Chapter Twelve
THE STORE buzzed with the question: “Where were you on Saturday?”
The elevator operator told us his friend had been rescued from the sixtieth floor. Mr. Myers said that the landing gear and part of the engine had landed on the Waldorf building, and Mr. Wilson was excitedly talking about Mayor La Guardia as if he had put out the fire himself. Everyone was in shock over the Empire State Building.
At the first possible moment, I went to the shipping department.
“Hey—Cavanaugh!” a clerk called.
“There she is!” Jack ran in. “You didn’t go up there, did ya?”
“In that fog?” I asked.
“I told the missus,” he said, shaking his head, “if anything’d happened to you girrls—I’d break in two!”
I was touched that he cared. “I came down as soon as I could—I can’t imagine anyone going there when it was so foggy.”
“Oh, lass,” he said, “they’re up there in all kinds of weather. You just have the luck of the Irish!”
I could use that luck, too, I wanted to add.
Later that morning, Mr. Myers signaled to me.
“We have something special you’ll want to see—I just showed Miss Garrett,” he said as Mr. Scott brought out a shimmering silver tray and placed it on the counter. When he lifted the cover, I was amazed. It was a complete vanity set in sterling silver. Silver comb, brush, mirror, perfume atomizer, cream and powder containers, manicure set, and a case for special jewels. All fitted in special compartments.
“An American Art Deco design,” Mr. Myers said, proudly.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the dazzling set. Who wouldn’t die to own it? The lady who deserved it was my mother. I could picture that shining vanity set on her three-way-mirrored dressing table. As a little girl, I loved to lie on Mother’s bed and rest my chin on her black sealskin muff that I’d find in the cedar chest. She’d brush her glossy black hair, pin it in a roll, and powder her face, the loveliest in town.
“I imagine it’s very expensive,” I said as he placed it back on the first shelf of the counter. “Yes,” he answered, “it’s very dear,” but he quickly changed the subject, for money was never discussed. “Isn’t it lucky that you girls weren’t in the Empire State Building?”
Before I could answer, I heard a loud rap.
It was Mr. Herdman. I could see his lips pressed in a thin line, and his shoulders were squared in a military stance when I reached his counter.
“Mr. Herdman—sir?” I asked, trying to sound cheerful.
He looked at me intently. “Miss Jacobson, I need to ask about a package I gave you last week. Did you take it to the mailroom?”
That stopped me. “I take every package for mailing there—sir.”
“We’ve been checking”—he cleared his throat—“and the customer did not receive it. I’m sorry this has happened.”
Sorry? Sorry? I was mortified! A package I’d delivered?
“I’m sorry, too.” Good heavens—did he think I was at fault?
“You’re sure you delivered it?” he insisted.
“Yes, sir,” I said, barely able to answer.
When he finally dismissed me, I felt a lump in my throat swelling to the size of an orange. I tried to force back the tears. I focused on the ceiling as if I were searching for cobwebs.
I looked for Marty.
What could this mean? A locker room search? A call from President Moore? New York police at our apartment?
As soon as Marty stepped out of the employees’ elevator, I ran to meet her. “I have to talk to you!”
“Lunchtime,” she called as she hurried by.
At noon we headed for the Automat. I looked over my shoulder to see if we’d been followed.
“What in the world?” Marty asked.
My voice cracked as I spilled out the news, the accusation.
Marty’s eyes widened. “For crying out loud, there’s nothing to worry about—you’re innocent until proven guilty. My father drilled that into me . . . just march right back and tell old Herdman—or J. Edgar Hoover.”
For the moment, her father’s legal knowledge reassured me; he’d tried cases before the Supreme Court, he was the expert. I tried to calm down as we headed back to Tiffany’s. But I avoided Mr. Herdman. I’d never confront him. As the day wore on I imagined the disgrace of being canned and fingerprinted and ending up in court. What would my parents say?
By the time we returned to our apartment I was beyond speech. Marty was buffing her nails at the desk. “You still worried about old Herdman? I’d tell him to go soak his head.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Actually, I did!” She looked up. “He came after me first—you know how they mix us up. But when I took business law last semester, I learned you can’t accuse anyone without proof.” She blew on her nails, and laughed. “You should’ve seen his face when I told him that!”
Still, it didn’t help me sleep any better. In fact, my eyes never closed as worries flew around like a movie on fast forward. Why couldn’t I be like Marty? When Mr. Herdman confronted me, my face had turned crimson and I’d stammered as if I had been caught red-handed.
Why did I always feel so guilty? I remembered when my fourth-grade teacher had discovered that money had been stolen from her desk. She had marched up and down demanding to know who the culprit was. No one raised a hand. While my friends laughed about it at recess, I felt compelled to go to her and prove my innocence.
All night, staring at the ceiling, I retraced my steps from Herdman’s counter to the mailroom. I enjoyed reading the stylish names and addresses on the handsomely wrapped packages. Wonderful aristocratic names and addresses like Mrs. Thurston Johnston in Oyster Bay, Mr. Cornelius Haynes on Park Avenue, or the Stuart Stuyvesants on Nantucket. I was sure that if I’d read the name on that missing package, I’d recognize it. I would reassure him I’d taken it to the mailroom. It was nearly dawn before I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning I voiced my fears again.
“Hell’s bells, Marjorie!” Marty stared at me. “I’ll bet even Mr. Wilson doesn’t know a thing. Don’t tell me you’re still worried?”
I was worried sick.
As soon as the store opened, I went to see Mr. Herdman, my hands trembling.
“Sir—” I said, trying to sound casual and matter-of-fact, “I was thinking about that missing package. If you could tell me the customer’s name . . . I’d know if I’d delivered it.”
“How would you know?” he asked, surprised.
“Sometimes—I read the names.” There was silence. My throat was tight, and I flinched from his curious gaze.
“I’ll think about it, Miss Jacobson,” he said as he dismissed me.
I instantly regretted it. Why trouble trouble? Why hadn’t I listened to Marty? I tried to look cheerful, but my forced grimace lasted only to the elevator.
When I returned, Mr. Myers motioned to me. Did he know, too? I felt as if I had the scarlet letter T for thief emblazoned on my chest.
“I thought you might like to know,” he said, lowering his head, “how my wife makes clam chowder.” Clams! I started to breathe again. I could discuss clams all day. I peppered him with questions as he recited the recipe. What kind of a pan, how much salt, how long to cook it . . . I hoped we could continue until closing time.
Then, a rap—a loud one from Mr. Herdman. Holy moly! My legs felt like two wooden sticks that required operating instructions. I inched forward.
“Miss Jacobson,” he said, tapping a gold pen, “I thought about your suggestion and I’ve a list of ten names. Please tell me which one you might recognize.”
That is not what I had in mind!
When he read their names, I couldn’t identify a single one. Hearing them was different from seeing them in print. I was a goner.
“I’d like to hear them once more,” I pleaded, pulse racing.
He read each name again in a grim monotone voice.
I became confused. I swallowed hard.
“Could you please include the first names?” I wished I could drop through the floor. He repeated the names once again, not hiding his impatience. When he read “Marybelle Wetherwell,” I drew my first full breath. Thank heavens.
“That’s the name! I remember. It’s such a—musical name—it rhymes!”
He looked surprised. “Why would you remember that name?”
“Who could forget it?” I asked. “Trust me, her package got delivered.”
Was that a smile or a frown on his face?
We never heard after that if the package had been lost, stolen, or found on someone’s doorstep. But to my great joy, the subject was never mentioned again.
106 Morningside Dr.
Dear Family,
Our new roomate has arrived. Her name is Carolyn. She’s a lot of fun and loves the theater. Now that she shares the rent we can go, too.
Can you believe we saw Fredric March in the lobby of the St. Regis! He’s the star in the Broadway hit A Bell for Adano, and after we spotted him, Marty, Carolyn, and I decided we had to get tickets. The theater is not much larger than the Story City Theater, so we had excellent seats. We also stopped at Rockefeller Center on the way. Amazed at the glamorous shops there!
I hope you don’t think my job is all glamour and watching famous people. There’s a lot of responsibility, believe you me!
Life couldn’t be more perfect!
Love, Marjorie
My eyes welled as I wrote the word “perfect.” Everything is a disaster. What about Jim? I stare at the phone, willing it to ring. He must have a girlfriend in Virginia. That has to be it. She’s probably here visiting and I’d bet anything she’s a Kappa—he knew all the songs backward and forward. How could I miss that clue?
Then when Carolyn moved in, we were so embarrassed. We couldn’t squeeze all of her clothes in our tiny closet, black bugs were crawling on the stove, and she almost sat on a caterpillar on the chenille chair. Honest to Pete!
If that wasn’t enough, I accepted a date with a guy I’d met in U. of Iowa’s preflight program. I barely knew him, though he was certainly a nice guy—tall with red hair and a trace of freckles. We thought we’d go to the Astor Roof—Gene Krupa was there—and it would be so cool dancing outside. But the joke was on us. “The Roof” was the top floor, over ninety degrees, jam-packed with sweaty dancers bumping into each other. Gene Krupa’s drumsticks were flying, and he was chewing gum faster than the beat. Even the best jitterbug dancers couldn’t keep up with his lightning version of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” And I sure couldn’t keep up with my date!
But I really wished my date was Jim. We wouldn’t be dancing every dance, or talking every second. It was a weeknight and getting late. When the band began the first notes of “That Old Black Magic,” I knew I wanted to leave. I could barely crack a smile.
Chapter Thirteen
WHEN MRS. Shuttleworth called about playing music with a friend of theirs, I couldn’t wait. “I’ll be right up,” I told her.
Anything was better than sweltering in our steamy apartment, staring at the telephone. Jim had still not called, and the phone was a painful reminder of the times he’d answered the Checker Cab calls using dialects, leaving us in hysterics.
“I’m going up to the Shuttleworths’,” I told Marty as I changed into a dirndl skirt. “They have a friend—some old guy who wants to play music.” I had yet to play a cello for more than a few minutes all summer, a choice I knew I would pay dearly for all fall.
As I reached the top floor of the Seth Low in its creaky caged elevator, a Chopin prelude filled the air, transporting me in just a few notes back to my parents’ living room. It was the flashy B-flat Minor Prelude I knew so well—I could see my mother at our grand piano playing it after dinner, and I’d curl up on the couch to listen. Though that showy Chopin was very much the opposite of her demure manner, I’d beg her to perform it for my friends because I wanted them to see how talented she was.
I stood there, transfixed. This Shuttleworth friend sounded like a pro. What was I getting into? I waited for the last chord before I rang the doorbell.
“Oh, Marjorie.” Mrs. Shuttleworth hastily ushered me in. “What an evening this will be—though I am so sorry that Mickey and Abby will miss it.” I was amazed to see her dressed in a light-peach voile dress, a pearl choker, an organdy apron, and dots of rouge on her cheeks. The tantalizing aroma of gingerbread from their kitchen made my mouth water as I followed her down the long hallway.
“Is it someone’s birthday?” I figured it must be a special occasion for her to be dressed to the hilt, wearing makeup and using sugar rations for a cake.
“Not at all.” She smiled. “Wait till you meet our friend!”
Entering the large living room, I saw their guest silhouetted at the piano against the bank of windows overlooking Morningside Park. Mr. Shuttleworth rose from his chair. “This is Mr. Hugh Smith, Marjorie, an old friend of mine. He’s on the music faculty at Yale.”
Yale! I didn’t hear anything else. Why hadn’t I been warned? Why hadn’t I been practicing? Mr. Smith, a slight man with thinning gray hair and bushy eyebrows, stood and removed his glasses as he patiently listened as Mrs. Shuttleworth rattled off my accomplishments. Was she intentionally confusing my mediocre talent with those of a brilliant virtuoso? I wanted to interrupt, “Enough, please—I’m only a student!” I was desperate to find some way to beg off.
“I’m looking forward to one of the cello sonatas,” Mr. Smith said, sitting down again at the piano, rifling through a stack of music. “I’d far rather make music than go to a concert—even here in New York City.”
Charming. Wait till he heard me—he’d wish he’d been at the Oscar Levant concert at Lewissohn Stadium. But everything had been set up: the carved wooden music rack by the piano, a straight-backed chair at the correct angle, a lamp nearby, and the cello beside the chair.
“Haven’t heard that cello in ages,” Mr. Shuttleworth said, refilling his pipe.
“I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty,” I confessed, remembering my teacher’s favorite adage: Miss one day of practice, you know it; miss two days, your teacher knows it, miss three days, the whole world knows it.
“I found some rosin for the bow,” Mrs. Shuttleworth said, hovering nearby. “Do you have enough light?”
“Thanks—it’s fine,” I said, trying to sound convincing. I rosined the bow to stall for time, trying to slow things down. Still, strings could break, pegs slip, or, if I was lucky, I could faint into a heat-induced coma. But unlike in our scorching apartment, where it was possible to melt into a puddle, a cool breeze from the park sent the curtains billowing out behind us.
“So what shall it be?” Mr. Smith asked, playing a chord for me to tune. “There’s Beethoven, Brahms, and Breval—the three Bs.” We had a good laugh over that one—only cellists had heard of Breval.
“Which Brahms?” I perked up. “The E-minor?” He nodded. The Brahms was a different story—a sonata I might be able to bluff my way through, for I’d played it often with my mother.
“Tricky last movement with the fugue,” Mr. Smith said, turning to the last page.
“Is it ever,” I agreed, hoping that the piano might drown me out.
“Have you ever played this Brahms?” I asked Mrs. Shuttleworth.
“Yes, many years ago,” she said, “but I’ve been so involved with the Girl Scouts and my volunteer work at the Riverside Church that I haven’t touched the cello in some time.”
“Would you like to turn pages for me?” Mr. Smith turned to her. “We’ll want all the repeats.”
All the repeats? Ohmygosh.
“Certainly—I’d love to,” she said, moving to the other side of the piano.
“Shall we?” He looked at me, poised to begin. I nodded and tentatively began the opening theme, trying to coax a focused tone from this cello I’d never even touched. It wasn’t until the recapitulation that I began to feel more co
mfortable, and the easier second movement flew by. We stopped for a moment to cool down, while Mrs. Shuttleworth excused herself and brought us glasses of iced lemonade. Refreshed, we dug into the fugue in the last movement. It was like a race. Good heavens, the tempo! I tried to keep up.
“I tried to stay with you.” Mr. Smith laughed when we reached the last chord. “But that was a new mark!” And I’d thought he was the one pushing the tempo!
“How exciting!” Mrs. Shuttleworth said. “You’d think you two had played together forever.”
Though my fingers were sore and tender, I felt elated. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed playing.
“Isn’t it amazing, no matter how tired you are—music always gives you a lift,” he said. I couldn’t agree more. I knew, too, the magical feeling.
“We need to celebrate,” Mr. Shuttleworth said, filling the wineglasses on the coffee table as we took seats across from him.
Mr. Smith raised his glass in a toast. “To Brahms!”
“To Brahms!” we echoed, though my hand was still trembling as I held the glass.
What a party! I couldn’t keep my eyes off the frosted gingerbread cake on the crystal cake stand, or the three kinds of cheese, English crackers, and chilled Bordeaux their guest had brought. I hadn’t seen a spread like that since I’d left home.
“Do you come from a musical family?” Mr. Smith asked, cutting himself a thick slice of cheese.
“Yes,” I said, “I’ve been lucky. My sister’s a violinist, my brother plays French horn, and my mother is a wonderful pianist. In fact, she played that Brahms with me.”
He raised his eyebrows. “She plays that well? Where did she study?”
“She was at St. Olaf College and then transferred to Northwestern.”
Whenever I thought of those schools, I had to smile. My parents had picked our names from their college yearbooks. When my sister and I were little, we’d argue over which girl was the prettiest, leaving finger-smudges all over their books.
“I know the schools—excellent music,” he nodded. “And who’s your teacher at Iowa U.?”
Summer at Tiffany Page 10
