Summer at Tiffany

by Marjorie Hart

  He drew a chair out for me facing the window; the two salesmen had seated themselves across the table, and Mr. T.C. went over to the breakfront. He carried back four glasses as large as fish bowls, on a silver tray. Wow—how much brandy would we be drinking? I tried to act nonchalant. Didn’t I do this every day—sit at a handsome table with gold-rimmed Minton china, three different kinds of wineglasses, crystal candelabra, and silver napkin rings in the same pattern as the Tiffany sterling flatware, and polish off a brandy or two? Ha!

  Humming a little tune, Mr. T.C. ceremoniously dribbled a little brandy into each glass and passed them around.

  “First,” he instructed me, “hold the snifter like this—rest it in the palm of your hand and cradle the bottom. That’s to warm the brandy,” he emphasized. I watched him as he lifted his glass to the light, then lowered it, turning the snifter gently to drive a thin layer up the sides, then made a wide circle and brought it under his nose—and sniffed. Was he serious? It wouldn’t be the first time I’d fallen for one his jokes.

  Being a good sport, I followed his example and self-consciously made a circle, waiting for them to laugh. Instead, they watched me critically and gave me pointers. I was petrified I’d accidentally knock over the crystal glasses in front of me.

  Mr. T.C. leaped up. “Just a minute—we need more elbow room here,” and he moved the wineglasses toward the center of the table.

  “Now,” he said, demonstrating again, “swing it in a wide circle so it will ventilate—then inhale the bouquet.”

  If this was an act, it was a good one, for he was as serious as the superintendent. At first, it felt awkward, but after a few swirls I learned to make a dip and then a wider circle. Keep a steady rhythm, I told myself, so the brandy would whoosh around evenly. The others were swinging their glasses like cowboys with a lariat. Who knew, this could have been an eastern practice, a Four Hundred custom, or an essential ritual at Yale. The pungent aroma of brandy was tantalizing as we swirled and sniffed; all that was needed was a violin playing Kreisler in three-quarter time.

  The morning evolved into a festive party and I soon became light-headed. First names were bandied about, store gossip was revealed, and jokes, funny or not, were greeted with hilarity.

  “You almost have it now,” Mr. T.C. told me. “Watch William over there—I’ll bet he sniffs brandy every night when he goes home.”

  “You bet,” said William, a straightlaced sort of fellow. “The kids and I head for the library and bring out the snifters as soon as they’re home from school.”

  I giggled and they began laughing; William laughed till tears ran down his cheeks. The more I tried to contain myself, the more I giggled, and Mr. T.C.’s rippling bass laugh made us howl. Golly—the fun we were having! That brandy!

  I had looked out to see if it was still raining when we heard the chime of the elevator bell. Mr. T.C. stood up abruptly. Without a word, he reached for my glass and walked away. Both salesmen jumped up, quickly placing their glasses on a shelf in the breakfront, and left me sitting there, dumbfounded.

  I turned around toward the elevator.

  Holy Toledo! It was Old Man Tiffany!

  What was he doing here in this weather?

  But there was our vice president, in full raingear regalia. I knew he had a reputation for surprise visits—the shipping clerk had alerted me.

  “Have you seen Old Man Tiffany yit?” he had asked one day.

  “I don’t think so—what does he look like?”

  “Oh, you’ll know ’im all right—when he shows up.”

  I found out what he meant one afternoon, when a dead silence spread through the main floor, like a fog rolling in. The only sound was the superintendent clearing his throat. A fastidiously dressed, slightly built, white-haired gentleman strolled through the Fifth Avenue entrance; the salesmen stood at attention as if they were at a military inspection. He made a tour of the main floor, scrutinizing the jewelry at each counter, tapping the glass to indicate a slight change: the diamond bracelet—half-an-inch over; a gold cigarette case—to the right; or please—replace the emerald brooch with the ruby and diamond necklace. The gentleman with the radar eyes was Mr. Charles Lewis Tiffany II, son of Louis Comfort Tiffany, grandson of Charles Lewis Tiffany, and the great-grandson of Comfort Tiffany.

  Now I stood transfixed, and afraid to breathe.

  “Good morning, Mr. Tiffany,” Mr. T.C. greeted him in his jovial manner. “May I take your umbrella and coat, sir? A bit of rain we’re having.”

  The old gentleman was wearing a vivid red-and-black tie in a Picasso design, anchored by a shiny gold stickpin. Mr. T.C. stooped over to admire it. “Wonderful tie to brighten up this day, Mr. Tiffany,” he said in his rich, deep voice.

  The old man smiled.

  The two of them chatted as if they were poker buddies sharing the latest gossip. I looked for a place to hide. The only tall object was the large oriental vase in a glass-enclosed stand. Nothing to snuggle up to, but I stood motionless as a mummy. Furtively, I glanced back at the Sheraton table. It was in shambles. The crystal glasses were scattered all over, my chair stuck out at an awkward angle, and heaven only knows where my snifter with the telltale lipstick smear had landed. I looked at William, who had fear written all over his face. If he was scared, what about me? I couldn’t have been more terrified if I’d been stranded on a subway platform after midnight.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Old Man Tiffany looking at a crystal punch bowl, then suddenly he began walking to the contemporary model table. Oh, no! I held my breath. I could only hope that he’d hold his as well, for the distinct aroma of brandy was still lingering in the air. Was it true that people lost their sense of smell with age? “What do you think of this arrangement with the Spode luncheon set?” Mr. T.C. inquired in his suave manner. “We’re in the middle of rearranging these tables.”

  Quick thinking, Mr. T.C.

  Mr. Tiffany studied the streamlined American Deco silver flatware with the luncheon plates. The plates were unusual; the rims were scalloped in a thin soft green and each one had a different flower in the center. After exchanging the wild rose plate for the one of the daffodil, he nodded his approval.

  “And you remember at the old store,” Mr. T.C. went on, “the time Mrs. Morgan couldn’t decide between the Royal Crown Derby and the Wedgwood for her luncheon?”

  “And ordered a hundred settings of each?” Mr. Tiffany added with a smile.

  Hearing a loud clap of thunder, they remarked on the miserable weather and started to reminisce. One story caused Mr. Tiffany to wag his finger and laugh. I began to breathe normally again as the two of them relived the good old days and began to walk toward the elevator.

  Next—oh, no—they turned, heading in my direction. I shivered and braced myself. Did he know that I was one of the new pages? They lingered beside the Minton china as Mr. T.C. picked up a huge gold-rimmed soup tureen. The tureen that cost the price of a Ford!

  What if he dropped it? What a wicked thought. I was hyperventilating by the time Mr. T.C. had placed it safely in its niche and the elevator bell chimed. Mr. Tiffany looked startled as a lone customer entered. He muttered a few words and headed for the elevator, his hands clasped behind his back. My hands were white; I’d gripped them so tightly.

  While William took charge of the new customer, Mr. T.C. retrieved Mr. Tiffany’s coat and umbrella. That was the last time I saw the old gentleman. Mr. Tiffany tossed his raincoat over his shoulder in a rakish manner, waved his umbrella from the elevator, and grinned mischievously—as if he was a young again, and ready to speed away in his stutz Bearcat roadster to join the Roaring Twenties crowd.

  I sighed. If only Mr. Tiffany had joined us at our brandy sniffing party, he could have been the grandmaster of them all. I could never call him “Old Man Tiffany” again.

  106 Morningside Dr.

  Dear Family,

  There have been a few surprises lately. Mr. Charles Tiffany, our vice president, showed up on our th
ird floor! You can imagine the excitement to see a real Tiffany. He’s a small man, and dresses very smartly. He reminds me of Rev. Scarvie, impressive and stately. We’re on pins and needles when he’s around, because he likes to inspect everything—and there’s never any warning when he’ll show up. However, he did seem to enjoy his tour around our third floor.

  No, I didn’t talk to him, but he did smile.

  Have a date tonight with Jim—so have to get ready.

  Love, Marjorie

  I was so panicked when I heard the doorbell, I froze. There was Jim—with his droll smile and twinkling brown eyes, handing me a white box—a gardenia with green and peach ribbons. He’d said we’d be heading for someplace special—the Claremont Inn more than likely. Was I dressed for it? As he pinned the corsage on my shoulder, he said, “You’ll love this place down by the El—a place where you sing and pound the tables!” The way Jim wrinkled his nose and smiled, I knew it would be fun. Forget the Claremont.

  At the corner of Third and Seventeenth Street, we could hear “On Wisconsin!” and smell the cooked cabbage before entering the door. The sign read: THE FRATERNITY HOUSE. “But we call it the GA Club,” Jim said, “because it has wonderful German food and beer.” I instantly fell in love with the red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, the round tables, and the dark-paneled wall with signed photographs, pinup girls, and memorabilia. A midshipman waved to us from a table, shouting, “Over here!” We joined the table with two other midshipmen and their dates, one girl with a gardenia in her hair. These midshipmen! It was like being back at college, singing every song we knew—fight songs, fraternity songs, state songs, from “On Iowa!” to “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall—Take one down and pass it along.”

  We were still singing on Third Avenue as we headed back to Morningside Drive. That night, Jim’s goodnight kiss made up for lost time. Back together again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  WE WERE besieged with war news. Black headlines every day and newsboys screaming on many corners.

  On August 6, 1945, the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, Japan.

  The three-line-headline from the New York Times the next day proclaimed:

  FIRST ATOMIC BOMB DROPPED ON JAPAN; MISSILE WAS EQUAL TO 20,000 TONS OF TNT; TRUMAN WARNS FOE OF A “RAIN OF RUIN”

  On August 8 the Soviets declared war on Japan and invaded Manchuria. The very next day the second atomic bomb was dropped on Nagasaki, Japan.

  What would come next? When would the Japanese surrender? Surely President Truman would announce the end of the war any day. It was all anyone talked about, on the street, at the Automat, and around the Tiffany counters.

  Like the European war, the Pacific war brought tremendous losses; everyone I knew had been affected.

  I was afraid to open letters from home for fear of terrible news. Seven of my cousins were in the navy, one in the army, and another was a marine dive-bomber pilot. It was a constant worry. Story City had never heard so many church bells, tolling for boys we’d watched on the football field, the basketball court, and swimming at Lake Comar. And I knew the end of the war would not bring back my cousin Paul Donhowe.

  Paul had died on November 5, 1943.

  I’d stayed home that semester to help my mother after her surgery, easily stepping back into the familiar rhythm that regulated life in a small town. The twelve o’clock whistle downtown meant everyone would be home for dinner; noontime was the important family meal. The six o’clock whistle signaled the stores to be closed and the nine o’clock was the curfew. Together with the ringing of the school and church bells, I never needed a wristwatch at home.

  That chilly November day, after the noon whistle, I heard my father climbing the porch steps. “You’re home early,” I called when he opened the door. I scrambled to set an extra plate at the breakfast nook—Phil was already home from school. I loved the coziness of the nook, with so few of us why use the dining room? He usually stopped at the post office for mail from Katherine, who was completing a dietician’s internship at a Cleveland hospital. That morning my mother and I had shared a good laugh about a recent note from Katherine in which she told the story about a young doctor who had been asked by a new mother to help name her twins. “Homogeneous and Heterogeneous,” he’d suggested. Explaining this joke to my younger brother, we laughed even harder.

  I looked down the hall, puzzled. My dad had stopped in the hall, his hand resting on the oak stair banister. One look at his solemn face and I knew something was wrong. “We have to go to Olive and Peter’s,” he’d said, his voice cracking as he went to talk to my mother. “Paul’s missing in action. He was in a midair collision—parachuted from his plane. . . . Last seen in his life jacket in the ocean,” he told my brother and me.

  On that cold day, Dad and I walked to my aunt and uncle’s home. As we climbed the steps, I thought of how proud my uncle was of their hill, the highest one in town. “The architect ordered three gradings to get it right,” he’d said. Everyone knew that hill for sledding in the winter, when my aunt served hot cocoa and gingersnap cookies afterward, or how the boys mowed it with their pony in the summer. The wide steps curved to the front porch. That day, I didn’t want to reach the last one.

  On the glass-paned front door were the familiar five blue stars, one for each boy. Would one of those blue stars become gold? I wiped my eyes on the wool of my coat collar to soak up the tears. Paul and his girlfriend, a WAVE he had met at the navy base in Jacksonville, had just been home, and every head in church had turned to admire that good-looking pair in uniform. And I remembered his next assignment: “Paul’s been ordered to Seattle for the navy’s fighter squadron,” Uncle Peter had said.

  We entered the house without knocking. It was painfully quiet. Not like the old days when all their children, six sons and a daughter, were home. No scuffling or running, no one cranking the ice cream maker in the kitchen, no one to hide me in the cedar chest upstairs. From the oak-paneled hallway I could see my aunt Olive beyond the dining room, staring out of the kitchen window at the bare branches of the trees. Uncle Peter was silent in his chair by the fireplace in the living room. His head was bowed. Above his chair was a map of the world with five thumbtacks, indicating the countries where each of his sons served. Paul, who was seven years older than me, had been like a big brother, with charisma, before I knew what the word meant. It was Paul who would make us laugh and do anything to bring smiles to our faces. “Imitate Mae West,” we’d beg, and he’d grab a dish towel and sashay back and forth, mimicking her sultry voice, “C’mon up and see me sometime.” Even Great-aunt Margretha had laughed. It was Paul who was thoughtful, who was mature for his age. His last last letter, dated October 27 from a Fleet P.O. in San Francisco, was still in our breakfast nook. In part it read: “I certainly want to thank you for the enjoyable time I had at your home—it was really a surprise and carried an atmosphere of Christmas. A long time since I had eaten a dinner of lutefisk, lefse, and potato cakes—”

  In other letters to our family Paul wrote, “I am enclosing a matchbox for Phil that he might not have—bet he’s sorry to see summer over—at least I was when I was a kid,” or to my dad, “how’s the golf game coming—I certainly miss playing with you” or “what a surprise to find a dollar bill in every pocket—thanks a million” or “I like my assignment just fine. Without a doubt we have one of the finest airplanes built for that purpose—a terrific piece of machinery.”

  Now there was nothing but sadness in the house, and I had never felt so helpless. I stood in the living room, not knowing what to do. I whispered to my dad, “What can I say?” He told me to give my aunt and uncle a kiss; we were all beyond words. When I kissed their cheeks, their eyes were filled with tears. So were mine.

  My aunt Olive had the painful task of writing the boys when the commander notified them that Paul had drowned almost immediately in the frigid water. Neither the military nor the Red Cross would grant a leave for any of the brothers—except for Herbert, a lieutenan
t in the navy—to attend Paul’s memorial service. The funeral service would be held in St. Petri, and I was to play the pipe organ for my mother, who instructed me on what to do. “The recessional should be ‘America,’ ” she said. “Pull out all the stops.” I knew I could play the selections, but I worried about keeping my composure.

  From the organ bench, I could see that every seat was taken, and there was Mr. Jorstad, the church janitor, waiting to ring the bell once again. In his later years, he could barely reach the thick knot on the end of the rope, but no one understood that bell as he did, when to ring it before the resonance would fade.

  I cherished this saintly man for his talent as an artist. He drew stunning birds in black pencil on the flyleafs of maybe a hundred small black hymnals, creatures with long, sharp beaks, fat bellies, and feathers that swooped as if they would fly off the page at any moment. His drawings had been my entertainment during long Sunday sermons when I was little. I reached for one of the old hymnals that day, tracing the bird with my finger once again and wanting to keep my mind on anything but this tragedy. After we heard “Taps,” I played “America” with the organ’s pipes wide open; the volume carried all the way downtown. And as my aunt and uncle and the rest of the family filed out, Mr. Jorstad began to ring the bell. I had never heard our church bell sound so mournful. I could no longer hold back the tears.

  106 Morningside Dr.

  Dear Family,

  We’re waiting to hear the news about the Japanese surrender—Marty and I will be at Times Square, you can be sure. I keep thinking of that Sunday we had dinner at the Thompsons’ and heard the news of Pearl Harbor over the radio. Do you remember when Maude said, “I’m glad that Phil and Bruce are only twelve years old.” That seems so long ago—but our family has been luckier than most.

  Love, Marjorie

  Our family was much luckier than most. But life was never the same after Pearl Harbor. The next day, our school principal brought in his Zenith radio for President Roosevelt’s address: “Yesterday, December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy . . .” The boys in my class were already talking about “joining up.” By the next summer, most of them had enlisted, my cousins as well.