The Subway Girls

by Susie Orman Schnall

  Charlotte enlisted JoJo to pick apart every last moment from Friday night, but JoJo, in commensurate best-friend form, couldn’t find a fault with Charlotte’s behavior. She did say that there were always two sides to a story, but considering Sam didn’t have the gizzard to show his face, she was unable to take his deposition and would have to rely on Charlotte’s account in full.

  Still, Charlotte was unsettled. And sad. And confused as to why Sam had gone quiet. She supposed that it was possible he was consumed with work; that wouldn’t be such an unlikely scenario, as he often had to work weekends, sometimes on short notice. But eventually, she settled on believing that he was angry at her for making a spectacle of what he thought was a fine proposal—perhaps a bit unorthodox, but still a proposal—on an equally fine night.

  But for now, on to the next, Charlotte thought as she exited the subway station on her way to John Robert Powers for the photo shoot.

  Charlotte couldn’t believe what Miss Fontaine was telling her. “She just didn’t show up?”

  “That’s correct. And she didn’t write her telephone number on the form we gave all of you girls. We only had her address, and we’re not in the business of dispatching couriers to Brooklyn to hunt down Miss Subways contestants.”

  “I’m sure she’ll come eventually, Miss Fontaine. Couldn’t you wait just a bit longer?” Charlotte asked, peering toward the front door, certain Rose would blow in on a perfumed breeze any second, looking like she was right on time. Charlotte was surprised she was campaigning for Rose, but it didn’t feel right to be opportunistic. To have such a windfall at the expense of someone else’s misfortune.

  “Unfortunately,” Miss Fontaine said in an exasperated tone, “I’ve given her all the time I can for now.”

  “There must be a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Charlotte said.

  “I’m sure there is,” Miss Fontaine agreed. “But we’ve got work to do. Are you ready, Miss Subways?”

  Charlotte had never had her makeup professionally done. She’d been to the beauty parlor; what girl hadn’t? But sitting in the glamorous, spacious, and well-lit hair-and-makeup studio at the offices of John Robert Powers was a different experience altogether.

  First they asked Charlotte if she’d like something to drink. Coffee, Miss Friedman? Tea, perhaps? Or champagne, if you’d prefer? Charlotte decided on tea, thinking that would be the best choice to settle her stomach. But then considered champagne, as that would be the best choice to settle her mind. In the end, she asked for, and received, both.

  Charlotte felt regal and giddy, perched upon the pink vinyl salon chair, her arms folded in her lap and her toes tapping the footrest below. She stared at her reflection in the lightbulb-framed mirror that took up most of the wall across from her, excited to see the transformation that would happen before her eyes. She’d never taken a turn at this particular type of ball.

  Professionals bustled about her, their industry creating a bee-like hum as they debated curls and cheek colors, lip shapes and eyebrow arches, and Charlotte, poor Charlotte, kept getting reprimanded for looking over her shoulder for Rose.

  Miss Fontaine popped her head in once or twice to give approving nods or ask for updates. Her hair’s so thick, Miss Fontaine. What long eyelashes she has, Miss Fontaine. What do you think of this lip color, Miss Fontaine? Charlotte felt like a show animal competing for the blue ribbon at a county fair, and she didn’t mind one bit. It was helping take her mind off the rest of her life. At least a little.

  Miss Fontaine didn’t care for the sweater Charlotte was wearing, so, when Charlotte’s hair and makeup were complete, Miss Fontaine whisked her into another room and sorted through a rack of clothing. She selected two tops for Charlotte to choose from—a navy jewel-necked sweater with pearl buttons at the shoulders and a white short-sleeved blouse with a wide collar—but while Charlotte was contemplating the choices, apparently too slowly for Miss Fontaine’s taste, Miss Fontaine returned the blouse to the rack, held the sweater up under Charlotte’s chin, and thrust it at her.

  “This one will be perfect.”

  “Still no word from Rose?” Charlotte asked Miss Fontaine as she changed behind a screen.

  Charlotte imagined the worst: that Rose had been hit by the same crosstown bus as Sam. Or that something awful had happened to someone in her family. Why else wouldn’t she be there? This opportunity was everything to Rose.

  “I’m afraid not, dear,” Miss Fontaine replied as Charlotte came from behind the screen. “But don’t look too glum,” Miss Fontaine added, lifting Charlotte’s chin with her long, manicured finger. “Assuming she has a reasonable explanation, I can put her back in the running for next month. But you, Miss Charlotte Friedman, make a captivating Miss Subways for July!”

  Charlotte managed a small smile, but her concern for Rose overshadowed every molecule of joy she should have felt. Soon, though, after the reality of the situation had gained a foothold between her jewel-bedecked ears, and after Charlotte realized she would be a fool to forfeit this final-lap opportunity on behalf of a girl she’d known for a mere two weeks, she asked for a second glass of champagne to raise a toast to victory and to Miss Fontaine, to the pretty birds at reception, to all the paint cans in Friedman’s storeroom, and to Mr. John Robert Powers and Muky.

  Speaking of, Charlotte was petrified to face the small man again as she made her way with Miss Fontaine to the photography studio, down another long hallway lined with picture frames full of the gorgeous. But she needn’t have worried, because Muky was a love.

  “Miss Friedman, welcome back. So lovely to have you here, dear,” he said, holding her right hand in his and kissing it repeatedly. And audibly.

  “Thank you, Muky. I’m delighted to be back.”

  Charlotte wasn’t sure what had turned Muky’s sour side to sweet, but she didn’t much care. This new Muky suited her just fine.

  Charlotte adored the photo shoot. The flashing lights and persistent instructions kept her mind engaged. Miss Fontaine monitored her charge protectively. And Charlotte, though careful not to look away from the camera even a millimeter while Muky was shooting, noticed Mr. Powers himself peeking in while Muky was changing the film. Charlotte was amazed it took all this buzzy effort to end up with the one perfect photo that would grace her Miss Subways poster.

  Once the lens cap had been replaced, Miss Fontaine walked Charlotte back to reception. She thought she’d have another opportunity to speak with Mr. Powers, hopefully to give an additional plug to Friedman’s Paints and Wallpapers, where she could be found should any Miss Subways fans care for a photo, but Miss Fontaine told her that he’d gotten all the information he needed during their initial conversation and he would pass that along to the copywriter. Charlotte pressed on, but Miss Fontaine told her that would be all, thank you very much, dear.

  Charlotte was back on the street in front of 247 Park Avenue before she knew it, and if it weren’t for the thick layer of makeup on her face and the stylish curls in her hair, she wouldn’t have believed any of it had ever happened.

  * * *

  “Hello, Sam,” Charlotte said curtly when Sam picked up his line. She was still angry—and confused—that he hadn’t been in touch since Friday night.

  “Charlotte. I’ve been meaning to call you all weekend. I got pulled into—”

  “We can talk later. I’m calling from a pay phone,” Charlotte interrupted. “I need Rose’s address. I figured since you dropped her off on Friday night, you’d know where she lived.” All business.

  “What do you need that for?”

  “She didn’t show up to the Miss Subways photo shoot today, and I want to go by and see what happened.”

  “She probably forgot about it or something.”

  “Forgot? That’s ridiculous. Just please give me her address.”

  “Aw, just leave well enough alone, Charlotte.”

  “I’ll decide that for myself, Sam.”

  Once Sam told her where Rose lived, Charlotte go
t off the phone quickly. She didn’t like how he sounded, nor how he tried to dissuade her from checking on Rose. The whole conversation felt as off as month-old milk.

  * * *

  Rose’s neighborhood, though not a far distance from Charlotte’s, was the moon to the sun. A neighborhood whose inhabitants and architecture had decided it was no longer worth the trouble and had finally given up trying to be like the ones a few streets over.

  The main door to Rose’s building was unlocked, and Charlotte opened it slowly. The vestibule was dark, and Charlotte waited a moment to let her eyes adjust. She noticed GRANT on a mailbox that said 4B, so Charlotte began the climb. Every few steps presented another obstacle: a missing tread, a forgotten jack from that morning’s game, abandoned garbage taking a sojourn on its way to the incinerator. And each landing, with its open doors, provided a glimpse into the bowels of Brooklyn itself.

  Charlotte reached the fourth floor and knocked gently on 4B. A little boy opened the door.

  “Who are you?” he asked, all spunk and six or seven.

  “I’m Charlotte. Who are you?”

  “Paddy.”

  “Hi, Paddy. Does Rose Grant live here?”

  “She’s my sister,” he said, gesturing to the open door behind him. Charlotte could see movement, could smell something unidentifiable. “Wanna talk to her?”

  “I do. Could you please let her know that I’m here?”

  Paddy turned back and disappeared from sight. Charlotte felt it rude to stare into the apartment, so she pretended to have dirt underneath her nails and busied herself extricating it.

  “Charlotte.”

  Charlotte looked up. “Rose?”

  “In the flesh,” Rose said, her palms up in surrender.

  Charlotte wouldn’t have recognized her if she’d been going down the steps while Charlotte clamored up. She’d only seen Rose twice, but each time the makeup and hair and clothes seemed effortless. Charlotte realized now that a great deal had gone into that facade. “I came to see if you were okay.”

  “I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

  “Why didn’t you go to the photo shoot today?” Charlotte asked, concerned. This Rose was a complete one-eighty from the Rose that Charlotte was expecting. Clearly, something was not right.

  “How did you find out?”

  Charlotte hesitated. “Miss Fontaine called. She asked me to do the photo shoot in your place.”

  “And did you?” Rose asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “I did. I’m so sorry. I just thought—” Charlotte began to plead.

  “I changed my mind.”

  “You don’t want to be Miss Subways anymore?”

  “That’s what changing your mind meant last time I looked it up.”

  “You don’t have to be so rude. I was worried about you.”

  Rose laughed sarcastically. “I’m the last person you should be worried about, Charlotte.”

  “Is your mother okay?”

  “Yes. She’s okay. I’m okay. We’re all okay. Can’t you just accept that I don’t want anything to do with Miss Subways? It’s a dumb beauty contest. I have more important things to focus on.”

  Charlotte felt like a bully had just hurled a rock at her eye. Almost felt a physical jolt. “What’s gotten into you, Rose?”

  “Nothing, Charlotte. Now be on your way, and don’t think you can always put on your Pollyanna smile and your best coat and your clean gloves and your apple pie and make everything okay.”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Charlotte said indignantly.

  “You wouldn’t, honey. I’ve gotta go.” And she shut the door.

  Charlotte stood there. Disbelief and confusion spread through her like warm cream in coffee. And she had no idea what she’d done to make Rose react to her that way.

  * * *

  “Charlotte, is that you?” Charlotte’s mother called from the kitchen as soon as Charlotte opened the front door.

  “It’s me.”

  “What is all over your face? And your hair!” her mother said, walking toward her.

  Charlotte was confused by the question and then remembered the makeup and the curls. She had planned to stop somewhere on the way home to erase the glamour, but in the midst of all the Rose drama, she’d forgotten.

  “JoJo decided to do a makeover on me,” Charlotte lied. “Do you like it?”

  “Not one bit. Now go take care of it all before your father sees you. And then come back down because it’s almost time for dinner.”

  As she was walking upstairs, Charlotte heard the telephone ring. Her mother answered it.

  “Charlotte! Sam’s on the telephone for you.”

  Charlotte picked the handset up from the table where her mother had left it resting to tend to the soup. “Hello, Sam.” Charlotte was still perplexed by Sam’s weekend disappearance and had decided to let him drive the boat.

  “I hate that we haven’t spoken since I dropped you off Friday night. I’m so sorry again for what a dope I was with that whole marriage proposal fiasco. Now that I think back on it, I can’t believe I even did that. What was I thinking? Will you forgive me, Charlotte?”

  Charlotte held a quick debate in her mind. The side in favor of forgiving Sam argued that Charlotte, quite dismayed from losing Miss Subways to Rose and a tad affected by multiple glasses of champagne, may have overreacted a little to Sam’s unorthodox proposal and thus, she should forgive him. The side opposed argued that not only was Sam a boor for attempting the whole thing, but he didn’t even bother to call and apologize all weekend long. Yes, but the side in favor argued—though each side was allowed only one turn at the podium—it’s Sam: kind, loving, considerate Sam. He messed up. Get over it and move on. And the winner of the golden debate trophy is …

  “I’ll forgive you, Sam. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. But it was just a combination of the champagne and Rose’s forsaken ring and Rose’s gleaming charm and everything else, and it just made me so angry. Don’t do that again, okay?”

  “Never. Well, I can’t promise I won’t propose again, but I can promise that when I do, it will be nothing like the last time.”

  “Deal. By the way, I got quite a shock when I went to Rose’s this afternoon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was all disheveled and mean. Something seemed really peculiar. And she didn’t forget about the shoot. She said she had changed her mind, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

  “Strange. So, what will they do about the Miss Subways for July?”

  “It’s me. I actually did the photo shoot today. They called me in when Rose didn’t show up.”

  “That’s wonderful, Charlotte. Congratulations!”

  “Thanks. Part of me hates the way I won it, but if the whole goal, as I told you the other day, is to bring attention to my father’s store so I don’t have to work there, then I guess it doesn’t matter how I won. As long as I did.”

  “That’s my girl. Say, can I see you Saturday night?”

  Once they’d arranged their date and Charlotte had cleaned up for dinner, she came back downstairs to find her mother rinsing lettuce in the sink.

  “I owe you an apology,” Mrs. Friedman said without turning around. Her voice, Charlotte thought, sounded tinged with regret.

  “For what?” Charlotte asked.

  “For not pushing your father to find another solution to his problem of running the store. You should start your job, Charlotte. I apologize for not letting you pursue your dreams.”

  Charlotte was shocked to hear her mother say that. She hadn’t known what her mother could possibly feel she needed to apologize for, but it wasn’t that.

  “My goodness. I didn’t know you felt that way. I’d always believed you thought it was silly for me to work in advertising. To be honest, Ma, you’ve never really encouraged my career.”

  “I don’t think it’s silly, Charlotte, and that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she said, turning ar
ound to face Charlotte, a fervor in her eyes. She wiped her hands on her apron and continued. “You need to do what makes you happy. You’re young and you have your whole life ahead of you. Not following your dreams will make you angry and resentful.”

  “So are you saying that if I get a job, I can start after graduation like I was supposed to?”

  “I’m not saying that, because I don’t think your father will go for the idea no matter how hard I try to convince him. But I want you to know that as soon as the store is doing better, you have to do your advertising, Charlotte. You just have to.” The words rolled out emphatically and urgently.

  “Okay, Ma. I will,” Charlotte said, reaching for her mother’s hand. It was a rare moment of connection between the two of them, something Charlotte hadn’t felt from her mother since Harry died, but Charlotte welcomed it. She hadn’t realized how much she missed her mother.

  Mrs. Friedman looked toward the door that separated the kitchen from the hall and lowered her voice, saying, “You know, I don’t always agree that what your father thinks is the best decision really is. He’s made mistakes in the past.”

  “Like what?”

  Mrs. Friedman looked at Charlotte seriously and seemed to be deciding how much to say.

  “Like when we were first married,” Charlotte’s mother said, looking out the window again. “He told me I had to stop my career.”

  “You had a career?”

  “I did.”

  “Doing what? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “I buried that part of me a long time ago, Charlotte. Plus, you never asked.”

  Charlotte was simultaneously nervous and calm about this intimacy with her mother. She had caught glimpses of her mother sharing tender moments with Harry, always Harry, but she had never really experienced them herself. She remembered one time, trudging into the kitchen after school. Harry had gotten home before her and was in the kitchen, eating cookies and drinking lemonade with their mother. Charlotte remembered sensing, even though she was so young, that they were sharing a secret. And she had felt the air, their expressions, their voices change as soon as she entered. Remembering that moment when she was older, after she had lost Harry and every semblance of security and happiness she had ever known in her family, Charlotte realized that while she didn’t doubt her mother loved her, she understood that it was different, less substantial, than the love her mother had for her brother. Charlotte had accepted that to be true and had never imagined there was ample room for her.