Summer at Tiffany

by Marjorie Hart

  Chapter Twenty

  HOW ABOUT a quiet place—a place we can talk?” Jim asked, on our way to Riverside Drive.

  “I’d love it,” I said, trying to keep up with his long stride.

  “A guy told me about a pub—though it’s way out in Greenwich Village. But we have plenty of time tonight,” he said as we boarded the Riverside bus.

  Greenwich Village, so different from the rest of the city. A place to breathe with park benches, trees, and narrow, winding streets. We strolled hand in hand past Washington Square, admiring a secondhand bookstore with a red doorway, a sidewalk café in a narrow street, and abstract paintings propped up against a building.

  “Here we are,” Jim said, pointing to the Van Rensselaer Hotel. Through the lobby, we entered a small room with comfortable out-of-date chairs, low tables, and a bar. Dim lights cast shadows on the faded wallpaper. There was a murmur of voices, as if we were in a library, and a few marines were playing a game of darts in the corner.

  Jim found a table in the back of the room to stretch his legs.

  “Hey, hope you like this place—I heard about it from a guy.”

  “I’m no expert—but this doesn’t look like a bar. I feel like I’m in someone’s living room.”

  “Maybe it’s New York’s version of an Irish pub with great ten-cent beer.” He raised his eyebrows and set a daiquiri, a beer, and peanuts on the table. “On VJ Day we toasted at the base with New York City water. How about you?”

  “What I had was not worth mentioning.” In fact I’m not mentioning a word. “Can you leave the navy now that the war is over?” I asked.

  “No way. It looks like we’ll be sent to Newport and maybe overseas—that’s the scuttlebutt.”

  “Overseas!”

  “Yup—could be the Pacific,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Nobody’s saying much right now.” I had been thinking ahead, and I had been thinking about Jim. I hadn’t realized his commitment remained, war or no war. This war wasn’t really over after all—at least not for us . . . if there was an “us.”

  “POST TIME!” THE bartender called out. The marines left their dart game, a couple in front of us let out a whoop, and the room became quiet. “What’s going on?” I whispered to Jim. He shrugged and smiled. The dapper bartender, a small man with his dark hair slicked back, reached for his guitar and pulled up a stool from behind the bar, strumming a few chords. In a mellow tenor voice, he began singing,

  My pretty Colleen—in a gown of blue-green—

  Jim whispered, “I knew you’d like this place” and reached for my hand.

  Up and down the bar customers paid rapt attention as the bartender sang several nostalgic Irish tunes—and when he repeated “My Pretty Colleen,” everyone joined in, clapping as he did a shuffle dance at the end of his little act. The melancholy tone of his voice had made me wonder if he was homesick for Ireland and if he’d learned these songs from his mother or father as a boy.

  When he finished there was exuberant applause.

  “He has a wonderful voice,” I said, glancing around the room, suddenly realizing every table was now taken. “Look at his following—I’m glad he’s appreciated.”

  “And do people appreciate the instrument you play?”

  “You’ve forgotten what it is—”

  “Just teasing,” he said with a grin. “If I’d known a cello could get you into Yale—I’d have taken it up myself.”

  I shook my head, still in disbelief myself about that turn of events. “I’ve got to figure out how I can ship my cello,” I said. “That, and a million other things. . . .” My conversation with Mr. Koelbel was at the top of the list.

  “Did you ever have a prof who went out of his way for you, offering opportunities and determined to see you succeed?” It was as if the question popped out of my mouth before I even knew I was going to ask it.

  “You bet—that’s how I got into chemistry. I would never have known about so many great new fields if he hadn’t taken the time to be a mentor,” Jim said.

  “Speaking of chemistry—I just heard from home that Iowa State, where I transferred from, was working on part of the atom bomb in our chemistry building! Remember when I told you about the fire, and how we couldn’t leave the lab? Guess what—they were purifying uranium—right there on the floor above us!”

  “Are you serious?” Jim’s eyes widened. “Uranium? It’s a wonder you didn’t light up and glow like a lightbulb,” he teased.

  I laughed as if I knew what he was saying, but couldn’t remember one thing about uranium.

  “Hey, that reminds me—I have something for you.” I pulled out the two packs of cigarettes I’d bought back in Iowa, when I was determined to learn how to smoke. “You can light up with these.”

  Jim was baffled until I explained, then he was relieved.

  “Now tell me about that ship you were on—the one in the Hudson River?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.

  “You’ll think I’m exaggerating,” he said. “It was an old Spanish-American war–era battleship—with the superstructure removed. They replaced it with a wooden structure. It was called The Prairie State.” He took a cocktail napkin, and doodled a version of it. “Looked to us like Noah’s ark.”

  “No wonder you didn’t have telephones near you,” I said, feeling guilty. “Bet you never knew the navy would be like that.” I looked down at the napkin. “So . . . have you ever thought about what you might want to do when you get out?”

  “You bet. Probably go on to grad school—chemical engineering’s opening up fantastic opportunities, particularly in plastics. You won’t believe what things will be like ten years from now.”

  Then he asked me, “So what do your parents say about your big deal at Yale?”

  “Well,” I said, “you’ll think this is weird . . . but they don’t know yet.”

  “For cripessake! Why not?” Jim almost spilled his beer, and his face had the first hint of disappointment I had seen.

  My eyes were stinging as I tried to force back tears. “Every time—it’s like—” I tried again. “Every time I write home I don’t know how to tell them . . . yet I know they’d be so proud. So I’m going to call long-distance instead.”

  “Why don’t you just take the train home—you’ll have a chance to see them—and then come back?”

  Easy for him to say. There were things he didn’t understand, including the simple fact I could barely afford a ticket to New Haven, much less a new round-trip ticket from Iowa to Connecticut. The silence was awkward—and I was surprised Jim actually cared about where I finished college . . . What did that mean?

  “Hey—don’t worry.” I forced a smile. “I’ll work it out—I know I can.”

  He shook his head, and laughed lightly. “Sometimes I just don’t understand women.”

  Just then a group of midshipmen and their dates entered the bar and were chatting with the bartender. The place was so packed that customers were now lined against the wall.

  “Post time!” the bartender broke in again as he wiped down the bar.

  “Why does he say that?” I whispered.

  “At horse races, they call ‘post time’ when the horses are at the gate and the betting windows close—they love their races here.”

  I leaned closer to him. I never wanted the evening to end. As the genial bartender warmed up with a funny ditty someone from Boston had requested, Jim had his arm around me—my cheek in the hollow of his shoulder. We hung on to every note, listening, not talking.

  After one of the songs, he said, “There’s something I want to ask you. Don’t you think that my Phi Delt pin would look nice next to your Kappa key?”

  I caught my breath. All I could do was smile and nod my head.

  A lock of his hair fell forward when he smiled, and the bartender was singing:

  “ ‘She came runnin’ down the mountain—runnin’ down the mountain—runnin’ down the mountain to the lad that she loved.’ ” Jim kissed me. And once a
gain.

  106 Morningside Dr.

  Dear Family,

  How shocking to hear about the Iowa State connection to the atom bomb! Who would have thought Iowa State would be involved with that—and Ames is practically next door! I guess we at least found out! No wonder they had all of those guards.

  So much has happened—you’ll never guess! Jim’s asked me if I’d like his Phi Delt pin! No, it doesn’t mean we’re engaged—but we have an understanding! He’s planning on grad school after the navy. I really want you to meet him! You’ll like him a lot!!

  Jim took me to a fascinating place in Greenwich Village, where we heard a real Irish tenor. Don’t worry about our being out at night—we know our way around!

  Much love, Marjorie

  Like heck! When Jim looked at his watch, I’d never heard him swear like that! His curfew was twelve! We made a beeline for the subway—ran eight blocks. The wrong direction! Where were the buses? A taxi? None in sight! Climbed the steps to the elevated train—wrong way, again! Got off, and sprinted down the steps. Flew along streets for blocks looking for the next subway till my side ached. Thank heavens I was wearing my sandals, not my high heels.

  We finally found the subway entrance and jumped on the train. We dashed to my apartment, there was a very quick goodnight kiss, then Jim tore off for the base. Would he get any demerits or be placed on restriction?

  How could a perfect night end like that?

  Chapter Twenty-one

  IWAS AWAKE. The bedside clock read 4:00 A.M. as I faced the still-dark morning, lost in memories of the Van Rensselaer with Jim. But as I drifted into consciousness I recalled Jim’s look of dismay that I hadn’t notified my parents about Yale. I dozed off again until Marty’s Tweed perfume woke me with a start. She was already dressed, combing her hair in front of the mirror, “Hey—do you know what time it is?”

  I wanted to pull the covers over my head. “I know . . . I know,” I said, touching the bare floor with one foot so I wouldn’t fall back to sleep.

  I was half awake when we boarded the subway. Careering around a corner, hanging on to the overhead straps, Marty and I laughed, remembering our first ride. Before crossing Fifty-seventh Street, Marty turned.

  “How about Schrafft’s for lunch—like we promised.”

  “Fantastic—meet you at twelve sharp!”

  It was an uneventful morning on the third floor, with mothers and daughters choosing their china and crystal patterns, and signing up at the Bride’s Registry. Maybe I’d be next to sign up. There were lovely affordable items: crystal nut cups, Tiffany demitasse spoons, Spode teacups—or the teapot in the English Hunt pattern.

  Between orders to the shipping room, I began paying more attention. Because Tiffany didn’t have price tags, I’d have to ask. A dozen Crown Derby dinner plates were $62, an elegant oval vase $12, and a dozen etched cocktail glasses were also $12. There was a bargain! Though anything from Tiffany would be a treasure to me.

  On an errand to the cashier on the main floor, I caught sight of Marty, talking to Mr. Scott. She tilted her head to the clock—ten minutes before twelve.

  Filled with anticipation, Marty and I walked into Schrafft’s. Marty fit right in with the lunch crowd wearing her elegant navy blue shantung dress. She may have used a Simplicity pattern but it didn’t look simple on Marty. The room was filled with flowers, white damask tablecloths, and the aroma of cinnamon rolls just out of the oven. Elegant decorated tins of chocolates were displayed on a counter.

  “Ooh,” squealed Marty, “that’s what I want to take home. Look at this gold tin!”

  The gold tin had a lovely etching of an oriental lady in a sedan chair; it was one you’d want to keep, maybe as a sewing basket. I looked at it, too, suddenly feeling stricken. I wouldn’t be going home, let alone bringing a gift.

  We were led to a table and given a long impressive menu. My finger slid down the list of desserts. How could one decide? But the waitress was standing at attention, her pencil poised. At the bottom of the menu I read: Due to rationing only some of these meat items are available. Ask your waitress. No problem—we were there for the sinful desserts.

  “The fresh peach sundae for me, please,” Marty requested.

  “I’d like the hot-fudge pecan sundae, please,” I said, as if it were a dietary staple.

  The waitress waited and then said, “Your lunch entrée?”

  “We’ve had lunch, thank you,” Marty said. “We’re only stopping for a little ice cream—it is your specialty isn’t it?”

  The waitress agreed and left.

  “Thanks, Marty, you saved me!”

  “If they only knew what we carry in our coin purses!”

  The sundaes arrived in tall translucent glasses on a lacy doily. My hot fudge puddled around a large scoop of ice cream, coated with pecans topped with a maraschino cherry. I had never tasted anything so delicious. Ever.

  But then my eyes filled with tears. The one secret I had kept all summer was my Yale plan. . . . I hadn’t let anyone know except the Shuttleworths and Jim, because I didn’t want to take the chance that my parents might learn about it before I had had a chance to tell them. I felt terrible, because Marty was my best friend, and she could keep a secret, if asked to. Now I told her the whole story.

  “Ohmygosh.” She was stunned. “You might not be going back? Are you serious?”

  I shook my head. “I thought I was. But I still haven’t told my folks and I’m not sure I can make this decision. . . . I . . . I just wanted you to know what’s going on. I can’t decide, but I know I have to very soon.”

  She could still see the pain in my eyes, that there was nothing more to say now, so she changed the subject.

  “Do you want to know what I found out about the Windsors?”

  You bet I did.

  “Our Fifty-seventh Street guy knows everything. He has inside tips from the Waldorf—that’s where they stay, you know.”

  “And?”

  When Marty had hot gossip, she could tease.

  “Well—” she said, and began looking for her cigarette lighter.

  “We’re going to see them?” I asked impatiently. I knew the Windsors had worn the seats thin in the Tiffany VIP room.

  “’Fraid not. But I know who is seeing them in Palm Beach,” she said with a gleam in her eye. “Happens to be a friend of yours—that playboy, Jimmy Donahue! Wouldn’t it be a riot if those earrings were for the duchess?”

  “Ohmygosh!” I shrieked, startling the ladies at the next table, their eyes as wide as owls’.

  When we finished, I stopped at the display counter to look once more at the chocolate tins. Marty joined me. “Forget something?” she asked, holding up my purse.

  “Good night! What’s the matter with me?

  She shook her head. “Remember the time you left your coat?”

  “At the football game—and you brought it back? Oh Marty,” I said, suddenly somber, “what will I do without you?”

  THAT AFTERNOON, MR. T.C. was showing me a Wedgwood tea set when he looked up. A plump lady was standing near the elevator with a bewildered look. I tried not to stare as Mr. T.C. swooped to rescue her and escorted her to a chair as if she were Queen Elizabeth.

  Except for the lustrous string of pearls dangling to her waist, this lady would never be mistaken for royalty. She looked as if she’d been rummaging through my mother’s cedar chest, wearing a too-short yellow chiffon dress with wide ruffles, black-and-white pumps, and a cloche hat that didn’t disguise her thinning red hair.

  “Oh, my.” She fluttered, holding out her gloved hand. “How lovely and cool it is here. I told my driver—‘only Tiffany’s today in this horrid heat.’ I wouldn’t be out at all except to buy a wedding gift.” She sighed. “Young people don’t know the proper time to get married anymore. But now that the war is over . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Does the bride-to-be have a pattern?” asked Mr. T.C. with a take-charge voice.

  “Oh, indeed she does—s
he’s my goddaughter. It’s the gold-rimmed Minton. Is it very dear?”

  “It’s one hundred dollars a plate—but of course the very best,” he assured her.

  “Oh, my gracious, I had no idea!” She reached for her handkerchief. “What if one should break?”

  “Minton is very strong, Madam—made from real bone, you know.” He brought a plate to show her, snapping it with his finger to make it ring.

  She shook her head. She wasn’t convinced.

  “They’re a treasure, Madam,” he persisted. “If you examine this engraved design on the gold rim, you’ll notice the exquisite craftsmanship. There are four layers of gold, fired separately and then polished until they gleam. The women who polish the gold use special stones from the Rhine.”

  “The Rhine River?” she asked, leaning closer to examine the plate.

  He nodded. “Yes, Madam, it’s the stones from the Rhine that give it that brilliant shimmer of gold—and these women are experts.”

  “Oh, yes—I’ve heard of them. There’s a Miss Rheingold Contest every year!”

  I bit the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing. Mr. T.C. was having trouble keeping a straight face. His precious Minton in the same breath as Rheingold beer!

  With a sly smile, he stepped back in his British wing-tip shoes, took the plate in his hand. He put his thumb on top and flipped his wrist—making the plate spin in the air.