by Ritz, David
It wasn’t until late the next evening when she learned that, the day after Primo’s heart attack, Anita Ward had suffered a stroke in her Gramercy Park apartment and died instantly.
Emmanuel Baptist Church
Beauty couldn’t remember another day like this. There was no weather. It was early October, and it was neither hot nor cold. The sky was a grayish blue. There was no breeze, no clouds. As she and Wanda Washington walked into the Gothic-revival-style church, built in 1882 in the Clinton Hill section of Brooklyn, Beauty felt empty inside. Her heart was heavy and her mind dark with confusion and uncertainty. They had arrived for the funeral of Anita Ward.
Wanda had flown up from Atlanta the day before and made the arrangements. Aside from a few distant aunts and uncles, Anita had no family. Her only tie to her past was Wanda—and it was Wanda who decided that there should be a church service.
“Don’t care if she hadn’t been to church in thirty years. Through my preacher back home, I found this real nice church up here. She gonna be sent off from church. Ain’t gonna have it no other way. Me and Anita, we went to church together as kids and no one’s gonna tell me she didn’t believe in Jesus. I remember her praying to Jesus.”
Beauty remembered Anita saying that she had no use for organized religion and was not a believer, but Beauty wasn’t about to argue with Wanda. She was glad to see Wanda and glad that Wanda was in charge.
The day after Primo died, Beauty had moved out of the Plaza, taking all her belongings while leaving behind the black evening gown, the diamond pendant, and the white silk lingerie. She asked Lena Pearl if she could move in with her for a day or two. Late that evening, Lena, having just learned the news about Anita, informed Beauty that her mentor had died. Lena knew nothing about Beauty’s connection with Primo. In fact, aside from those who came to set up the Saturday evening dinner, Anita was the only one who had known. Beauty prayed that Soo would never find out, although there was nothing to discover other than the fact that Primo had allowed her to live in his apartment.
The ornate church was filled with many people from the fashion world. Members of the Bloom family were in attendance. Several spoke about Anita with admiration. Her taste, tenacity, and keen business sense were lauded. Wanda went last. She was the only one who spoke with real love. “I came up to testify and say good-bye to someone who, as y’all know, was a highly unusual individual. I knew that way back when me and Anita were nappy-headed little girls running ’round Fair Street and Ashby in Atlanta. She was the only one in our class who could draw. She learned to read and spell and write correctly before any of us. While we were out there playing hopscotch, she was sewing up a storm on her mama’s broken-down Singer. After high school, when none of us had ever been outside the city limits, she said, ‘Wanda, I’m taking that Trailways bus to New York City and get me a job.’ ‘Anita,’ I said, ‘you stone crazy. What you gonna do up there in New York City? How you gonna get a job? You don’t know nobody up there.’ ‘You watch me, Wanda,’ she says. ‘You just watch.’ Well, I sure enough did watch. Watched this girl go from nothing to something. Watched her make something of herself. She was alone—no husband, no brothers or sisters to help her, no welfare, no charity. Even her health problems—and she had plenty—didn’t stop her. Nothing could stop Miss Anita Ward from Atlanta, Georgia, because the good Lord had given her the will to succeed and the courage to go all out against the odds. God gave her talent and God gave her a good life. I say thank you, Jesus, for the good life of Anita Ward. A hard life, yes. But a good life. A good woman. A good friend. A good soul who’s gone on to glory, where she’s resting in the bosom of the Lord who loves us with a love we can’t even understand but can sure feel. I feel you, Anita. I feel you inspiring us to keep on keeping on, and I say, ‘Girl, we gonna miss you, but you in a better place.’ Praise the Lord!”
After the funeral, Wanda remained in New York for several days. She closed down Anita’s apartment and located Anita’s will. The money she had accumulated was substantial. She gave it all to a foundation that supported research for osteoporosis.
“She had a generous soul,” Wanda told Beauty. “She wanted to help people who were stooped over like her. The poor lady suffered, but you never heard her complain about it, did you? You never heard her play the victim.”
“Never,” Beauty agreed.
“While it’s true that she liked her wine, my personal belief is that the wine relieved her pain. If drinking wine helped her cope, I got no arguments with the wine. Besides, the wine never got in the way of her work, did it?”
“Not that I saw.”
“She didn’t have no men. She didn’t have no family. So she was entitled to a li’l ol’ wine. And now we see she gave all her money away to charity, just like she was charitable with you, wasn’t she?”
“She was,” said Beauty, who remained silent about Anita’s role in encouraging her to move into Primo’s apartment in the Plaza. When Wanda asked Beauty about her current living arrangements, Beauty was evasive. She didn’t want to go into it. She didn’t want to explain the fact that, following Anita’s advice, she was being kept by an older man who had been on the verge of buying Bloom’s.
Meanwhile, the newspaper was filled with stories about the death of Primo Dalla Torre. Soo Kim had flown to New York to claim his body, but so had a twenty-six-year-old woman from Beijing who declared that she had five-year-old twin sons by him. The lady furthermore claimed that, in accordance with Chinese statutes, she was his common-law wife. She hired a battery of lawyers. So did Soo Kim. And complicating matters further, another group of top-flight lawyers, working for Primo’s family back in Italy—his two brothers and a sister—fought Soo’s claim and pointed to a prenuptial contract that left her only his interest in Calm and Cool Clothing. Meanwhile, there was nothing calm or cool about the state of Primo’s buyout of Bloom’s. Given the contentious claims against his estate and holdings, chaos prevailed and the deal fell through. Moreover, the man who replaced Anita as chief merchandise buyer had no interest in Beauty or Beauty’s new mentor, Lena Pearl. In rejecting Lena’s new line, he virtually closed the door on her operation. In short, Beauty was out in the cold.
“Come back to Atlanta,” said Wanda. “Come back home. I’ll find something for you to do.”
“I can’t work in the wig shop.”
“Wasn’t thinking of the wig shop. There are designers setting up shop back home.”
“I can’t go back home, Wanda.”
“Power’s not there. He hasn’t been there for a while.”
Beauty wanted to ask Wanda where he was, but she stopped herself.
“He keeps asking for your number,” said Wanda, “but I won’t give it to him. I figured you don’t want him to have it.”
“Thank you. You’re right. I just need to be left alone for a little while.”
“And what will you do? Where will you go?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You know that Slim will always help you.”
“I don’t want to hear about Slim,” said Beauty.
“He’s helped Power. He’s helped him a lot. All you got to do, baby, is give me the word and—”
“I’m fine. I’m strong.”
“I know you’re strong, Beauty, but even strong people need help. I think you need help right now. What are you going to do?”
“I’ll figure it out. I love you, Wanda. You’re a wonderful woman and you’ve done nothing but help me. I appreciate everything you’ve done. I truly do. Now, though, I need time to decide what to do.”
“When you figure it out, let me know?”
“Of course.”
“And you’re sure you don’t wanna come home with me, sweetheart?”
“I’m sure, Wanda.”
“And will you be staying in New York?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’ve got to figure out.”
Claire’s
Solomon Getz couldn’t attend Anita Ward’s funeral becaus
e it came on the day of an important storewide sale. As head of the men’s department at the big Neiman Marcus store on Michigan Avenue along Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, he couldn’t get away. But the day after the service he did manage to reach Beauty by phone.
“I know you’re reeling,” he said. “I know it’s hard for you.”
“I’m glad to hear your voice, Solomon.”
“When did you get in from L.A.?”
“I’ve actually been here for a while,” she said. “I moved back some weeks ago.”
“I had no idea. What happened in California?”
“Well, it turned out differently than I thought.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s too complicated to explain on the phone.”
“With Anita gone, though, are you all right? Do you have a job?”
“Not really.”
“Any money?”
“Very little,” said Beauty.
“I think you should get out of New York.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I just think it would be good for you. It sounds like you’ve had it with New York for a while.”
“Maybe . . .”
“Besides, if you’re really interested in making money in fashion you need to spend some time away from either coast. Come to the Midwest and you’ll get a real down-to-earth sense of what Americans buy. Come to Chicago and your whole sense of what sells and doesn’t sell will change. You’ll get a good taste of reality. Besides, it’s a wonderful city. You’ll love it.”
“What am I going to do there?”
“Work. Get a job. I’m telling you, it’s just what you need. New city. New job.”
New city. New job. The words made sense to Beauty. The more she read about the lawsuits flying back and forth between Soo Kim in L.A., the Chinese woman, and Primo Dalla Torre’s estate lawyers in New York, the more she wanted to get away from both cities. Chicago started to sound like a reasonable escape. Solomon made it even easier by telling her that she could sleep on his couch until she found work and a place to live. Amir got on the phone and told her that she was sorely missed and would be a most welcome guest.
“You’ve been through a lot,” said Amir. “I don’t know any of the details, but I can hear it in your voice. Now is a good time for you to be with friends.”
Some two months after her nineteenth birthday, Beauty arrived in late October when Chicago was experiencing a pleasant fall. Under ample sunshine, the lake glistened. Beauty stood by the river that ran through the center of downtown and studied the reflection of the Wrigley Building. She had never been here before, never imagined this many bold and innovative buildings, this much bustle, this much urban charm. She walked the streets of the Loop, excited by the roar of the elevated train. She perused the fancy shops on the Magnificent Mile, the malls and boutiques, the great hotels like the Drake and the Palmer House. The sensation of being in a powerful new city allowed her to chase away the confusion of the past months. Part of her still felt shame that she’d sold herself to Primo in exchange for career advancement; yet another part of her regretted his death because it canceled that advancement. The fact that Anita was gone—Anita with all her encouragement and plans for Beauty’s future—added to the emotional funk in which she found herself.
Solomon’s spirit helped her out of the funk. From the moment he had picked her up from the airport, he couldn’t stop talking job ideas. “There are a couple of openings at Neiman’s in sales. One is in shoes and the other costume jewelry. They’re busy departments and the time will fly. What do you say?”
“I appreciate your help,” said Beauty. “I’m happy to get any work I can.”
On one level, that was true. But on another level, she wasn’t happy at all. She knew it was a step down. After all, she had been training not only to become a designer but to also fashion her own line. That was her heart’s desire. But that desire would have to be put on hold. The shock of two sudden deaths changed everything. She would have to adjust to this new reality. She would have to follow the lead of a friend, a practical man himself, who had her best interests at heart. She would sell shoes or costume jewelry at Neiman Marcus—whichever opening came first.
As it turned out, both openings had been filled by the time Beauty applied. Solomon was surprised. Days earlier he had listed her as an applicant and was assured she’d get an interview. He complained to Richard Waterford, the head of human resources.
“You’ve saved me a phone call,” said Waterford, an officious Englishman. “I was about to ring you up and ask you to come in.”
“Good,” said Solomon, “then you realize my friend has been overlooked.”
“I’m afraid it’s not about your friend. It’s about you, Solomon. As of the end of the week, we’re terminating you. We’re not at all pleased with your performance.”
“My performance has been flawless,” said Solomon.
“That’s subject to interpretation. Our interpretation is quite negative. You’re entitled to two weeks’ severance. Good-bye and good luck.”
When Solomon arrived home that night to report the bad news, Amir was in the midst of teaching Beauty to make a Middle Eastern lamb stew. The apartment was practically floating on the fragrance of a spicy sauce. When Solomon told them what happened—that not only had Beauty’s job prospects fallen through but that he had been fired—they stopped what they were doing and came over to console him.
“I’ll get a job that pays,” said Amir, whose current band had been playing free concerts in Millennium Park. “Maybe I can work in a record store.”
“There are no more record stores,” said Solomon.
“Or a bookstore,” said Amir.
“They’re closing down as quickly as record stores,” said Solomon.
“Look,” Amir added, “we’re all young, healthy, and smart. We’ll find jobs. We’ll just have to take whatever we can get.”
A week later, Amir was working at the Apple Store. He had been an Apple whiz for years. Solomon found a buyer’s job at Macy’s in Water Place Tower, an upscale mall on Michigan Avenue, not far from Neiman Marcus. Meanwhile, Beauty began pounding the pavement.
She read the want ads, scrutinized Craigslist and other online postings, and started in on a long series of interviews all over Chicago. Probably because Solomon and Amir had maintained such a positive spirit and found jobs themselves, she was not discouraged, at least not for the first two weeks. She got to know the city. But she also learned that, in a down economy, jobs weren’t easy to come by. She applied at all the major department stores. She went to dozens of clothing shops. She made a good appearance and spoke of her work at Bloom’s and her internship at Calm and Cool Clothing.
Some employers were impressed, but most pointed out her absence of sales experience. It was hard not to be discouraged. She appreciated Solomon’s and Amir’s warm hospitality, but their couch sagged and her back ached. After several long weeks of searching, her head ached.
“Someone said that Claire’s has an opening for a salesclerk,” Solomon announced at the beginning of her second unemployed month in Chicago.
“What’s Claire’s?”
“Weren’t you once a preteen?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Then you know Claire’s. All preteen girls know Claire’s. That’s where preteen girls go to get their ears pierced and buy Justin Bieber lunch boxes.”
“Somehow I missed out on Claire’s,” said Beauty.
“Well, time to catch up. Actually Claire’s is a great training ground for you. The truly hip people in our industry study preteens more than any other group. Preteens are indicators of the new direction in fashion. If you get this job at Claire’s, you’ll find yourself facing a fascinating learning curve.”
Beauty got the job. She learned to pierce ears. She learned the tastes of preteen girls. They liked earrings designed in the shape of tiny zippers, earrings made to look like cups of hot chocolate, earrings with pea
ce signs, and earrings in the form of sparkly half-moons. They liked headbands made of gingham flowers and hair clips of polka-dotted daisies. There were also matching BFF necklaces and fuchsia studded-bow satchel purses.
The mall was busy and Claire’s was always crowded. Beauty was not unhappy. She liked the energy of preteen girls. They were interested in fashion as fun, a concept she had forgotten about while working for Anita Ward, Soo Kim, and Lena Pearl. The preteens could be frenetic, but they also seemed carefree. They were far more sophisticated than Beauty had been at their age. Beauty had always worked, sewing with her mom and adopted mom after school and on weekends. She had never run around the malls of Atlanta looking to buy butterfly rings and scarves of fake leopard skin. At the same time, she wasn’t envious of these young girls who had the freedom to shop at will. She enjoyed their spirit. It was a welcome relief from the seriousness of Anita, Soo, and Lena.
When an eleven-year-old African-American girl named Joyce bought a $9 gold-painted peacock pin, Beauty thought of Anita. She remembered the peacocks in Anita’s apartment. She remembered the kindness that Anita had shown her when she’d first arrived in New York. She also remembered how difficult it was to mourn for Anita. Not that she didn’t appreciate and admire the woman. But the way it happened—the dual deaths of Primo and Anita—made it difficult for Beauty to process. She still resented that it was Anita who had encouraged her to sell herself to Primo. Anita was an instigator and a manipulator. So, of course, was Primo. And so was Soo. The unholy and secret alliance between Primo, Anita, and Beauty had taken its toll. Their deaths removed the pressure and offered Beauty an emotional reprieve.