When I reached First Avenue, I took it in with fresh eyes. I’d never realized that an El train had run along this stretch. I couldn’t help but look for the Italian café where Olive met Ralph, as if an old bakery could’ve escaped my attention all these years. The Pugliese didn’t magically appear on the block, but I did notice a new Pilates studio and resolved to look up their schedule online.
An orgasmic display of assorted wedding cakes filled the windows of De Robertis. Happy man-and-wife figurines stood atop three-and four-tiered masterpieces. I opened the door, and it hit me: the heavenly scent of anise. I inhaled deeply through my nose to get the full effect.
A sign on the wall proudly proclaimed that De Robertis had been there since 1904. Another sign announced they now had Wi-Fi. The young guy working behind the counter wore an Abercrombie T-shirt and a puka-shell necklace. He stared up at another recent modification to the decor: a flat-screen TV.
After feasting my eyes on the glass showcases crammed with rows of desserts, I walked back to see if Molly had arrived. She wasn’t there, so I inspected some photographs on the wall commemorating De Robertis’s past. I’d seen them before—the display had been there so long, it qualified to be photographed for posterity as well. The family matriarch and patriarch were prominently positioned at the top in separate portraits: a beautiful dark-haired woman and a handsome, clean-shaven man. Underneath were shots of the store interior. I checked the old against the new, as I was inclined to do. Same tile floor with a star design in the center; same tile walls with a border of blue and gold mosaic; same pressed-tin ceiling; same cut-glass doors in the back. The bottom photograph featured a group of five mustached waiters in long white aprons, standing in front of the store’s plate-glass window. The awning said CAFFE PUGLIESE.
Pugliese?
I spun around and blurted out my surprise to the guy behind the counter. “Pugliese?”
After a moment he wrenched his face from a tennis match. “ ’Scuse me?”
“Did this used to be the Caffe Pugliese?”
“Yeah, my great-grandfather Paolo named it after his hometown in Italy. When Grandpa took over, he changed the name to De Robertis.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said, his gaze already aimed back at the screen.
So this was the same place. Had I known that somewhere in my head? Not that it was such a big deal. After all, I’d suggested De Robertis because it reminded me of Olive’s café. I pictured her sitting in the crowded, smoke-filled dining room, happy to be with her father, gorging on pastries, flirting with Ralph—or trying to.
I hoped the pastries hadn’t gone downhill since my last visit, which could’ve been maybe ten years ago. The decor was pretty much the same as I remembered, but shabbier. Only one other patron, a young woman typing on a laptop, sat in the dining room. I turned back to the photographs and stared into the eyes of a waiter. Was he the one who called Olive a bella donna?
“Sorry I’m late!”
I turned around to the welcome sight of Molly. She wore an olive-green jersey dress with small fan-shaped mother-of-pearl buttons that she’d sewn on around the collar. Her golden-brown hair was pulled up into a bun. “You aren’t late. I just walked fast.”
“That top is great,” she said as we hugged. “Where’d you get it?”
“Those new wholesalers I’m using.” We took a table, and I nodded at her bracelet. “One of your creations?”
“Yeah, I’m currently obsessed with clear Lucite buttons from the fifties.”
She held it out for me to take a closer look. Each of the square chunky buttons was translucent, with a decoration inside. “How did they get the designs embedded inside the Lucite?”
“There are different techniques. Some have carvings in the back that are painted and laminated. Some have metal inlays, some have pearl. This one has a real tiny flower inside. I was reading how they made buttons out of Lucite after World War II, from the leftover stands they used to mount guns on. It’s bulletproof.”
“Wow, that could come in handy. It’s gorgeous. And I love your neckline, with the little fans.”
“Thanks.”
Molly had always been obsessed with vintage buttons. She started out selling them online and once floated the idea of partnering up on a shop, but I wasn’t into it at the time. When her grandmother died and left her some money, Molly did it on her own and hired a handsome guy to handle the business end; it worked out so well, he became her manager and eventually her husband.
“So tell me.” Molly sat up straight with anticipation. “How did it go with Dr. Markoff?”
“He was great, but I flunked. I hardly slept last night.”
“Darn. Maybe you need to go back a few times for it to work.”
“Maybe,” I said, trying to sound like I believed it.
The great-grandson arrived with menus. “Can I get you ladies something to drink?” he asked. “Latte, espresso, cappuccino …”
“I’ll have a latte.”
“Same,” Molly said. “And I’ll have an almond horn.”
“I’ll have a sfogliatelle.”
We handed him our menus. As he walked away, I rubbed my tired eyes and groaned.
“Okay,” Molly said, “so you haven’t slept, and you’re in a crisis?”
“I just got an official notice from my landlord. I’m being evicted.”
“You’re kidding. From your apartment?”
“No, my retail space.”
“I thought they were renewing.”
“So he told me, but yesterday I got this letter, and now I have a month to get out.”
“Wow. I’m so sorry. And you had a good deal there, right?”
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to find anything I can afford.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“But I had this idea. I know you’re going crazy in that tiny space.” Molly’s shop was so narrow that backpacks and pregnant bellies often led to dirty looks and gridlock. “I was wondering if you’d consider sharing a space with me. I bet we could find something big enough that would end up being less than we’re paying now, and it would probably be good for both our sales to join forces.”
“You know, that would be really tempting, and I wish I could help you out.”
“But?”
“I can’t make any changes to the business right now. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said, surprised by how disappointed I felt. “I knew it wasn’t likely, but I had to ask.”
“Of course,” she said. “If I hear of anything, I’ll let you know.”
Great-grandson De Robertis arrived with our coffees, pastries, and two glasses of water. “I’m leaving the check,” he said, “but feel free to stay as long as you like.”
Considering the empty tables, his largesse didn’t really impress, but I appreciated the sentiment. “Thanks.”
We drank our coffee and sampled our pastries. The reason for the empty tables became clear. De Robertis had compromised on quality. The crust was too hard, and the filling tasted heavy with flour, light on ricotta, with only trace amounts of candied orange. When Molly sliced off a piece of almond horn, her knife hit the plate with an explosion of crumbs and almond slices.
“Either your knife is dull, or that pastry is stale.”
She took a bite. “It’s the pastry.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m glad we came here, if only for old times’ sake. I actually have some news of my own. Scott and I finally made the big decision, which is part of why I can’t make any changes.”
I knew what she was referring to. After years of growing their business, which did well, they’d turned their attention to growing a baby, which hadn’t gone well at all. They’d given up on in vitro fertilization and were considering adoption or having another woman’s egg implanted. “So what’s the call?”
“I found this organization with an amazing website. It has pictures of all these kids wa
iting for someone to adopt them. You can narrow it down by age and sex and state, and then you click on a picture, and there’s a profile describing the child’s background and personality.”
“Amazing. But can you trust them?”
“I know it sounds smarmy, but I’ve checked it out, and they’re legit. And we’ll be super-careful about who we pick.”
“Of course you will. And I bet those kids really need homes. So that’s exciting. I hope it works out.”
“Thanks.”
“Which reminds me: I had an exciting false alarm last night. My period is late, and I took a pregnancy test, but no bambino.”
“Your periods have been screwy all year, right?”
“Sort of. It’s just that I used to be regular as the rent, so when it’s a little off, I notice.”
“Hasn’t it been more than a little off?”
“There was that month I kept expecting it to come and it didn’t, and then it lasted, like, ten days the next month.” I didn’t mention the other month, when I only spotted.
“Look, I’m not a doctor, obviously, but this could be perimenopause.”
“Come off it, I’m too young for that.”
“Actually, you’d fall on the early end of the curve for normal—nothing diagnostically significant. You might want to have your FSH levels checked. You could be running low on viable eggs.”
Molly had seen so many specialists and doctors, she was ready to become one herself. “You’re saying the eggs I have left are drying up?”
“Don’t panic. It wouldn’t mean you aren’t fertile. I’m just saying your body might be transitioning into the early stages of menopause, so if you do want a kid, you might think about sooner rather than later. You know the statistics, right? On average, by the time she’s forty, a woman’s chance of getting pregnant is five percent.”
“Really? That bad?”
“I don’t mean to freak you out,” she went on, “but you know what I’ve been going through. And you’re a businesswoman. You understand how important it is to plan ahead.”
“One would think so. Hey, maybe I should have my eggs frozen.”
“You could.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“You know what you should really do?” Molly sat forward with excitement. “Have them fertilize some eggs and then freeze the embryos. They have a much better chance of surviving implantation than just eggs. At this moment in history, that’s your best bet.”
“Okay, and who would supply the sperm? Not that I’m taking this seriously.”
“I’m not suggesting it should be Jeff, if that’s what you’re thinking. They’ve got tons of sperm donors, and you can do searches to get exactly what you want.”
“I don’t know. Is it right to force my egg to have a one-night stand with a stranger’s sperm?”
“Very funny. Listen, five years ago they didn’t have this technology or I would’ve done it. Anyway, if you do want to look into in vitro, there’s a website that has donor profiles. If you register with them, you can search through the listings.”
“You mean like Match.com?”
“Uh-huh. You can fix your egg up with the perfect sperm for that one-night stand.”
“Great. All of a sudden my life seems to be going down the tubes—no pun intended.”
“Maybe your real estate problem is a sign that your life is meant to change directions.”
“You mean the declaring-bankruptcy-and-going-on-welfare direction?” I rubbed my temples. I didn’t have a headache but should’ve.
“You could move in with your mom up in Woodstock. She’d help with the baby. That sounds kind of nice, doesn’t it?”
“In a nervous-breakdown sort of way.” Clearly, her judgment had been clouded by hormones stimulated by those photos of adoptive kids.
“I’m sorry, sweetie.” She reached across the table and gave my wrist a reassuring squeeze. “Just ignore me. I’ve been so preoccupied with my whole baby drama, and it’s probably the last thing you want to be thinking about now.”
“I know you’re just trying to be helpful. Anyway, we should probably get going. Almost time to open.”
“I wish there was something I could do to help.”
“It helps just to talk about it,” I said, though I pretty much felt worse than when I walked in.
OLIVE
“DO NOT STAND in groups. Do not chew gum or tobacco. Do not eat, read books, or sew behind the counter.”
An efficient middle-aged woman named Mrs. Underhill taught the class of ten new female employees. She wore a severe black dress, a gold watch pinned to her bosom, a tight bun on the back of her neck, and a permanent frown.
“Do not be out of your place. Do not be late. Do not make noise in the elevators. Do not talk across the aisle or in loud voices. Do not keep your hat, coat, or umbrella where you are working. Do not gossip. Any questions?”
After barely a glance at our faces, Mrs. Underhill launched into instructions on filling out sales checks, holds, deliveries, and returns. The clock ticked forward as she gave painstaking care to elaborate on every way in which a mistake could be made. “Now,” Mrs. Underhill concluded, “we’ll go look at the tube room so you can see how the money is processed.”
We took the employee elevator down to the basement. As a customer, I’d often wondered what was on the other end of the pneumatic tube, so I was quite curious while following Mrs. Underhill through a vaultlike door into a windowless room. The machinery made a dreadfully loud noise. Mrs. Underhill yelled to be heard. “You may feel superior to these workers! But they are the store’s most important employees!”
A row of twenty or so women sat behind a counter that ran along the receiving end of tubes lining the wall like organ pipes. Metal capsules continually shot out from the tube openings onto the counter. Each girl would open a capsule, remove the money and the sales ticket, put the correct change in the tube, and send it back. My heart broke for them, stuck in this horrid room all day, doing their dull, repetitive task.
“If the money isn’t handled correctly, there won’t be profit; if there’s no profit, there’s no store; if there’s no store,” she concluded, “none of you would have jobs!”
After we left the tube room, Mrs. Underhill dismissed us for lunch. She advised us to use the female employee’s cafeteria. “They serve quick, wholesome meals for a nominal charge. It’s imperative to give yourself time to relax and eat a nutritious meal so you can keep up your strength.”
—
Waiters rushed to serve the hundreds of workers passing through in the forty-five minutes allowed for breaks. The sound of female chatter echoed noisily off the walls. I sat with the other new girls and listened to them raving about some picture shows they’d seen. Some spoke with foreign accents; all used lower-class slang. By the time the waiter arrived with our plates of macaroni and cheese, buttered beets, and rhubarb pie, the break was nearly over, and I had to gobble down my food. Lunch might have provided some nutrition, but attending a riot would’ve been equally relaxing.
Back in the classroom, Miss Underhill issued each of us a brown leather-bound sales book. I gripped it tightly on the way to the toiletries department while talking myself out of feeling shame over my lowly position. Unlike the day of my first job interview at Macy’s, I couldn’t afford to fall back on my pride.
A handsome woman stood by the toiletries counter, waiting to greet me. “Here you are. I’m Miss Cohen, the buyer for this section.” She wore a dark brown tailored suit the same color as her dark brown hair and eyes. I guessed she was in her late thirties.
My heart beat faster. I did want to impress her. “How do you do?”
“Welcome to the toiletries department.”
She moved aside so I could take my place behind the counter. I crossed over, making sure to appear as though I felt perfectly at ease.
“We’re quite busy here on the ground floor,” Miss Cohen was saying. “This department is different from any othe
r. You need to know what product is best suited for a particular condition, almost like a doctor treating a patient, so it’s imperative that you take some time to learn the stock.”
“We’re the experts,’ ” I said with a nod. “We give free advice, which makes the customer more inclined to buy our product.”
“Exactly.” By her raised eyebrows, I could see she was favorably impressed.
“Thank you so much for the chance to work here. I intend to do my very best.”
“Sadie will answer any questions you might have,” she said, nodding to a young woman behind my counter. “I suggest you watch her today and begin helping customers tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get to a sales meeting.”
After Miss Cohen left, I turned to my coworker. Small and slim, she had a pale heart-shaped face framed by thick auburn ringlets swept up into a massive bun. At first glance, an indentation on her chin looked like a dimple; then I realized it was a pockmark. I gave her a friendly smile and held out my hand. “Olive Westcott. How do you do?”
“Sadie Bernstein.” She gave my hand an obligatory shake and eyed me with suspicion. “Ever work in a store before?”
“Yes, but I’m sure I have loads yet to learn.”
“I’ll say.”
“Miss Cohen seems nice.”
“Don’t expect her to become your friend.”
“Of course, I didn’t mean—”
“If we don’t sell what she buys, it makes her look bad, and if she looks bad, you’ll be the first to go.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“The question is when didn’t I.”
Sadie left my side to fix her hair in the glass before going to help a customer. I began to familiarize myself with the products. Bleaches to remove freckles, scented soaps done up in fancy packages, treatments for facial eruptions, and depilatories for facial hair removal. I examined every box and bottle label—read about the ingredients and what they claimed to do. When Sadie helped customers, I listened in, but she didn’t come alive until the girl handing out candy samples came by. “What’s in the basket today?” she asked.
Astor Place Vintage: A Novel Page 14
