Astor Place Vintage: A Novel

by Stephanie Lehmann

  “Our relationship has nothing to do with this, Amanda. She doesn’t know about us. She has no way of knowing, believe me. The money for your business comes out of an account she has no access to. I use a separate phone to contact you, and she doesn’t know it exists. She never comes into the city—it freaks her out.”

  “Maybe she hired a detective.”

  He shook his head. “She doesn’t think about me. She thinks about herself.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  He looked at me, hesitated, and then groaned so miserably that I thought remaining in a state of ignorance might have been better.

  “She has a mental illness,” he said. “She’s bipolar.”

  “Bipolar? You mean, like, manic-depressive?”

  He nodded. “She takes a cocktail of medications. The doctor is always trying different pills, special diets, even electric shock … nothing works. I keep my expectations low.”

  “Wow.” Electric shock? Did they still use that? “God. It sounds hard, very hard. I’m sorry you’ve had to go through this, I really am. But I still don’t understand. When you got married …” I didn’t know how to put it. “Was she this way already?”

  He let out a short, bitter laugh. “Back then, no. Maybe a little down sometimes, but nothing that seemed extreme. Everything changed after the kids were born. She had terrible postpartum depression. The first time around, she bounced back. The second time, she got more depressed than ever. She didn’t want to get out of bed or leave the house. It went on for months.”

  “Did she see a shrink?”

  “Yeah, she went to a psychiatrist.” He sat down opposite me. Finally, he opened up about what he should’ve told me the very first time he came to see me at the store on Mott Street and took me out to dinner. “He gave her an antidepressant. That made her crazy. Too happy. Manic. All of a sudden she proclaims she’s going to become an interior designer and starts going around to our friends, to people whose houses I designed, offering her services.”

  “Isn’t that good, though?”

  “She knows nothing about interior design. No training, no skills, no idea what she was doing or getting involved in. Once she got people interested, she started going to auctions, flying off to Europe on shopping sprees, randomly buying expensive furniture and art that piled up in some warehouse. Meanwhile, she kept missing appointments with clients. She couldn’t face them, couldn’t deal with it. The whole thing was a disaster. She got depressed again.” He shook his head. “It’s like I’m her caretaker, Amanda. She doesn’t seem to conceive that I might have my own needs or my own feelings. She isn’t curious about my life. Mostly, she likes … I don’t know … sitting in bed and staring into space.”

  “I don’t know what to think, Jeff. I sympathize, I really do. But I can’t believe you kept this secret from me all this time.” I had been carrying on with a ghost.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I mean, didn’t you need to talk about it?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve got a therapist for that. And her family.”

  “Sure, but I mean didn’t you want to talk about it with me?” I used to congratulate myself for being so good about not meddling in his relationship with his wife. Now I wondered if I’d just been selfish, completely missing signals that he was suffering and needed comfort.

  “It felt good to be able to leave all that behind. It’s horrible how it takes over everything. I was glad to keep us separate and unaffected by it.”

  “But we couldn’t really be unaffected.” Maybe I’d always sensed there was something about his marriage that I needed to leave alone. If I’d pushed him to reveal it, we wouldn’t have been able to continue our relationship. Now it was out and couldn’t be ignored.

  “I try being patient with her,” he went on. “I try to help every way I can. But after years of trying and getting nothing back and seeing no change, I started getting depressed, too. Then I found you again. I don’t think I could’ve stayed married otherwise. At least when I’m with you, I can get away … forget about her for a while, have a life.”

  His words hit me hard. “Did you hear what you just said? You just said you can’t stay married without me.” I stood up and looked down on him from across the table. “What am I, some kind of marital aid? Why bother with couples counseling? Just go out and have an affair!”

  “Come on, that’s not what I meant.”

  “That’s exactly what you meant. Jesus! I’ve been helping you keep your marriage together! As long as I stick around, you don’t need to leave her. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to keep my life on hold.” I pulled on the bracelet. The gold band dug into my skin like a handcuff. “I never knew that was the bargain here, Jeff, you know? And now … I’m afraid of waking up all alone in the world one day with no one who truly cares about me.”

  “I care. You know that. I love you, Amanda. And I’ll always be here for you.”

  “But you aren’t here for me, not really. She comes first. She has to. She needs you. And here you are, having an affair!”

  “You don’t know what it’s like,” he said, glaring straight at me. “You can’t imagine! No one can if they haven’t lived through it.”

  “I’m sure it’s hard. And I feel horrible for you, I do. But still, this is wrong.” I went to the window and looked out. I couldn’t face him. My eyes teared up as it hit me in the gut. I knew. No one else had to tell me—not Molly, a therapist, a hypnotist, a psychic, or a mechanical gypsy. This was the end.

  “You think I’m a bad person for cheating on her.”

  “No.” I leaned my forehead against the glass as tears trickled down my cheek. “You’re a good person, Jeff. That’s not what I meant.”

  “I could’ve left a long time ago, but I stayed. I make sure she gets the care she needs.”

  “I understand that.”

  “The last thing I wanted was to hurt you. I’m sorry. I’ve tried to figure this out, but it seems to be an impossible situation, especially because I don’t know what she might do if I leave her.”

  The truth was too horrible to say out loud. Kill herself. Or him. Or even, potentially, if she did find out about the affair, me.

  “Yes,” I said. “You’ve devoted yourself to her.” I wiped the tears off my cheek and then turned around. “Her, not me. And you’re there for your kids, which you need to be. Meanwhile, I may never have any kids because I’ve spent my late thirties hoping a man will leave his wife for me when that was never a real possibility.”

  He slumped in his chair and looked up at me. “I’m sorry. I’ll say it a million times if it will do any good. I’m sorry!”

  It didn’t do any good. Not one bit. I pulled the bracelet off my wrist and set it on the table. “I can’t accept this.”

  “Amanda, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I should go.”

  “I know you’re in shock. I know this is a lot to absorb. You need to give it some time to sink in.”

  “Time isn’t going to help.” I went to the bedroom to find my shoes. He followed me in.

  “You feel that way now,” he said, “but at least the truth is out. That means we can talk about it and figure something out together. And we will work it out, I promise.”

  I slipped on my flats. “No, we won’t.” Now I knew ultimatums pertaining to me didn’t matter. My needs didn’t factor in here. “There isn’t anything to work out, Jeff.” Though that wasn’t totally true. “Except the money I owe you.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “I’ll pay it back somehow, I promise.”

  “The money doesn’t matter,” he said with annoyance. “Forget the money.” He held out the bracelet. “Please take this. It’s your birthday present. I want you to have it.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry.” He looked so sad, like a little boy; it made me want to kiss him and make everything better. Instead, I forced my legs to walk away from him. “I’ve gotta go.” I went back to the
living room, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door.

  Jeff, still barefoot, followed me down the hallway to the elevator. “I’ll call you later.”

  “No. Please?”

  “We can’t all of a sudden just stop seeing each other.”

  “We aren’t. It’s taken me years to all of a sudden just stop seeing you.”

  I got on the elevator without giving him the chance to kiss me. We stood across from each other, two sad people in a situation that couldn’t be fixed. I waited for the door to slide shut between us.

  OLIVE

  ON MY WAY home from Joe’s, I stopped in a bakery for some fresh, warm rolls. While walking up the block, I promptly wolfed one down. A newsboy was selling papers on the corner. A headline caught my eye. THAW LOSES SUIT FOR RELEASE: COURT DECLARES PRISONER INSANE. I bought a copy to read in my room later.

  The more distance I put between me and Joe, the more stupid I felt for my behavior, the more nervous I became over the consequences. What if my memory of the fertile period was wrong? I might’ve switched it around in my mind, just as I did when I was trying to remember what Angelina had told me. Or perhaps she’d switched it around. Or perhaps she’d been right and the information in my book was wrong. No, I could trust Dr. Galbraith. But now I couldn’t remember if she’d said the woman was most fertile during her monthly or least fertile. My god. I might be pregnant this very moment. It would be disastrous. My entire life ruined. How could I be so careless? I hurried the rest of my way home.

  As soon as I reached my room, I took The Four Epochs of Woman’s Life from the bottom of my trunk and flipped through the pages. He’d pulled out just in time, the sticky residue on my belly proved it, but still …

  Indeed, as I remembered, Dr. Galbraith said it was a well-established fact: The woman was most likely to conceive on the days immediately before and immediately after menstruation. How reassuring those words were. A well-established fact. I closed the book. My monthly had finished eight days ago. Everything should be fine.

  I washed up and ate another roll while reading the newspaper. The judge who’d presided over Thaw’s trial said he felt the verdict was correct. In his opinion, Thaw was paranoid and ought to remain in the asylum as long as he’d be a danger to society.

  Angelina once said I didn’t understand Harry Thaw because I’d never felt passion. Perhaps she’d been right. For the first time, I felt sorry for the man. I understood how passion could make you crazy. Joe’s kisses had made me temporarily insane. My body had decided my actions instead of my head. Reason had flown out the window. Part of me wished I could tell Angelina what happened—perhaps she’d change her mind about me. But I could never admit it was her brother who’d seduced me.

  —

  I took myself out for a proper breakfast at the Child’s on Fourteenth Street. Eating my eggs with hash, I remembered how bereft I felt the last time I’d been here, just after Father died. At least I felt like a part of the city now, no longer on the outside looking in. After finishing my meal, I decided to stroll by the Mansfield. Even though it wasn’t far, my first home in New York seemed like a world away.

  The same red-haired doorman who’d summoned Matilda stood in the doorway. He didn’t notice me, or pretended not to, as I passed by and took a peek inside. The lobby looked the same as before, yet I was a completely different person. Or perhaps I was more myself than I’d ever been.

  Turning down Fourth Avenue, I noticed the time on a street clock. Joe’s train wouldn’t be leaving for another hour. Instead of wandering aimlessly, I could be racing to the station to see him. Had I been a fool not to go with him? I smiled at the idea of being with him in San Francisco, living as the wife of a fisherman, giving birth to a brood of Italian babies, and learning how to cook spaghetti from his mother. Grand Central was only twenty blocks north. A fifteen-minute walk could lead to an entirely different future.

  It didn’t seem worth the effort. He’d throw me over soon enough, or I’d grow tired of him. His mother would never accept a girl who wasn’t Italian, and his father would run me out of the state.

  I entered the park. The steel frame of the Metropolitan Tower had grown taller, reaching almost its full height. The marble facade encased around twenty floors. The sleek skyscraper dwarfed the Madison Square Garden and made it look old-fashioned and quaint. The city was already leaving Stanford White behind.

  —

  Monday morning I passed by the lace counter. Workmen had dismantled the old counter and were replacing it with a new showcase designed specifically for the Madame du Jardin cosmetics. Mr. McGillicutty showed me how the interior was fitted out with special hidden reflector lights that were designed to draw the eye. “How clever,” I said. “When do you think it will be ready?”

  “I expect you’ll be open for business by the end of the week,” he said. “I believe someone is coming to familiarize you with the products on Wednesday. I don’t know if this will be one of the most popular counters on the floor or one of the most criticized.”

  “You needn’t worry, Mr. McGillicutty. I’ll manage just fine.” The past week had thoroughly prepared me to be both popular and criticized.

  “Have fun at the Majestic?” Sadie asked when I took my place behind our counter.

  “It was fine.”

  “Looked like more than that.”

  “Not particularly.” Did she know something? It was impossible.

  “If you say so,” she said.

  So far I hadn’t missed Joe one bit. Granted he’d been gone only one day. And I did find myself remembering how it felt to have those hands touching my skin, our bodies pressed together. At least I finally knew what made everyone else snicker, condemn, rhapsodize …

  No. I had to forget. I turned to my first customer of the day. “May I help you?”

  —

  Mrs. Maytell, an attractive woman with a proper British accent, came to show me how to apply Madame du Jardin’s cosmetics. We installed ourselves behind the beautiful new mahogany showcase and placed the entire line of makeup on the glass countertop. The pretty collection of tiny pale pink boxes decorated with yellow irises consisted of three shades each of powder, rouge, lip pencil, and eyebrow pencils. Before using one of the other girls as my guinea pig, she wanted me to have the customer experience. I perched on a tall stool at the end of the counter. She leaned over me, dabbing powder on my forehead and cheeks. I inhaled the scent of her lavender perfume.

  “I have absolutely no experience when it comes to cosmetics,” I confessed.

  “You’ll catch on soon enough. Once you start using these products, you’ll feel naked without them.” She went on to apply rouge to my cheek. “Using two fingertips, always blend upward to combat the effects of gravity.”

  I hoped she’d use it sparingly but didn’t dare speak up. After all, she was the expert. Her gentle touch did feel soothing. The customers would likely enjoy the personal attention. “What are the ingredients?” I asked.

  “Madame du Jardin insists on keeping that a highly guarded secret. If anyone wants to know, tell them she rescued the recipes from a locked cabinet that dates from before the French Revolution.”

  “She must be an interesting woman. Will I have the chance to meet her?”

  “Oh, no. Madame is getting on in years and has become something of a recluse. She used to be a great beauty, but now she can’t bear the idea of anyone seeing how she looks.”

  “How sad.”

  “Don’t breathe a word,” she said, lowering her voice, “but I heard she once tried to kill herself with arsenic. A wealthy woman like that! There now, we’re all done.” Mrs. Maytell stepped back to assess her work. “Lovely. Let me show you.”

  As she reached for a mirror, I held out hope that Mrs. Maytell had managed to add a new facet of beauty to my appearance. When she held up the glass to catch my reflection, all I saw was a woman trying too hard to prove she was a woman.

  —

  The morning my new counter opened for
business, I arrived early to make sure everything was ready to go, especially my face. Trying to achieve the most natural look possible, I applied the products with a light touch. Miss Cohen arrived just as I put away my cosmetics box.

  “Everything looks perfect,” she said, “except you. Are you wearing the makeup?”

  “Yes. I wanted to keep it subtle.”

  “But not invisible. You’ll have to put on more.”

  “Yes, Miss Cohen.” I retrieved my supplies. Miss Cohen stood there while I applied more lip pencil, rouge, and a dusting of powder.

  “That’s more like it.”

  I nodded and smiled and felt like a tart. Miss Cohen wished me luck as Mr. McGillicutty signaled the doormen to allow the waiting customers in. Moments later, I faced my first customer.

  “I’m looking for powder that won’t cake on my face.”

  Nature had blessed this young woman with a pink-cheeked, healthy complexion and smooth, unblemished skin. I wondered why she felt the need to cover it.

  “Perhaps your skin is dry.” I set a box on the counter. “I suggest applying a layer of Madame du Jardin’s face cream under the powder. It has a lovely scent of geranium.”

  “I’ve tried using creams, but they never work.”

  “Just use a very small amount. After you’ve blended it completely, add a light dusting of the powder, and use a chamois to smooth it out.” I put a pink chamois tied with a gold ribbon next to the box.

  “I don’t know … they make my face look too greasy.”

  “This one won’t. I have a sample right here.” I opened the jar, and she dipped the tip of her finger in. “The secret is to use a tiny amount. One jar can last an entire year. It works wonders—like food for the skin—and it prevents wrinkles, too.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “For a limited time, if you buy the cream along with the powder, you’ll receive a twenty-five-cent discount.”

  “Well then, I suppose I’d best get them both.”

  “Can I interest you in some of her cosmetics? The lip pencils come in three shades; the lightest one would work perfectly with your coloring.”