by Nancy Moser
She’d knocked on a few doors but hadn’t found many people home. Those who had answered were asking too much, or blatantly told her they didn’t rent to her kind.
Regarding that . . . she’d purposely avoided their old neighborhood around Five Points. Most of the buildings were in as horrible condition as their own. Would they also be torn down to make way for some park or factory? Lucy couldn’t risk being moved twice.
And so she’d walked north, past the Jewish neighborhood running along Bayard, past Grand and Stanton . . .
The buildings were better there, more solid, and often made of brick. She turned onto a street that was full of shops—real shops. She was used to the pushcarts of Mulberry Street that dappled the street like pebbles interrupting the flow of a stream. The pushcarts sold common goods like pans and baskets, and fruit, bread, and flowers. But these shops had their goods displayed in the windows: cheese, sausages, crocks, books . . . and dresses. One window showed a mannequin wearing a gorgeous blue gown of satin brocade with pink bows at the bottom of the sleeves and at the neckline. Lucy was used to the rather bland work of sewing sleeves and linings into coats whose colors did nothing to brighten her weary days. Once in a while, they were given women’s blouses to work on, but even then the colors were depressingly neutral.
Remembering the task at hand, she forced herself to move on, yet her eyes rebelled at the thought of looking anywhere but at the prettiness of the—
With a start, she ran into a man exiting a door.
“Scusi,” she said.
“Pardon me,” the man said as he tipped his hat and took a step back. “I’m afraid my mind was elsewhere.”
He had a ring of keys in his hand. He fumbled for one in particular and tried the key in the lock. Lucy saw that the door was not to a store, but was nestled between two storefronts.
“This blasted lock.”
“May I?” Lucy was used to finicky locks. The one on their apartment only worked if she tilted the key in a downward angle. She tried the same method and it worked. The door locked.
“There you are,” she said, trying the door as evidence.
He looked surprised by her success. “With all the rentals I own, you’d think I’d get used to the idiosyncrasies of the locks.”
“Rentals?”
“I have a small apartment above the store here. I have rentals all over Manhattan.”
“An apartment, you say?” Her heartbeat strengthened. This was a good street with nice shops.
“Are you looking for one?”
“I am. My mother, my sister, and I are being evicted.”
His long face lengthened even more. “For nonpayment—?”
“No, no, sir. We’ve lived in the building for twenty years. But now they’re tearing it down—tearing down an entire row of buildings to make a park.”
The man studied her as if assessing her character. She was glad she was wearing her best navy dress for church but felt the need to persuade him further. “Does the apartment have good light? My mother makes flowers for hats and works at home.”
“Hats?”
She nodded. “And my sister and I work in the garment business.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You’re a seamstress?”
Of a sort. “For twelve years now. My sister is only fifteen, but she’s worked four years in the trade.” In the sweatshops. The horrible, disgusting sweatshops.
He put a hand to his mouth and shook his head. But beneath the hand he was smiling. “Come with me, Miss . . . ?” He waited for her name.
“Scarpelli. Lucy Scarpelli.”
“Come with me, Miss Scarpelli. Today may be your lucky day.”
She hesitated. Although he looked to be a man of fine bearing, she didn’t know him.
He laughed at her uncertainty. “Five steps, Miss Scarpelli. Ten at the most.”
He walked up the sidewalk and motioned toward the doorway of the shop that contained the beautiful dress.
She’d get to see it in person? Lucy walked after him and noticed the sign painted on the window: Madame Moreau’s Fashion Emporium.
“Is this a dress shop?”
He laughed. “Don’t let Mrs. Flynn hear you call it that.”
“Who is Mrs. Flynn?”
“The woman I hired to run the place. Irish through and through, but she’d like people to believe she’s Madame Moreau.”
“Where is Madame Moreau?”
He cupped his mouth with a hand. “She doesn’t exist. I thought a French name would be a lure to our society customers.” He fiddled with the ring of keys, finding the correct one for the door. “Come inside.”
The warning of Lucy’s mother intruded. A girl alone? It’s not safe.
The man sighed. He was running out of patience. “My name is Thomas Standish and I’m happily married with three children—who are waiting for me to get home for Sunday dinner. If you need more references than that to trust me, I—”
“No. I mean, yes, I’ll come inside.”
He swept an arm toward the interior.
The main room had numerous dress ensembles displayed on mannequins, making her forget the initial blue one. Scattered about were lush velvet chairs, a sea green settee, and two full-length gilded mirrors on stands.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yes, well, the upper set expects sumptuous surroundings, so that’s what we give them. There are two private fitting rooms over there, but when the dresses are near completion, the women do love to come out here to see themselves.”
Lucy glanced at the window. “And be seen?”
“Is that not the point?”
Lucy fingered the lace on a sleeve with huge leg-o’-mutton sleeves. She wasn’t keen on the trend—it made women look ridiculous to have puffed sleeves twice the size of their head—but the sleeves were popular because their volume made the wearer’s waist look tiny in comparison. And like it or not, the style wasn’t the fault of this shop. Fashion was declared elsewhere and women followed. She turned the cuff over and saw that the stitching was straight, and the presence of interlining gave the cuff body. It was obvious the sewing standards were high. She turned to Mr. Standish. “All the work is done here?”
“Indeed it is. In the back.” He walked through a curtain and lit a gas lamp inside the next room. Then he held the curtain aside for her to enter. “Come in, Miss Scarpelli.”
The workroom was set up with many work stations. There were two treadle sewing machines, a large cutting table, and a wall of spindles, filled with spools of thread. It was a far cry from the dingy sweatshop where she and Sofia sat shoulder to shoulder with dozens of other women, under minimal lighting and the weight of boredom, as they sewed the same type of piece over and over and over.
“So all the dresses are custom-made?”
“Every one. With stores like Bloomingdale’s, Macy’s, and Tremaine’s luring women to buy off the rack, we live on our reputation for extraordinary custom-made clothing for society’s elite.”
The notion of creating something beautiful and using good-quality fabrics and trim was enticing. Lucy longed to be creative, and often, during her tedious work, daydreamed of how she would design a dress or a blouse or skirt. “So the outfits are custom designed too?”
He put down the scissors he’d been playing with. “Are you a designer?”
She almost said yes, but decided truth the better choice. “I’ve never had the chance. But I would like to try. I would like to learn.”
His gaze moved from her face to her toes and back again. “You didn’t design the dress you’re wearing, did you?”
Lucy knew her outfit was marginal. Her dress was at least six years old. It had the distinction of being her “best” because it was the least worn looking, yet it was very old-fashioned, with narrow sleeves and an out-of-style bustle.
Mr. Standish was waiting for an answer. “I didn’t design my clothes, and I certainly know their shortcomings in both design and quality. But when a family needs f
ood and the rent is due, the desire for something new and fashionable is set aside.”
“To pay the rent.”
“On time.”
He made an odd sound, as if he didn’t believe her, a notion that was dispelled when he said, “Then that makes you a better tenant than my last two—the last of which moved out without notice and left the place a mess.”
“I know of such people, but I assure you, Mr. Standish, my family shares none of those vices.”
“I believe you.” He strolled around the cutting table that sat in the middle of the room. “And perhaps . . .” He stopped. “Perhaps your lucky day is also mine.”
Lucy held her breath. Was he talking about an apartment, a job, or both? She forced herself to act calm. “How so, sir?”
“I’ve wanted to expand our offerings to hats.”
“My mother could handle that expansion with ease.”
“And with the sewing of gowns for the upcoming season in Newport in full swing . . . we are heartily busy.”
“Three additional sets of hands, savvy with needle and thread, would be an advantage.”
“But the apartment . . .” He resumed his stroll. “It’s small.”
“How much is the rent?”
“Sixteen.”
Lucy tried to control her excitement. They paid seventeen dollars a month now, and this building was far better than their tenement. But they also had two fewer people to help with the rent. “I’ll give you fourteen.”
He considered this a moment. “You’ll make up the difference keeping the shop clean?”
“Of course.”
He extended a hand. “It appears we have a deal, Miss Scarpelli.”
She coughed once, then again, expelling the tension that had accumulated in the minutes that had transpired between bumping into Mr. Standish and gaining both lodging and jobs for her family. She shook his hand. “We have a deal.”
“I surmise you don’t have the rent money on you?”
“You surmise correctly.” She thought of the coins in the money jar at home. Was there enough for the rent? “I’ll pay you all I can, and the rest you can deduct from our paychecks until we are square. Would that be satisfactory?”
“I believe something can be arranged. When would you like to move in?”
Her thoughts sped through the logistics of moving. They could borrow a cart from someone . . . she might even hunt down Angelo, since he and his father used a cart for their business. And since Uncle Aldo was still around, he could help with the heavy lifting, not that they had that much to—
“A day, Miss Scarpelli. What day would you like to move in?”
“The day after tomorrow? And we could start work the day after that.”
He laughed. “I admire your spunk and work ethic.” He took out his key ring and removed a key, pressing it into her hands. “Here you go. I’ll stop by later to collect the first portion of the rent.”
“Thank you.” Lucy palmed the key and pressed it to her heart. Just like that, their problems were solved. She thought of Mamma in church this morning, praying . . .
They exited the store and Mr. Standish said his good-byes. Lucy was left with the key—and the door to their apartment. Only then did she realize she’d not even looked at the space.
What if it’s awful? What if it’s so small the three of us can’t even live there?
There was only one way to find out.
She unlocked the door and was greeted with a set of dark, narrow stairs. She took a match from a container on the wall and lit the wall lamp. The light—though dim—helped ease her wariness. She went up the stairs to a landing. And one door. This was it.
The same key that opened the bottom door opened this one. Lucy opened it slowly, expecting the worst. She saw . . .
Light. A bounty of glorious sunlight.
To her left, the entire front of the main room was lined with windows. In a small alcove near the windows was a stove, a sink, and shelves in a kitchen area. Off the main room were two doors. The one straight across from the entry was open, showing a bedroom at least the size of the one on Mulberry Street. And the other smaller door led to something Lucy had never dared hope for: a bathroom! There was a toilet, a small sink, and . . .
A bathtub.
Lucy stepped into it, clothes and all, and sat down. Such luxury was beyond her ken. Only then did she notice the tub needed a good scrubbing. And the sink had an ominous orangey coating in its bowl, and the toilet . . .
Lucy climbed out of the tub and brushed off her clothes. With her eyes freshly attuned to details instead of space, she saw that the apartment needed a lot of cleaning. It was obvious Mr. Standish’s previous tenants had left quickly, with little regard for what they’d left behind—or the condition of the apartment itself. There was a smattering of discarded furniture that may or may not be usable. A man’s shoe was in the corner, trash was scattered throughout the room, and the kitchen shelves were marked with a myriad of ancient spills.
Upon closer inspection, Lucy smelled something sickly sweet and found the kitchen sink filled with the remnants of more than one peeled apple and fruit flies dancing above their feast.
She turned toward the main room and put her hands upon her hips, measuring the challenge. She’d have to give it a good dose of elbow grease—before her mother and sister saw it.
Speaking of . . . they were probably sitting at home, worried for her life and limb amongst the fearful streets of New York.
Such a surprise she’d have for them.
“Where have you been?”
Lucy closed the door behind her. She was greeted by all four members of her family, waiting for an answer.
She’d be happy to give them one.
Lucy had pondered this moment all the way home. She didn’t want to burst in the door, shouting the news. She wanted to mark the moment with a little drama.
And so, she removed the key from her pocket and dangled it in front of them.
“What’s that?” Uncle Aldo asked.
“A key.”
“We can see that,” Aunt said. “But what—?”
Sofia ran to her, nabbing the key away. “It’s the key to our new apartment!”
Lucy nodded, seeking her mother’s smile.
Mamma did more than smile; she wrapped Lucy in her arms, leaning this way and that, cradling her head against her own face. “Ah, cara ragazza! Grazie, grazie!”
Lucy had expected her mother to be happy, but her exuberance was surprising, and revealed a worry beyond what she’d previously expressed.
Once Mamma let her go, they all began talking at once.
“Where is it?”
“How many rooms?”
“How much?”
She reveled in the knowledge that she had one more surprise for them. But first she gave the details.
“A bathroom?” Mamma said.
“With a real bathtub,” Lucy said, “and an indoor necessary and running water in the kitchen.”
Aunt tugged on her husband’s arm. “Perhaps we should stay.”
Lucy nearly panicked. Although they could all fit in the new apartment, her hopes for the future involved just the three of them living there.
“No,” Uncle said. “We promised Vittorio. I’m getting the train tickets tomorrow.”
Aunt nodded and the crisis was averted.
“When can we move in?” Mamma asked.
Lucy had thought it through. “Tuesday. Tomorrow I’ll go make it ready for you and—”
“What you mean, ‘make it ready for us’?”
Lucy didn’t want to let them know how dirty it was, only how clean it would be once she was through with it. “I just want to make sure it’s perfect.”
“The fact we have a place to go . . . that makes it perfetto.” Mamma looked heavenward. “Grazie a Dio.”
It was time for the other surprise. Lucy extended her hands to her mother and sister. She needed physical contact for her next announcement. “I have so
mething else to tell you that will make things even more perfect.”
Sofia tried to guess. “You found a thousand dollars in a trunk in the apartment.”
Lucy ignored her. “I found jobs—for all three of us.”
“We have jobs.”
Lucy shook her head. “Not like these jobs. Not in a fancy dress shop catering to society ladies.”
Mamma blinked, her mouth open. “Where? How?”
“Madame Moreau’s Fashion Emporium just so happens to be the shop directly beneath our apartment. The owner’s been wanting to expand their offerings to hats, and Sofia and I will be seamstresses. Real seamstresses in a nice workroom with our own work space and good lighting and—” She thought of something else that would impress them. “Out front there’s an elegant room where the ladies come to see dresses and look at fabric choices. The chairs are covered in velvet and—”
“What’s velvet?” Sofia asked.
“Velluto,” Mamma said. “Like Mrs. Romano’s shawl, the one she wears to show off.”
Sofia nodded.
“But this velvet isn’t black; it’s pale green. Very sophisticated.” Lucy could say more, but she knew they already had an image of the place.
“I get to make hats?”
“With all the trims, feathers, and flowers you want.”
“Probably flowers we made right here in this room,” Aunt Francesca said.
“Perhaps,” Lucy said.
Aunt bit her lower lip and Lucy could almost see her thoughts churning. “Would they have a job for me?” She glanced at her husband. “I want to see our son, but Oklahoma is so far away, and—”
“Enough, wife. We’re going.”
Aunt sat back down, still uncertain.
“Come now.” Mamma motioned all of them close. “Let us fall to our knees and thank God for answering our prayers.”
The five of them knelt, bowed their heads, and prayed silently. Lucy prayed too, thanking God, but . . .
But also thanking herself.
She’d done very well. Like Mr. Standish had said, today was her lucky day.
Chapter Two
For the first time in her memory, Sofia awakened on a Monday and didn’t go to work. Lucy had told her there was no reason for both of them to go to the sweatshop to quit and collect their pay.
