded thoroughly American. Two thick braids of dark red hair framed her round, pale face. She instructed us to place our palms on the table and close our eyes. “Think of the name of a loved one you’d like to contact. I’ll do my best to summon their spirit, but keep in mind, sometimes we hear from someone if they have an urgent message or a strong need to visit us. Someone shy may not speak up. The spirits have their personalities.”

  In other words, she’d already given us her excuse if she failed.

  I lay down my palms and closed my eyes but couldn’t decide whether to summon my father or my mother. Then I reminded myself this was nonsense, so I purposely kept my mind as blank as I could. I heard Annie Smith taking deep rhythmical breaths punctuated by occasional light moans, and I couldn’t resist opening my eyes enough to peek. Every time she exhaled, the candle flickered, on the brink of going out. Angelina sat with her eyes obediently closed.

  “Concentrate!” Annie Smith yelled. “Concentrate on the spirits that surround us!”

  She continued moaning while rolling her head in circles. Then the table began to jiggle back and forth. Suddenly, Angelina gasped. “Someone touched me!”

  “Please announce your presence!” the psychic called out to the room.

  Angelina sat ramrod-straight, her eyes still closed. “They squeezed my shoulder.”

  I couldn’t believe she was taken in by this claptrap.

  “If a spirit is here,” the psychic implored, “please make yourself known!” Annie Smith began to retch and gag as though someone was choking her. Sticking out her tongue, she rolled back her eyes, and her head dropped forward. Then she began moaning and rolling her head in circles again. After doing that for a while she fell silent, raised her head slowly, and opened her eyes.

  I quickly shut mine. Now she spoke in a deep, hoarse whisper. “Please … listen to me.” There was silence, and I waited for what would come next. Then Annie Smith—or the spirit—yelled: “Blood!”

  I had to peek again—not that I expected to see blood.

  “Everywhere!” she screamed. “Can’t be helped!”

  “Why?” Angelina asked. “Why is there blood?”

  “Muh … muh … mother.”

  “Mother?” Angelina repeated. “You?”

  “Baby!” she shouted.

  “You’re the baby’s mother?” Angelina asked.

  Her mother was alive. Was I supposed to think this was my mother? I wasn’t going to be taken for a fool this time around.

  “Don’t … be … afraaaaid!” the psychic yelled.

  Angelina still had her eyes squeezed shut. “Of what?”

  “The past!”

  “Don’t be afraid,” Angelina repeated, “of the past?”

  “Or you will regret … regret …”

  “What?” Angelina pressed, as if she really had to know.

  “The future!”

  Angelina shook her head. “I don’t understand. Regret the future? Can you please explain?”

  “Blood!” the psychic yelled. “Everywhere! Can’t be helped!”

  After that, the psychic’s eyes rolled back in her head, and her chin dropped. A moment later, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. “The spirit,” she announced in a perfectly calm voice, “has departed.” Her regular Annie Smith voice had returned—notwithstanding a trace of annoyance, especially as she looked sideways at me. “They don’t like their presence to be doubted.”

  “You can’t regret the future,” I said. “Or fear the past. It’s backward.” Under the table, my shin received a kick, but I doubted it was from a spirit.

  “Sometimes,” Annie Smith said, “it can take time to understand a spirit’s message. I’m here every Saturday and Sunday if you should like to visit with them again.” Then she bowed her head to each of us. “Good day.”

  We both thanked her, Angelina more sincerely than I could manage. Back outside the tent, we squinted from the sun. The albino woman held out a golden bowl, and we dropped our nickels in.

  “I know you thought that was all hogwash,” Angelina said as we continued toward the boardwalk, “but you could knock me over with a feather.”

  “People regret the past,” I insisted, “not the future.”

  “Haven’t you ever experienced something wholly fantastic that made no sense?”

  “No.” Lola Cotton flitted through my mind again. Then I remembered the mechanical gypsy. But I was not about to confer them with special powers. People liked to make sense out of nonsense to suit their needs. “At any rate, if there was a spirit in that tent, you were the one it was trying to reach, not me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I wasn’t concentrating one bit. And you were the one who felt someone’s touch.”

  “But didn’t the spirit say she was a mother? My mother is alive.”

  “She said it was the baby’s mother, which meant nothing.”

  “Did she?”

  “You see, that’s how they pull you in. Make it vague enough to apply to anyone.”

  “It’s more than that,” Angelina said with irritation.

  We walked on in silence. I was trying to think of how to smooth things out without saying I was wrong when a food pavilion came into view. Stopping to get a bite to eat seemed like a good idea.

  “Shall we get something to eat?” Angelina asked.

  “I was about to say the same thing.”

  “See?” She smiled. “I read your mind.”

  Her good mood seemed to be restored, so I forgot about apologizing. After buying hot dogs, crispettes, and sodas, we found an empty table and began to devour the salty food.

  “Have you had any more thoughts about our millinery shop?” I asked. One of us raised the topic every now and then to keep the hope alive.

  “I’m starting to wonder if it’s such a good idea. After all, it would be a very big commitment and take lots of work. Not that I’m afraid of the work. But what if it failed? I’d lose everything.”

  “Sounds like you’re regretting the future,” I teased, hiding my disappointment behind a smile. Not that I’d been counting on that scheme. It was the fantasy that I didn’t wa
nt to give up.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to let you down.”

  “Not at all,” I said, vaguely aware of trying to wound her pride. “I never really believed you’d save enough money to get it started.”

  “You didn’t? Well, I’m sure I could.”

  “How much more have you put aside since the original fifty?”

  She stared at me with a hurt expression. Having managed to wound her, I immediately felt the worse for it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “Hey!” A shout from a familiar voice cut me off. “Where’ve you two been?” Sadie and some of the other girls from the store descended, pulling chairs up to our table and jabbering with excitement. Their favorite attraction had been the incubator babies.

  “They were such precious little miracles,” Helen from housewares said, clasping her hands to her chest. “Some of the poor darlings are orphans; I could take one home with me today.”

  “Then you better find a husband to take home, too,” Sadie said.

  “Mercy me,” Angelina said. “Can you believe we still haven’t seen the beach? I’m dying to lie out in the sun for a bit.”

  “That sounds grand.” I hoped we might have a chance to patch things up, but the others decided to join us. Before we reached the boardwalk, the girl from the tube room convinced everyone to take a quick look at the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. By the time we finished admiring the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, it was time to meet up with the rest of the group and return to the city. I never did reach the ocean.

  —

  That evening, in the privacy of my room, I pulled out the flyer I’d found on the train. The Woman’s Friend turned out to be an advertisement for Vital Soluble Tablets to prevent pregnancy. The Vital Pharmaceutical Company claimed these pills were highly reliable and had no ill effects. They also sold a pessary, the device Angelina used, and suggested irrigating with a special Vital Quinine Solution afterward. The flyer said women could also use a sponge soaked in that solution, and all three methods were equally and reliably effective. However, they pointed out, the pill and pessary could be used without the husband’s knowledge, and that made them better “friends.” I smiled, thinking of all the husbands who’d object to their wives socializing with that type of friend.