“I’m sorry,” he said without sorrow. “There are many more hotels in this city. I have no doubt you’ll be able to find a suitable one. You might try the Martha Washington.”
Obviously, my ruse had failed. “Certainly you can see I’m a perfectly respectable woman. Perhaps you might call the Hotel Mansfield, where I’ve been staying with my father. He just passed away, you see. The manager would be happy to vouch for me.”
“Then perhaps you should go back there for the night.”
My cheeks flamed as I followed the red carpet back through the lobby. The doorman signaled for the porter to bring my luggage back to the curb. “Could you please call me a cab?” I asked.
“Sorry, miss, I’m only here to serve our—”
“Never mind.” I stepped off the curb and hailed one myself. While the driver loaded my baggage, I wondered if the last train had already left for Cold Spring. I might end up spending the night on a bench in the station.
There was one last possibility. Reaching into my handbag, I found the paper with the place Matilda’s son had suggested. I gave the cabdriver the address on First Avenue and prayed it wouldn’t be too dreadful.
—
An El train thundered past as I rang the doorbell of a redbrick tenement. Little did I know just a few weeks ago, while gorging on pastries at the Caffe Pugliese, that I’d soon be desperate for a room just seven blocks up the same avenue. A dour matron answered the door. “What d’ya want?”
“Mrs. Craven? I was hoping you might have a room available.”
“Mighty late to be lookin’, ain’t it?”
“I’m sorry. Matilda gave me your address. I’m looking for a room.” Matilda, my only reference.
Mrs. Craven agreed to show me her “last” room. I stepped into the parlor with dismay. Cobwebs draped the corners of the mud-yellow walls, and plaster dangled in peels from the ceilings. I tried not to breathe in the moldy smell as she went behind a desk to select a latchkey from a locked drawer.
“Six dollars a week,” she said, leading me up the staircase, “in advance.”
I prayed the cab wouldn’t disappear with all my worldly belongings. “Would it be possible to pay by the day?”
“What sorta place you think this is?”
“I only ask because I’m unsure of my plans. A week is fine.”
I followed her down a wood-slat hallway that sloped sideways, like a shipwreck. “Water closet down the hall,” she said, stopping in front of a room and inserting the key. It faced the street and the El tracks.
“Do you have something facing the back, by any chance?”
“Told you.” She pushed the door open. “Last room. Yer lucky to get this.”
The furnishings consisted of a cot, a tiny table with one chair, a narrow dresser and washstand, a small coal stove for heat, and a kerosene lamp for light. On the wall, a calendar with an illustration of a white puppy with black spots would shoulder the burden of cheering me up. Two flimsy gauze curtains provided the only privacy. I could practically reach out and touch the train tracks outside the window. But with my trunk down in the cab and nowhere else to go, I didn’t feel inclined to haggle. “This will be fine, thank you.”
I paid Mrs. Craven six dollars and went downstairs to pay the driver, who demanded an extra ten cents when I asked him to carry my trunk upstairs.
Left alone in the room, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to touch anything, especially the bed, and couldn’t bring myself to unpack. I needed to use the water closet—there was no way around that—so I decided to get it over with. I went down the hall and locked the door. While relieving myself, I tried not to breathe and covered my eyes so I could pretend filth didn’t surround me. Someone tried the door.
“Just a minute!” Thank god I had locked it.
Soon enough there was banging again. “What’ya doin in there,” a man’s voice growled, “a number two?”
A Sears catalog hung from a nail in the wall. I tore out a page. Before using it, I noticed an illustration of a black revolver that cost $4.95. It came with a pearl handle for a dollar extra. The buyer could return it after three months if not pleased. You could buy it, shoot someone, and return it for a refund. Unless you killed yourself. No refund then.
After pulling the chain, I watched the water swirl sluggishly until, eventually, thank goodness, it went down. I avoided making eye contact with the man waiting. What had become of my life?
Even though it was already getting dark, I decided to venture outside to find something to eat. I searched for a restaurant along First Avenue, but every place was too seedy for a woman alone. I thought of the Caffe Pugliese but knew I wouldn’t be happy gorging on sfogliatelle in that smoke-filled room. Turning onto Fourteenth Street, I passed cheap shops and penny arcades. Dozens of homeless men lined up in front of a bakery for day-old bread. When a Child’s appeared on the corner of Third Avenue, I sped toward the entrance with relief. The brightly lit restaurant appeared almost identical to the one up on Twenty-third. Stepping inside, I felt the comfort of a familiar place.
The waitress led me to a table in the back. I ordered a chicken pot pie. To my surprise, it tasted excellent. Either the cook had great skill or I was simply ravenous. Unfortunately, before I was done, a man sat down at the next table and tried to engage me in conversation. I gave him every reason to believe I was deaf and dumb, but he persisted. I abandoned any hope of enjoying my meal and finished quickly. While leaving the restaurant, I avoided looking toward him. On the sidewalk, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he hadn’t followed.
Night had fallen. Fourteenth Street now crawled with a rougher crowd, seeking entertainment in the dance halls and nickelodeons. On the corner, two women stood in front of the glow of a shopwindow. “Lost your way, dearie?” one of them said as I turned up Second Avenue.
Rushing past a group of men loitering and laughing in front of a saloon, I continued straight through Stuyvesant Park and then regretted it. The darkness threatened to swallow me up. Footsteps came from behind, and I glanced back over my shoulder. A stranger followed.
“How do ya do?” he asked.
I picked up my pace, but that brought me farther inside the park, where the arc light on the corner didn’t reach at all.
“Like to get a drink, miss?”
I kept going, searching ahead for Seventeenth Street. Why had I been so foolish to come this way? I’d almost made it when the man came up beside me, matching my strides. “Miss. I asked a question. Ya got a customer. How much?”
Did all men assume women out alone at night were for sale? Well, why shouldn’t they? After all, I’d never been out by myself at night before.
He put his hand on my arm. I shook it off.
He grabbed my wrist. “Hey, girlie, what you—”
“Leave me alone!” With my free hand, I pulled out my hatpin. I’d stab him with it—plunge it right into his eyeball.
He grinned. “You think yer gonna hurt me with that?”
I drew my hand back, but he smacked my fist. The hatpin flew to the ground. I jerked my wrist free as he laughed and spit at my face. “Dirty piece of trash.”
As he walked off, I wiped my cheek with my sleeve. I would’ve scoured off my own skin if I could.
“Miss?”
Another one!
“Hungry, miss, I’m hungry.”
I rushed up to the sidewalk, crossed the street, and turned east to walk the long block toward First Avenue, but he’d leeched on to me.
“A nickel’s all I ask.”
I couldn’t give him money; I might be a beggar myself soon enough.
“Please, miss? I won’t bother you or nuthin’. Just want a cupacoffee.”
When I turned up First Avenue, he stopped following, yelling out an obscenity. Finally, I reached my block and the scant comfort of Mrs. Craven’s front door.
November 5, 1907
The city used to tempt me with the promise of rescuing me from my past. Now Cold Spring
tempts me with rescuing me from my future. My old bedroom sounds grand at the moment. Perhaps I’m completely misguided and ought to be doing everything I can to help Aunt Ida keep the house. I suppose that would mean forgetting my ambitions and marrying some man for his money. That would give Father a good laugh.
Exhaustion allowed me to let my skin touch the sheets without cringing. God only knew how long ago they’d been washed. A train sped past. My window offered a direct view of the passengers whizzing by. Some people sat slumped over, fast asleep in their seats. I wondered if their bedrooms were quieter than mine.
—
A newsboy sold the morning papers in front of the entrance to the El. I bought one and took it to breakfast at the coffee shop down the street. After ordering eggs and toast, I turned straight to the employment section and skimmed down the listings. Factory workers, laundresses, household servants … not one single advertisement for a shopgirl. The day loomed before me. I couldn’t even hope for an arrogant employment manager to turn me away for lacking a reference.
I finished my greasy egg and lingered over a second cup of coffee with no idea where to go or what to do. When the waitress asked for the third time if I’d be needing anything else, I paid my bill and left to walk aimlessly up the avenue. Ahead of me, a mother held hands with her little girl. When they turned west on Twenty-third Street, I followed. How lovely that must feel to have your child’s small hand tucked within your own; how reassuring to feel your mother’s firm grip. My life could’ve been so different! Why did I have to be so unlucky?
The mother and daughter kept walking past the Eden Musee, the dime museum famous for its wax figures and a chamber of horrors. I stopped to look at a wax ticket taker by the entrance and considered going in. It would be a silly waste of time, but at least I could forget about myself for a while. A deep male voice interrupted my thoughts. “Welcome.”
It sounded like Father.
“Allow me to tell your fortune.”
A fortune-telling machine stood by the box office. Inside a glass booth was the bust of a dark-skinned man wearing a gold turban. I walked toward him.
“Welcome,” he repeated, sweeping his mechanical hand over a crystal ball. “Allow me to tell your fortune.”
Feeling sheepish, I inserted a penny.
“Thank you,” the mannequin said. “Your fortune will be arriving soon.”
I waited for the machine to enlighten me. A small white card slid out from a slot into a metal holder: The future is in your hands.
I scowled at the useless statement and was about to put the card back in the holder to save the next person a penny. His black eyes did seem to be staring at me, though, so I slipped it into my bag. My future seemed to be, if anything, completely out of my hands. I couldn’t think of how to make use of my afternoon, much less my life.
Then I thought of a place I could go. The reading room in Altman’s was lovely and peaceful, with comfortable easy chairs and free newspapers and magazines. Perhaps the chance to feel human again would help me come up with some sort of plan. I proceeded up Fifth Avenue to Thirty-fourth Street, relieved to at least appear as if I had purpose.
Entering Altman’s, I appreciated the sedate atmosphere, which previously had struck me as dull. I took the elevator directly to the eighth floor and entered the reading room, just as I recalled, with thick red carpeting, mahogany wainscoting, and large windows letting in lots of light. The loudest sound was that of the occasional page being turned. Unfortunately, the easy chairs were all occupied; I had to settle for a seat at one of the writing desks.
The store provided customers with complimentary stationery, so I set a sheet in front of me and attempted to write Aunt Ida a letter. My pen hovered over the paper. I couldn’t bring myself to deface the blank page with an account of my miserable time thus far. The stationery was really quite nice, with the store’s logo and address engraved at the top. I imagined telling my aunt I was writing to her from my desk at Altman’s, where I’d just been hired as a secretary. Anything would be better than the truth.
A woman sitting near me began to gather her things. Seeing my chance for an easy chair, I decided my letter writing could wait. I tucked a sheet of stationery into a complimentary envelope and was slipping it into my bag when I noticed the card from the mechanical gypsy. The future is in your hands. I was about to toss it in the trash when I noticed the advertisement printed on the flip side. Siegel-Cooper department store. Real satisfaction by good merchandise, fair dealing and prompt service. I turned the card over again. The future is in your hands.
An idea came to me. Could I get away with it? I hated to be dishonest, but I hated the desperation of my situation even more. I took an extra sheet of paper and envelope, put them in my bag, and left the reading room as another woman sat down to relax in the empty easy chair.
From the store, I hurried back to Mrs. Craven’s, stopping only to make a telephone call from a drugstore on First Avenue. I rang Altman’s and asked for the name of the employment manager.
“Thomas Porter. Would you like me to put you through?”
“Yes, please.”
As she made the connection, I hung up. Then I went up to my room and sat down at the tiny table. In my neatest handwriting, on the Altman’s stationery, I composed a highly flattering letter for my services as a counter girl in the notions department the previous year. Clenching my jaw, I signed Thomas Porter’s name.
—
The man at the information booth in Siegel-Cooper directed me to a lift in the back that would take me to the employment department on the third floor. A receptionist had me fill out an employment card and then directed me to the anteroom of another office, where I was pleased to see only two other women waiting. Since no position had been advertised, perhaps the competition wouldn’t be so brutal. Such a huge store, employing literally thousands of people—positions had to open up all the time. Barely ten minutes had passed when a bearded, heavyset man with steel-gray eyes called me into his office. As he read over my application and letter of reference, I stared at a photograph of his grim wife and six children on the desk.
“Live with your parents?” he asked.
“My parents have both passed away.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“And how,” he asked, “do you intend to manage on your own? Most of our girls live with their parents—or find other means of support.”
Were those cold eyes leering at me? “I assure you, I’ll need no other means of support.” Not that I had any idea how I should manage. Find someplace even worse than where I lived now? “My aunt is letting me stay with her, so I shan’t have to worry about paying rent.” It wasn’t exactly a lie; if this didn’t go well, I’d probably be back in Cold Spring soon enough.
He scowled while giving my reference a look-over. Perhaps he was friends with Thomas Porter. Everyone in the business probably knew one another. He could tell the signature had been forged, knew the stationery was from the reading room, would accuse me of fraud and call store security.
“Sorry,” he said, handing back the letter. “You wouldn’t be suitable.”
“Are you sure? I can’t tell you how much I need this job, sir.”
“Your need is irrelevant. My concern is the store’s needs, and the only position open right now is for a girl experienced in toiletries.”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, practically leaping from my chair, “I know all about selling toiletries from before I was at Altman’s. My father managed a Woolworth’s, and I helped all the time after school and on weekends. One of my favorite sections was toiletries. I studied the labels more than my schoolbooks.”
“That’s well and good,” he said, “but I—”
“Soap, for instance. Different brands of soap are made from a variety of ingredients: oil, glycerin, tallow, tar … It’s not that one type is better than another. It depends on your skin. Is it oily, dry, both? Even that can change depending on the weather, so you ha
ve to switch over as needed. There are so many effective products available these days that no woman needs to suffer with skin problems as long as she—”
“Stop!” He put the palm of his hand up between us. “I’ve heard enough. The position pays seven dollars per week. Are you available tomorrow?”
Seven dollars? I tried not to show my dismay and didn’t dare ask for more. “I’m available right now if you need me.”
“Tomorrow will do. You’ll need to supply your own black skirt and a white shirtwaist. Just as you have on now would be acceptable, as long as it’s nothing showy. Your job is to sell, not to be noticed. Take care not to use the customer entrance on Sixth Avenue, please. Employees use the side doors on Eighteenth Street. Don’t forget to punch in. Eight o’clock sharp. You’ll be fined a nickel for every ten minutes you’re late. Tell the guard it’s your first day, and he’ll assign you a number and a locker. You’ll report to the classroom for your training in the morning, and in the afternoon you’ll work the floor.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. “You won’t regret it.” I rose from my chair, prepared to shake his hand, but he was already dipping a pen in his silver inkwell. As I made my way out to the street, I wasn’t sure whether to smile with triumph or break down in tears.
AMANDA
ON THE WAY to De Robertis, I passed through Astor Place—or Disastor Place, as I’d come to call it. Rampant building had uglified the historic intersection where Eighth Street, Lafayette, and Fourth Avenue came together. A towering glass high-rise condominium dwarfed Cooper Union. Starbucks dueled with Dunkin’ Donuts. Yet another NYU dorm had sprung up. Couldn’t they see that the past should be preserved? My blood pressure spiked when I passed an empty lot I hadn’t noticed before. That meant another tenement had been razed to the ground. Some high-rise or chain store was moving in. Why the hell wasn’t this area landmarked? The East Village was being destroyed.
Olive would say I was being too sentimental. Maybe she’d be right. New York was constantly changing and growing, and if there was no modern architecture, what buildings would represent this generation in a hundred years? Still, we had to make sure at least some of the past was preserved, too.
Astor Place Vintage: A Novel Page 13
