Rob then proceeded to stand there, frozen with befuddlement over the task at hand. As one who lives for the thrill of scouring giant country flea markets and wholesale used-clothing warehouses, I stepped forward and took charge. “First we need to separate out the garbage from what might have value.” I pulled a yogurt maker, a typewriter from the fifties, and three old wood tennis rackets into the aisle. Rob joined in, and we gradually worked our way through. He tried to make a case for taking a kitschy lampshade with reindeers on it back to Santa Monica. I talked him into keeping an old dial phone from the forties. Everything appeared to belong to his parents or Jane and her husband, a businessman who died before Rob was born. “Doesn’t look like there’s any clothing here,” he said. “I completely understand if you want to go.”
“Are you kidding? I love this. You never know what’ll turn up next. Which reminds me—in the journal, I just read about an unexpected pregnancy that leads me to believe a woman named Angelina was Jane Kelly’s mother, not Olive Westcott.”
“Really? I don’t recognize that name, either.”
“I was hoping I’d be able to give you the journal today,” I said, which wasn’t quite true, “but I’m not done reading it yet.”
“No hurry. I’ll pick it up when I’m back in town.”
“Great, thanks.” I opened a box filled with one of the most predictable stashes: Life magazines from the fifties and sixties. Was there a flea market in North America without a vendor trying to get rid of a stack? Another box held Playbills for Broadway shows from the fifties and sixties. Rob thought they were worthless, but I knew collectors who would buy them, so he set those aside.
We kept on weeding until the aisle got so cluttered with garbage bags that there was no room to navigate. Rob took as many bags as he could carry and staggered to the elevator. While he was gone, I battled my conscience. It was already a quarter past one, and I’d have to stop at home to change and shower before going to the store. I could do the responsible thing and leave right away, but then I’d have to say good-bye to Rob. And what if there was something buried here that had been Olive’s that I wouldn’t want to miss?
I continued to forage. Rob took up a couple more loads. Finally, the only stuff left in the cage was a cardboard box and two big rolled-up rugs leaning against the side.
“I’m sorry,” Rob said. “This is looking like a bust for you.”
“Believe it or not, I like doing this. Anyway, I never give up hope until every nook and cranny has been explored.”
“I think we’re down to about one nook and two crannies.”
While Rob dragged out one of the rugs, I opened the last box. Inside, rusty old pots and pans mingled with Tupperware, an electric can opener, and a cheese grater. Darn. But when I looked up, I yelped with surprise. “Look at who was hiding behind the rugs!”
On the floor, partially obscured by the other rug, sat a big round black-and-white-striped hatbox. Maybe one of Angelina’s creations was inside. I crouched down next to it and pulled off the lid.
No hat.
The stuff on top should’ve gone straight to a garbage pail. Take-out menus, used message pads, and envelopes of junk mail, like coupons for limo services and carpet cleaners. Rob’s sister must’ve been particularly pressed for time that day. Underneath was a legal-size manila envelope. I opened it and found a treasure trove of ephemera: a booklet advertising French lessons in the Yersin Phono-Rhythmic Method; a receipt from Louis Goldzeiger & Son, Interior Decorators, dated 1914; a Hudson River steamboat timetable from 1919. Had they belonged to Olive? Angelina? “Oh, jackpot, here you go.” I handed Rob a baseball program from 1912. Maybe a husband had been the pack rat.
“Whoa. New York Giants versus. Boston Red Sox. World Series. This is worth, what do you think, a hundred bucks?”
“More than that. A lot more.”
As he flipped through the program, I found something else in the envelope: a yellowed front page of The New York Times dated March 26, 1911. It had a horrific headline. 141 MEN AND GIRLS DIE IN WAIST FIRE: HIGH UP IN WASHINGTON SQUARE BUILDING; STREET STREWN WITH BODIES; PILES OF DEAD INSIDE. I stood up to get better light and read it more closely. Sad stories about the Triangle Shirtwaist fire and eyewitness accounts filled the page. At the bottom was a list of the dead. Someone had drawn a circle around one of them: Sadie Bernstein. It shocked me to see her name; she was real, not just some character imagined in my head. I stared at the photograph of the building with flames shooting out the windows of the top floors. What a horrible way to die. Poor Sadie.
“Anything interesting?” Rob asked, setting aside the baseball program.
“Interesting,” I said, “but sad.” I held up the clipping. “Triangle Fire. Mrs. Kelly’s mother must’ve saved this.”
“I’ve heard of that—it was terrible.”
“Maybe your grandmother would like to look through this hatbox.” There was still a lot piled inside.
“Nah, she’s been very clear. Toss everything unless it might be worth something, and then sell it.”
“Do you want to look through? There could be something else valuable in there.”
“Like an envelope holding a million dollars in cash? I don’t have the time. Why don’t you take it? Would you mind?”
“I’d be happy to. And I promise to let you know if I find that million.”
“I know you’re good for it,” he said with a grin.
“Thanks.” I slid the papers back in the manila envelope. “I guess Mrs. Kelly isn’t very sentimental.”
“Nope, though she did choose your store to sell off her clothes. That was kind of sentimental.”
“How so?”
“She lived in the tenement where you have your shop.”
I crouched back down to close up the hatbox. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“My grandmother lived in the apartment over your store. She noticed your address, searching online for a consignment shop, and that’s why she called you.”
I jerked my head up and shot him a look of disbelief. The sudden movement made me wobble backward until my bottom landed on the cement floor. Good thing I was wearing pants. “Over my store? You’re sure about that?”
“Yeah, one flight up, facing the street.” He held out his hand.
I took it. “I live in that building.” As he helped lift me to my feet, I felt hyper-aware of our palms pressed together. “And my apartment is right over the store.”
“You’re kidding. So you live in the same apartment she did.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine, just a little surprised.” I decided not to mention anything about the strange vibes I’d felt in the apartment since I started reading Olive’s journal. He already had to think I was too interested in his ancestors. “Anyway, you must be anxious to get ready for your flight. And I should get to my shop.”
He checked his watch. “Yeah, my flight is at six o’clock.”
I picked up the hatbox, finding it heftier than expected, and we took the elevator back to the lobby. Under the watchful eye of the doorman, Rob and I faced each other for a final good-bye.
“I’m glad we unearthed that baseball program,” I said.
“If I sell it, you’re getting a commission.”
“That’s okay, really.”
“At least let me take you out to dinner next time I’m in town.”
“That would be nice.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
“And I promise not to turn you down.”
I didn’t dare ask when he’d be back; instead, I told myself to play it cool and enjoy the fact that he’d made a date, sort of, for the future.
“Thanks for coming by and helping,” he said, leaning forward a bit, like he might be thinking of kissing me.
“You’re very welcome,” I said, blushing like a gosh-darn virgin.
“So … until next time.”
His f
ace came toward mine. I tried to look casual, as if to say, Of course you’re going to kiss me. The hatbox bulged between us as his lips pressed lightly against my cheek. His beard scratched my skin, and a chill went down my spine. Not because of any ghostly presence—just the real man standing in front of me.
OLIVE
July 24, 1908
A Jew with dangling sidelocks pulled us into his store. He showed us a cot and asked $1.85. Angelina talked him down to $1.50 including delivery. Afterward we picked up my belongings at Mrs. Almond’s. By the time we returned, a boy stood waiting by the front door with my new bed. He helped us carry everything up, and we gave him an extra five cents. Now here I am, writing this while sitting on my cot next to the window, looking out at the tenements across the street.
My trunk served as footstool, desk, chiffonier, and closet. Despite the dingy quarters and my longing for a private bathroom, I felt surprisingly at home, especially after we washed the windows, scrubbed the floor, and wiped the pretty wallpaper clean. Aunt Ida would’ve been proud of my burst of domesticity. As it was, she could only disapprove of my move to the ghetto when I wrote her my new address, noting it was temporary. I didn’t mention my promotion, in case she should decide that my strange behavior warranted a visit to make sure I hadn’t lost my mind.
My most ambitious effort was taking on the cockroaches. After consulting with a hardware store, I painted all the pipes, cracks, and entry points with turpentine. Then I set dishes of borax and sugar around the apartment. Every day we swept up a fresh supply of dead roaches and took great pleasure in burning them in the stove.
Another major nuisance was the stove. The ashes made a dreadful mess, and the fire needed constant tending. When I noticed a cart on Bowery piled high with secondhand kitchenware, I stopped to explore and found what I wanted. I didn’t bother haggling with the old woman vendor and proudly carried home my purchase: a used chafing dish in perfectly good condition.
With Angelina’s guidance, I made my first meal. First I sautéed some canned peas and onions in butter. Then I fried up some thin slices of beef. I made the sauce using cream, salt, pepper and, after simmering, stirred in an egg yolk. The simple meal tasted surprisingly good.
“Mercy!” Angelina said as we gobbled it down. “When I let you move in, I didn’t know I’d be getting a housewife in the bargain.”
“Neither did I.” I felt proud of my modest domestic achievement, but my triumph was tinged with sadness; I’d never have the chance to please my father with a home-cooked meal.
July 27, 1908
I must force myself to read the description of childbirth in The Four Epochs. The only account of labor I’ve ever heard was back when Tessie told me about helping her mother giving birth on the prairie. In her book, Dr. Galbraith describes three stages of delivery, but every time I start to read it, I can’t bear the ghastly details and have to put it down.
A few nights later, I was back at the chafing dish while Angelina read aloud a letter from Joe. As I stirred in fresh tomatoes, the steamy scent of beef stew made my mouth water.
My Dearest and Only Sister,
They say everything was destroyed in the earthquake but you’d never know it. The Italians were the first to rebuild so now it’s the best neighborhood in the city, and I’m not just talking through my hat. Everything is new and clean.
We live by the North Beach. Some people call it the Latin Quarter but Mama fancies she’s in heaven or back in Italy—same thing. The sky is so blue and the mountains so brown you’d think you was living in a painting. You’re a fool to stay in that sewer of a city. I don’t miss New York one bit.
It would’ve been nice to think he missed me, if only a smidgen, but of course our night together had happened ages ago.
All Mama wants now is a pack of grandchildren. You know that cousin they tried to fix you up with? Mama made me take his sister to a show. She’s got a big nose and yellow teeth. Ma che! I met a girl who works the candy counter. Prettiest thing I ever saw. I’m planning on making her fall in love with me.
“That boy hasn’t changed,” Angelina said.
“Mmmm.” Adding salt to the stew, I tried to appear preoccupied with getting the flavor just right.
If you’re wondering, I’m done with that actress. She turned out to be a tramp and anyway she cared too much about her career.
Angelina looked up from the letter. “Maybe I should’ve encouraged the two of you. You would’ve been a good influence on him.”
“Or he would’ve been a bad one on me.” I wasn’t blushing, only flushed from steam rising from the stew.
“I always knew you were sweet on him.”
“And I still say I wasn’t! Is there more to the letter?”
They got a big department store downtown called the Emporium. You could get a job there easy. I feel sorry for you slaving away in the heat. Lots of men around to make an honest woman out of you. Say the word and I’ll mail a train ticket.
Love,
Joe
I poured a cup of beer. “If things were different, would you ever move out there?”
“I don’t like hills,” Angelina said. “Or earthquakes.”
“Me neither.” I took a sip of the beer before adding it to the stew and wished everything could stay just like this forever.
August 4, 1908
Dreadfully hot. Sunday afternoon I don’t plan on moving more than an inch all day. If Angelina’s baby is smart, it won’t be born until after this heat wave is over.
I sat at the table trying to read a pamphlet Angelina had brought home from her doctor. Sadie stretched out on my cot while Angelina lay on her bed. Most weekends, Sadie came by to complain about her new job, which she hated, and the young man who worked there named Harry Katzenberg, whom she loved. “This time I’ll play my cards right,” she said. “Before you know it, I’ll be Mrs. Katzenberg.”
“Good luck to Mr. Katzenberg,” I said with a grin.
“And when I have my firstborn,” she said, ignoring my comment, “you won’t catch me coming near no doctor. Rosie is the best midwife on the East Side. Birthed over a thousand babies and ain’t lost one yet.”
Angelina laughed. “All those old ladies with their mustaches say that.”
I’d still failed to read Dr. Galbraith’s account of childbirth, and this pamphlet, with its detailed illustrations, scared me so much that I didn’t want to open the cover. The ordeal of labor worried Angelina far less than it did me. She firmly believed her experience would be the same as her mother’s, just as I feared sharing my own mother’s fate.
“I’ll stick with my Dr. Singer,” Angelina went on. “A girl who works in the accounting office gave me his name. He’s a nice young man and never bothers to make me feel like a hussy.”
I couldn’t decide how I’d give birth. It was easier to imagine exposing my private areas to a woman, but a doctor would know all the latest methods. Except I was delivered by a doctor, so perhaps a midwife was a safer bet.
“Well, I’m using Rosie,” Sadie said. “She’s got loads more experience than any wet-behind-the-ears doctor.”
“Dr. Singer can give me chloroform for the pain,” Angelina said. “And he can use forceps to help the baby out. Can your midwife do that?”
“If you have complications,” Sadie said, “he’ll send you to the hospital, where you’ll probably catch an infection and die.”
“If I die,” Angelina said with a laugh, “I won’t have to face my family with the truth.”
“For pity’s sake!” I interrupted. “Please don’t say such beastly things! Can we change the subject?”
“You thought of a name yet?” Sadie asked.
“I’m considering Alice, if it’s a girl.”
“And for a boy?” she asked.
“You forget, I refuse to have a boy.”
“I pity him if you do. Me, I like long names,” Sadie said. “Elizabeth is my favorite for a girl. And for a son, I want Benjamin. What’s your favorites,
Olive?”
“I’ve not thought about it.” I gave up on the pamphlet and set it aside. “I can’t imagine having a child.”
“What was your mother’s name?” Angelina asked.
“Jane.”
Sadie grimaced. “Plain Jane. If I were you, I’d pick something else.”
“It’s a perfectly good name,” Angelina said. “Short and sweet.”
Just as her life had been, I thought, reaching for my Dry Goods Weekly, though I’d already read all the interesting articles.
August 7, 1908
The baby is due to come any time. Just thinking about it makes my stomach clench with fear. Angelina, however, seems more tranquil than ever. We’ve been sleeping on the roof to escape the heat indoors. At first I wasn’t sure about spending the night out-of-doors with other people about, but the fresh air is sweet, and now I prefer it. I do love whispering in the dark with Angelina lying right next to me and gazing up at the stars before dozing off. If only I needn’t worry about what is to come! No matter what happens, I pray her life will be spared.
AMANDA
HUGGING THE HATBOX to my belly, I trudged up the stairs to my apartment. I hadn’t dared peek into the store before coming up; I felt too dirty and disgusting to be seen. It was two-thirty already, but Bettina hadn’t called, so I’d take a nice shower and have a bite to eat before going down.
The windows had been closed all night, and the apartment was stifling. I went straight to the air conditioner, turned it on full blast, and stripped off my soggy clothes on the way to the shower. Relief washed over me as I rinsed off the grimy sweat, Stewart House dust, and lovemaking stickiness that coated my skin. It would’ve been pleasant to dwell on Rob, but my thoughts kept returning to earlier in the morning and Jeff. I tried to wrap my mind around the fact that he was out of my life, as if he’d died, even though he was alive. I turned up the hot water and let myself have a good cry. Then I told myself to quit crying over the guy who’d been deceiving me the past six years. That led to wondering if my period had any intention of returning. The concept that “Aunt Flo” might soon be out of my life, too, made me cry all over again, until I considered another possibility. That pregnancy test was only 99 percent accurate, which meant it was 1 percent inaccurate; maybe Aunt Flo was on a nine-month vacation. If that turned out to be the case, how would I tell Jeff that I was carrying his child after my pronouncement that we could never be together?
Astor Place Vintage: A Novel Page 30
