“Buongiorno, Miss Westcott.”
“Good morning, Mr. Spinelli.”
As we inched forward, I couldn’t think of what else to say, too aware of him standing so close, towering over me with his tall, athletic build. We took our turns punching in. He tipped his hat and said “Ciao” before turning in to the men’s locker room.
In the women’s locker room, everyone jostled and pushed in a mad rush to reach their departments on time. After taking my place on the sales floor, I could breathe easy. I had my territory. The crowds bumped and swayed on the other side of the counter.
Staring into the commotion with glazed eyes that hadn’t adjusted to being awake, I mused that my encounter with Joe Spinelli that morning had been my most pleasant one yet. The sight of him could make a girl truly appreciate the male version of our species—until he had something to say.
Sadie appeared next to me. “What the devil are you smiling about?”
I gave her an innocent look. “Nothing.”
I straightened up and asked a customer if she needed help. While showing her a bottle of toilet water, I scolded myself for daydreaming about Joe Spinelli. If I hoped to get a raise, I’d need to impress Miss Cohen and stand out from the other girls. I resolved to speak with her that day about my idea.
Instead of going to lunch, I stopped by her office and asked if she had a minute to talk.
“Now is as good a time as any,” she said, motioning toward the chair opposite her desk.
I launched into my theory that we should be offering samples of our creams and lotions. “I’ve missed out on sales when a customer was afraid to try something new. If we allow them to try it out in the store, like they already do in the grocery section and housewares, we’re certain to sell more merchandise. All we have to do is keep one container open.”
“Allow all sorts of people to stick their fingers into the cold cream?”
“That way they can see it, and touch it, and smell it. They won’t have to worry about the bother of returning something they don’t like, and we won’t have as many returns on opened products.”
“But it’s not sanitary. At least when it comes to food, we can hand out individual portions.”
“If they’re getting something for free, they won’t care about the germs—not most of them, anyway. And it’s not as though we’d be forcing anyone. We’d simply be giving the opportunity.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Once they stop in front of the counter to take that little bit, I’ll have a chance to tell them how well it works. I wager they’ll be more disposed to pay for it.”
“I think you may be on to something. I’ll discuss it with Mr. Vogel.”
Mr. Vogel, a distinguished-looking man I’d seen on the floor a few times, was one of the vice presidents. “That would be grand,” I said. “Thank you, Miss Cohen.”
“Thank you, Miss Westcott.”
I rushed to the cafeteria to get something in my stomach before returning to my counter. The meeting had gone so well, I didn’t even regret missing out on lunch with the crowd down the street.
—
When a letter arrived from Aunt Ida, I tore open the envelope, anxious to hear the latest news on our financial affairs. I was thrilled to find she’d included a letter from Daisy. I hadn’t heard from my friend in months. I decided to save it and read my aunt’s letter first. She reported that the bank had agreed not to charge interest on the debt for a year, as long as she made a payment every month. She’d taken lodgers to bring in some income, and Margaret had an arrangement with the town grocer to sell her baked goods. She already had large orders for the holiday, and my aunt urged me to come home for Christmas to help out. My bedroom, however, was no longer available; I’d have to sleep on a cot in the study. It didn’t sound like the most inviting way to spend my time off. I put her letter aside.
Daisy’s letter was disappointingly brief, and what little she said I didn’t want to hear. First she apologized for being such a rotten letter writer. Then she told me that London continued to be heavenly. Even though her courses at the art school were finished, she and her mother had no plans to return and were considering spending a few weeks in Rome.
I couldn’t bring myself to write back. She knew nothing about the changes in my life—not even that Father had died. How could I tell her the best I could look forward to was an extra day off for the Christmas holiday? Now even that bright spot didn’t sound so merry. Still, I wrote Aunt Ida that I would come. After all, she was my only family, and I hadn’t been back in Cold Spring since the funeral.
—
The Christmas rush arrived with a wallop, along with freezing temperatures. Customers shopped in a frenzy that made the past two months seem like naptime in the nursery. The stock market had begun to recover and appeared to be driving everyone wild to spend, as if splurging would ensure that hard times were gone for good. We stayed open until ten every night to oblige the armies of customers desperate to buy.
The long hours were not so accommodating for us salesgirls. I fought off a constant state of exhaustion and could only manage to perform mechanically, like that fortune-teller in the glass booth at the Eden Musee.
December 23, 1907
The store was scheduled to close at six o’clock, but last-minute shoppers refused to leave. Mr. McGillicutty had to call the police to force them out the doors! I took the trolley home, gobbled down some bread and cheese, and changed into my nightgown. Now I’m in bed, feeling just as excited as when I was a little girl, knowing I’d be waking up to presents. Except now my “present” is time off from work. Too bad I have to spend it in Cold Spring.
I never heard the morning bell ring. Every now and then I woke, only to fall back into a dream. Eventually, I dressed and went downstairs. A woman who worked in a hotel restaurant sat in the dining room, sipping a cup of tea. We wished each other a merry Christmas, and I joined her at the table with my breakfast.
“Looks chilly out there,” I said, dreading my trip to Cold Spring.
“It’s below freezing.” She handed me the morning paper. “They say it might snow.”
An article warned travelers to expect the worst. The never-ending construction at Grand Central meant late trains and beastly crowds. “I thought everyone would’ve left the city by now.”
“I’d say we’re lucky to be right here, comfy and warm, even if it does make for a dull holiday.”
“And I think you’ve helped me come to a decision. Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
I went to the telephone in the front hall. It would be best to get the conversation out of the way so I could enjoy my breakfast. A man answered—one of the boarders. It was odd to think of a stranger living in my house. I told him who I was and asked him to fetch Aunt Ida.
“She’s cooking up a storm,” he said. “Hold on.”
I tried to calm my nerves while waiting. A minute later, the man returned. “Sorry, miss, couldn’t pry her from the stove.”
I silently cheered. “Do tell her how very sorry I am that I can’t come. And wish her a merry Christmas for me, please.”
“Surely will. Sorry you’ll be missing out, though. You should smell the pies baking in the oven.”
I thanked him and said to eat a slice for me.
December 25, 1907
My first Christmas without family. Missing Father more than I can say. If I didn’t feel so content relaxing by myself, with no demands on my time, I’m sure I’d feel utterly miserable and lonely.
The last week of 1907, the store continued to be overrun. Customers swarmed back to return gifts and reap profits on end-of-year clearance sales. When closing time on New Year’s Eve finally came, I laid the black velvet cover over the countertop with relief.
“Miss Westcott?”
I looked up, startled to find Mr. Vogel, the vice president, standing in front of me. He might have been handsome in his day, but thinning, graying hair and a paunch were taking their toll. “Yes, si
r.”
His lips curled into a smile under a thick mustache waxed to curl up at the tips. “I wanted to say hello. I hear you’re doing an excellent job.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vogel.”
“Miss Cohen speaks highly of you.”
“She’s taught me so much.”
“I had the impression that you’ve been teaching her. Your idea about the samples was first-rate. We’ll give it a go after the New Year. Keep up the good work,” he said, moving on.
Down in the locker room, I considered telling Angelina my good news, but then I decided not to, in case it should sound like boasting. “I can’t believe this year is finally over,” I said instead.
“How’d you like to go up to Times Square to ring in the New Year?” she asked.
“In this cold? With all the crowds?” It sounded like torture disguised as a good time.
“But it’s exciting, with all the throngs milling about. Then at midnight everyone goes mad, yelling out ‘Happy New Year!’ And since we’re closed tomorrow, you can stay out late for once. Won’t you come, please?” she said with a winsome pout.
I had to smile, flattered that she’d chosen to ask me out of everyone. “How can I say no?”
“It’ll be jolly fun,” she said. “I promise.”
She proceeded to ask a bunch of other girls, too. I felt like a fool and almost backed out, but sitting alone in my room now sounded dreary. At the very least, it would be an adventure.
Our group of seven squeezed onto a trolley with barely enough room to stand. When it was time to get off on Forty-second Street, we traded our cramped, claustrophobic captivity for the freedom to dodge hordes of moving bodies. Restaurants overflowed with revelers, and lines of people queued up for shows. Weaving through the crowds, I wondered what everyone was really celebrating. Making it to another year alive? What was so wonderful about living, anyway?
“Isn’t it silly,” Angelina said, hooking her arm in mine, “how we live in the grandest city in the world but hardly ever leave our own neighborhood? I’ll never forget the first time I walked north of Canal and didn’t stop. Must’ve been around ten years old. I found myself on Sixth Avenue and turned in to a department store; thought I’d died and gone to heaven—until the floorwalker kicked me out. I must’ve looked a sight in my hand-me-downs. That’s why I always take care to dress nice. If you look cheap, men’ll treat you cheap.”
As if to prove her point, we passed a woman standing by the stage door of a theater. There was no doubt about her profession. She wore a crimson dress trimmed with fur. She’d painted her lips as red as an American Beauty rose. Her peroxide-blond hair was swept up in a towering pompadour.
“I don’t understand …” I let my voice trail off.
“Understand what?”
“How she makes sure she doesn’t … get into trouble.”
“You’ve never heard of a rubber bag?”
“Rubber bag?”
“If the fellow wears it, you’re perfectly safe.”
I nodded, though I couldn’t imagine what it was or how it worked. “I wish it weren’t all so mysterious.”
“My mama never told me a thing, either. I guess she wanted me to have the same shock she had on her wedding night. You hungry? Let’s round up the others for a bite to eat.”
We turned in to the first cheap restaurant that had an empty table. As the other girls joked and flirted with some sailors sitting nearby, I wished I could ask Angelina exactly what had shocked her mother. Had Angelina already experienced that shock, too?
We prolonged our stay in the warm restaurant by ordering coffee and tea. New customers crowded the doorway, though, and before long our waiter gave us the evil eye, so we piled back out into the cold. Half a block down, the girls insisted on going into a brightly lit arcade. Though a sign said UNESCORTED LADIES WELCOME, I didn’t find the place particularly inviting—perhaps because of the sign in back that said FOR MEN ONLY. It hung over a long row of automatic picture machines. In front of every machine stood a man—except in one case, a boy was propped up on a box. They undoubtedly were watching some sort of vulgar peep show.
I tried to ignore them and let the girls entertain me with their skittish pleasure at feeding nickels into slots for the privilege of receiving an electric shock, or listening to a scratchy phonograph record, or stepping on a scale to find out their weight. The bright lights and seedy atmosphere began to wear on me, though; when midnight finally approached, I was more than ready to move on.
The girls insisted on pushing through the crowd to get as close to the square as possible. The year 1908 blazed in huge electric lights way up on the tower of the Times Building. The newspaper had said it could be seen for miles. I wondered if my parents could see it from heaven. I wondered what they’d think of their daughter now.
At the stroke of midnight, everyone’s eyes turned up to the illuminated ball on the Times tower. Shouts of “Happy New Year” and joyous singing filled the street. Angelina yelled a hearty “Happy New Year” at me. When I countered with my own “Happy New Year,” she opened her arms and we hugged. Soon I was hollering along with everyone else. The hoopla continued for at least five minutes of what seemed like utter madness. Perhaps it wasn’t so very awful to be alive.
Times Square, circa 1905
Sixth Avenue in front of Siegel-Cooper, circa 1903
Herald Square and the Sixth Avenue elevated train, circa 1910
AMANDA
WHEN THE SHOP door opened, I looked up from the journal, hoping it would be the delivery guy with my sandwich.
“I believe you’re expecting these?” said Mrs. Kelly’s grandson, lugging a couple of garbage bags.
“Oh yes, from Mrs. Kelly. You can set them on the floor back here, that’s great.”
“I’ll be right back.” He turned and dashed to a cab parked out front. I slid the journal into a drawer as he returned with two more bags.
“Thanks for bringing all that down,” I said, trying to remember his name—or maybe I’d never been told.
“I’m glad to get rid of it.” Seeming to remember this was a business transaction, he added, “She tells me some of it’s worth a lot.”
He wore khaki pants and a blue T-shirt with Nikes and a Yankee baseball cap. The look would be fine if he were in high school, but this guy was old enough to remember life without e-mail. No ring. Commitment issues? “There are some nice pieces. She has good taste,” I said.
“Grandma used to work as a buyer in a department store.”
“That explains it.”
“Yeah.” He checked his watch and peered out the door.
“So … do you live there with her?”
“No, no, god forbid. Santa Monica.”
“Oh.” So why the Yankee cap? “You like it out there?”
“It’s pretty nice, other than the traffic. Those are interesting,” he said, peering at the shelf behind me.
“They’re head vases.” I took one down and showed him the opening on top. “They were big in the forties and fifties. Highly collectible now.” I needed to bring down my new one.
“I’ve never seen one before. They’re great.”
“Thanks. You know, I don’t think I ever got your name.”
“I’m sorry. Rob. Rob Kelly.”
“Amanda Rosenbloom.”
We nodded and smiled, but no one initiated a handshake. I got that feeling you get when you’re a single woman and you’re with a man who might also be single and you imagine he’s imagining that you’re desperate and would marry him tomorrow if he’d only say the word but why would he when he could have a twenty-year-old instead of a woman approaching forty. Well, I wanted to tell him, I’m not desperate. I have a successful business—I think—and I like living alone and don’t need to be in a relationship to feel like I have a right to exist.
“You ever been out there?” he asked.
“Once. I don’t like L.A. much, but Santa Monica was nice, with the beach.”
“Yeah, the air quality is better.” He looked toward the door again, and I wondered why he didn’t just leave. Then I realized I needed to give him the check and he was probably trying not to be crass. “I owe you money,” I said, my index finger in the air. “Hold on a sec.”
I wrote out the check for twelve hundred dollars and handed it to him with regret. I never would’ve made this deal if I’d known about my lease. As he put the check in his wallet, the delivery guy arrived with my lunch. I expected Rob to make his exit, but he wandered up and down the store, giving the men’s rack a cursory look. After I paid the delivery guy, Rob returned to my counter.
“I’m just here to help her get rid of things,” he said. “Take care of some loose ends.”
“That’s nice of you.” I took my turkey sandwich out of the bag.
“My older sister lives in New Jersey, and she helps out a lot more than I do, but she’s a lawyer and has two little kids, so I wanted to do my share. Grandma’s driving me a little crazy, actually. She’s an ornery old woman.”
I smiled but wasn’t sure how to respond, especially since it occurred to me to mention the journal, but then he might say I had no business reading it and should give it back.
“So, I was wondering,” he said, “maybe you could suggest a good place for dinner. The neighborhood’s changed so much, I don’t know where to go anymore.”
“Dinner?” He didn’t mean with me, did he? Of course not, so why was I blushing? “There are tons of places. What kind of food do you like?”
“Pretty much anything.”
“There’s a good tapas bar on Ninth Street. And a great vegetarian place on Second Avenue. Or if you’re in the mood for comfort food, there’s a new place near your grandmother’s called Home Cooking that’s supposed to be really good.”
Astor Place Vintage: A Novel Page 17
