by Amy Bloom
I stopped.
“I wonder,” I said. “Poe.”
“Oh no, heyjoe. Step away from the door.”
“Just books, Seymour.”
“Heyjoe,” he said, tugging. “You can’t be too careful.”
Silhouettes
by Chandra Prasad
Wooster Square
“It’s not the same one.”
The shopkeeper tried to hide his disappointment and annoyance. He was clutching a copy of H.G. Wells’s The Time Machine. It was a small miracle that he had the book at all. “Look—good shape,” he insisted, gesturing to the gold-embossed cover. He flipped through the pages, revealing mostly crisp, stainless paper.
“It’s not the one I used to have,” the customer, a young man, replied. “Mine had a sphinx—with wings—on the cover.”
The shopkeeper shook his head, struggling to understand. Nearly everyone who entered his shop spoke Italian, usually infused with the southern cadence of Amalfi and Atrani. It was disconcerting to encounter a person like this, someone with no trace of the old country.
“I give you discount . . .” the shopkeeper said, beginning to despair. It had been terribly slow all week at his store, which mainly sold dry goods. Maybe he should shutter the little alcove of English and Italian books he kept in the back. He could use the additional space to sell fresh bread and his wife’s homemade salami. Books were an indulgence few could afford these days.
“I don’t want it. But would you keep an eye out for the one I do want? The one with the sphinx?”
The shopkeeper nodded, although he didn’t quite understand. He didn’t like this customer, who spoke tersely, without warmth or congeniality. Still, business was business. He would try to find another copy. One with a different cover. That much he understood. “Come back in a week,” he called out as the young man left, the bells jingling on the door behind him.
The man walked slowly down Court Street. He took off his brimmed hat, trying not to perspire on what promised to be another scorching day. He was conscious of his limp, although it was subtle now, not the problem it had been when he was a child. But he was sure people noticed it: the contrast between his youthful appearance and elderly hobble.
He passed several men—metal nails in their mouths, hammers in their hands—boarding up yet another building. The economy had soured since the crash and factories around Wooster Square were folding like poker hands. Without work, people were running out of money. The row houses along the street, once grand and stately, showed a hundred signs of neglect: chipped paint, sagging porches, missing shutters, sunken roofs. Fifty years ago they’d been opulent single-family homes for the rich; now they were overcrowded rooming houses for the broke.
Still, the young man saw signs of resilience and self-sufficiency too. He passed household vegetable gardens and chicken coops. He passed bakeries, meat markets, and pastry shops still holding on. The unemployed were turning their houses into makeshift shops, leaving their windows open so that the delicious smells of their cooking would lure passersby. More than once, the man had stopped impulsively to buy tomato pies or rich, sweet pastiera. If his mother were still alive, she would be shocked. Her Irish son eating Italian food.
A few minutes later he reached his workplace, a hulking brick building called Strouse Adler—one of the few factories in Wooster Square that was still turning a profit. He went in the front entrance, noting a drunk loitering near the door. No doubt he was there to leer at the female workers who flooded the main entrance at 8:15 every morning. Mr. Russo, the boss, was strict about punctuality. He threw on the power switch at exactly 8:30, and God help anyone who was late.
The man maneuvered through the corridors, nodding curtly at passing seamstresses and bundle girls. His room was on the second floor. A year ago he’d been hired by Mr. Russo to be the company’s chief advertising artist. He drew portraits of girls modeling Strouse Adler’s products: corsets, mostly. His drawings were published in newspaper advertisements throughout the country, although he was never credited. Mr. Russo was a stickler for discretion too.
The man put a sketchbook on his easel and sharpened the dull ends of his lead pencils. Today he would be drawing a model wearing a “Smoothie,” one of Strouse Adler’s most popular corsets. It was constructed with a newfangled material, latex, which was nothing like the thick, coarse cloth of the past. Modern women seemed to love the flaw-disguising stretchiness of latex. Mr. Russo loved it too, because of the savings. Only a little material was needed for each corset, compared to the eight yards of yesteryear.
After the metal sewing machines whirred to life on the floor below, his first model sashayed in. Antonia Colavolpe. She and her younger sister Cecilia were frequent subjects in Strouse Adler’s advertising. Although both girls were beautiful, they were not the kind of models Mr. Russo typically employed. As a rule, he didn’t hire local girls.
“Italian fathers can be a nightmare,” he’d once confided. “And none of them want their daughters posing in underwear.”
Even so, the Colavolpe sisters, with their natural eighteen-inch waists, had been too good to pass up.
Antonia shut the door behind her. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully, tossing back dark, pin-curled hair. Behind a partition in the corner of the room, she took off her clothes and put on the corset that awaited her. “Will you be finished by noon, Lewis? I have to be somewhere.” She poked out her head and winked at him. “Secret rendezvous.”
Lewis knew most fellas would find her irresistible: her boldness and bright red lipstick. But he bristled when she used his first name. It breached a professional distance he tried to maintain. “We should be done by then,” he replied.
“Thanks. Oh gracious—this one’s divine.”
She stepped out from behind the screen and ran her fingers along silky paneling and lacy, beribboned trim. The corset fit her like a second skin.
“Hands at your sides, please,” he instructed. “Tilt your head a little and cock your right hip. Just a couple inches.”
He sketched her for about twenty minutes as she chatted merrily about the possibility of seeing a double feature on Friday night. Or maybe finding a new beau. She was too blithe and animated for his taste, but at least she kept her body still. That was all Lewis really cared about.
“Any plans for this weekend?” she asked.
He didn’t answer her right away. “Nothing very interesting, I’m afraid.”
“Really, you can be such a wet blanket, Lewis.”
He ignored that and began to draw the contours of a face. Not Antonia’s face, though. He never drew the real faces of his models. Because Mr. Russo demanded absolute discretion, yes, but also because Lewis preferred his drawings to be anonymous. He liked to imagine the heads separate from the bodies. That way, when he sketched a sweet, wholesome face, he didn’t have to worry about it contradicting the bombshell body to which it was attached.
“I’d let you take me out,” she said coyly. “So that when someone asks you what you did on Saturday night, you’d have something to say. Would you like that, Lewis?”
He stared at the paper and licked the tip of his pencil. “Miss Colavolpe, I’d like it if you stopped talking.”
* * *
After Antonia had gone, he headed for the kitchenette, a room of sea-green walls and checkerboard floor tiles that was reserved for management. But being a favorite of Mrs. Russo, he was allowed access.
Lewis couldn’t quite remember when or how their routine had started. At some point, Mrs. Russo had decided to pack him a lunch. Now she did it every day. The two always met at noon—sharp—and ate together.
Today the plate that awaited him was spaghetti with anchovies and fennel. Mrs. Russo always cooked Italian food, although she—like Lewis—was not Italian. She’d learned the recipes, she said, to satisfy her husband.
She smiled warmly when Lewis joined her at the table.
“Thank you, Mrs. Russo,” he said. “This looks divine.”
/> “I’ve told you a thousand times to call me Doris.”
“Thank you, Doris.”
Mrs. Russo’s own meal remained untouched. She was too busy sewing to eat. In her fingers were pattern pieces for a new corset. She liked to make original designs with unusual fabrics and hardware. Sometimes her work even made it into production. Out of everyone at Strouse Adler, Mrs. Russo probably knew the most about corsets, which was ironic since Lewis had never seen her wear one. She was a big-boned woman, thick in the rear and middle in particular. Yet she moved about self-confidently, unbothered by the fleshy rolls that Strouse Adler deemed the enemy.
“What’s this one going to be like?” he asked her.
“Different. Modern,” she replied. When he raised an eyebrow, she laughed. “Don’t look so alarmed. It’s not the second coming of the electric corset.”
He laughed too. It was a running joke between them: how Strouse Adler had once deigned to manufacture Dr. Scott’s electric corset, which had promised to cure everything from paralysis to impaired circulation. An electric corset: quackery at its finest.
“Who was the model this morning?” she asked as she stitched.
“Miss Colavolpe. The older one.”
“You mean the greedy one. Do you know she had the nerve to ask me for more money? She makes four times what our seamstresses make—and I have to hold back their raises. Again.”
“You and Mr. Russo are very generous to the models.”
“Too generous. I told that Antonia, No sirree, and that if she doesn’t stop sweeping through the front entrance like Hedy Lamarr, she won’t have a job at all. She’s attracting too much attention. But I think she likes that.”
He nodded, and she sniffed in satisfaction. Lewis felt an ease with Mrs. Russo that he didn’t feel with anyone else at work. Or anyone else in his life, really. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he was not only the Russos’ employee, but also their tenant. A few blocks away, he rented the basement apartment of their brownstone. He had a separate entrance, and thus, privacy and independence. Even so, his life felt tethered to theirs.
As Lewis dug into his meal, Mr. Russo popped his head in. “You forgot the anchovy sauce,” he said testily, staring at his wife. He was holding his plate in his hands—the same lunch Lewis was enjoying. Seeing him, Mr. Russo softened. “No matter—just remember it next time,” he muttered.
“I’ll be done with the New York Times ad by tomorrow morning,” Lewis told him.
“Good man.”
Mr. Russo ran his hands down the front of his slacks, which were always perfectly pressed. He was a dapper man, by any standard. Tall and elegant, he carried himself well. Lewis had observed the models try to flirt with him many times, but he was always dismissive. Lewis admired that.
“I have to eat this in accounting. Harold bungled the Chicago shipment again,” Mr. Russo complained.
“Good luck, dear,” his wife said, although it was Lewis he glanced at on his way out. She put the corset pieces on the table and smoothed them with her fingers.
“He acts like a baby,” she said, shrugging, apologetic. “Maybe because we have no babies of our own. When I first got married, I thought we’d have half a dozen by now.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but didn’t. Instead, she fiddled with a thimble that was too small for her meaty thumb. “What about you? Do you plan on settling down and becoming a father?”
He didn’t want to admit that the question had never occurred to him. He still felt worlds away from marrying, never mind having a child. Not that he wasn’t old enough. There were plenty of fellas his age who already had children—he saw them every time he walked though Wooster Square. Fathers trying to untangle themselves from gaggles of small, cherub-cheeked children. It was a sight Lewis couldn’t relate to. He’d been an only child, and he couldn’t remember ever clinging to his father. Quite the opposite; he’d only ever wanted to be with his mother. Fed you from the tit until you were five! his father had said once. It was unnatural! Lewis shuddered, trying to push the memory back into whatever dark recess it had crawled out of.
“Are you feeling well, Lewis? You’ve gone pale. I hope I didn’t upset you.”
“Everything’s fine,” he assured her. Briefly, he patted her plump fingers, savoring their warmth.
She sighed and held up the corset, which was now loosely fitted together, and shook her head. “It always shocks me how busy these things are. When they’re finished, you’d never know how much is inside of them: the busk, bones, grommets, channels, casings, and lining. When all’s said and done, you don’t see any of that—only the silhouette.”
“It’s the art of disguise,” he said.
She nodded. “That’s right. In more ways than one.”
* * *
A week later, Cecilia walked into his workroom. In contrast to the brazen entrances Antonia made, Cecilia’s meekness was refreshing. She tapped on the door first, opened it an inch, and whispered, “May I come in?”
Mr. Russo was on his way out. He’d come to request a couple changes to the New York Times ad. “I want a blonde, not a brunette,” he’d said. “And can you make her face younger? For Pete’s sake, that old mug reminds me of my grandmother.” He took his hand off Lewis’s shoulder, where it had been resting for quite some time, and waved off the girl as she attempted to greet him. “Get it to me by quitting time,” he said to Lewis, shutting the door behind him. Lewis could hear the beat of his glossy black shoes as he walked down the corridor.
Head bent, Cecilia moved behind the partition. Lewis put down his pencil and stretched. He was stiff from sitting so long. Nervous too. Strangely, Cecilia made him even more uncomfortable than her sister did. She was always punctual and polite, and didn’t prattle on about her personal life. She struck him as a decent girl. A good girl.
When she reemerged, she avoided his eyes. The corset was cut modestly, generous and straight at the top, covering most of her bosom. It wasn’t very fancy, with minimal flourishes and decoration. Lewis was grateful. He didn’t want her to feel any more self-conscious than she already was.
“Hold your hands behind your back loosely, please, and stare off into the distance—as if you’re admiring a sunset,” he told her.
She did as instructed.
“Raise your chin a little and tilt your head to the side. That’s it.”
She stood motionless for a few minutes as Lewis sketched her in broad strokes.
“I’ve been reading that we might get involved in the war,” she said, still staring toward an imaginary sun. “Do you think so, Mr. O’Connor?”
He flicked his pencil back and forth, then began to narrow one of her thighs. “I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I think we will. I think we have to. It’s terrible that we’ve abandoned Great Britain like this. And now the Soviets are joining the fight too.” When he didn’t reply, she went on: “I know others would disagree. They say we have to focus on ourselves—and fix the problems here in America. But I say, you should never abandon a friend in need.”
Lewis decided he would use Cecilia’s eyes in the drawing. He liked how wide and frank they looked. As long as he distorted the other features, he could keep them. “Sometimes it’s better not to have friends,” he said.
“What a strange thing to say.”
He shrugged. “It’s hard to know who to trust.”
“Well, I know we can’t trust those Nazis. And besides, isolation hasn’t worked so far. The economy is still terrible. In my family, my sister and I are the only ones who have jobs. And I’m counting aunts, uncles, and cousins. The whole kit and caboodle.”
“I prefer to be an outsider,” he maintained. “You can see everything better from a distance. It’s when you get too close that things go wrong.”
“I never looked at it that way.”
A silence ensued, but not an uncomfortable one. Both Lewis and Cecilia were lost in their own thoughts. He continued to sketch, shading and filling in detail.
“I like talking with you,” she said suddenly. “You don’t waste words. Have you noticed that most people do? Waste words, I mean.”
Again, he didn’t answer. She began to blush.
This is why Mr. Russo hired me, Lewis thought. He knows I’ll never take advantage of my position. He knows there’s something in me—something strange—that doesn’t want to.
“I was w-wondering,” she stammered, “if you’d like to take a walk with me after work sometime?”
He had to admit that she looked pretty, her pink cheeks a lovely contrast to her pale skin. He wondered if, just once, he ought to take a chance. Do something a normal man would do in a heartbeat. He wondered if maybe he ought to give Mrs. Russo’s question more thought. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t lonely—that he didn’t want companionship. It was hard—and exhausting—to be so different, to want things he couldn’t even mention.
“It’s okay if you don’t,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to be presumptuous. Maybe you have someone . . . or maybe you’re not interested. Oh God. I’ve never done this before. My mother would be horrified.”
“I’d like to take a walk with you,” he said finally. “How about today?”
“Today?”
“Yes. After work. Let’s walk to the green.”
“But all the grass is dead there—it’s been so hot.”
“We don’t have to look at the grass.”
She smiled bashfully. “Okay, Mr. O’Connor.”
“You can call me Lewis.”
“Okay, Lewis.”
* * *
They didn’t talk much at first. He was preoccupied with his limp. He hoped she wouldn’t notice it, or if she did, that she wouldn’t mention it. It seemed to him that she was as nervous as he was. She kept playing with her hair and smoothing the skirt of her polka-dot dress, which rustled in the warm breeze.
“At least it’s not as humid as yesterday,” she said.
He nodded. They were walking close, but not too close. A lot of people worked at Strouse Adler—he didn’t want to give them something to gossip about.