“Oh, Mrs. Kanfer, I apologize, we’ve brought you entirely the wrong item.” This to a woman who bulged from an optimistically sized corset.
“But this is my size, it’s always been,” breathed the stout Mrs. Kanfer.
That patent falsehood was met with a wide, warm smile. “Of course, but we’ve brought you the wrong fit—that’s why it feels so constraining. Madolyn.” An eloquent finger brought the salesgirl running. In a low voice, Mrs. Hirschfeld said, “Bring the 40; don’t call it a 40.” Then, to the client, she said soothingly, “You see, when blessed with a gorgeous bosom such as yours, Mrs. Kanfer, the run-of-the-mill garment won’t suit. They’re cut for the average woman, not the gloriously endowed such as yourself. I envy you your proportions. Mr. Kanfer is a fortunate man. Alas—” She indicated her own slender frame. “My husband must be satisfied with my conversation.”
I imagined myself adept at the art of the constructive compliment: praise that persuaded the person being dressed to risk notice, discard unrealistic ambitions, or acknowledge that she had areas in need of artful ornamentation. But Mrs. Hirschfeld was a master. A debutante who was all sharp points and weak chin was fascinating. A rotund lady with a belligerent aspect was regal, while a shy middle-aged woman was committing a crime—an absolute crime!—by hiding her splendors. Like her son, she spoke and moved at speed, but unlike him, she seemed completely sincere. Even I began to see possibilities in the women I had not seen before. In the space of one half hour, Mrs. Hirschfeld made Mr. Rutherford richer by hundreds of dollars and improved the mood of every woman in the room.
I must have looked the picture of dumb adoration, because Leo said, “Yes, that’s my mother. Here, I’ll introduce you.”
The maternal smile that greeted him was loving, but she pulled his hair rather than embrace him and asked, “Why is Mrs. Rutherford missing her accompanist?” Then, turning to me, she said, “Hello, dear. I am Leo’s mother, Mrs. Hirschfeld.”
I confessed to being Jane Prescott.
“Miss Prescott is doing the costumes for the pageant,” Leo explained. “She’s in need of cheap—”
“There’s nothing cheap here, darling. Reasonably priced for the discerning woman; never cheap.”
“Reasonably priced—also known as free—nightgowns for the American Beauties. Mr. Rutherford told her such a thing might be available.”
“I see. And you generously offered to carry the nightgowns for Miss Prescott because they’re so heavy and she’s such a fragile little thing.”
“No, I wanted to see you.”
Mollified, Mrs. Hirschfeld looked at me. “Do you work in the theater?”
“I work for Mrs. William Tyler.”
“Oh? A client told me they saw her last month at Mrs. Howell’s, looking very handsome. She’s—” She lowered her hand at a straight angle down the front.
“Slim, yes.”
“That can be a challenge.”
“Less so now that the fashion favors a more streamlined silhouette. And posture helps.”
“But only goes so far. Have you heard of something called the bra? Leo, dear, go make yourself useful to Mrs. Rutherford.”
“I’m here to carry smocks,” Leo reminded her.
“No, you’re here to play piano.” A wave of the hand. “Upstairs.”
Leo went, flashing a smile at Myrtle. She affected not to notice. I tried to do the same.
Mrs. Hirschfeld clapped her hands. “Now, the bra. The first I heard of it was from a friend of Miss Polly Jacob. One evening, Miss Jacob found the corset too visible on a dress she wanted to wear. So she connected two pieces of cloth with string, and voilà. It just slips over the back and shoulders, lifts and separates. And, I would imagine, could even enhance. Which could be useful to a graceful lady of slender build.”
I tried to envision such a thing. “It goes under the corset? On top?”
“There is no corset,” whispered Mrs. Hirschfeld.
“No corset.” She nodded. “Just—”
“Two little pieces of cloth and some string.”
My hand went to my whaleboned midsection as I tried to imagine walking around with nothing between my belly button and my shirtwaist except … well, nothing. My first thought was Indecent. The second was Oh, to breathe … And how fast could you get dressed, if you didn’t have to lace and snap and layer?
“I told Mr. Rutherford, They’ll be in every store one day; you might as well be one of the first. Come, let’s see what we have in nightgowns.”
We found the perfect nightgown. But there were not enough of them in the store; they would have to be ordered from the warehouse. Mrs. Hirschfeld promised me that it could be her head on the platter if they weren’t here in two days or Mr. Rutherford wasn’t satisfied.
As I headed back up to the sixth floor, I caught sight of a pale yellow head of hair and paused, thinking it familiar. When the girl behind the counter turned and I saw the freckles, I said without thinking, “Carrie Biel! What on earth are you doing here?”
“I work here!” She held up a suggestive item that seemed mostly ribbon and frill. “Can I interest mademoiselle in something for the bedroom?”
As we laughed, I remembered how remarkable Carrie’s brightness had always seemed to me. She could not have had a worse beginning in life, and yet she was undiminished. With her blond hair and blue eyes, she might have been ravishing, were it not for the abundance of freckles that made her look six years old.
“How is your uncle?” She rolled her eyes. “How’s Sadie?”
I stopped laughing.
“What?”
I told her quickly in matter-of-fact terms. Carrie listened, eyes staring. Then her mouth started to tremble and she raised a shaking hand to her face. I took hold of her, my shoulder giving her a place to hide her tears. She cried hard for a minute or two. Then she stood upright, straightened her blouse. As she wiped her tears with the back of her sleeve, I saw she still had her old rope bracelet on her wrist. Her mother always told her it was the one thing her father left them when he went back to sea, and Carrie never took it off.
“Now, how do you get away with that at Rutherford’s?” I teased.
“Keep my hand behind the counter when the boss is around.” Then she exhaled in misery. “I thought I’d saved her.”
“You did. There are just more…” The word “demons” came to mind, but more darkness was not what Carrie needed right now. “We still have her things at the refuge. Maybe you’d want to collect them.”
She hesitated. “I don’t want them going in the garbage. Only I work late tonight…”
“That’s all right. I’m sure the other women would love it. It would be wonderful for them to hear about your job. And my uncle will be especially pleased to see you.”
I had spoken the truth; my uncle had always been fond of Carrie and would be pleased. But I saw a tightness in Carrie’s expression, doubt or fear. Unease at returning to her past? The look was gone before I could decide.
“I’d like that,” she said.
We left each other with smiles and promises to talk more tonight. But returning to the Crystal Palace, I found it hard to shake off the memory of Carrie’s weeping. She had tried to save Sadie; we had all tried to save Sadie. Even Sadie, in her way, had tried. There were demons in the world, though, and Sadie had been unlucky. Or foolish, I thought, thinking of Bill Danvers mouthing prayers while his eyes lingered. Easier to run across demons when they pretended to be angels.
Mrs. Rutherford was trying to work the new girls into the chorus. Many of them had been placed at the back, with the older, more sedate ladies up front. Emily, I noticed, stood on tiptoe, insisting on being seen.
I found Louise drooping on a small gilt chair. Her dark Lincoln sleeves flowed over her hands. Reaching for the pins in my pocket, I said, “Let me shorten those for you, Mrs. Tyler.”
Lifting her arm, she said, “I’ll write to William tonight. Perhaps he can come home for a few days.” She dropped he
r gaze, as if worried she would be accused of unjustified self-interest in that area.
“I’m sure he’d welcome the excuse,” I told her.
“Well, and he could talk to Emily. Make her see she should go back to school.”
“I don’t know that Miss Tyler is destined to be a scholar,” I said.
“No, but she’s not destined to be the wife of a jockey either.”
Seeing my astonishment, Louise elaborated. The summer she and William had become engaged, Emily had been in Saratoga Springs, where she had developed a passion for the racecourse. (We thought she just liked the horses, said Louise.) While a girlish love for ponies might indeed have inspired her first visit, it was a jockey named Snapper Wilkes who inspired several more. But when Emily had tried to join her diminutive inamorato on a train headed to Florida, William had caught them at the station and brought Emily home. Soon thereafter, she was dispatched to the halls of academia in Poughkeepsie, far from the city and all racecourses.
I said, “I suppose when her mother went to Boston, she saw her chance.”
Louise nodded. “But she’ll have to go back. We can’t have her just running loose.”
Removing Louise’s now-pinned coat, I returned to my sewing spot by the piano. Mr. Hirschfeld was doggedly pounding out “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” I looked up at Emily, who was still standing on tiptoe. On every hurrah, she soared upward, cheering louder than anyone else. Despite her antics with Mr. Hirschfeld, it was hard not to smile. High-spirited, defiant, impossible, she put me in mind of Sadie. Breathing in sharply, I rubbed my eyes to catch tears before they fell.
“Psst.”
I blinked, saw Mr. Hirschfeld.
“Tell me where you’ll be. I’ll pick you up around seven.”
“Why would I do that?”
“We’re going dancing. Remember? I asked you during the Operetta of the Strangled Cats.”
“I can’t go dancing with you, Mr. Hirschfeld.”
He glanced down. “I see two feet. A right and a left.”
“Truly, I’m not in the mood.”
“I know.” The song ended, and he swung around to face me. “That’s why you have to come. Your friend died. You didn’t. You can be sad for her and then you can enjoy life because you still have it. Come dancing with me.”
His voice was serious, and although he had moved no closer to me, I felt … affected. It suddenly seemed very important that I go dancing with Leo Hirschfeld.
“Where?”
“The Acme Café. That’s near where you live, right?”
It was, and I knew it well. The Acme was owned by Chick Tricker, who had taken over a third of the Eastman gang when his old boss, Big Jack Zelig, was killed last year, probably on orders from Tricker himself. The club was a second home to some of the most dangerous gang members and Tammany’s greasiest politicians, as well as some of the best bands in the city. Over the past decade, gangs had realized they could turn a profit by capitalizing on their notoriety. The well-heeled citizens of the city would pay handsomely for the chance to indulge in the behaviors deplored by their newspapers—gambling, prostitution, drink, drugs, and dance—if they could do so in the company of New York’s most colorful gangsters. And Tricker certainly was colorful, having made his name in the war over a young lady known as Ida the Goose. The Eastmans had stolen Ida from the Gophers, igniting a turf battle over the rights to her affections and earnings. One of Tricker’s clubs had been the scene of the final shoot-out of that war; five Trickers had been killed.
The Eastmans made most of their money in thievery, gun sales, hijacking, and contract work; if you needed a relative, a rival businessman, or a unionist intimidated or killed, the Eastmans were only too happy to help. They had gotten their name partly because they controlled the brothels of the Lower East Side. My uncle would not approve of my going to any establishment run by Chick Tricker.
On the other hand, the dance floor was said to be vast, there was a rumor that Johnson’s Brass Band played the Acme sometimes, and my uncle did not have to know everything.
“We’d never get in,” I said in a token resistance.
“They better let me in,” said Leo Hirschfeld. “My shift starts at eight.”
8
Over the past few years, New York had become “the City of Dreadful Dance.” A physical activity so closely linked to courtship, dance was strictly regulated, kept to ballrooms for the well-off and to municipal dances—often supervised by clergy—for the lower classes. Parts were kept at a proper distance, the music was decorous and suitable, and any movement that even hinted at the next stages of intimacy … well, there were none.
But New Yorkers young and old had started dancing in clubs and restaurants across the city. Establishments that had once entertained their diners with floor shows and singing waiters saw another use for the boards: dance. Women from all walks of life were now going out—unescorted!—and moving in new ways. They were trotting, slinking, and dipping. Couples no longer held each other at arm’s length; they pressed close above and below the waist.
As I waited for Leo Hirschfeld to pick me up at the refuge that evening, I thought that what none of the thundering critics understood was that the new dances didn’t feel scandalous. Dancing was like … a good walk through the park. Energizing. Healthy. A way to banish nerves. Yes, I had mostly danced with girls. Still, I didn’t see what the panic was about.
Before dinner, I told my uncle, “A young man will be calling for me this evening. Also, Carrie Biel will be coming by around nine to collect Sadie’s things.”
I piled one revelation on top of the other, so that if my uncle did not wish to address the issue of the young man, he didn’t have to.
For a long moment, he looked at me, then said, “It will be nice to see Miss Biel again.”
Of course, I couldn’t be sure that Leo Hirschfeld would call. Leo Hirschfeld seemed a man of the moment; whoever and whatever was in front of him merited his complete and almost too intense attention. Who and what was not ate their pastrami sandwiches alone. He had asked me hours ago, more than enough time to forget.
But he had not forgotten. A few minutes after the hour, the bell rang and I was out the door. The Acme was not far, and it was a warm evening, so we walked. Conversation with Leo was a tennis match—no, Ping-Pong. Back and forth, back and forth, punchy, speedy, percussive, with a great slam of a joke at the end that left everyone weak and laughing. Once you had the feel of it, it was easy to keep up. He was looking quite spiffy in a short dark coat and a flat cap. Sometimes he walked alongside me; other times, he walked backward to face me.
“How do you become a singing waiter?” I asked him. “And why do you become a singing waiter?”
“If you’re the youngest of six kids and you want to eat, you have to get your mother’s attention. Also, my uncle publishes sheet music. One time when I was nine, he came to dinner and I decided I would show off for the big-time agent. After everyone took their fingers out of their ears, my uncle said, Kid, you don’t sing good, but you have no sense of shame. I’m putting you to work.”
“As what?”
“A plugger. People can’t buy a song they never heard, right? That’s where the plugger comes in. After school, I’d stand on a corner in Times Square, plant myself on the floor of Macy’s, the line outside Washington Park—anywhere there was a crowd—and start singing whatever song my uncle needed to move. Usually it was love songs. People thought it was funny, this skinny little kid singing his lungs out over a broken heart. I could do Italian.” He gestured to his dark springy hair. “So I started getting songs like ‘My Mama’s Spaghetti’ and ‘In Old Napoli.’ For Irish, I went to saloons, and all the drunks would start crying and throwing pennies. One time, he even sent me up in a hot-air balloon over Coney Island with a megaphone.”
“What does your father think of your career?”
“My father and career,” he mused. “Well, Father has the distinction of being the worst tailor in a
ll of New York. I’m not lying, the title belongs to him alone. Things on this earth—” He waved his hands to indicate a delicate connection. “Me and my brothers, he can never keep us straight: ‘Irv … Dave … Artie.’ ‘Leo, Pop. It’s Leo.’ ‘Oh, the little one.’ ‘That’s right, Pop.’”
I was wondering what it would be like to be a part of a family so large you got lost in it when Leo said, “Oh, here we are.”
And here we were: right in front of the tenement known as the Acme Café. By the door, there were twenty or so images of women in rather coy states of undress; all these, it was implied, awaited within, and for an odd moment, I thought of the American Beauties. The club, Leo informed me, had a hundred ways in and out, because “you never know who’s going to have to make a hasty exit.” We went in through the kitchen and through a circuitous route of dodgy stairs to the dance hall.
Deliberately tawdry, the Acme Café’s décor reassured tourists that they were entering a lair of authentic depravity. Red burlap flecked with gold covered the walls, cigar smoke fogged the air, and the light from overhanging cones was dim. The furniture was teak, inlaid with ivory, to give a flavor of the Orient. An emaciated man worked sullenly behind the bar; never acknowledging the order, he nonetheless kept a steady stream of spirits, beer, and champagne flowing. (For the less affluent or more desperate, there might be a mix of water and camphor or a hot punch made up of rum, whisky, benzene, and scraps of cocaine.) Last year, Leo told me, Tricker had provided the attraction of a “genuine” opium fiend: Hophead Lil, an elderly Chinese woman who worked in a chop suey house down the block during the day. Wrapped in a kimono, she posed with a pipe, so exhausted after a long day feeding people she was able to convince visitors she was in the grip of Morpheus. Suitably horrified, they dropped money into a small bowl on the floor, which she split thirty-seventy with Mr. Tricker.
Death of an American Beauty Page 10