Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (13 page)

I turned on the TV to fill the room with noise and stared like an idiot at some dumb sitcom while sipping my wine. It was very strange to be so spooked in my apartment. I was not a superstitious person and didn’t believe in ghosts or any other affiliates of the supernatural world, so what was the deal? Maybe
Dr. Markoff’s trance had taken control of my brain. Except didn’t he say I was the one in control?

I decided to turn off the TV and do something productive, like get that stain out of Jane Kelly’s dress. Bringing clothing back to life had a way of bringing me back to life, too. Then I’d call Jeff and tell him this was it; I needed to move on. My birthday gift to myself: freedom.

Leaning over the bathroom sink, I scrubbed the stain with a mixture of hydrogen peroxide and Dawn. Gradually, the blotch began to fade. I’d give it a wash and see how it looked after drying. Then I’d give it another wash and attack it with a bleach pen if necessary. After wiping the sink clean, I filled it with cold water, added a smidgen of Ivory Snow, and swished it around. Submerging the dress, I pushed down on the bubbles of cloth and wondered for the zillionth time why it was so damn hard for me to move beyond Jeff. I liked Molly’s chemical imprint theory, since the scientific angle took some of the responsibility off me, but it was no excuse; I had to stop giving in to this urge to recapture the past. Even my business required a preoccupation with reviving history. Was my entire life ruled by nostalgia?

I pulled out the stopper. Then I hung the dress over the tub and sprayed it with the shower attachment to rinse out the soap. Abbie Hoffman, the rebel from the sixties, once said that nostalgia is a mild form of depression. It did have the potential to bring me down and make me long for something that couldn’t be captured. But it could also make me feel a part of something bigger. The past doesn’t just go away; it lingers on. You can actually touch and see the remains, and to the extent that these souvenirs survive, the past is present. You can’t say that for the future. It’s not here in any form. It can’t be; it hasn’t arrived yet. Once it does arrive, it’s the present, but only fleetingly before it’s the past. You can never hold the future in your hands.

I opened the bathroom window to get a breeze. Then I hung
the dress to dry on the shower curtain rod and imagined it thanking me for bringing it back to life. The past continued on in our clothes, photographs, knickknacks, music, film, the written word—if we made sure to take care of it. The stuff, that is, not the people. I wasn’t into taking care of ghosts.

Except it would seem I was having an affair with one: the ghost of Jeff’s past. Didn’t I deserve a real human being instead of lavishing my feelings on a phantom who existed more in my imagination than in my life?

I reached for my cell phone. Time to break up with the ghost. I called his number and waited for him to pick up. This time I was gonna do it for real.

His voice mail answered. After a moment’s hesitation, I hung up. No point in leaving a message. He’d see it was me and call back.

I sat down on my sofa, took a deep breath, and let it out. Then I reached for my laptop and stared at the computer screen. I tried to think of where to go online, as though the solutions to my problems could be found in cyberspace if I just knew the right place to look.

JDate?

I had an account from past forays into online dating. I logged on and scrolled down a column of men. Romancer007. Live4today. ClinicallySane1. Needlenahaystack. TheComebackYid.

Oy.

The shrill ring of my cell phone made me jump. Jeff. “Hello?”

“Did you call?” he asked.

“Yes. How’s your wife?”

“She’s out of surgery. They said it went fine.”

“That must be a relief.” I clicked on the profile of a fairly attractive man with dark hair, gray sideburns, black T-shirt.

“I’m just waiting for her to come out of the anesthesia,” he said. “Then I’ll take her home.”

“Uh-huh.” He called himself NativeNewYawker. Claimed to be forty-two.

“I still feel terrible about your birthday.”

“Don’t worry. I’m a big girl.”

“Maybe I could still see you tomorrow.”

“You know . . .” I swallowed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“The doctor said her thumb might be sore, that’s all.”

“Still . . .” NativeNewYawker, unlike some of his competition, looked straight at the camera and smiled.

“I’d already told her I’d be away on business,” he said, “so I could spend the night with you. She’s expecting me to go. We talked about it in the cab on the way to the hospital.”

“No. You should be home with her.”

“Amanda, you’re angry, I know, and you have a right to be, but please let me make it up to you. And I want to give you your birthday present.”

I wanted to say his damn present wouldn’t make up for my stolen youth. Instead, I glared at the computer screen. NativeNewYawker’s face had small, even features. I read somewhere that people were attracted to symmetry.

“Let’s meet for breakfast. We can spend the morning together.”

Having sex? Forget it. “No.”

“Name a time and a place and I’ll be there, I promise.”

“Nowhere,” I said. “Never.”

“Amanda, come on. Please don’t do this, please?”

“It’s over, Jeff. I can’t do this anymore.” We both knew I’d said those exact words before. Why should he believe me now?

“Listen, why don’t you get a good night’s sleep and we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

“No. This is it. And if you care about me and my welfare, you’ll do me a favor: Don’t come to my apartment or my store. Don’t call, text, e-mail, or contact me in any form that technology has or will make possible in the future. Good-bye.”

“I love you, Amanda.”

I hung up. Closed JDate. Turned off my laptop and put it back on the desk. That’s when I noticed the unopened letter from the managing agent of my building. Might as well face the music. As expected, it was about the renewal of the lease for my retail space. Not as expected, the landlord had chosen not to renew, which meant that I had a month to close down the shop and vacate the premises.

What the hell?

This had to be a mistake. Typos. Sent to the wrong person. The managing agent, a smarmy guy named Chuck Grabowski, had definitely told me he’d be renewing at a 6 percent hike. I’d call in the morning and clear it up. All I could do now was go to bed and put this day behind me.

I WOKE UP
confused. What was I doing back in my old bedroom?

Then I remembered.

At least today wasn’t yesterday. The funeral, the graveyard, dirt on the coffin. People in our house, childhood friends. Looks of pity bombarding me from every direction.

“Olive?” Aunt Ida knocked on the door.

“Yes?”

She poked her head in. “Some of your friends have come to call.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost noon. I don’t know how you can sleep so late. I’ll tell them to wait—”

“No, please. Ask them to come back in a few hours, will you?”

“Fine, but you’d better get out of bed or you’ll never get to sleep tonight.”

I fell back asleep. Later, the smell of apples and cinnamon woke me. I dressed and went down to the kitchen, where Margaret was rolling out dough for pies.

“Like some apple cake?” she asked.

“Please, it smells wonderful.” The day before, I thought my appetite would never return. Now my mouth was watering.

“I was hoping it might tempt you out of bed,” she said, cutting me a slice with her pink chubby hands. “Your apple trees were so generous this year. I’ve been trying out every recipe with apples that I can find.”

“You’ve such a talent for baking.”

“Oh, honey, it’s only a matter of scooping and stirring. If you like, I’ll teach you my recipes anytime.”

My aunt entered the room with a bouquet of roses. “Good luck getting Olive anywhere closer to the stove than she is. Goodness, so many flowers, and I’ve nowhere to put them.”

“Aren’t those beautiful,” Margaret said, wiping her hands on a towel. “I think I’ll go upstairs and freshen up.”

I was sorry to be left alone with my aunt.

“I thought the funeral was lovely,” she said, trying to fit the bulky bouquet inside a lemonade pitcher. Tall and thin, my aunt wore her light brown hair coiled like a crown—an unflattering hairstyle that never varied.

“Thank you for arranging everything,” I said.

“You don’t have to thank me for that.” She abruptly let go of the flowers and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. “I still can’t believe my dear Charles is gone,” she said, pressing the cloth against her eyes.

“It must be devastating to lose your big brother.” She’d always looked older than Father, even though she was a year younger. Now my aunt almost looked elderly. On her forehead were lines of wrinkles I’d never seen. Dark purple bags sagged under her blue eyes.

“I’ll be fine.” She tucked the handkerchief back into her pocket. “At least we can take comfort knowing he’s in a better place. You’re the one I’m worried about, so close to him, and he did like to indulge you. At times like this, I feel grateful to have my faith to keep me strong. You have been going to church since moving to New York, I hope?”

“There was a very nice one just up the block,” I said, evading the question and knowing full well I hadn’t fooled her.

As a devout Christian, my aunt would’ve done more to enforce her beliefs in our household if Father had let her. He was the sort who’d pray if there was a pressing need; the rest of the time, he couldn’t be bothered. He liked to say it was up to an individual to behave morally rather than act a certain way to please God. I found this more reasonable than my aunt’s fanatic views.

“Life doesn’t stop,” she said, continuing to fuss with the flowers so all the roses would splay out. “One must go on. Why did you turn away your friends? They came to give you comfort.”

“They gave me their sympathy at the funeral. Today they’ll just want to tell me how lovely it is to be married, so I must hurry up and find a husband before no one wants me.”

“Perhaps you could stand to hear some of their advice.”

I pushed away the last of my apple cake and tried to think of how I could excuse myself.

“Have you arranged anything with the Mansfield?” she asked. “You’ll need to have everything sent up from the city.”

“I haven’t begun to think about that.”

“What is there to think about?”

“I’ll telephone the manager and sort things out later. I’d like to go down to the store. I’ve not been there yet.”

“Might be hard,” she said. “So many memories.”

“That’s all right.” I took my dish to the sink. “I like those memories.”

—

The countergirls greeted me solemnly and gave their condolences as I wandered up and down the aisles. I smiled at everyone with resilience and fooled nobody.

The very scent of dusty air and wood polish brought back the past. My childhood fantasyland of cherrywood counters, glass showcases, and mirrored walls made me feel close to Father. Yet the knowledge that my past was gone forever made me want to cry, and the strain of holding back tears brought on a throbbing headache. “It’s terribly good to see everyone,” I said to the head cashier. “Thank you for being so kind.” The bell on the door tinkled as I left.

Strolling up Main Street, I saw a group of children laughing and jumping on the back step of Mr. Barrow’s ice wagon. As the old horse plodded forward, Mr. Barrow kept snapping his whip back toward the kids, but that only made them laugh louder. I’d done the very same as a girl.

A rush of nostalgia for the town made my heart ache. I passed the dressmaker’s shop, the Presbyterian church where I’d gone to Sunday School, the town library. Turning the corner, I walked down the road to my house. Painted yellow with green trim, our handsome Queen Anne presented the very picture of an idyllic home. I followed the stone path to the wraparound porch, sat down on the creaky old swinging bench, and stared into the branches of the elm trees. Aunt Ida was right. Of course I’d move back to Cold Spring. This town was peaceful and lovely. New York was chaotic and impossible. I had no ties there—had even been gently uninvited from Mr. Woolworth’s party by an executive who came from the city for Father’s funeral. And without a reference, it seemed I couldn’t even get a job as a salesgirl.

That adventure was over. The past month in Manhattan would condense into memories of a brief and exciting time—the high point of my life. Most people would say I was lucky to have the security of a comfortable home; they’d think me spoiled for wanting more from life.

I forced myself to go inside and telephone the Mansfield. After I explained my situation to the manager, Mr. Redstone, he expressed his condolences. Then he asked when I could remove our belongings.

“Not before the end of October. Some business matters will keep me here a few more days.”

“That presents a problem, Miss Westcott. I need to ready the apartment for new tenants.”

“It is possible I might be staying on there,” I said. Even though it was unlikely, I couldn’t give up on the idea entirely.

“I’m sorry, but since you’re no longer accompanied by your father, we can’t offer you accommodations. The Mansfield doesn’t allow single women.”