Astor Place Vintage: A Novel

by Stephanie Lehmann

  I worked my way through the collars and cuffs, suspenders and hose, and freshly laundered button-down shirts. Dead people had no privacy. My own belongings would be left behind one day. If I never had children, who would take care of my things? Next I tackled his closet. Dress suits, dinner jackets, shoes … Then I opened the drawers of his desk. I couldn’t bear to look at the papers, receipts, and ledgers—anything with his handwriting—so it all went straight into the trunk.

  After that was done, it seemed like a good time to stop for lunch. Eating in the Mansfield sounded dreadful. I’d find a nearby restaurant.

  On my way out, the red-haired doorman spoke in a confidential whisper. “Just wanted to say I’m sorry ’bout your father, miss. And if I can be of any help …”

  “That’s very kind, thank you.”

  I ended up at Child’s restaurant on Twenty-third Street. The chain had spread through the city like weeds—or dandelions, depending on whom you asked. Other women sat at tables by themselves, so at least I didn’t have to feel self-conscious. After ordering a plate of hash and eggs, I watched the people passing by on the other side of the plate-glass window. I perceived them all as lucky, protected by their circles of friends and family while going about their routines, blasé about living in the city. Would I ever become one of them?

  —

  When I returned to the Mansfield, the doorman sidled up to me again. “I wanted to mention, it happens I know someone who’s got a shop for cast-off clothes. If you’re interested, I can arrange for her to come by. I don’t mean to interfere, but she can take some of those extras off your hands.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll be shipping my father’s things up to Cold Spring.”

  “Thought you might have some extras of your own, too.”

  The forced, offhand expression on his face made me realize that he knew I was financially ruined. The staff undoubtedly gossiped with zest about the tenants.

  “I don’t think so, but thank you for mentioning it.”

  “She pays cash,” he added, “on the spot.”

  I continued on to the elevator. The idea of selling off Father’s fine furnishings made me cringe. Almost all our clothes were tailor-made. Some secondhand shop woman couldn’t possibly offer anywhere near a fair price.

  As soon as I was back in the room I called the shipping company. When the man told me the estimated shipping costs, I repeated the staggering sum out loud, thanked him very much, and rang off. It made no sense to pay good money to ship Father’s belongings only to burden Aunt Ida with disposing of them.

  I telephoned down to the lobby and asked to speak with the doorman. A minute later, he was on the other end of the line. “You want me to send for Matilda?”

  “I realized it probably would be more convenient.”

  —

  A hefty woman with a big square face, Matilda held up each item for inspection. “I’ll give you a total at the end—take it or leave it.” As she worked her way through Father’s clothes, I began to pack my own trunk. The desire to purge myself of everything and start fresh took hold of me. Even my favorite frocks seemed like a burden from the past.

  Except I’d be foolish to give up my lovely clothes.

  Or was it foolish to hold on to them when I needed the cash?

  “I think I’d like to sell some of my own clothing, too,” I announced.

  “Just make up yer mind,” she said. “I ain’t got all day.”

  I kept only necessities: two skirts, three shirtwaists, three day dresses, two nightgowns, underclothing, wrapper, my new tweed suit, a pair of oxfords, high button boots, pumps, slippers, wool coat, summer coat, fur stole, muff, gloves, and two—no, three—of my finer dresses. I managed to fit two hats inside my biggest hatbox; the third I would wear.

  After looking through everything, Matilda announced an amount. I’d hoped for more and countered with a higher sum.

  “You wanna bargain with me?” Her voice boomed with incredulousness. “A poor old woman? I got a family to feed! You rich people always tryin’ to cheat people like me. I gotta make a living too. You think someone else’ll do better, then I’ll be on my way.”

  “No,” I said, “it’s fine. I’ll take what you offered.” So much for my earlier finessing of Mr. Redstone.

  Despite her victory, Matilda didn’t soften one bit. “Look at this heap a clothes,” she said, as if I were forcing her to take more than she wanted. “I can’t carry all that myself. I’ll have to come back tonight with my boy.” She started out the door.

  “Do you know what time you’ll be returning?”

  “I said tonight, didn’t I?”

  After she left, I buried my face in one of father’s wool jackets and tried to find comfort in the scent of tobacco and aftershave. A clever business that Matilda had—taking advantage of the disadvantage of others.

  November 4, 1907

  I’m tempted not to let that woman back up. I could simply tell the doorman to send her away. But no, I shan’t change my mind. I can’t afford to be sentimental. Not now, when the only true asset I have is my freedom. Things do have a way of taking possession of people … if one lets them.

  I went back to my packing, filling the shelf of my trunk with toiletry articles, sewing supplies, a mosaic box in which I kept trinkets and hatpins. Too bad I’d never gone in for jewelry, or I might’ve had something to pawn. My heart locket, the only piece I cared about, hung securely around my neck.

  Matilda eventually returned with a glum-faced brawny son. He didn’t say a word while helping her bundle up the clothes in paper wrapping. When they were done, she peeled my money off a wad of bills. Matilda might be poor, but compared to me, she was flush. I wondered how much time would pass before anyone handed me money again.

  “By the way,” I asked, “do you know of a respectable place where I could get a room? I need a place to stay right away.”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  Her son spoke up for the first time. “What about Mrs. Craven?”

  “You stupid?” she said. “This lady don’t wanna joint like that.”

  He hung his head.

  “Perhaps you could tell me where it is, just in case.” I felt bad for him and wanted to show my appreciation. She told me an address over on First Avenue. I wrote it down and thanked him for mentioning it.

  After they took everything away, I noticed Father’s cigar box on his desk. I lifted the top; a whiff of tobacco went up my nose. Neat rows of cigars nestled inside. He’d never forgive me for throwing them down the garbage chute. I stuffed the box inside my already jam-packed trunk.

  Finally, I’d finished my horrid tasks and could escape to bed. I washed up quickly, looking forward to lying down and freeing my mind from this new dreadful reality. Snuggling under the blanket, I thought surely I’d fall right off to sleep.

  A half hour later, wide awake, I stared up at the ceiling. I couldn’t stop thinking about Father’s cigar box. It was foolish to take them with me. They’d make all my clothes smell of tobacco, and the sight of them would only make me sad. Missing Father hurt enough; I shouldn’t suffer over missing his belongings, too.

  I threw off the blanket, got out of bed, put on my wrapper, and took the cigar box from my trunk. I couldn’t help staring at the two women with their secret. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so awful to throw out the cigars and keep the box.

  I removed the cigars from the box and shook out the remaining bits of tobacco. Then I went back to my trunk, pulled out the shabby little wicker basket that held my sewing supplies, and transferred all of its contents into the cigar box. Now that the basket was empty, I filled it with the cigars. For my final act of the day, I padded barefoot down the hallway to the garbage chute. After dropping the wicker basket inside, I waited for the faint, dull thud that let me know it hit bottom.

  Astor Place where Eighth Street and Lafayette Street converge, 1892

  Wanamaker’s Department Store postcard of original building and newer extension />
  Siegel-Cooper department store

  Sightseeing tourists, circa 1904

  AMANDA

  ANOTHER LOUSY NIGHT’S sleep. Most of it was spent perusing the entire inventory of vintage fabrics on Etsy while entertaining an absurdly impractical idea of buying up yardage and starting a sideline business, sewing and selling my own line of clothes. Maybe in my next lifetime.

  At around seven in the morning, I got up for some breakfast and read more of Olive’s journal. It seemed like her life was falling apart in sync with mine. Then I went back to bed. I slept for a couple more hours and then woke up for a second breakfast. I still had a few hours before opening the store at one o’clock. Pretty much all the East Village slept until noon, so there was no point in opening any earlier, which was a good thing. Having my mornings free went a long way toward maintaining my sanity.

  I needed to call Chuck to straighten out the lease, but I wouldn’t be able to sound professional in my pajamas, so I tried to decide on what to wear. Either I’d gained some weight, or absolutely every piece of clothing I owned had shrunk. I voted for the latter. Nevertheless, I resorted to my fat jeans. Searching for a cute top, I came across a Mexican peasant blouse with colorful birds embroidered down the front. It had come in a batch of ethnic tops from a wholesaler, and I’d been meaning to deal with a small cigarette burn near the hem before adding it to inventory. One advantage to the used clothing business: You could wear your stock without compromising the condition. After slipping on a white tank top, I dabbed at the cigarette burn with a bleach pen and then blotted it with a wet towel before laying it out to dry. If the stain still showed after the bleach dried, I’d camouflage it by turning the hem up a notch.

  With that done, I was ready to call Chuck and find out my fate. I took a deep breath and dialed the number. As it rang, I geared up to be aggressive but not alienating. As it continued to ring, I tried to decide how detailed my voice mail should be. Then he picked up.

  “Yeah, this is Chuck.”

  In a clear and calm voice, I explained my confusion over the letter. “I assume it’s a mistake, since that’s not what we last discussed.”

  “Right, uh, yeah,” he said. “That was my understanding at the time. However, I’m sure you know nothing is official until it’s in writing.”

  I did know. “So what are you saying?”

  “It’s not a mistake.”

  “I don’t understand. I’ve been a good tenant. I’ve built up my business. I pay my rent on time.”

  “Rents have gone way up since you signed your lease. That’s a destination neighborhood for restaurants and bars these days, and I’ve got clients willing to pay top dollar.”

  “Then I’d like to speak with the landlord.” On my lease, the landlord was identified as Stella Realty Corporation, with no address or phone.

  “That won’t be possible.”

  “Considering I both live and work in the building, I think I deserve some consideration. What if I’m able to match what the others are willing to pay?”

  “I doubt that.”

  So did I, but I continued, “Would you please give me the landlord’s contact information?”

  “No disrespect, but the landlord hires me so he doesn’t have to deal with these problems. Look, you’ve been getting a good deal for that location, be thankful for that. Now it’s over, and you have to be flexible. Reasonably priced rentals can be had if you’re willing to move farther east.”

  “How far, Williamsburg?”

  “You don’t have to cross the river,” he said, ignoring my sarcasm. “Prices are still reasonable on the other side of Avenue B.”

  “Moving is expensive and time-consuming, and I’m bound to lose customers. The disruption could easily destroy my business.”

  “It’s hard to keep a small business going, even in good times. Let me know if you want to look at some properties. I might be able to help you out.”

  I refrained from thanking him for nothing and hung up.

  My current retail space—five hundred square feet for eighteen hundred a month—had pretty much fallen into my lap. This time I’d have to start my search on good old Craigslist. Skimming down the listings, I saw that most places had square footage way too large for my needs. Hardly anything was under a thousand square feet. One place on First Avenue asked seven thousand for five hundred square feet. Another broker asked twenty-five hundred for six hundred square feet plus a basement, but that was way over on Avenue C. As feared, I’d have to pay more for less.

  A new space would need renovations. That would cost. Movers would cost. I’d have to come up with a deposit on top of the rent. Start all over grooming customers.

  I went through my alternatives. Give up the business; start a recycled-T-shirt shop in my father’s ecovillage; go back to managing someone else’s store; become a shopgirl at Macy’s; crawl back to Jeff and beg for more help.

  No. I shouldn’t even think that thought.

  Back to the listings. One got me all excited—a jewelry maker looking to share six hundred square feet for a thousand a month in an ideal location on Ninth Street and Second Avenue. That could be a solution—presuming she wasn’t insane—and sharing could bring in more foot traffic. I clicked on the link and saw the ad was for a space on the third floor. Darn.

  But that gave me an idea. Molly didn’t open her button shop until one o’clock, so there was a chance I could get her to meet for coffee. I called her cell.

  “Hey,” she said. “Happy day after your birthday.”

  “Thanks! And thanks again for my session with Dr. Markoff. Do you have time to get together this morning? We need to catch up. Also, I’m having a little crisis I need to discuss.”

  “I gather your birthday dinner didn’t go well?”

  “It didn’t even happen, but don’t worry, this crisis has nothing to do with Jeff. I’d really like to run something by you.”

  “Okay. Where should we meet?”

  “Remember De Robertis?” We used to go to that café all the time, back in our FIT days.

  “Of course! I haven’t been there in years.”

  “Me, neither. I always forget it’s there.”

  “Me, too. Let’s do it. See you there in half an hour?”

  “Perfect.”

  We hung up, and I took a look at the peasant blouse. Victory. The bleach had dried, pretty much, and the cigarette burn was history.

  On my way out, I grabbed the journal and stuffed it in my hobo bag. After seeing Molly, I’d probably go straight to the store. Maybe I’d want to read between customers. Or maybe not. I really couldn’t take much more bad news.

  OLIVE

  DURING BREAKFAST, I studied the listings for rooms advertised in the paper. Some specified gentlemen or couples only. It didn’t appear to be the custom to announce the rent. I hoped to stay in familiar territory but had no idea if that would be possible. The Martha Washington Hotel allowed women only, but they undoubtedly charged more than I ought to spend. The Seville, an elegant beaux arts hotel that stood kitty-corner to the Mansfield, would also be too expensive. I had no choice but to walk around to the addresses in the paper. After finishing breakfast I opened the Siegel-Cooper box. At least I could look smart in my new suit.

  I soon discovered that the Mansfield’s stance on renting to women was the norm. Smart-looking or not, I couldn’t get anyone to consider me without a personal reference; anyone who would, offered a room too squalid to bear.

  It occurred to me that I ought to ask for a reference from someone at Woolworth’s—perhaps the executive who appeared at my father’s funeral. Returning to the Mansfield, I telephoned the business office and asked to speak with him. Before long, I was pleading my case and trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

  The man told me he couldn’t write a letter of reference for anyone who hadn’t been an employee. “And,” he added, “though we’ve met briefly, I can’t squarely say I know you personally. Not that I doubt your character.” />
  “But my father gave so many years of service to Mr. Woolworth. And your help would make all the difference.”

  “It’s nothing against you. Just Mr. Woolworth’s policy, that’s all.”

  I thanked him and rang off. Damn Woolworth and his policies.

  Then I remembered the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Didn’t Father say they couldn’t fill their rooms? The friendly woman who answered the telephone said they did indeed have a vacancy. When I gave my name to reserve it, she asked if I traveled alone. “We can’t accommodate unescorted women, you see, ’specially on such short notice. We’re a high-class hotel and have to be careful.”

  “I should hope so,” I said, employing my haughtiest tone. “I’ll be with my husband, Charles Westcott.”

  “Surely. Then we’re all set, Mrs. Westcott.”

  —

  The red-haired doorman helped load my belongings into a cab and wished me good luck. I thanked him for his help and pressed a coin into his hand. Less than five minutes later, the cab pulled up to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, a few blocks away, and the porter began to unload my bags. A red carpet led to a short man with wiry gray hair. His thin lips disappeared under his gray wiry mustache. “May I help you?”

  “I have a reservation under the name of Charles Westcott.”

  “You’re Mrs. Westcott?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Welcome to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I’ll be happy to check you in when Mr. Westcott arrives.”

  “Thank you, but I’d prefer going directly to my room.”

  “I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to give you the room until your husband arrives.”

  “That might not be for a few hours.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to have a refreshment in the tearoom. Or do some shopping? Some of the stores are open late, and we can hold your luggage behind the desk. I’m sure you understand. It’s for your own protection, too.”

  “Please, it’s possible that my husband won’t be arriving until tomorrow, and I’m horribly exhausted and nearly …” My voice choked with frustration. I couldn’t believe my earnest request might be denied simply because I was a woman alone.