Summer at Tiffany

by Marjorie Hart

  Holy moly! Had he gone berserk?

  My stomach lurched as the plate seemed poised forever in space before it sailed to the floor—unbroken.

  While Mr. T.C. smiled with the aplomb of a master showman, I heaved a sigh of relief. From his smile, I knew. That rascal! He’d never take the slightest chance of causing the tiniest chip—he’d probably practiced this spectacle hundreds of times. However, if I so much as brushed up against one, I’d be the new indentured servant. Was there anyone comparable to Mr. T.C.? Perhaps P. T. Barnum.

  “Very strong china.” He grinned.

  “What a fright!” our customer said, patting her ample bosom. “I would never have believed it! Dear, oh dear,” she said, after putting her lacy handkerchief into her beaded bag, “I guess my goddaughter does have good taste. She’s too busy to come along with me, but she knows what she wants. I’ll take a dozen.”

  A dozen? Over a thousand dollars for dinner plates?

  “A perfect choice,” Mr. T.C. agreed, not a bit fazed. “Your goddaughter is most fortunate.”

  “Well, she is a darling—finishing Smith, you know,” she said, and lowered her voice, “but quite caught up with herself, I’m afraid.”

  “So kind of you to choose this wedding gift,” Mr. T.C. reassured her.

  “It’s what my dear husband would have said—always be kind. You don’t have to go to a fancy school like Smith to learn that.”

  She smoothed a ruffle on her dress, placed her handbag on her lap, and opened it to show him a snapshot of the girl.

  “Pretty thing, isn’t she?” she asked. “President of her rowing club, one of the school’s yearbook editors, and has prizes for high marks. Now she’s getting married.” She sighed. “All that money wasted on a college education.”

  “But think how proud you must be of a girl who’s so successful,” he said, looking at the photo.

  “I’m of the opinion there are more important things for a girl to learn,” the woman said emphatically as she wrote out a check. “I always say—the true measure of a person’s success is to be a person of value.”

  I wanted to tell her—in this day and age, life is different. Accomplishments are everything. How else can you be successful, I muttered to myself as I carried her generous check to the cashier. At one glance, the cashier nodded and smiled. He didn’t need to lift the phone for her check. She was one of their Social Register customers. I should have known. And with all that money—to hear this woman imply that college was a waste!

  My parents would have set her straight. Going to college was an insurance policy, my father said. Besides that, what could be more fun? To hear mother’s St. Olaf College stories: the parties in her room after “lights out,” the pranks on Miss Hilliboe, the funny messages sent to the boys at Ytterboe Hall. Later, when our cousins came home during college vacation, I made every excuse to be near the “big” table at Aunt Olive’s to hear their stories and peek at the new girlfriend or boyfriend. Like Betty Ann’s handsome football captain. Ohmygosh. College was not a waste!

  When I reached the third floor, Mr. T.C. was still charming the old-fashioned lady. “Oh, my dear,” she said to me, “you’ve been so helpful—you’ll find that working here is better than running off to college.”

  Mr. T.C. winked as she left. And he didn’t know the half of it.

  106 Morningside Dr.

  Dear Family,

  Excuse the pencil—can’t find my pen. At the Shuttleworths’, Mickey showed us her latest find—a beautiful Italian majolica platter from the “Going, Going, Gone” shop at Lord & Taylor. Abby, who works at Lord & Taylor, has been watching it for her as it went down in price—each week Mickey held her breath. Her anxiety was so overwhelming till she bought it! And it resembles her great-grandmother’s lovely teapot. Imagine that luck!

  Yes, we’ve been to the museums. The Metropolitan Museum of Art is our favorite. On the first landing, there’s a vivid painting of Levine’s String Quartet—very striking—I do want to get a poster of it. Also, the Museum of Modern Art—the Salvador Dalí is fascinating. Next week—a ride on the Robert Fulton steamer to Bear Mt. on the Hudson River! Finally saw a Yankee game! Sorry to say, we left early, Phil—it wasn’t a fast game like the ones Dutch Reagan announces. I told Jim that you play football and started a laundry business for the team with Bruce! He was impressed! Can’t wait till you meet him!

  Do you remember when I wrote about meeting a Yale faculty member and playing the Brahms sonata? I hear they have a wonderful music program there. Ask Aunt Cosette about it when she comes; she’d be impressed.

  Love, Marjorie

  I am dancing! Jim called to say that he made curfew—our Saturday date is ON! Then Marty pulled out tickets for Broadway’s biggest hit—The Glass Menagerie with Eddie Dowling and Laurette Taylor—Mr. Scott gave them to her! “Better than clams.” She laughed.

  I’ll never forget Laurette Taylor’s telephone scene trying to sell magazine subscriptions. It was sad and funny at the same time. During intermission Marty heard that Eddie Dowling might be at Sardi’s, so we joined the after-theater crowd. Dowling didn’t show, but the crowds poured in with standing room only. It was the liveliest spot in town—open all night waiting for the early-morning reviews. The gorgeous dresses, the high-style hair-dos, the gossip—the hugging, the kissing, and everyone yelling “dahling.” New Yorkers, so uninhibited. We were bug-eyed. All for the price of a ginger ale!

  Chapter Twenty-two

  OUR LAST day at Tiffany! Searching through the upper drawer of the dresser for my best stockings, I heard Marty shout, “We’re going to be late!”

  “I’m ready!” I yelled, dashing for the door. “Just a second.” I ran back for Mother’s letter, thanked the elevator operator for waiting, and raced to the subway with Marty.

  That morning, Mr. T.C. sent me on several errands. I was grateful, for it gave me the opportunity to say good-bye to everyone, particularly the shipping clerk.

  “Ye leavin’ already?” Jack asked, leaning on the counter, his eyes as blue as the boxes behind him.

  I hoped he’d tell me another Tiffany story or tease me about Jim so we could share a final laugh. Instead, he shook his head, staring at a faraway corner. “So, lass . . . it’s good-bye, is it?”

  I nodded. I stood there as if glued to the floor, not wishing to leave, for I knew I’d probably never see this sweet man again.

  At noon, I went to the locker room to reread my mother’s latest letter. She began with the usual news:

  “Katherine is looking well. . . . Phil is already practicing for football. . . . Could you play at church before going back to school? Cosette will be here next week. . . .”

  I tucked the letter back in my purse. I’d be sorry to miss seeing Aunt Cosette; she’d be amazed by the news: “Yale! Hindemith!” she’d exclaim. I had waited too long to write; I had to call my parents this weekend to discuss my change in plans.

  By the end of the afternoon, the third floor was quiet, empty of customers.

  “Miss Marjorie,” Mr. T.C. called, “please come to the front of the floor.” The other salesmen were waiting for me. I had a knot in my stomach, knowing it was time to say good-bye.

  “So,” he said, “we’re going to miss you around here.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “Just so you won’t forget us, we’d like you to have this.” He handed me an elegant brochure, creamy white and deckle-edged with a drawing of the Tiffany building on the cover.

  “We thought you’d like to remember the store—there are drawings of all three floors,” he said, turning the pages for me to see.

  “And there’s a drawing of the Sheraton table,” William added, and we laughed.

  “How could I forget that? This brochure is lovely—and now I can remember every detail. You’ve been so wonderful to me.”

  “And we also have a gift for you,” Mr. T.C. said, walking to the counter.

  “For me?” I echoed.

  He nodded and r
eached for a tall blue Tiffany box.

  For a moment I couldn’t even speak. “This is for me?” I said at last.

  They watched as I untied the satin ribbon. With trembling hands I lifted the cover. It was a Spode teapot in the Hunt pattern. The moment took my breath away. My teapot! Did they know how often I had admired it?

  “We wanted you to have something you could always use,” Mr. T.C. explained. “But—this is important,” he said, tapping on the blue box, “never reuse this box. It’s our trademark.”

  I tried to remember the farewell speech I had gone over in my head, but it flew from my mind. Although I’d known this moment would come, it was overwhelming.

  I finally stammered, “I can’t thank you enough . . . I’ll treasure these gifts. I’ll keep them forever.”

  “Don’t forget to come back to see us,” Mr. T.C. said with his droll smile.

  “You know I will,” I promised.

  “One last thing,” he added. “Don’t forget the proper way to sniff brandy.”

  Everyone laughed. How I needed that comic relief.

  Still, as I waved good-bye from the elevator, I was unable to see them clearly through my tears. I hugged the box on the way to our locker room, overwhelmed by such kindness.

  In the locker room, I held the Bonwit’s dress, the silky fabric warm on my fingertips. I felt a lump in my throat as I remembered all the times I had worn it. The way my uniform gave me the courage to enter the main floor that first day, feeling like a model. The time the skirt had saved the pearls in the elevator so they wouldn’t escape. The time the silky feel of the sleeves made me think I was a debutante, swirling brandy. I remembered again the surprise that first day when the secretary lifted the dresses from the tissue paper, taking our breath away. How proud we’d been wearing our dresses, preening in front of the mirror, knowing we were members of the Tiffany family. All summer long my dress had been there for me, sharing the moments. It was so much more than a dress. But now it was time to put it back on the hanger for the next girl. I stroked the fabric, straightened the collar and the perfect pleats, then hung it up for the very last time.

  As I sat down on the green bench, I reached for Mother’s letter to read one more time, feeling only guilt about my procrastination. I visualized Mother at the walnut desk in the corner of the dining room writing the letter, sifting through the day’s events to write me only the good news. When you’re a thousand miles away, why worry anyone? Keep your feelings to yourself, we always said.

  I read the first page and my eyes circled back, reading it once more. The blue ink began to blur; my hands were sweaty. . . . “Lots of nice apples,” Mother had written in her even backhand. I’d heard that before. A windfall of apples was a godsend before company arrived. Festive dinners with apple rings, apple butter, and apple crisp for dessert. How lucky. How fortunate to stretch the meals and stretch the dollar. How far would the dollar need to stretch for me now?

  I heard the familiar hum of voices in the hall. The elevator door had opened and closed as I listened for Marty’s footsteps. I looked at the dress hanging in the locker once more, knowing the best summer of my life was almost over.

  The moment I saw Marty’s face when she entered the locker room, I knew it hadn’t been easy for her to say goodbye, either; and in Marty’s eyes, I found an inexpressible comfort.

  WHEN WE LEFT Tiffany’s for the final time, we smiled bravely at the man who had clocked us in each day, and who had shown us the way to the Automat and the subway. It was our last good-bye. He wished us good luck, and waved.

  Standing outside on the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue, we turned to look at the familiar building once more: the sturdy, gray limestone, the towering stonework that had first intimidated me. Perhaps it was the glow of the late sun or the blur in my eyes, but that afternoon the limestone had a luster and sheen that gave hint of a magical sparkle. The very same sparkle that had transformed two Iowa girls that unforgettable summer.

  Linking arms, we vowed that we’d be back as soon as possible.

  ***

  MY LAST SATURDAY morning in New York and I’d overslept!

  What was the time? Eleven?

  Eleven!

  I rushed to the shower, combed my hair, and used up the last drops of my Evening in Paris. Jim would be arriving any minute.

  On the desk was a note from Marty. “Carolyn and I are going to Rockefeller Center—still celebrating! See you tonight.”

  So many places on our list to see before we had to leave. Today, Jim and I were going to Central Park. I felt light-headed.

  Wearing my sundress, I ran down the stairs without waiting for the elevator.

  On the last flight, I caught sight of Jim coming through the door. Jim. If only I could keep running down the stairs and through the lobby and throw my arms around his neck. But my proper upbringing wouldn’t allow such a display. Not in broad daylight!

  Jim was smiling.

  I smiled back.

  The desk clerk grinned. Even our Russian neighbor looked cheery as she came in from her walk. What an amazing, extraordinary day.

  “Ready, kiddo?” Jim asked, grabbing my hand.

  As we climbed the steps to the top deck of the Riverside bus, we found seats in the front row.

  “Just like our first date,” Jim said.

  “I’ll never forget—”

  “How you pretended to be a good sport—going to the Jack Dempsey Bar?”

  “Were we surprised!” I laughed.

  “Are you always that good at covering up your feelings?”

  “It’s important not to disappoint anyone, or make them worry.”

  “It’s just that sometimes you’re hard to read, when you don’t express yourself,” Jim said, putting his arm around me. “So—did you make that phone call to Iowa?”

  Oh boy. My smile froze, then disappeared.

  “Too bad,” he said.

  His tone was noncommittal, but I saw his disappointed look. He didn’t understand. It was my own fault. No excuse for putting it off so long. My high spirits vanished. Trying to think of something else to say, I looked across the street at the Riverside apartments.

  “Look!” I pointed, to distract him, “on the next block—that’s where my aunt Cosette lived.” Well, twenty-some years ago.

  “I like to imagine which grand apartment was hers. I can just see her there when she went to Juilliard, studying with Lhevinne,” I babbled on. “She lives in California now—she moved there after studying in London.”

  “I’d think your mother would be envious—New York, London, California—”

  “No, I’m sure she isn’t. Besides, my great-aunt Margretha warned us not to show our feelings—it’s a sign of weakness. We should not fall apart, complain, or envy others.” I recited her words like a child.

  Jim nodded. “So—are you too Norwegian to ever cry?”

  “Of course not—everybody cries sometime. Maybe I cry too easily.” I hesitated, wondering whether to share. “One time,” I continued, turning to look at Jim and holding his hand tighter, “when I was in eighth grade, I was expelled for a day from school—for whistling!” I bit my lip. “But it wasn’t me! I can’t whistle a note! I just sat in the back row with the boys who were always cutting up.” My voice was shaky. “The spelling bee was that very afternoon! I missed it after studying the dictionary the entire year. I thought I’d have my picture in the Des Moines Register and go to Washington to shake the president’s hand. I cried all the way home and ran to the sleeping porch, so mother wouldn’t hear. She found me, and asked what had happened. Then she called my great-aunt Margretha, who scolded Mother for not marching to the school to set things right.”

  “Oh—for cripessake! I’ll bet you were both miserable,” Jim said.

  “We were—I couldn’t talk about my feelings. I covered them up, pretending it didn’t matter. But I felt sorrier for Mother . . . she felt so guilty for not defending me.”

  Jim nodded.
“I know—feeling guilty is the hardest thing.”

  “That’s the problem,” I blurted. “I’d feel guilty about running off to Yale. My parents gave up so many things. For a long time we couldn’t afford a car—I remember my father hitching a ride to work with the milkman during blizzardy weather! Still, they found the best string teachers in Iowa for us, no matter what it cost.” I twisted my handkerchief nervously. “They’d make it possible for me to go—but how can I ask?”

  I turned to Jim. “I’m glad I can talk about this with you—it’s been bottled up in me for so long.”

  “Hey,” he said, and reached for my other hand, “as far as Yale is concerned—it will always be there.” He chuckled. “Yale will never disappear.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “I have to admit, I really wanted to impress people, too—like my aunt Cosette. That people would be saying, ‘Did you hear?’—”

  I was silent as cars roared past the bus. Along the parkway, children were skipping rope and chasing squirrels. I saw one boy climbing up a tree after one. I’d loved climbing trees, too, finding my own fantasy world in the branches. What a carefree life it is when we’re young, following our whims, thinking only of the next exciting moment.

  The sun was beating down; it was hot. Jim took off his heavy navy hat, smoothed his hair, wiped his forehead, and put his hat back on. Had I been blinded by the glamour of these past few months? Caught up in myself? I recalled the words of the lady in the yellow dress. “The true measure of a person’s success is to be a person of value.”

  I knew people of value, people who kept their promises, people who were kind, people who were loyal. I was surrounded by them: my best friend, Marty; my teacher, Mr. Koelbel; and especially my family, who had devoted their lives to my well-being.

  The bus rattled to a stop. We stepped off and stood there for a moment on the sidewalk. For a few minutes I couldn’t speak. Suddenly, more than anything, I knew what I wanted.

  “Having second thoughts?” Jim asked, smiling at me.

  “How did you guess?”

  “I know you better than you think,” he said, touching my arm. “You’re going home?”