“Some of these women have men looking for them. Should they go outside as well?”
Now it was Miss Brooks who let the talk lapse.
I heard my uncle say, “The man who did that, could you identify him?” She must have shaken her head. “He’s not a man who should be on the street.”
“No,” she agreed, her voice strained. “He likes to hurt people and I imagine he’ll keep on doing it. But I couldn’t say who he was.” Then, changing the subject back again, she suggested, “You know, you could let the women dance here if you don’t want them going out.”
“Here?”
“Why not? That front parlor’s big enough. You have a piano.”
As I listened, I thought how Miss Brooks’s voice had changed since she first arrived. It had been so hard to get one word out of her, and those were stiff, almost stern. Now, arguing with my uncle, which no one ever did, she sounded relaxed. Almost as if she were enjoying herself.
“A dance. Here.”
“A dance here,” she echoed. “Just think of it: the Whores’ Ball.” My uncle must have glared, because she said, “Fine. Call it the … Southern Baptist Ladies’ Cotillion. Call it what you want. But let those girls dance. Let them feel pretty and hopeful and work out their nerves in a good way instead of hitting and scratching.”
“Speaking of which. What shall I do about Rosa Lengler?”
I waited.
Miss Brooks said, “It’s my understanding that anyone who disrupts the peace can’t stay.”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, then.”
Rosa Lengler was gone the next day. And the first Southern Baptist Ladies’ Cotillion was held the following month. Otelia Brooks did several women’s hair for the occasion, and I was allowed to assist. But I was not allowed to go to the dance; my uncle had been quite clear on that point. From my bed, I listened to the sounds of the piano, the stomp of feet, and the shouts of laughter. In my childish way, I wondered if anyone was dancing with Otelia and worried they were not. Seized with the idea that they had left her out, I decided it was up to me to remedy the situation. So I crept downstairs and surveyed the parlor from the stairwell. I saw many happy women. But I did not see Otelia Brooks. Puzzled, I began looking in the classrooms and found her back in the sewing room.
As she had before, she sat with her eyes closed and her hands flat upon a table. When I shut the door, her eyes opened. “Don’t let your uncle catch you out of bed.”
I pulled up a chair and sat down. Unconsciously, I put my hands on the table in imitation. Smiling slightly, she touched my fingers with hers, and I understood that I had done a satisfactory job dressing hair.
“Where did you learn about hair?” I asked shyly.
“My mother taught me.”
My first thought was disappointment that I would never learn, then, because I didn’t have a mother. My second thought was of Otelia’s mother. How she had learned hair, whose hair she had dressed, how she had taught Otelia how to dress hair different from her own. Math was not my best subject, but I could guess Otelia’s age, and I could guess that Otelia Brooks knew how to dress hair like mine because her mother had been … property. I had images in my head of slavery, mostly drawn from old pamphlets kept by my uncle’s abolitionist colleagues, but those images had nothing to do with the woman sitting opposite me.
I had not understood.
I had not understood at all.
In the following weeks, my uncle invited the foreman of a cannery and the owner of a saloon to the refuge. He asked his patron, Mrs. Armslow, to send one of her accountants to speak with Miss Brooks. Whether they were able to tell her what she wished to know about business, I don’t know. I do know that she left that summer. She didn’t say good-bye, but I found the hat she had been working on left on my bed. The rough old piece of felt had been cunningly molded into a fetching dark bonnet with a pale yellow ribbon on the brim and a wide white bow tied neatly at the back. With it, she had left a note: It listened. Otelia Brooks.
Years later, I asked my uncle if he knew where she had gone or what had become of her. But he said that once the women left here, they left their past as well. For all intents and purposes, the Otelia Brooks I had known no longer existed.
* * *
Falling asleep, I had relished the thought that I might not wake until noon. But the next morning, I felt a hand on my arm, heard the chatter of morning, and smelled coffee, and I knew it was not noon. Rolling onto my back, I saw Sal and groaned.
“Sorry, miss, phone for you.”
I had a flash of hope that it was Officer Nolan, calling to say they had caught Joe McInerny. Swinging out of bed, I said, “A man?”
“Woman.”
It couldn’t be Anna, I thought, hurrying down the stairs. We had just spoken.
Picking up the phone, I was about to ask the caller to identify herself when I heard Louise Tyler say, “Jane, I’m so sorry. Really. I’m so sorry, I feel just terrible…”
Louise Tyler was a woman who apologized, frequently, sincerely—and often incorrectly. She once said “Sorry” to a man who had stepped on her foot; clearly, the foot had been where it shouldn’t.
Out of habit, I said, “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Tyler.”
“No, it isn’t, but I’m going to ask you anyway. I know it’s your holiday. But can you come straight to Rutherford’s? Something dreadful has happened.”
5
Dreadful can be a relative term. An injury might be dreadful; so might a flower arrangement. Louise had not called me for a floral emergency. But the Brooklyn Bridge hadn’t fallen either, and at first I wasn’t sure who needed me more: my frantic employer or the women of the refuge, in shock over Sadie’s death. Once here, they were supposed to be safe. To feel otherwise was deeply unsettling.
After breakfast, I told my uncle about Louise’s request. I said that I was under no obligation to go; I could tell Louise I was needed here—if I were needed here. My uncle simply shrugged and said it was my holiday.
So I decided to answer the call of the one person who was not ashamed to say she needed me. Until we heard from Officer Nolan, there was nothing more we could do for Sadie. My uncle was determined that the refuge routine not be altered. For me, perhaps distraction would be beneficial. And I would at least get to see the famous Rutherford’s department store.
As I took the trolley uptown to Thirty-Eighth Street, I thought, A man’s home might be his castle, but for a woman, home was the only place she was promised a degree of protection and authority. According to the ideal, for a woman to venture beyond the home was to invite degradation, violence, and exposure to the sordid realities of life. Heavens, that was what servants were for. The ideal might be out of reach for most women, but inability to adhere to the norm did not mean you escaped the consequences. So while men might go to their place of business, stop in at the club, walk down the streets, travel by public transport, dine in restaurants, or … well, live, women were well advised to stay indoors unless they were accompanied by men.
Then the first department store opened its doors, and women had a place to go that was, for all intents and purposes, theirs. In this “Adam-less Eden,” as Edward Filene called his Boston store, women could wander as they pleased, as long as they had money to spend.
For size and splendor, Rutherford’s surpassed all other department stores. One did not go there simply to shop; that would have been vulgar. No, one went to dream. Passing through the brass-and-smoked-glass doors of Rutherford’s took you into a palatial wonderland. As I made my way down the plum-colored carpet adorned with the majestic silver R, I felt I had entered an enchanted world of riches: scarves, gloves, earrings, shoes—and that was only the first floor. Hats alone took up half the second floor. Things, things, things—drawn from all four corners of the earth, and oh, how you coveted all those wonderful, magical things.
There were, of course, also mirrors. Small ones on every glass counter so a woman might judge the effect o
f a potential purchase, and panels of them, interspersed with polished wood. Because the most enchanting, fascinating thing in Rutherford’s was the woman herself. Or what she could be, with a little help. With the right accessories, a dowager might become a temptress, a typist a Valkyrie, a maid an empress. The air was subtly perfumed, alive with the tinkle of laughter, soft cries of delight, and subversive encouragement. “Oh, you must have it, it’s perfect!” “I shouldn’t, really.” “I won’t let you leave without it, Aida.”
The sumptuous surroundings were made that much more pleasant by the feeling of gratification in the air. Women could spend hours in Rutherford’s, arriving for a fitting in the morning, stopping for lunch at the Orientale, where they served tea and champagne all day, then browsing the new arrivals in the hat department before taking a cup of restorative Lapsang souchong with a friend. As I stepped carefully among the customers, gazing here and there to sigh over a pair of gloves I would never wear or an elegant watch that would slip from my wrist the second my hand had to do anything more energetic than reach for a petit four, I wondered if some of these women never left the store. It would be hard to blame them. It was a woman’s world. Men ran the elevators and waited tables at the restaurant upstairs, but they were otherwise absent. With one notable exception: George Rutherford.
Rutherford’s was the creation of George Rutherford, a beloved tyrant of fashion. He was often in the store, greeting its customers, supervising the salesladies, even at times offering personal consultations to his wife’s friends and other valued clients. These “chats” were said to be brutally honest, but all the more valuable because it was said he would never allow a woman to leave Rutherford’s in something that did not suit her, and his candor—which some said bordered on crass—made a refreshing change for women used to outrageous flattery. “I can’t help myself. When I see a lady out and about and she doesn’t look as she should, I have to speak. I’m from Ohio and I value truth over couth,” he once said, making an awkward joke at his own expense. These encounters had grown into the stuff of near-legend, as women reported them as a mark of special favor. “He told me my hat was at the wrong angle.” “He said if he were my husband, he’d never let me leave the house in something so cheap.” “He said maroon did not suit me—and he was right.” Because, of course, he was always right. That was why the Miss Rutherford’s pageant was cause for so much excitement. George Rutherford could look at thousands of girls without means and choose the most lovely, whirling them to a new life of splendor and good fortune. I did not believe the oft-repeated rumor that all the Miss Rutherford’s had gone on to marry millionaires, but even I liked to think at least a few had.
In the lobby, I noticed two young women gazing hopefully at the swooping staircase that led to the second floor. No doubt waiting for the great Mr. Rutherford to appear and pronounce them perfection. Alas, that morning, George Rutherford was only present in the large oil painting of him that hung above the elevator bank.
One of the most famous parts of Rutherford’s was the Crystal Palace, a grand hall that borrowed its name from the exhibition hall in London’s Hyde Park. Located on the very top floor of the store, it boasted a magnificent ceiling of smoked glass and wrought iron. The store’s biannual fashion shows took place there, of course. But it was best known as the spot where Miss Rutherford’s was introduced to the world. In the weeks leading up to the announcement, the ten contestants, dubbed American Beauties as a group, were each photographed and interviewed by the local papers. Newspapers breathlessly speculated on the girls’ prospects, and odds were placed on the likely winners. Prevailing wisdom had it that it was down to Hattie Phipps, telephone operator from Sunnyside, and Gertrude Walsh, waitress at Rector’s, although there were those who insisted that Eleanor Gosnell, typist, would take the crown. Louise and I had a friendly bet; she was backing Gosnell, but I had defiantly put my money on a long shot, Celeste Dwyer, who had enormous eyes, enjoyed the fox trot, and worked at a lace factory. At any rate, all would be revealed a week from now, directly after “Stirring Scenes of the Emancipation.”
Briefly I thought of Sadie. Just yesterday, she had boasted that she could beat both Hattie Phipps and Gertrude Walsh simply by rolling out of bed. At the time, her arrogance had irritated me; now I wondered why I had been so ungenerous.
Some had wondered why Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford had decided to combine the events. Mrs. Rutherford had informed the Times that she felt the Miss Rutherford’s contest was in danger of becoming shallow. To truly represent the store, a girl must be an American Beauty both inside and out. Therefore, they wished to present the young ladies in a more serious light; throughout the pageant, each of the girls would step forward and recite one amendment in the Bill of Rights. Then together, they would recite the Thirteenth. Some applauded this high-mindedness; others snickered that Dolly Rutherford simply wanted to keep an eye on her husband around so many young lovelies.
The Crystal Palace was on the sixth floor, which meant I could take the famous Rutherford’s elevators, paneled in marble and edged in malachite and red jasper. Every operator was specially trained to greet you with an admiring but entirely proper “Welcome to Rutherford’s, miss.” Even though I knew the operator had said it a hundred times in the past hour, I still felt I was the prettiest girl ever to step into his elevator. When we arrived at the sixth floor, he wished me a very good day.
But as I entered the Crystal Palace, I saw it would take more than his wishes to ensure a good day. The Rutherford’s seamstress recruited to do the costumes for the pageant had been berated once too often and walked out. The precipitating event? That was hotly debated. Either the seamstress was incompetent or Mrs. Fortesque, playing John Wilkes Booth, had put on weight. The latter being unthinkable, the former was obvious—at least to everyone except the seamstress. Dolly Rutherford accused her of stinting. The seamstress wondered if perhaps Mrs. Rutherford were going blind. Mrs. Rutherford upped the charge to theft. The seamstress replied that she would be an inept thief to steal such cheap goods. Her willingness to overspend called into question, Mrs. Rutherford fired the seamstress. Or the seamstress quit. Again, there was debate as to the time line. The long and short of it was, the seamstress was gone and Mrs. Fortesque’s costume still didn’t fit.
There were other problems as well. Mrs. Van Dormer was unhappy with her kerchief. Also, Mrs. Fortesque’s mustache itched. The sleeves of Louise’s topcoat seemed to have been cut to Mr. Lincoln’s actual measurements, and the makeshift stovepipe had been badly dented. In short, there was a lot to do.
But the Crystal Palace lived up to its name, and I admit to a giddy thrill of excitement as I walked in, head tilted to take in the miraculous ceiling. A full stage was on one side of the room, a piano nearby. Four long rows of chairs lined either side, and there were balconies for extra seating. During the contest or one of the fashion parades, the ladies would make their debut on the stage, pose decorously, then promenade down the aisle so they might be examined up close. As this was only rehearsal, the gorgeous carpets and elaborate floral arrangements were not yet out. But I was sure they would be there in a week’s time. The Miss Rutherford’s contestants were not here; as most of them had jobs, they would only be called in to rehearse at the very end.
When I arrived, Louise described the disasters of that morning. Some of the ladies had been tardy to rehearsal and unwilling to give up their conversations when asked to. (Mrs. Lonsdale and Mrs. Tallworthy were particular offenders.) Vocal auditions were being held in an effort to weed out the poorer singers. Some of the ladies were being asked to simply mouth the words, and among the designated mouthers, there were whispered accusations of favoritism and smugness on the part of those chosen to sing. Mr. Rutherford was furious with the set designer. The White House kept collapsing, and the curtains wouldn’t stay still. And the pianist had disappeared for a time, which brought Mrs. Rutherford’s temper to a boiling point.
As Louise gestured helplessly at the room of bickering, dissat
isfied ladies, I asked, “Where should I start?”
She looked first to Dolly Rutherford, who stood grim-faced by the piano, still dividing the competent from the tone-deaf. As the la-la-la-la-las rang through the air, Louise looked at a tall man with light, thinning hair and said, “I suppose you could speak to Mr. Rutherford.”
Only someone as shy as Louise Tyler would fail to appreciate the challenge of addressing a man as powerful and influential as George Rutherford. To Louise, the world was full of George Rutherfords, intimidating and impatient people given to harsh punishment of anyone seen as wasting their time. Her mother-in-law was George Rutherford; so, too, Monsieur Lafitte, her French master, and the waiter at the Hotel Astor tearoom. But since I was always exhorting her to be brave, I couldn’t show myself a coward now. Even if the prospect of speaking with one of the most notoriously difficult tastemakers of the day made my stomach jump.
“Very well,” I said, and headed in the direction of Mr. Rutherford, who stood at the right side of the stage, which had to be styled to serve both the Emancipation pageant and the reveal of Miss Rutherford’s. Even from a distance, I could hear every word as he berated the carpenter. The carpenter looked about to lose his breakfast from nerves. George Rutherford motioned that he should follow him. The men climbed onto the stage while I sidled along at the foot, hoping to catch the Rutherford eye. Rutherford marched left, I slid left. He drifted right, I moved right. He walked to the back, I drew closer. No luck.
When he had found six things that were unacceptable, five things that were grotesque, three dangerous, and two that were simply an affront to decency, he left the carpenter and stormed down the stage-left stairs. At which point, I decided I had no choice but to place myself directly in his path and make my presence felt by the man who decided what American Beauty was and was not. Here was New York’s high priest of fashion, and like any priest, he had an air of the ascetic about him. He was slender, well groomed. The graying blond hair was styled to conceal a lack of volume, his skin smooth, his nails clean and trimmed. As he approached, I caught a discreet waft of expensive eau de cologne.
Death of an American Beauty Page 6