Astor Place Vintage: A Novel

by Stephanie Lehmann

  “Peanut brittle,” the girl said as Sadie sneaked a piece into her pocket. “No sooner do I fill it up than it goes empty again.”

  She was quite lovely, with olive skin, black eyes, and lustrous black hair piled into a low, loose bun. The accent—a mixture of downtown, uptown, European—added an exotic flavor to her elegant beauty. I kept a smile on my face, unsure if she noticed me.

  “Honestly,” she went on, “the richer they are, the more they like to bag the free stuff. Say, are you working with someone new, Sadie? Why don’t you introduce us?”

  “She just started,” Sadie said, as if that was all anyone needed to know.

  “Olive Westcott,” I said. “How do you do?” I forced myself not to stare at her high cheekbones, perfectly arched eyebrows, and full red lips.

  “Angelina Spinelli. Here’s the store’s official welcome gift.” She sneaked a piece of brittle across the counter and then looked past me. “Uh-oh. McGillicutty’s giving me the evil eye. Gotta go.”

  “McGillicutty?” I asked.

  “Floorwalker,” Sadie said.

  “He likes to come off like a bear,” Angelina added, “but he’s a sweetheart. See you next time around.”

  I watched her offer Mr. McGillicutty a piece of peanut brittle. He shook his head with disapproval, then snatched a piece from her hand as she was about to take it away. She laughed and walked off as he popped it in his mouth.

  “Sure is slow today,” Sadie said, leaning on the glass counter.

  “If it picks up, perhaps I could start helping customers?”

  “Miss Cohen said you should watch, and I don’t want no trouble. Here, this should keep you busy.” She handed me a stack of chamois and told me to roll up each one and tie it with a ribbon.

  Before long, a matron wearing a fur jacket with a matching muff came to the counter. She kept asking Sadie to show her different brands of toilet water. Some other customers arrived, and I had to avoid their glares as they waited for Sadie’s attention. Finally, a young woman interrupted them with a question about shampoo. That was when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a bottle of honeysuckle toilet water moving from the counter to the inside of the woman’s fur muff. Was this truly taking place? On my first day? I considered pretending not to notice—it would make for such an embarrassing scene—but Mr. McGillicutty was patrolling nearby, so I motioned him to the other end of the counter and kept my voice low. “I believe you’ll find something that belongs to the store inside that woman’s muff.”

  “Are you sure?” he whispered back.

  I nodded solemnly. Then I watched with palpitating heart as Mr. McGillicutty confronted the matron.

  “I assure you,” she said, “you’re quite mistaken.”

  Mr. McGillicutty suggested the woman go with him to his office. “We can resolve the issue and send you on your way.”

  The woman protested until she realized spectators had gathered to enjoy the show. Mr. McGillicutty motioned for me to come along. I followed them to his office, praying I hadn’t imagined her crime. In his office, I held my breath as he reached inside the muff. When he pulled out the bottle of toilet water, the poor woman fell to crying. My relief turned to pity.

  “Please don’t tell my husband,” she pleaded. “He works for the mayor! It would be such an embarrassment. I promise not to do it ever again.”

  I wished I’d just let her take it.

  “Seeing as you’re a regular customer,” Mr. McGillicutty said, “we’ll let it go. But if we catch you again, I won’t be so nice.”

  He gave back the muff. The woman signed a confession and left.

  That was it? Now I didn’t feel so bad.

  “Do you honestly think that was her first time?” I asked as Mr. McGillicutty added her name to the store list of people to watch.

  He snorted. “She’ll be at it again soon enough. Classic case of kleptomania. Doesn’t need what she steals—simply can’t help herself.”

  Back at the counter, I told Sadie all about it. “It was ghastly. She cried and begged him to let her off. He called her a classic case of kleptomania.”

  “The wealthy ones are all kleptomaniacs. The poor ones are just thieves.”

  “He did let her off easy.”

  “They always let the rich ones go. The others get thrown in jail.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Even worse, if you get pinched and don’t happen to notice, and the store detective nabs ’em? They blame you. Last month I had to pay for a bar of soap someone swiped. Ten cents outta my pocket.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not fair.”

  “Last week I was back from lunch ten minutes late. Five cents off my paycheck. They don’t give a fig about us, not with ten more waiting to take your place.”

  “Meanwhile, they don’t pay enough for a girl to live.” I hoped I might gain her trust by commiserating.

  “That’s why we got our friends,” she replied.

  “You mean a gentleman friend?” I didn’t want Aunt Ida to be right.

  Sadie laughed. “Sure, we all got at least one. How else can a girl make ends meet?”

  At closing time, I staggered down to the cloakroom and jostled my way through the sea of salesgirls. My head spun, my feet ached, and my back longed for a mattress. Even so, I preferred the liveliness of the store to Mrs. Craven’s. Reaching my locker, I was pleased to see Angelina. It turned out her locker was right across from mine.

  “Made it through your first day?” she asked, tucking strands of that lustrous black hair into a blue felt mushroom hat with a fur-trimmed brim.

  “My feet are killing me. If only I didn’t have to walk home.”

  “Try shoe inserts,” she said. “And a hot salty foot bath every night.”

  “Sounds grand.” Too bad my room had no hot water.

  “Which way you going?” She watched me adjust my white beaver boater, one of the few nice things I hadn’t sold to Matilda.

  “First Avenue. But I’m desperate to move. The El runs right past my window, and I’m not getting a wink of sleep.”

  “You should ask Sadie about her place. It’s a boardinghouse for working girls; someone’s always moving in or out.”

  “Thanks awfully, I will.” Girls as pretty as she was usually put on airs, but Angelina seemed especially friendly. “Where do you live?”

  “Downtown. Too far to walk after being on my feet all day—too close for the train. Every day I torture myself over paying my nickel or hoofing it.”

  We took turns dipping our cards into the time clock. When she called out a good night to the guard, I followed her example. His eyes stayed fastened on her. I couldn’t blame him.

  “I’ve got to run along,” she said as we exited onto Eighteenth Street. “Dinner date. See you tomorrow!”

  “See you tomorrow!” As she rushed off, I wondered if Angelina had a gentleman friend, too.

  November 7, 1907

  I’m exhausted but can’t sleep. Actually stood behind the counter today and pretended to be a salesgirl. What would Father think? In a few hours I’ll be back behind the counter again. I daresay it won’t feel like pretend.

  “You look beat,” Sadie said as we removed the velvet covers from the glass showcases.

  “The El train is driving me mad. I’ve got to find someplace else to live. Angelina thought your boardinghouse might have room.”

  “My place? It ain’t exactly the Waldorf. The landlady watches over you like a prison guard, and everyone knows your business.”

  “What does she charge?”

  “Six dollars a week includes breakfast, dinner, and the worst coffee you ever had.”

  “That’s the same as I’m paying, and I don’t get board.”

  Mr. McGillicutty passed by on the way to signaling the doorman to let people in.

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “Fourteenth Street between First and Second.”

  That was only a few blocks from Mrs. Craven’s. I could st
ill walk to work. My hopes lifted as though it were indeed the Waldorf. “Do you think she has a vacancy?”

  “Sure, the warden’s always got room for one more inmate.”

  “I’d be terribly grateful if you spoke with her. I’d move in Sunday if I could.”

  “I’ll tell ’er about you tonight.” Sadie turned to help a woman peering through the glass. “May I help you?”

  Moments later, another woman approached the counter. My first real customer.

  “I need a shampoo, but my scalp is terribly dry.”

  I showed her an expensive soap made with olive oil and suggested she use it at least once a week.

  “Every week? If I shampoo that often, my scalp gets worse.”

  “Not with this. The olive oil has special moisturizing effects. The more often you use it, the healthier your scalp shall be.” I looked her square in the face with confidence.

  “I suppose I might as well try it.”

  I wrote up my first sales ticket and put it inside a capsule along with the money. As I fed the capsule into the tube, I glanced over at Sadie, who smiled at me. The suction whisked it away.

  —

  While Sadie went on her lunch break, I handled the counter on my own. Miss Cohen came by to observe and gave a nod of approval before leaving. My relief was tempered by extreme hunger and a longing to sit. If only I could take the elevator up to the restaurant and enjoy a sardine sandwich along with a cold glass of lemonade.

  When Sadie returned, I asked if there was anyplace to eat other than the cafeteria.

  “I usually grab a bite at that dairy restaurant across the street.”

  “Is there someplace quiet? I’ve never spoken to so many people in one morning, and I’m crazy for a moment’s peace.”

  “The employee lounge has comfy chairs. Did you pack a lunch?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’ll have to buy something outside and bring it back.”

  “Where’s the closest place?”

  “Same as I told you, the dairy restaurant down the street.”

  Picturing that comfortable chair in the lounge, I rushed to my locker for my hat; I’d have to hurry for those few minutes of peace. At least I’d get some fresh air. I crossed the street and found the dairy place, with its cheap basic menu painted on the plate-glass front.

  With the dexterity of a magician performing a trick, the man behind the counter assembled a deviled egg sandwich, tomato slices, and a pickle. I paid and was on my way to the door when someone called out my name. I turned and spotted Angelina sitting at a table with three others, two of them men. “Come join us!” she said, waving me over.

  Darn. I’d have to stay and make conversation or risk offending her. I walked over with a smile on my face. One of the men pulled a chair over from the next table. “For the new girl,” he said gallantly. He was quite good-looking—almost a male version of Angelina. Could he be her beau? They’d make a striking couple.

  “My brother, Joe,” Angelina said, as if reading my thoughts. “Sporting equipment, sixth floor. A big tease, so ignore him as much as possible.”

  “I see the resemblance,” I said, pleased to know he wasn’t her boyfriend and annoyed with myself for being pleased. He had the same gorgeous skin, dark eyes, and sensuous smile as his sister. But the fine head of curly black hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and classic chiseled features made the difference between handsome and lovely. At any rate, I had no intention of falling for anyone at the store. Nothing should distract me from making a go of this chance.

  Angelina introduced me to Lucy, a blond girl I recognized from the handkerchief counter, and a husky man with sideburns named Bill, who sold furniture on the fifth floor.

  “Bill was just complaining about his wife,” Lucy said.

  “She thinks hard work is an insult,” he explained. “Quit the minute we got married to have a kid. Now she just gripes about being stuck in the house all day.”

  “Who can blame her?” Angelina pushed away an empty bowl of soup. “You won’t catch me sitting home with a crying baby.”

  “Won’t catch you behind a counter, either,” Joe said.

  “Only because I’m miserable at sales.” She turned to me. “My main job is modeling in the fashion shows, but that’s not regular enough to keep me busy, so they have me handing out samples.”

  “You must be a natural at modeling,” I said, wondering if I’d seen her in the fashion show that inspired me to buy my ready-made suit.

  “The truth is,” Joe proclaimed, “none of you gals have the instinct or the discipline to be crack salesmen.”

  Angelina smirked at her brother. “I’d like to see you selling petticoats.”

  Bill claimed he could sell more petticoats in a day than any woman. “The skill is the same no matter what the merchandise.”

  “And the skill is the same,” I chimed in, “whether you’re a man or a woman. But a man can never be a woman, and a woman customer feels more comfortable with us because we understand her.”

  “Which makes you better friends,” Joe said, “not sellers. You ask me, women shouldn’t be allowed behind a counter. Most of ’em are only out to catch some rich chump.”

  “And you?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  “Me?” He leaned over the table on his forearms toward me. “I’m not looking for some rich widow to take me to a show, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I blushed dreadfully.

  “Does that mean you’re looking for a wife?” Lucy asked with a saucy smile.

  “When I find the right lady.” He continued to stare straight at me. At least I was still blushing from the previous comment, so he couldn’t perceive me blushing all over again.

  “What bosh,” Angelina said. “Joe’s a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor. He’ll never tie the knot.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I ventured to say. “He doesn’t seem to like women much.”

  “You got it wrong—I like ’em too much. ’Specially the pretty ones, like you.”

  I shook my head and exchanged an amused look of disdain with Angelina.

  Joe sat back in his chair. “She’s too smart to fall for a rogue like me. Che peccato. A man could go far in the world with a fine lady at his side.”

  “Enough of this nonsense,” Angelina said, pulling on Joe’s collar. “I gotta get back, and so do you.”

  “So do I,” said Bill, rising from the table.

  Lucy stood up, too. “Same here.”

  Joe furrowed his eyebrows at me with exaggerated concern. “I hope you won’t be lonely sitting here all by yourself.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” In fact, the chance to eat my sandwich alone, as originally planned, was entirely welcome. God knows I’d never taste anything with Joe’s eyes fixed on me.

  —

  By the time Friday came, I felt as though I’d been working at the store half my life.

  “My skin is so dry,” said a woman with a bedraggled bird of paradise on her hat. “Nothing seems to help.”

  “I have some excellent products to suit your needs.” I reached for a box under the counter. “This cream is a superb moisturizer.”

  “The last cream I bought from my druggist had a very unpleasant smell.”

  I took the blue glass jar from the box. “This one is made with cucumbers. It has a lovely, fresh scent.” I only had to finish today, and then it would be my precious day off.

  “Can you open it?”

  “I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to.” If all went to plan, I’d move into Sadie’s boardinghouse.

  “I don’t know … cucumber? I know what it’s like in a salad, but I can’t imagine. Does it work as well as you say?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s like food for the skin. I use it myself before going to sleep,” I assured her, as if I could afford it.

  “If you could just allow me to try a bit on my skin …”

  “I’m sorry, but the jar is sealed so that you know it’s sanitary. Once it’s
open, we wouldn’t feel right selling it to the next person.”

  “But if I try it at home, you couldn’t resell it, either.”

  She had a point, and I truly wished I could oblige. “I’m sorry, madam, but that’s the store policy. It’s very well priced at twenty-five cents, and the store will be happy to give a refund if it doesn’t suit you.”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” she said before walking off.

  I was about to put the jar of lotion back in its box when I saw a familiar face in the crowd. Celia was a girl I knew from Miss Hall’s. I’d always suspected her of feeling some jealousy over my friendship with Daisy. As she walked toward me, I realized she was accompanied by two other girls from Miss Hall’s.

  Standing up straight, I prepared to greet them with as much pride as I could muster. Celia stared straight at me—or through me—as they passed by.

  “Chocolate-covered cherries.” Angelina set her tray down on my counter. “Want one? I hate ’em. Why did I stay up so late last night? I’m practically sleepwalking down the aisles. You all right?”

  “Yes. Or no. Excuse me, what were you saying?”

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I think I am the ghost. Some girls I know just walked past. I could’ve sworn one of them looked at me, but she didn’t stop or say hello.”

  “People don’t think of us as people. You’re just the salesgirl, if you know what I mean. I’m just the girl who gives out samples. When I do a fashion show, I’m just a mannequin, no different from the mannequins in the window.”

  “I suppose.”

  I’d just placed the box of cucumber lotion under the counter when Celia hurried up to me. “Olive Westcott, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I didn’t mean to ignore you.” She lowered her voice. “I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the other girls, you poor thing. So many people have suffered terribly because of that darn stock market.”

  “If I’m suffering, it’s because my father passed away.”

  “Oh my, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” She leaned toward me while turning her back to Angelina. “It must be utterly humiliating, reduced to working alongside these lower-class girls. I promise not to tell a soul. I must run along, the girls are waiting by the lift. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure we walk down the other aisle on our way out.”