Angel of Brooklyn

by Jenkins, Janette

  Beatrice had seen herself holding out those trays of diamond rings. She knew about carat and the different shades of rubies. She’d used cold cream on her hands, and manicured her nails, because she knew appearance was important, it was the little things that made all the difference.

  She went outside. The air was cooler now. She could see Elliot Price talking to Miss Flood in the dining room, using his hands, like they were spelling out the words. Miss Stanley was sewing in the parlour, her mouth full of pins, her forehead wrinkled; pulling out the needle like it pained her.

  From the top of the step she could see all the way down Renton Street. The air sat on the rooftops and shimmered. A group of boys were kicking a flat-looking ball and men strolled by in summer straw hats with fancy walking canes. It seemed the street was coming to life. She could hear trombones and the sound of the seagulls as they drifted into shore.

  ‘The meals stink,’ said a voice behind her. ‘Me? I go to the Jewish bakery whenever I can. At least those bagels taste of something.’

  Beatrice turned. A girl around her age was standing with her arms folded. She had dark curly hair and a round plump face.

  ‘I’m Lydia. I’m only here until the day after tomorrow, that’s when my dear, dear papa will be coming to pick me up, and take me home to Kirksville, Missouri, where I shall certainly die from boredom within the first three weeks. Missouri stinks,’ she said. ‘All of it.’

  ‘What are you doing in Brooklyn?’ asked Beatrice.

  ‘Me? I’m on a little vacation.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. Real reason? My mother ran off with a travelling salesman. Fell madly in love with a man selling buttons. Can you imagine? My father was so ashamed he almost shot himself. But he didn’t,’ she added, rolling her eyes as if he should have done it. ‘Now my mother is travelling all over America with a trunk full of buttons and bows and her eyes full of love hearts. My father said he needed time to adjust to this new situation, so he sent me away to an aunt, who wasn’t even home when I got there. She has this big fancy house near Central Park, but there was no one inside it, not even a girl washing dishes or polishing the floor. And that’s how I ended up here, and it’s a dump, if you don’t mind my saying so. Are you a Methodist?’

  ‘I suppose so. Are you?’

  ‘You have to be to get into this place. So, yes, I suppose that I must be.’

  They sat by the door, Beatrice tracing her finger in the dust. ‘It isn’t at all like I thought it would be,’ she said. ‘Brooklyn, New York.’

  ‘You ever been to Manhattan?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s where it’s all supposed to be happening, but the people over there, they’ve got bigger problems than me. They’re all too busy trying to make themselves a quick buck, or showing off their fancy clothes or admiring their reflections to look at you twice. I spent a night in Manhattan, all by myself, because I figured if my aunt ain’t home yet, then come night-time, she might be, and so I walked around a while, took in the sights, and then went back to Central Park, and there was still no answer. The windows, and believe me there were plenty of them, were black. A woman appeared from next door with a wheezy Pomeranian bitch under her arm, who looked at me like I was nothing, and couldn’t believe it was my relative she’d been living next door to all these years. Anyway, it turns out that my aunt is in the Hamptons for the summer, wherever that might be.’

  ‘Did the woman help you out?’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding. The woman threatened to report me for loitering if I was still there when she got back. Her dog started snarling, and let me tell you, that fluffy little dog had teeth that looked like razors. I didn’t hang around.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  Lydia sighed as she leaned back on her hands and looked up at the sky. ‘I walked around Manhattan for a while. I got a cup of coffee. I didn’t have the money for a room, but I’d heard that New York stays open, so I figured I’d just walk around, buy a sweet roll and a couple of coffees, and wait until morning.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You want to take a walk?’ she said. ‘I talk too much. I know I talk too much and then people make their opinions, and I’m usually the bad mouthy one they try and avoid at mealtimes. Take your friend Mr Price, for example.’

  ‘He’s hardly my friend.’

  ‘Whatever. That man turns his nose up whenever he sees me, like I smell worse than a dog’s behind, just because I don’t read Shakespeare, or whoever it is he’s talking about. He thinks he’s English. Have you noticed that yet? Anyway, I know things about Mr Price he wouldn’t want nobody else to know about.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like, I’m talking too much already. What about you? I’m bad at asking questions, I’m so terrible, really I am; don’t take it personal, I usually forget.’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Is that all you can manage, “all right”? You’re creating quite a stir, you know. I saw them all looking, even Mr Brewster had a funny little twitch at the side of his mouth, and usually that man is like a stone, so you made an impression in there, believe me.’

  ‘I look a mess,’ Beatrice said. ‘I’ve been in these clothes since the day before yesterday.’

  ‘Who was looking at the clothes?’

  They walked towards Prospect Park. The streets were full of people. Men sat on upturned crates playing pinochle and poker and girls jumped in and out of skipping ropes singing songs in other languages, their plaits bobbing high in the air like question marks. People shouted from window to window. ‘You know what the time is?’ ‘Henry Schwimmer, he don’t know nothing!’ ‘She always plays the innocent, have you seen the look on her face when she comes tiptoeing home in the dark?’

  Beatrice felt dirty. A man was having his hair cut, right there in the street. Her head felt itchy, it really needed washing. Lydia looked so clean; she could almost hear her squeaking.

  ‘We’ll sit in the park if you like. Brooklyn’s emerald. That’s what Miss Flood calls it.’

  ‘I’d like to work with jewellery,’ said Beatrice as they reached Prospect Park where the grass looked nothing like an emerald. It was dry, and yellow and brown.

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘No, really. I’d like to work in a jeweller’s store.’

  ‘You want to get yourself over to the diamond district. Mind you, they usually employ their own, so I wouldn’t be getting your hopes up.’

  ‘I want to work at Tiffany & Co.,’ said Beatrice, looking at her fingernails which were already in need of some repair.

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard of that place right enough,’ said Lydia, waving to a woman selling pancakes. ‘I’ve heard they won’t let you in through the door unless you’ve got at least a thousand dollars in your purse.’

  ‘Really?’ said Beatrice. ‘How do they know?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, with a shrug, ‘they can tell just by looking at you.’

  They sat with the grass prickling under their hands.

  ‘It’s been a long few days,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Look for a job. I’ll have to.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Lydia. ‘I like jewellery stores. Not that I’ve ever put a foot inside one.’

  ‘Did you see Tiffany & Co. when you were in Manhattan? They have a new store at Fifth Avenue and 37th Street.’

  ‘No. Jewels weren’t exactly on my mind. I did see Macy’s,’ she said. ‘Now that store really is something else. It sells everything under the sun.’

  Beatrice fell back onto her arms, until she was lying down. The park was busy. She could feel a rumbling, the stamping of children’s boots begging for taffy and ice cream, the wheels of the perambulators as drowsy-eyed babies sucked in the air. She was so tired now, she was drifting and the ground was opening up, taking her in and wrapping her, while the sky above her head sat on her face like cotton.

  ‘You look like something g
lowing,’ said Elliot Price.

  The next morning, Beatrice was wearing her smartest and cleanest summer dress. She’d washed her hair in the basin. Her skin smelled of cheap lemon soap.

  ‘I’m looking for employment,’ she told him.

  ‘I know the girl who washes dishes at Carson’s. They might need more help. I could always ask.’

  Beatrice shook her head. ‘I’d like to work in a jewellery store,’ she said, looking at her hands.

  Miss Stanley appeared. ‘Jewels? Jewels are expensive and frivolous; the world does not need jewels.’

  ‘The world does not need a lot of things,’ said Elliot, ‘but having them helps us through the day.’

  ‘Like alcohol.’

  ‘No,’ he told her, ‘like books, paintings, and sticks of cotton candy.’

  ‘Useless things,’ she said, turning and walking away. ‘And the only books I own are religious or instructional.’

  ‘I need a job,’ said Beatrice. ‘I’ll try the jewellery stores first, because I’ve kind of set my heart on it, but if nothing happens then I’ll have to look elsewhere.’

  ‘Good idea. I’m sure the only thing that will stop you getting work in a jeweller’s is that you’ll shine brighter than the jewels they have on offer, and you are not for sale.’

  Lydia put her head around the door. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Are you looking for a job as well?’ asked Elliot.

  ‘No chance. Pops will be here tomorrow, and I’ll be heading back to Missouri where I can sleep all day and dream of my Prince Charming.’ She winked at him. ‘But you’ll know all about that,’ she said.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about? The girl talks in riddles.’

  She took Beatrice’s arm. ‘Come on, kid, those diamonds won’t sell themselves. You could have sold at least a dozen rings by now.’

  ‘I’m nervous.’

  ‘Nervous? What for? It’s only a jeweller’s,’ said Lydia. ‘It isn’t life or death, it’s just a store.’

  *

  Tiffany & Co. was sitting in the place where the buildings shone, though the sidewalks were jammed with so many people and it was hard to breathe in the heat, let alone stop and look up at the shine.

  ‘This city must have more glass than any other city in the world.’

  ‘We’re here,’ said Beatrice, her throat a little tight. ‘We’re at Tiffany’s.’

  ‘That’s what it says on the sign.’ They stood gazing into its wide bow-shaped windows. Lydia whistled softly. ‘They just don’t look real,’ she said. ‘See those diamonds? They look like clumps of glass.’

  Beatrice could feel her hands sweating. She’d reshaped her nails with an emery board. Hands were important in the jewellery business. Even if you were selling a necklace, it was the hands that clicked the clasp into place.

  ‘Are you going in?’ asked Lydia. There were men on the door with stiff waxed moustaches and braid around their collars.

  ‘Do I look like I have a thousand dollars?’

  ‘I’d believe you.’

  Lydia stepped back. She said she’d wait for her in a nearby coffee house. ‘It doesn’t look like my kind of place after all,’ she shrugged. ‘It looks more like a museum than a place that’s selling things.’

  Beatrice took a deep breath. Why should she be nervous? She could always say she was browsing, looking at the jewels, which were there to be looked at under their glass domes and cages, because if you didn’t look, then how could you buy?

  The men on the door nodded her inside.

  I’ve made it, she thought. I look a thousand dollars.

  The room was wide, it smelled of limes and the fans above her head droned, she could feel her hair moving; the glass glittered, and under the glass, diamonds had been set into gold and shaped into flowers, birds, faces. Octagonal boxes were inlaid with ivory and pearls the size of pigeon eggs sat with icy strips of sapphires.

  ‘Can I be of any assistance?’ A man with yellow-coloured eyes appeared. He was the smartest-looking salesman that she had ever seen. ‘Would miss like to see something special?’

  ‘No thank you,’ she told him. He nodded and turned on his smooth-sounding heels. A clock shaped like an owl began to chime in the corner. She was sure its head was moving.

  *

  ‘What do you mean you didn’t ask about a job?’ said Lydia. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t ask about a job.’

  Beatrice looked into her coffee cup. ‘Job or no job, I wouldn’t be happy there, even with all the jewellery. It felt cold,’ she said. ‘Cold enough to snap you.’

  ‘So what are you going to do now? Try another store?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m rethinking the jewellery business altogether,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t how I thought it would be.’

  ‘It was only one store. One big store. Don’t give up. There are plenty of other places selling diamonds.’

  She shrugged. She’d lost all of her enthusiasm. The man with the yellow eyes had said everything here is hollow.

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ said Lydia, licking her finger and dipping it into the sugar bowl. ‘New York is full of employment. Granted, it’s also full of people looking for it, but half of them can’t speak English yet, and the rest aren’t as pretty as you.’

  ‘You don’t have to be pretty to get yourself employed.’

  ‘You’re new to this,’ said Lydia. ‘You’ll learn.’

  This was the New York that she’d imagined, but it wasn’t as clean as the place in her magazines, where the air was full of window shine, scent of Araby and the occasional glimpse of an Astor. A man stood in a doorway with a toothpick and a board saying BUY UNION CIGARS. People rubbed against each other. Lips sparkled. Plumes of steam spouted from the underworld. The stores sold everything. Antiques. Devilled crabs. Fading yellow roses.

  ‘I know,’ said Lydia. ‘Let’s go where the air is fresh. I was there on Saturday. You don’t need any money, once you get to it, the whole place is one big sideshow and you can see it all for nothing.’

  ‘You can?’

  ‘It’s called Coney Island,’ she said. ‘You ever heard of Coney Island? It’s back over Brooklyn way, so we won’t be late for dinner, and Miss Flood won’t lock us out.’

  ‘She locks you out?’

  ‘Only happened once,’ said Lydia. ‘And it wasn’t my fault I was late, I got lost, I’m new to New York, so what does she expect?’

  ‘You seem to know your way around.’

  ‘What else have I got to do all day? It’s best to get away from the others and their banners,’ she said. ‘I really can’t face walking up and down with “Prepare to Meet Thy God” above my head.’

  *

  The air was sharper at Coney. It was like another country as they stood looking at the water, where the ferry boats were sounding their whistles and the tramp steamers moved through the haze.

  ‘Come on,’ said Lydia, pulling on her arm. ‘Come and be amazed.’

  The boardwalk was busy. Children screamed, men tipped their hats and Beatrice felt her face burning. Girls in stockings and ballet shoes wore fancy white collars, crisp as pastry frills, and a man beside them shouted, ‘Come and join us for the five o’clock show! These girls can dance! They can sing! They can perform acrobatic miracles for you to swoon and sway over!’ Painted boards advertised Mermaids, Elephant Boys, Corn on the Cob. A tattooist from Scotland was hitching up his round pot belly and smoking a cigar. His assistant had his shirt wide open to show the strings of bluebirds that flew around his neck. He had anchors and small dripping hearts stabbed with jewelled daggers. A blue-grey galleon had pride of place on his flat solar plexus.

  ‘Oh my,’ giggled Lydia. ‘Just look at him will you, he’s a living piece of chintz.’

  Beatrice felt dizzy. She could taste the salt water on her lips. Stinging. The chattering voices, the long high-pitched screams droned, and in the distance the booths and curving roller coasters were hanging in the sky; a warm tickly feeling crept ac
ross her stomach.

  ‘Where does this place end?’ She squinted. She could see a woman with gemstones dotted in her hair, her blue cape waving, and her feet invisible as she danced along the boardwalk.

  ‘End? It doesn’t end,’ said Lydia. ‘It stretches. Look over there. Over there you have your Dreamland. You have your Luna Park. This place goes on and on.’

  They stopped for a cheap lemonade. The long polished counter was like a busy road, with its sliding cups and tall glasses, bowls of saltines, coleslaw and spicy fried chicken.

  ‘If only the smell would fill you up,’ said Lydia.

  ‘Are we really in Brooklyn?’

  Lydia smiled. ‘It’s not exactly Renton Street,’ she said, ‘but it says Brooklyn on the map.’

  ‘Will you miss it?’ Beatrice asked. ‘What are you going to do with yourself in Kirksville, Missouri?’

  ‘Stagnate. Unless of course we have to move because of our very shameful circumstances. I can’t get a job, that’s for sure,’ she said, pulling a chunk of ice from her glass and sucking on it. ‘Genteel ladies don’t work. Genteel ladies stay home and embroider things and play the pianoforte and so on.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you doing all that.’

  ‘Look, I might not seem all that genteel to you, but believe me, in Kirksville, Missouri, I’m more than highly refined.’

  Beatrice smiled. ‘I wish you weren’t leaving.’

  ‘Me too, but all good things have to come to an end. Farewell, Miss Flood and the Hotel Galilee! Farewell, Mr Price!’ She said it in the style of a tragedian, the back of her hand pressed against her forehead. ‘Come on, it’s getting late, we’ll miss tonight’s delicacy if we’re not careful, and we’ll go to bed rumbling.’

  ‘Can’t we stay a little longer? I have some money; we could go and see the mermaid.’

  ‘All right,’ she shrugged, ‘who in their right mind would say no to meeting a mermaid?’

  There was a small queue outside the booth where the large painted board showed a mermaid combing her long yellow hair, sitting on a rock. Dripping gold letters proclaimed she was The Siren of the Sea! Stolen for Your Viewing Pleasure by the Sailors Who Fell Under Her Spell …