Park Avenue Summer

by Renée Rosen

  I fielded Trudy’s questions as she filled our glasses and toasted to my new job. I was grateful for her enthusiasm. Were it not for Trudy, who had knocked on my door and introduced herself the day I moved in, I would have been completely alone in the city. Like me, Trudy was from the Midwest, a suburb outside of St. Louis, but unlike me, she seemed so settled, like an oak tree rooted in New York for a hundred years. She made me envious. I craved a routine, some stability. I was impatient, wanting to call Manhattan home already.

  “Are there a lot of handsome men in the office?” she asked as she slumped down beside me on the lumpy sofa, sipping her champagne.

  “I didn’t see too many eligible men, but the women were dressed to the nines. They looked like they should be working for Vogue or Mademoiselle.” I paused while Trudy refilled our glasses. “I’m going to need a whole new wardrobe to work there.” I took a sip, the bubbles fizzing and washing over my tongue. “I already wore my best dress on the interview,” I said, gesturing to my sheath. “I have no idea what to wear tomorrow.”

  “Oh, we can fix that,” said Trudy, springing off the sofa, going to the closet and screeching hangers back and forth over the metal bar. “Ah, what about this?” She pirouetted, holding a blue shift with a white bow beneath her chin.

  “That must have been Rhonda’s dress,” I said.

  “Well, it’s yours now.”

  I went into the bathroom and slipped it on. “What do you think?” I opened the door and stood with my arms to my sides.

  “It’s a little long,” she said, reaching for the hem. “But we can tack it up with tape and safety pins. Oh, and I have a pocketbook you can borrow. It’d be perfect with that. What size shoes do you wear?” she asked, reaching for a box in the back of the closet.

  “Seven. Sometimes, seven and a half.”

  “Bingo!” She handed me a pair of stylish T-straps. “Try these on.”

  I stepped into Rhonda’s three-inch heels using my index finger as a shoehorn.

  When Trudy went to refill my glass for the third time, I placed my hand over the rim. “I better not.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We can’t have you hungover on your first day, now can we? Oh well,” she said, pouring her glass to the top, “more for me.”

  By the time Trudy left, it was going on ten o’clock, and there I was, alone in a strange place, in a city I’d been hearing about and dreaming of all my life. Nothing, though, was quite as glamorous as I’d envisioned it would be. I wasn’t living in a beautiful apartment on Park Avenue with a terrace overlooking the city. And no, I hadn’t landed a high-paying photography job. But despite the trade-offs, here I was in New York, carving out a new life. The allure and sophistication of the city had been instilled in me from as far back as I could remember, making my unrefined Ohio roots a source of inferiority, a deficiency to be overcome. It was time to abandon my small-town ways and wide-eyed wonder, only I found that shedding my old self and leaving her behind made me inexplicably sad. I felt hollow and surprisingly sentimental.

  I thought about calling my father but realized he’d probably be asleep, and I didn’t want his wife answering the phone. I knew my father thought she was the reason I left home, but Faye had nothing to do with it. Michael definitely played a role in my decision, but really, I left because of my mother.

  Eight years earlier, right before she died, my mother had convinced my father that it was time to start over in New York. My father had been offered a job that would have doubled his salary at the steel foundry. A lease had been signed for a prewar Classic Five on the Upper West Side and a For Sale sign was nailed to a stake in our front yard. It was June. School was out for the summer and I was planning to attend junior high in Manhattan that fall. I’d been sitting on the front porch, braiding a friendship bracelet made of yarn, a good-bye present for my best friend, Esther, when the telephone rang. That was the call that changed everything. Forever.

  There’d been an accident. A car ran a red light at McGuffey and Jacobs Road. My mother’s DeSoto was overturned, totaled. My father needed to identify the body.

  The move to New York, which had been my mother’s dream, ended there. The Classic Five was sublet to another family, the house in Youngstown was taken off the market, my father’s letter reneging on the job offer was in the mail and Esther’s friendship bracelet, left on the front porch, had either been carried off by the wind or absentmindedly knocked into the flower bed, never to be seen again.

  My father hadn’t wanted to live in New York in the first place, but I had clung to my mother’s dream. I always knew that someday I would end up in Manhattan. It was innate, like knowing you’re left-handed. I was infatuated with the city, and like most infatuations, my affection was largely the product of my imagination. Really, the only things I knew about New York before I got here had come from books, movies and the endless stories my mother told me. I remembered her perched on the side of my bed, or standing behind me at the mirror brushing my hair, telling me about Coney Island and how she’d fallen in love with my father there. She talked about the luxurious apartments and how her neighbor at the Barbizon was a Katie Gibbs girl who’d grown up on Park Avenue and 59th Street. My mother had been invited to the girl’s home, mesmerized by everything from the white-gloved doorman who called her Miss, to the gilt-trimmed elevator and the marbled hallways. She vowed that one day she’d live on Park Avenue, too. She told me about skyscrapers that reached the clouds, carriage rides through the park, museums and stores filled with everything you could ever imagine. The best food, the best shows, the best of everything. She’d been born and raised just outside of New York City, in Stamford, Connecticut, but she’d gone into Manhattan every chance she had. When she turned nineteen, she moved to the city, much to her parents’ dismay. My mother adored New York and had been trying to make her way back there up until her dying day.

  I moved to New York for her. And for me. If I’d stayed in Youngstown, what would have become of me? Esther and I had drifted apart and I realized too late that I was to blame for that. I didn’t call as much, didn’t make plans with her like I used to, because Michael, my hope, my hero, had become the center of everything. And then he was gone. None of the other Jewish boys in town even came close to him. I didn’t want to settle. Not in love. Not in anything.

  It was getting late and I had a big day tomorrow, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I still hadn’t gotten around to buying drapes or shades for the windows so the streetlights poured in through the panes, along with the hum of traffic and occasional sirens going by on Second Avenue.

  I decided to make myself a cup of tea in the tiny kitchenette. My mother always made tea whenever she couldn’t sleep. It seemed like the thing to do. I filled the kettle from the tap and struck a match, lighting the gas burner. I supposed I knew that being in New York, in my mother’s city, would have accentuated my missing her, but I hadn’t anticipated just how much it would affect me. I was filled with nostalgia and longing for her that night.

  Aside from my portfolio, I’d brought only two items of any value with me from home. One was my camera, which had belonged to my mother, a Leica IIIc MOOLY. It was resting on top of the bookcase in a brown leather case, worn and cracked along the edges, the Leica name embossed where it protruded to holster the lens. I picked up the camera, cradling it in my lap for a moment before I set it back on the bookcase and reached for the second valuable I’d brought from home, my tattered photo album. It had gotten banged up in my journey from Youngstown; some of the pictures had come loose from the glued photo corners. It was old to begin with, the crinkly pages starting to yellow along the outer edges.

  My mother had started the album for me when I was a baby. She was an amateur with a camera but a firm believer in documenting each milestone, which she had done up until the year she left me when I turned thirteen. After she died, I found her camera and picked up where she left off, taking p
hotos everywhere I went.

  The teapot whistled and I got up, fixed myself a cup and brought it back to the sofa, where I began leafing through the album. On the first page, there was a black-and-white photo of me on a blanket with a caption: Alice’s first day home Feb 2, 1944. It was always jarring to see my mother’s handwriting, like seeing a ghost. The next photo, me in the sink, my soapy dark hair swirled up like a troll’s. Ali’s first bath Feb. 3, 1944. There was a photograph of Ali’s first steps, first birthday, first haircut, first day of school and on and on. I was so lost in the photographs that my tea had turned cold before I’d even taken a sip.

  As I turned the last page and closed the cover, I ran my fingers over the Alice lettering that my mother had embroidered. And she was not the type of woman who sat home and did needlepoint. Far from it. Nothing about her was conventional. I’d heard her described as a man’s kind of woman, the sort who got on better with the husbands than the wives. Always athletic, she played tennis and swam. She golfed, too, and was better at it than my father, who’d only taken up the sport so he could entertain clients on the course. Ultimately, she took my father’s place in his foursome, which raised an eyebrow or two among the suburban housewives. My mother shot pool and loved to play poker—both of which were done with a hustler’s skill. She was a terrible singer, not that that ever stopped her. She couldn’t resist singing along with the radio. Especially in the car, the windows rolled down, her dark hair blowing back. Whether she knew the lyrics or was out of key, it didn’t matter, she’d sing out unapologetically. I’d always wondered what song had been playing on the radio at the time of her accident. Had she been singing along at that very moment, oblivious to the car running the red light?

  I was homesick for her and for things that no longer existed. When my mother passed away, she took so much with her, so much that I could never get back. I knew I would never find those bits and pieces of myself again, and yet there I was in New York City, searching for them anyway.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Working for Helen Gurley Brown was like stepping into oncoming traffic. The next morning as I came down the hallway and rounded the corner, I saw the telephone lines on my desk flashing. Mrs. Brown was already in her office, perched on the edge of her desk, bands of sunlight coming through the window behind her. Though tiny in stature, she was still an imposing figure. My eye was drawn to the fishnet stockings on her slender legs and the short leopard print skirt, hiked up, exposing a good six inches of thigh.

  I thought she was alone until I realized she had a photographer with her. She smiled while he snapped off a series of pictures. With one camera on a tripod, a second one in his hand, he moved like a dancer, gracefully and fluidly, crouching for one shot, standing upright for the next.

  The aspiring photographer in me was fascinated, but the telephone lines were ringing, demanding my attention. My first day had begun. I answered two successive calls before I even sat down. I still had the receiver in one hand, my pocketbook in the other, when a third call came in. It was a reporter with Newsweek wanting an interview with the new editor in chief. I explained that Mrs. Brown was unavailable and took a message just as another line flashed. It was Norman Mailer’s literary agent checking the status of an article Helen’s predecessor had requested. After that I fielded another inquiry from someone calling on behalf of Lauren “Betty” Bacall. It was all happening so fast, I didn’t have time to be nervous or starstruck, but my goodness, it was exciting. I’d go home that day pinching myself. But for now I placed the receiver down, reluctant to take my hand away. I stood, waiting, expecting another line to light up. Ten, fifteen, twenty seconds passed. Nothing. A respite. I shoved my pocketbook into the empty bottom drawer and went off in search of coffee.

  As I ventured down the hall, three young women, presumably also secretaries, were huddled together, deep in conversation, until a young man came by, capturing their attention. They stopped talking to smile, throw their shoulders back and thrust their chests out.

  “Good morning, Mr. Masterson,” I overheard them say in unison.

  Mr. Masterson offered a “Good day, ladies,” as he lifted his fedora, exposing a full head of dark hair. He was exactly the sort of young enterprising man you’d expect to find in a bustling Manhattan office: a dark suit and tie, pocket square handkerchief, leather attaché case in hand and trench coat, probably a Burberry, slung over his forearm. I’d passed a hundred men just like him on my way into work that day, but you’d think he was something special judging by the reaction he elicited. The girls didn’t resume their conversation until he had disappeared around a corner. Later that day I checked the company roster and saw that Mr. Masterson’s first name was Erik.

  Farther down the hall I heard the sounds of IBM Selectrics humming and click-clacking from behind closed doors, along with the steady ding from the elevator bank, depositing more employees. The air was scented with cigarette and pipe smoke mixed with the smell of coffee brewing. Like a bloodhound, I followed the trail until I came upon a group of women gathered in the galley kitchen. The two girls I’d seen the day before—the Pixie and the Bouffant, her hair poofed high and Aqua-Netted in place—were in there, along with two brunettes who had identical bobs. There was another girl, too, with jet-black hair worn in a flip, her complexion so pale, her skin seemed tinged with blue.

  The Pixie was reading from that week’s issue of Time magazine. “Oh Gawd,” she groaned. “Listen to this: ‘The magazine is bubbling with enthusiasm over its new editor even though she has no editing experience.’”

  “‘Bubbling with enthusiasm,’” said one of the brunettes. “What a load of crap. And would you look at that picture of her.”

  “I bet she flips her wig when she sees this,” said the Pixie. “Literally.” She and the Bouffant laughed as if it were the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

  The Pixie turned out to be Margot Henley, and the Bouffant was Bridget Grayson. Later that day, they, along with a few other girls, took me to lunch. We went to a luncheonette on 56th between Broadway and Eighth Avenue with a torn green and white striped awning. A gumball machine and the smell of grease and onions greeted us as we stepped inside. The place was packed and noisy. We took a table in the back that had a wobble, and we all did our part to keep it steady with our elbows. I ordered a club sandwich, cut into triangles and held together by fancy toothpicks with red cellophane curlicues.

  “So,” said Margot, turning toward me, “has she said anything yet about who she wants to hire for the new managing editor position? She’s having one hell of a time filling that jawb.” She spoke with a thick Bronx accent.

  “I know Harriet La Barre already turned it down,” said Bridget with a frown. “So did Bill Guy.”

  “Well, what was she thinking asking the two of them anyway?” said Margot, poking her straw around in her Tab. “Bill Guy edits fiction and Harriet’s a fashion editor.”

  “She’s running out of options,” said Penny, one of the brunettes with the bobbed hair and frosted lipstick. “She’s practically offered that position to everyone but the janitor.”

  I dabbed my napkin to my mouth and said, “I don’t understand why they both turned down the job. You’d think they’d want a promotion like that.”

  “Oh, c’mon now,” Margot said, finishing off her Tab with a gurgling sound coming up through her straw. “Why would they want to be her managing editor? They don’t want to promote her idea of a modern woman.”

  “Hell, I’d take the job,” said Bridget. “Just imagine what that salary is.”

  Margot ignored Bridget and continued, “Helen Gurley Brown is completely missing the point. She never talks about equal pay for women. Or discrimination in the workplace.”

  “If you ask me,” said Leslie, the raven-haired girl, “Sex and the Single Girl was demeaning. A how-to for catching a man.”

  “Exactly,” said Penny.

  “Wait—what’
s wrong with catching a man?” asked Bridget. “I didn’t think her book was demeaning.”

  “Oh, please.” Margot shot Bridget a disapproving glance. “The whole book was about how to please a man. What about a man pleasing a woman for a change? According to her, we’re all supposed to dress up like a bunch of sex kittens so men will want us.”

  Margot wasn’t entirely wrong, but she wasn’t altogether right, either. I wanted to speak up, but I was the new girl so I held my tongue despite knowing there was more to Helen’s message than women becoming sex kittens.

  “And you know,” said Leslie, “all she’s going to do is turn that book of hers into a magazine.”

  “I’ve heard she’s planning on firing everyone and bringing in her own people,” said Penny.

  “I heard that, too,” said Leslie. “That’s why everybody’s quitting.”

  “C’mon now,” said Bridget, “I think everyone should at least give her a chance.”

  “Why?” said Margot. “No self-respecting journalist wants to be any part of Helen Gurley Brown’s Cosmopolitan. She told Liz Smith she wears falsies. What sort of person tells you something like that?”

  Penny rolled her eyes and said, “I’d be surprised if Cosmopolitan is still being published in six months.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I learned my first day that the magazine world operated three months ahead of the calendar. So even though it was only March, the May issue had already gone to press. I was in Helen’s office later that afternoon when George Walsh, the book editor, a tall lanky man with a bow tie and suspenders, delivered the page proofs. Barbra Streisand was on the cover, striking a pose with hands on hips and a foot propped up on an ottoman. Running alongside her picture were what they called “teaser blurbs”: When Dentists Are Hard to Find and Pants for Mermaids.