Astor Place Vintage: A Novel

by Stephanie Lehmann

  He took a sip of his white wine. “I’m not sure.”

  “But you must have given it a great deal of thought.”

  “It made no sense. My fiancée was sweet and pretty—the nicest girl you’d ever meet. We’d known each other since I can remember. She never wanted anything more than to marry me and raise a family together.”

  “You must feel terribly guilty.”

  “But I had to do it. As the day came closer, I realized it wouldn’t have been right to go on fooling myself or her.” He frowned down at the table. “Not that anyone believed I was doing her a favor.”

  “And in what way were you fooling yourself?” Honestly, a man had to be interrogated like a thief to get him to confess his feelings.

  He took another sip of wine before venturing to speak. “Committing to a marriage with her seemed too boring and predictable—as if my entire life would be sewn up. I couldn’t put aside this feeling that there was something more, something else out there to discover. Does that make any sense?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Our neighbors relinquished their table while discussing plans to see a show at the Hippodrome. After they were gone, the waiter came to us and apologized. “I hope their rude behavior wasn’t too much of a disturbance.”

  Ralph thanked him with a polite smile. After he left, I told Ralph it was the waiter who caused the disturbance.

  “Why do you say that? He was just doing his job.”

  “But you do agree it isn’t fair.”

  “What’s not fair?”

  I could hear Sadie telling me to keep my trap shut. It opened anyway. “If a man can smoke in a restaurant, why can’t a woman?”

  “I understand your point of view. But the sight of a woman smoking is rather unattractive, don’t you think?”

  “I imagine you simply aren’t used to it.” Even if he was going to pay, why shouldn’t I express my opinion?

  “I just don’t think women are the same as men, and they shouldn’t pretend to be.”

  “Of course they aren’t the same, but does that mean they should have fewer rights? I’ll have you know the Mansfield Hotel forced me to move out straightaway after Father died. They don’t allow single women. The manager wouldn’t even let me stay out the month.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, leaning forward over the table, “that’s beastly unfair.”

  “Not that I could’ve paid the rent. We were absolutely ruined when Father died, so I was grateful to find this boardinghouse. It’s really quite decent, you know. The landlady only takes workingwomen.”

  He regarded me with genuine sympathy. “It must’ve been quite an ordeal to get on your feet again.”

  “You can’t imagine.”

  “But you must get out of that place, Olive. It’s really not fit to live. The dirt, the germs, the lack of sanitation …”

  “I’ve not been sick one day.”

  “That’s fine. And no doubt your father would be proud of how you’ve managed all on your own. But I daresay he’d also want his daughter to have the best that life can offer. Don’t you think he’d be horrified to see you living in such squalid conditions?”

  “I should like to think he’d be horrified by how little I’m paid. You wouldn’t believe what some of the girls do to survive.”

  “I would believe it. That’s why I’m worried about you. Isn’t there anywhere else you can go? Don’t you have family in Cold Spring?”

  “My aunt, but she’s struggling, too. And there’s no work for me there. Don’t you see? I’ve already had a promotion, and another is sure to come. Eventually I’ll become a buyer, just as I always planned.”

  “Perhaps. In the meanwhile, I hate to see you cast adrift like this.”

  “I’m not adrift.” He couldn’t even acknowledge my promotion, as if I were a child musing about a visit from the sugarplum fairy.

  “I’m sure you believe that,” he said, “but you don’t have the perspective to judge. Not after having suffered the worst kind of upset and loss. All I’m suggesting is that you need to return to the standard of living that a young woman with your background deserves. If there’s anything I can do to help …”

  If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought he was asking me to be his mistress. “I don’t see what you can possibly do.”

  “A loan, perhaps, so you can move to a reputable place with a higher class of people.”

  “I have no way of repaying a loan.”

  “But eventually, as you say, if your career advances …”

  “I really don’t care to go into debt only to find myself vulnerable to those who could take advantage of me.”

  “Please don’t think me rude—I meant nothing improper, I assure you, but there must be something that can be done.”

  “Sadly, the world doesn’t provide such guarantees. I know you’re shocked by how low I’ve sunk, but I’ve managed to adjust, and I’m doing fine.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t adjust. The sort of women surrounding you can be an evil influence. All it takes is one moment of weakness to put you over the edge.”

  “That’s a mighty big assumption you’re making about women who work for a living.”

  “But a safe assumption, don’t you think? Those girls grew up in different home atmospheres than people like you and me. It’s well known that they’re more likely to resort to …” He trailed off.

  “What?” I wanted him to say it.

  “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be talking about such delicate matters.”

  “Men of every social class ‘resort to’ such ‘delicate matters’ all the time. Tell me, why is it considered normal for a man to desire a woman, but if a woman desires a man, she’s evil?”

  Ralph’s cheeks turned red. “Do I really need to explain the dangers?”

  “Oh posh,” I said, as if I knew all about it, “there are ways around that. And don’t these dangers apply to men also? It does take two, I believe.”

  Ralph stared at me, completely taken aback. Indeed, I myself was surprised that our conversation had degenerated this way, but I couldn’t stop myself from going on. “At any rate, that’s an utterly different issue from why a woman who desires a man is considered wicked.”

  “Listen to you. If I didn’t know better, I’d fear it’s too late.”

  “To save me from being a tramp?” I didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Or from being narrow-minded, like most of society?” I tossed my napkin onto the table and began putting my gloves back on.

  “What the deuce are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t possibly have a pleasant meal with you now.”

  “Because you know there’s truth to what I’m saying.”

  “Your truth, not mine.”

  “I’ve been insensitive. Please accept my apology. We can talk of anything else.”

  Every bone in my body wanted to stay at that table to enjoy the friendly meal we were supposed to have had. I rose. “Forgive me. I wish I could pretend everything is fine, but that doesn’t seem to be in my nature, I don’t know why. Please give my regards to your father.”

  I marched out of the restaurant and had to suffer the indignity of walking past him on the other side of the plate-glass window. I mustered a proud face while feeling like an utter fool and mourning my uneaten lobster.

  My surroundings passed in a blur as I flew down the street with my mind racing. It seemed as if I agreed with Angelina’s way of thinking while I was with Ralph, and I agreed with Ralph while I was with Angelina. Meanwhile he thought I was on the path to ruin, while she thought I was a prude. Sadie would surely think me a fool to repulse his offer, and perhaps my reaction had been too extreme. What if I’d just turned down a good man’s well-meaning attempt to help fix the wrong that fate had done me?

  And yet most men expected something in return when they offered financial help to a woman. The very solution he proposed would have forced me into a compromised position: beholden to him, dependent on his
goodwill. And hadn’t he broken off with his childhood sweetheart? For all I knew, Ralph Pierce was the worst kind of cad who walked the earth. And really, he had no right to patronize me. How dare he presume to speak for my father?

  The blocks passed so quickly, it was like gliding over the sidewalks on a moving staircase. The boardinghouse appeared before me, and when I breezed in the door, one of the girls asked why I was back so soon. I swept past, giving some excuse about a headache, went to my room, shut the door, and collapsed onto the bed, expecting to have a good cry. The tears didn’t come. I pulled out my journal. I had to think.

  May 30, 1908

  Who makes all these rules about how men and women are supposed to behave? God? It’s the same sort of injustice that allows men to smoke in restaurants, rent hotel rooms without having their morals questioned, hold better-paying jobs and enjoy the right to vote! I don’t think God is concerned with smoking in restaurants, but I do think men are. It seems to me they make these rules to suit themselves. And why should I live by rules that benefit the rule makers at my own expense? Angelina is right. Women must make their own rules. And I was wrong to shame her for making her own decisions about how to live. I must go talk with her. I must tell her I understand. She’ll be at the dance hall tonight. The Majestic on Bowery, Joe said. Do I dare go alone?

  Stanford White

  Harry Thaw

  Evelyn Nesbit

  Flatiron Building, circa 1903

  AMANDA

  MY CUSTOMER TURNED to go and said, “Thanks, I love your stuff.”

  “Thank you,” I said in my singsong voice as she left.

  I needed to be prepared for that evening with Jeff. Without a game plan, the risk would be too high that I’d weaken, kiss, and make up.

  Another customer walked in—scary-skinny, with long blond locks and huge square sunglasses that she didn’t take off. When she lingered in front of the shoes, I asked if she needed help.

  “No, thanks, just looking.”

  If only I didn’t need his financial help. It wasn’t fair. My business could very well be going under, yet I couldn’t bring myself to ask him for more money. Not because he’d miss the cash one bit, but because it was too goddamn humiliating. Forget about whether Jeff truly loved me, was “there for me” and all that; the most important reason to be married was community property.

  Gee, how did I become such a romantic?

  “Those look great,” I said. The woman had slipped on a pair of lime-green sling-back sandals. “How do they feel?”

  “Good. I’m just not sure about the color.”

  “They’re fun. Very seventies.”

  “Oh.” She pouted. “I thought they were eighties.”

  “Late seventies,” I said, wanting to tell her the seventies were cooler than the eighties any day. “That crinkly patent leather was really in then—and the clunky heel.”

  “I just don’t know what they’d go with.”

  I resisted suggesting that she take off her sunglasses to appreciate them. “I could see them with yellow. Some darker blues. And they’d look great with anything white.”

  “True.”

  “They’re in excellent condition.”

  “Considering how old they are.”

  She continued staring at them in the mirror, but I could tell she wasn’t going to buy.

  “Let me know if you have any questions.”

  I’d give him an ultimatum. We were over—unless he left his wife and married me. Not in five years but now.

  My customer had her own shoes back on. “I’m gonna think about them. Thanks.”

  “Thank you,” I said as she left.

  Or I could forget about giving my ultimatum and just blow him off. Don’t see him, delete him from my phone again, and get myself out of this mess.

  I went to straighten up the shoes. The afternoon dragged. Browsers came and left without trying on. Meanwhile, I input as many eBay listings as I could. I was glad when three male German tourists walked in, looking for fifties-style Elvis blazers for downtown club hopping. I managed to match each of them with something snazzy and was especially pleased to find a home for a particularly outrageous gold lamé blazer with black velvet trim. After they left, it was time to call it a day. I turned out the closed sign, pulled down the gate, and locked up.

  Before heading to Jeff’s, I needed to go upstairs to change. Part of me wanted to wear a sexy dress, but the mixed signal might confuse him or, worse yet, me. Better to give my ultimatum wearing something down-to-earth so he’d know I meant business about ending the affair. Though my outfit should also be attractive enough to entice him to call a divorce lawyer in case our negotiations went in that direction. I settled on slim black Laura Petrie capri pants, a green scoop-neck Marimekko top with a purple pinwheel print, and black leather ballet flats comfortable for walking. Jeff would subliminally see me as the perfect wife with a touch of sex appeal.

  The streets were unusually quiet: light traffic, empty sidewalks, no ambulance sirens piercing the calm. It was as if New Yorkers had made a collective decision to stay home for the evening. Walking up Bowery, I tried picturing trolleys, horses, and motorcars, and the El tracks overhead. I imagined crowds of people out for a good time at theaters, restaurants, stores, and saloons. It wasn’t easy. The dreary avenue reflected none of its former spirit.

  Continuing up Fourth Avenue, I found where half the population was hanging out: Union Square. Vendors sold T-shirts, bad art, photos of the World Trade Center. I passed an entrance to the same subway station where Olive took her first underground ride with Angelina that rainy day so long ago. Some buildings from her era still stood, but it was easy to miss them among the mishmosh of high-end apartment towers that went up in the nineties and the big-box retail stores that came after.

  Veering up Broadway, I reached the corner of the Flatiron. The triangular building with its terra-cotta facade really was extraordinary. The architect would despise the ugly seventies apartment building directly across the street. I couldn’t imagine that the passage of time would ever bring character to that clunker.

  I crossed over to Fifth Avenue and noticed a historical plaque on the side of an office tower. It said the present building went up in 1909, after the Fifth Avenue Hotel was demolished. Aha. So Olive’s father had been right about the building’s demise. If he were alive today, Charles Westcott would be horrified to see what the city had become. Even Olive might feel a tug of nostalgia for her old neighborhood.

  Continuing on to the corner where the Café Martin used to be—now a bank—I couldn’t resist turning back for another look at the Flatiron, directly south of me. From this vantage point, I faced the front of the building. People liked to say it was reminiscent of the prow of a boat, but I thought that was pushing it. Maybe the building fascinated people so much because it was just wrong. Unbalanced. Asymmetrical. Like a love triangle.

  I turned east and cut through the park. Unlike Union Square, Madison Square Park offered a calm retreat from the city—not a vendor to be seen other than the Shake Shack. Jeff and I used to go there for burgers before it got trendy and attracted inexplicably long lines. I purposely kept myself from even glancing at Eleven Madison Park, the site of my aborted birthday celebration. Instead, I gawked up at the Metropolitan Tower. It had always been one of my favorites, more suggestive of an Italian campanile than an office building. Crossing the street, I passed the huge deco New York Life building. It stood right where Stanford White’s Madison Square Garden used to be. I thought of Olive and Angelina wandering around the Electric Show. Some would agree with Angelina’s distaste for the concept of electricity replacing servants. Some would say the human race had become servants to electricity.

  A few minutes later, I reached Park Avenue. Approaching the entrance to Jeff’s apartment, I flashed on my nightmare from the other day. I looked down to make sure I wasn’t naked. The door to his building swung open without any problem, the lobby had no living room furniture, and a gun-toting
wife did not wait to greet me. The security guard sat behind his desk, armed with a copy of the Post, as usual. He knew me by sight and always managed, despite his consummately professional poker face, to make me feel like a hooker. We nodded to each other, and I took the elevator to the penthouse.

  I rang the buzzer. The door opened, and there was Jeff, with a sheepish grin. “Hi.”

  Damn. The man didn’t age. “Hi.” Tall and lean, with wavy brown hair, he still looked pretty much the same as the guy I dated in high school, except now he spent a fortune on clothes, designer labels like Tom Ford and Marc Jacobs. The wire-rimmed John Lennon glasses he’d worn straight through high school had been replaced by Oliver Peoples.

  He stepped forward and held me in a tight embrace as if to squeeze out all my angst. I let him, even though he was the one causing the angst. Feeling his body against mine, I sensed myself softening. I had to get some control of the situation. This could not become just another kiss-and-make-up fight, goddammit; I wasn’t going to let that happen.

  I stepped backward, and when he released me, I didn’t know how to look at him. I couldn’t decide what expression to have on my face. Anger? Affection? Sorrow? Guilt?

  “You okay?” he asked. “Your eyebrows are all knit together.”

  I relaxed my forehead and rubbed my eyes. “Just haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, giving me a gentle kiss on the cheek and then the lips. “I hope you’re hungry. I ordered some food.”

  I followed him to the table. “Wow, this looks great.”

  He’d already set our places and opened a bottle of wine. I recognized the assortment of six or seven round tins filled with pasta and side dishes. They came from an expensive Italian restaurant down the street. Each one probably cost at least twenty dollars—same as on the menu, but without the service and ambiance. He generally didn’t bother with wines under fifty dollars.

  As he poured me a glass of cabernet, I felt my willpower dissipating. Being face-to-face with the actual man was a lot different from being with fantasy Jeff, who was so much easier to confront and manage. I should’ve written myself a script. A list of points to be made and requirements to comply with. Instead, I wanted to avoid everything. Sperm, eggs, tendons, tears. The idea of telling him I was going bankrupt seemed not only humiliating but downright crass. “How’s your wife?”