Astor Place Vintage: A Novel

by Stephanie Lehmann

  “Not much,” my father said from behind the paper. “The tone at the stock exchange seems more cheerful. Lots of talk about recovery.”

  I dabbed a bit of marmalade on top of the butter. “We’ve heard that before.” Just two weeks earlier, Father and I had moved to Manhattan from Cold Spring, a town about two hours north of the city by train. My favorite part of living in our brand-new apartment-hotel was breakfast delivered every morning on a dumbwaiter. Boiled egg, bread basket, pot of coffee, butter, marmalade, copy of the Sun, and a bud vase with sprigs of fresh flowers; no effort required beyond carrying the tray to your table.

  “At any rate,” Father said, closing the paper, “the market closed firm.”

  “Let’s hope it’s a trend.”

  “Don’t you worry, Olive, those bears will be shaken out soon.”

  Like so many others, he’d lost a chunk of money in the market that past March. I didn’t know exactly how much. Father rarely divulged details about his investments, but I had utter confidence in his expertise. He’d always been perfectly responsible when it came to our finances. As a Woolworth’s manager, he earned about ten thousand dollars a year, more than enough for us to live comfortably, and we had no reason to worry about future prospects. With everyone worried about the economy, it was an excellent time to be in the business of selling cheap goods. The Woolworth empire was doing better than ever.

  “Do you have any special plans for today?” my father asked. “Or just taking inventory again?”

  That’s how he referred to my frequent visits to the department stores. I could spend hours analyzing stock and comparing prices. “As a matter of fact,” I said in my most efficient-sounding voice, “I do have more merchandise to inspect.”

  “You really ought to treat yourself to a new gown for the dinner next month.”

  “That’s very generous, Father dear, but I already have some perfectly lovely dresses.”

  Frank Woolworth was planning to throw a party in his Fifth Avenue mansion with Father as a guest of honor. It would give him an excellent opportunity to socialize with the New York executives. But Father seemed more eager for me to mingle with any eligible bachelors who might be in attendance. Though I had nothing against the idea of meeting someone who would sweep me off my feet, past experience suggested that I’d remain planted on the ground. I’d never been in love and wondered if any man would inspire such feelings.

  Truth be told, I’d never been the inspiration for any boys from Cold Spring to fall in love, either. Perhaps I was too tall—or doomed by an urge to prove myself the more intelligent one instead of flirting pleasantly, as I was supposed to.

  “I don’t mean to badger, Olive, but you’re such a pretty girl, and it would seem you don’t want anyone to notice.”

  “You only think I’m pretty because I’m your daughter,” I said with a pout.

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re far too modest. And a new wardrobe is the best way to build up confidence. Take some enjoyment in your new status as a young lady in New York.”

  He couldn’t let go of the idea of my becoming a fashionably decked-out ingenue. I preferred the simplicity of a skirt and waist. Comfort was more important to me than appearance. I didn’t bother with a corset. No point trussing myself up with laces and bones, especially considering my figure, which resembled—or so I’d been told—the proverbial beanpole.

  “You’re very sweet,” I replied, “but I don’t need a shopping spree to feel better about myself.”

  “Thank goodness all my customers don’t feel the way you do. In fact, I’d better finish getting dressed, or I’ll be late.”

  Father hurried off to his bedroom. I poured myself another cup of coffee. Growing up around the Woolworth’s that Father managed had undoubtedly taken some of the thrill out of shopping for me. Over the years, on weekends or after school, I often volunteered to fill in if the store was busy or a girl was out sick. I liked the sense of purpose it gave me and, I suppose, a feeling of superiority over the customers, who seemed so vulnerable as they scoured the aisles for bargains and cheap treasures.

  I much preferred the practicality of working in the store to academics. After I graduated from high school, Father convinced me to spend a year at Miss Hall’s, a finishing school in Lenox, Massachusetts, where I suffered through ladylike classes in deportment, art history, and the proper way to set a table. By the end of my stay, I’d learned one lesson particularly well: I had no talent for the domestic arts. I returned home secure in the knowledge that I was far more likely to succeed in managing a business than a household.

  Now I wanted to learn more about the mind of a customer. What made an object so desirable that someone couldn’t feel content without it? Why did a purchase lose its allure so quickly after being bought? Did people repeat this ritual compulsively in spite of the short-lived satisfaction—or because of it?

  Father returned while buttoning his cuffs. I armed myself at the door with his fedora and coat. I couldn’t help feeling proud of him—fit, trim, and handsome at forty-two, with thick wavy brown hair and a healthy complexion. Though I did so want to please him, I would never manage to conform to his idea of what a young lady ought to be. Indeed, he’d be unhappy to know that I was more intent on taking up a career than finding a husband.

  “I worry about you spending so much time alone,” he said, shrugging on his coat. “It’s a shame we don’t have family here anymore. I mean to track down some old friends, to see if they might introduce you to some young people.”

  “So you’ve promised,” I said with affection, handing him his hat. He grew up in Greenwich Village but hadn’t kept up with his old acquaintances since moving away over twenty years ago. “Please don’t fret about me. You know how thrilled I am to be here.”

  “Perhaps it’s not everything you imagined,” he said, peering into the mirror by the door to smooth his mustache.

  “I’ve barely had a chance to find out.”

  “At any rate,” he said, giving me a kiss on the forehead, “if I’m not too late tonight, we’ll go someplace nice for dinner.”

  “That sounds grand.”

  After closing the door, I sat back down and turned to the “Female—Help Wanted” section. Skimming down the listings, I vacillated between optimism and hopelessness. Father was not completely off the mark about my solitude. Despite the thousands of people surrounding me, I was beginning to feel rather isolated. I didn’t see social engagements as the solution. Once I set my career into motion, that problem would take care of itself.

  Unfortunately, the classifieds were proving as daunting as a love life. There were ads for shopgirls among the listings of stenographers, factory workers, and telephone operators, but my sights were set higher than a position behind a counter. I hoped to become a buyer for one of the department stores. From reading Father’s subscription to Dry Goods Weekly, I knew that many store buyers were women, and within professions open to females, they earned the highest salaries. Although I didn’t presume to be qualified to step right into such a job, surely someone would be seeking an assistant. Yet I hadn’t come across one single listing for an assistant buyer since I’d begun the search.

  Finally, that morning, my eyes landed on an advertisement that I could almost hear shouting directly at me. Seeking assistant buyer, shirtwaist department, apply Macy’s department store.

  I pictured myself meeting with a salesman from Chicago showing me shirtwaists for next season. After we were done, I’d speak with the copywriter about new advertisements for the circular. Then I’d find out if I could go on the next buying trip to Europe.

  Of course, I couldn’t do any of that until I snapped out of my dream world and got the darn job. I went to run my bath. As water gushed out of the shiny nickel-plated spout, I thought of our horrible bathroom back in Cold Spring. The ancient tin-lined tub was encased in a wood box that reminded me of a coffin, and the linoleum floor looked dirty no matter how vigorously it was scrubbed. Now I could enjoy soak
ing in a sparkling clean porcelain tub. The white tile walls gleamed, the water heated almost instantly, and a full-length plate-glass mirror was built in to the door.

  Actually, I could’ve done without the mirror. It had always been easy to avoid looking at my body naked, and now I kept catching glimpses of myself. I’d never felt comfortable unclothed and had no memory of anyone seeing me that way, either. Even my doctor had always let me wear a petticoat and camisole if I had to be examined. By the same token, I’d never seen another person naked. If not for museums, I’d have no idea what lurked under a man’s union suit.

  While luxuriating in the warm water, I debated over what to wear for my interview and decided on a smart navy blue dress that had a matching bolero jacket trimmed with a white band of lace. Thanks to Miss Hall’s, I knew how to look refined when I needed to. The interviewer would see a tall young lady, handsome if not beautiful, with good taste and breeding.

  By the time I finished dressing and was ready to go, my confidence had been replaced by a bad case of nerves. I hastened to my bureau, where I kept a journal hidden inside a muff that used to belong to my mother.

  October 2, 1907

  I’m finally going to my first interview. Must not doubt myself. Why the deuce wouldn’t they hire me? I’m more than qualified—that shall be obvious. I simply need to stay calm and stop being a ninny.

  The elevator took me down to the marble-floored lobby of the Mansfield. The red-haired doorman wished me a good morning. “Cab, miss?”

  “No thank you.”

  I never asked for one, yet he posed the same question every time I stepped outside. Perhaps he disapproved of a young woman walking about the city by herself—or perhaps I imagined his disapproval because I wasn’t used to such freedom. At any rate, it was ridiculous to worry over the doorman’s opinion.

  As I passed the Madison Square Garden, banners for the horse show flapped in the wind. I probably should’ve brought an umbrella. Rain clouds blocked every bit of sun. I continued past an imposing church on the corner and remembered that Aunt Ida’s letter still needed a response. She’d asked which church Father and I had decided to attend. My pious aunt, Father’s younger sister, had come to live with us after my mother’s death. I couldn’t admit to Aunt Ida that we hadn’t bothered going to services since moving to the city.

  Up ahead, the steel framework of the Metropolitan Tower rose to the sky in its odd, half-built magnificence, set to become the tallest building in the world. The construction site blocked the sidewalk with piles of marble and steel, so I crossed the street and cut through Madison Square Park.

  I heard the woman shouting before I saw her. Was she in trouble? Following the voice, I realized someone was making a speech. I found a lady standing up on a rostrum before a small gathering of people. She wore a white tailored suit and a hat with sweeping yellow plumes. Behind her, a yellow banner said: VOTES FOR WOMEN.

  “I implore you not to silence the voices of your loving wives and mothers!”

  I looked around at the crowd, nearly all men, and wondered if her words touched them.

  “Don’t deny your daughters the basic right every citizen of this nation deserves.”

  One young man standing near me threw an apple core that whizzed past the woman’s head. She ignored it and kept on.

  “Nothing shall change unless you join the fight! The future is in your hands!”

  It didn’t seem right that only men could give women the chance to vote. Why should our future be in their hands?

  She raised a clenched fist in the air to conclude, “Give women the power to vote!”

  A few in the crowd jeered, but most applauded politely. As everyone dispersed, I continued to Broadway, exhilarated to be living in the middle of everything. Father liked to complain that the city had gone downhill since his boyhood, but I thought our neighborhood was as lovely as any Parisian boulevard. Not that I’d ever been to Paris, but Miss Hall had taken our class to the art gallery in Pittsfield to see the French impressionists. My dear best friend, Daisy, used to rhapsodize over the beauty of those paintings. She had a talent for drawing and longed to become an accomplished artist.

  Daisy. If only she could be with me now. We’d been inseparable at Miss Hall’s. There was great symmetry to our friendship: She was short, I was tall; she was creative, I was practical; she had a widowed mother, and I had a widowed father. Both of us fostered ideals about female equality, inspired by writers like Charlotte Perkins Gilman and Harriet Martineau. We’d planned to become independent women together. That would require convincing our parents to let us share an apartment in New York. We’d reject the tyranny of marriage and put all our energy into pursuing careers. She’d become a great artist while I succeeded as a businesswoman.

  On the other side of the park, I came to a stop in order to prepare myself for crossing the street. Horns blared, bells rang, and whips cracked at the intersection where Fifth Avenue crisscrossed with Broadway in front of the Flatiron. When a lull in traffic finally came, I stepped off the curb. To my right, taking advantage of the same lull, a rubberneck wagon loaded with sightseers pulled out of its parking space. I sprang back as the driver braked to a stop. The guide sitting up top with the tourists shouted into his megaphone. “Go on, now, miss, make it lively!” I wasn’t sure if he was being courteous or wanted to see if I’d make it across alive.

  Charging into the street, I clamped my hat to my head while dodging a pushcart coming from the left, a delivery truck from the right, and a clump of horse manure down below. After triumphantly reaching the other side, I surged forward with my fellow pedestrians up Broadway. I had to walk quickly to keep up with those around me.

  As it turned out, after we graduated from Miss Hall’s, Daisy spent the summer touring Europe with her mother. When summer was almost over, I received an apologetic letter from her telling me that our plan to live in New York would have to be delayed. She had the opportunity to study art in London for a year at the prestigious Royal Academy. I was delighted for her and miserable for myself. That year had already passed, yet Daisy continued to live in London without any more apologies. Our scheme of sharing an apartment in New York had been a nice fantasy while it lasted.

  I was fast approaching Thirty-fourth Street. Knowing Father’s Woolworth’s was nearby, I couldn’t help myself from a furtive search for his face in the crowd, even though I knew running into him was highly unlikely. After crossing the wide thoroughfare, I joined a stream of women funneling into the double doors of Macy’s. A pink-cheeked man stood behind the information booth. I asked him to direct me to the employment department.

  “Take the moving staircase to the fifth floor,” he said. “Walk to the very back of the store and go through the green door.”

  I thanked him and strode directly toward the escalator, but the sound of a tenor singing a popular tune tempted me to take a detour. I followed his voice to the sheet music counter, where a handsome young man in a black tuxedo sang while playing the piano.

  Come away with me, Lucille, in my merry Oldsmobile …

  Father would appreciate that song; he’d been the first person in Cold Spring to own an automobile. The very week our blacksmith installed a gasoline pump, Father dashed up to Poughkeepsie and bought a Runabout. The machine still sat under the porte cochere back at our house. I knew it had been hard for him to leave his favorite toy behind.

  Down the road of life we’ll fly, automobubbling, you and I …

  Two women standing next to me didn’t let the music disrupt their conversation. I couldn’t stop myself from listening in.

  “My husband is in a frightful state over the stock market,” said one. She wore a picture hat weighed down with artificial fruits. “He keeps threatening we’ll move to the suburbs if it doesn’t go up soon.”

  To the church we’ll swiftly steal, then our wedding bells will peal …

  “Would you go?” asked the other, who wore an egret-plumed toque.

  “I’d kill myself fir
st.”

  Their hats bobbed up and down in agreement.

  You can go far as you like with me in my merry Oldsmobile …

  I would’ve liked to stay and admire the handsome singer, but the morning was slipping past; I forced myself to walk directly to the moving staircase and began my journey to the fifth floor.

  AMANDA

  AFTER LEAVING MRS. Kelly, I had time to kill before my next appointment. My birthday gift from my best friend, Molly, was an appointment to see a hypnotist, which hopefully would help me get over my sleep problem. I was skeptical, but she was a big fan of this guy—a legitimate MD who helped her quit smoking. God knows, lecturing Molly on how smoking would give her cancer, wrinkles, and a voice like Popeye had never done any good, so maybe there was something to it. At the very least it might be entertaining.

  His office was a few blocks away, on MacDougal Street across from Washington Square Park. I strolled down Fifth Avenue, glad to be out on a warm, not too humid Tuesday afternoon. This was the second day of what counted as my “weekend.” Saturdays and Sundays were the busy times in my shop. I decided to relax in the park and take another look at that journal. An empty bench had a good view of the Washington Square Arch. Just as I opened up the journal, a stroller-pushing mom sat down next to me. She beamed with pride over her baby, so I offered my admiration. “What a cutie. How old?”

  “She’s six months.”

  The baby’s mouth widened into a charming toothless smile. “She’s adorable.” So adorable that it hurt. I didn’t need reminding as I clung to my thirties that I’d yet to reproduce. For no apparent reason, the baby’s smile turned into a grimace, and she began wailing like a banshee.

  “It’s time for her nap,” the mom said miserably, “but she refuses to sleep.”

  I offered her a look of sympathy; at least I was free to escape. Checking my cell phone as if a pressing appointment demanded my presence, I put the journal back in my bag and wished them a good day.