Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (16 page)

The Four Epochs of Woman’s Life
still sat on the end table next to the box of chocolates. I blushed, imagining the maid seeing the book. Perhaps she sat down to read it and learned all about the orgasm. Or perhaps she knew all about that and laughed at the ignorance of the girl who’d left it there.

The first order of business was to go straight to Father’s bedroom for the money in his leather box. He’d owned that box since I could remember. I used to adore sifting through when I was little, knowing its contents rarely changed. Cuff links, collar buttons, scarf pins, an extra pocket watch. A leather fob I once gave him, with a metal charm of a baseball player. And now, to my relief, a twenty-dollar bill. My inheritance, so to speak. I sent up thanks to my father, returned to the living room, and put the money in my purse.

Many dreadful tasks lay ahead. Packing would be unpleasant enough. Even worse, I had to speak to the manager and find a way around paying the November rent. It was all too overwhelming. My eyes settled on Father’s cigar box and the picture of the one beautiful woman whispering to the other. Remembering his enjoyment over that simple pleasure made my eyes fill with tears.

A rapping on the door forced me to pull myself together. Peering through the peephole, I saw a man with a handlebar mustache. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Redstone,” he said, “the manager.”

I gritted my teeth and opened the door.

“I don’t mean to disturb you,” he said. “The doorman told me you’d arrived. I’ll have the porter bring your trunks up from the storage room. Is there anything else I can do?”

“I need to ship some things back to Cold Spring.”

“Just call down to the lobby when you’re ready. The porter will help you with a cab. By the way, in case you’ve not made other arrangements, I decided you can stay here tonight. If someone complains, I’ll explain that I’m bending the rules out of decency.” He puffed up his chest as though I should think he was a hero.

“Thank you.”

“Now then.” He cleared his throat. “There is the matter of the November rent. As I mentioned on the telephone, we require payment in advance.”

“Mr. Redstone, since I can’t stay on here, I’m still very much hoping you might waive the November rent.”

“Yes, I’m very sorry about that, but as I explained, we rent on a month-to-month basis, and you’re well beyond the required fourteen days’ notice required.”

“But my father died after the fourteen-day period had elapsed.”

“I know this must seem insensitive, Miss Westcott, but as it is, we’re almost a week into November. Since you’ve not vacated the premises, you’re legally responsible for the rent.”

My blood boiled, but I kept my tone steady. “I’m not allowed to live here anymore. And my father is no longer among the living. Under these circumstances, do you honestly think it’s fair to charge either of us for living here?”

“I’m terribly sorry, but I have to answer to the owners of the building. It’s not within my authority to allow our tenants to stay here free of charge.”

“You must carry out your duty to your employers. That’s your first priority, of course. But my father’s death has brought about an overwhelming financial hardship.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Westcott.”

“The truth is, I haven’t any funds available, and I’m hoping for your compassion. I’ll do my best to empty the apartment as soon as possible.”

“Perhaps you have some family members who can help you out?”

Father once told me that if you wanted something, you needed to ask at least three times. After the third request, the opponent’s willpower often crumbles. “Sadly, I don’t. I’m on my own now, Mr. Redstone, and I don’t know how I’m going to make do. Wouldn’t you please reconsider? I’d be most grateful.” I appealed to him with my most helpless expression. My heart pounded so hard, I thought he must be able to see my chest throb.

“Well . . .”

His first sign of wavering. If I suggested a compromise, he might relent with his pride intact. “Would you allow me to pay you twenty dollars in cash right now? I could manage that much, though just barely. And perhaps you’d be willing to leave it at that?”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I suppose we could manage some such arrangement. It would have to be off the record, though.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice soft and hushed. “Off the record, of
course.” I retrieved the precious twenty-dollar bill from my purse and handed it to him.

“So,” he said, slipping the bill in his waistcoat pocket, “we’ll consider the balance paid.”

“Thank you,” I said with gravity.

“As agreed, you’ll vacate the premises in twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t suppose, since twenty dollars covers the week—”

“I’m already bending the rules for you, Miss Westcott.”

“Very well. Tomorrow.”

After he left, I turned the lock and leaned against the door to steady myself. Reaching under my collar, I pulled out my locket and rubbed the smooth gold with my thumb; the familiar indentation of the star somehow gave me reassurance. I’d need all the strength I could muster to endure the next few days.

Soon the porter arrived with the two steamer trunks. He also had a box from Siegel-Cooper, delivered while I was gone. My tailored suit. Father would never have the chance to tease me for being a suffragette. I reached into my purse once more and handed the porter a tip. Judging from his expression, it should’ve been more.

After he left, I dragged Father’s trunk to the doorway of his bedroom. I would ship his things back to Aunt Ida. She could sort through it all and sell off what she wished.

I opened the top drawer of his bureau. Inside were neat rows of silk four-in-hand ties, bow ties, Windsor ties. It seemed too intimate to handle the clothing that had touched his body. And too cruel, as if I’d be folding him up and putting him away. Of course, it wasn’t him and there was no use putting it off. The only way to end the ordeal was to suffer through it.

I worked my way through the collars and cuffs, suspenders and hose, and freshly laundered button-down shirts. Dead people had no privacy. My own belongings would be left behind one day. If I never had children, who would take care of my things? Next
I tackled his closet. Dress suits, dinner jackets, shoes . . . Then I opened the drawers of his desk. I couldn’t bear to look at the papers, receipts, and ledgers—anything with his handwriting—so it all went straight into the trunk.

After that was done, it seemed like a good time to stop for lunch. Eating in the Mansfield sounded dreadful. I’d find a nearby restaurant.

On my way out, the red-haired doorman spoke in a confidential whisper. “Just wanted to say I’m sorry ’bout your father, miss. And if I can be of any help . . .”

“That’s very kind, thank you.”

I ended up at Child’s restaurant on Twenty-third Street. The chain had spread through the city like weeds—or dandelions, depending on whom you asked. Other women sat at tables by themselves, so at least I didn’t have to feel self-conscious. After ordering a plate of hash and eggs, I watched the people passing by on the other side of the plate-glass window. I perceived them all as lucky, protected by their circles of friends and family while going about their routines, blasé about living in the city. Would I ever become one of them?

—

When I returned to the Mansfield, the doorman sidled up to me again. “I wanted to mention, it happens I know someone who’s got a shop for cast-off clothes. If you’re interested, I can arrange for her to come by. I don’t mean to interfere, but she can take some of those extras off your hands.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll be shipping my father’s things up to Cold Spring.”

“Thought you might have some extras of your own, too.”

The forced, offhand expression on his face made me realize that he knew I was financially ruined. The staff undoubtedly gossiped with zest about the tenants.

“I don’t think so, but thank you for mentioning it.”

“She pays cash,” he added, “on the spot.”

I continued on to the elevator. The idea of selling off Father’s fine furnishings made me cringe. Almost all our clothes were tailor-made. Some secondhand shop woman couldn’t possibly offer anywhere near a fair price.

As soon as I was back in the room I called the shipping company. When the man told me the estimated shipping costs, I repeated the staggering sum out loud, thanked him very much, and rang off. It made no sense to pay good money to ship Father’s belongings only to burden Aunt Ida with disposing of them.

I telephoned down to the lobby and asked to speak with the doorman. A minute later, he was on the other end of the line. “You want me to send for Matilda?”

“I realized it probably would be more convenient.”

—

A hefty woman with a big square face, Matilda held up each item for inspection. “I’ll give you a total at the end—take it or leave it.” As she worked her way through Father’s clothes, I began to pack my own trunk. The desire to purge myself of everything and start fresh took hold of me. Even my favorite frocks seemed like a burden from the past.

Except I’d be foolish to give up my lovely clothes.

Or was it foolish to hold on to them when I needed the cash?

“I think I’d like to sell some of my own clothing, too,” I announced.

“Just make up yer mind,” she said. “I ain’t got all day.”

I kept only necessities: two skirts, three shirtwaists, three day dresses, two nightgowns, underclothing, wrapper, my new tweed suit, a pair of oxfords, high button boots, pumps, slippers, wool coat, summer coat, fur stole, muff, gloves, and two—no, three—of my finer dresses. I managed to fit two hats inside my biggest hatbox; the third I would wear.

After looking through everything, Matilda announced an amount. I’d hoped for more and countered with a higher sum.

“You wanna bargain with me?” Her voice boomed with incredulousness. “A poor old woman? I got a family to feed! You rich people always tryin’ to cheat people like me. I gotta make a living too. You think someone else’ll do better, then I’ll be on my way.”

“No,” I said, “it’s fine. I’ll take what you offered.” So much for my earlier finessing of Mr. Redstone.

Despite her victory, Matilda didn’t soften one bit. “Look at this heap a clothes,” she said, as if I were forcing her to take more than she wanted. “I can’t carry all that myself. I’ll have to come back tonight with my boy.” She started out the door.

“Do you know what time you’ll be returning?”

“I said tonight, didn’t I?”

After she left, I buried my face in one of father’s wool jackets and tried to find comfort in the scent of tobacco and aftershave. A clever business that Matilda had—taking advantage of the disadvantage of others.

November 4, 1907

I’m tempted not to let that woman back up. I could simply tell the doorman to send her away. But no, I shan’t change my mind. I can’t afford to be sentimental. Not now, when the only true asset I have is my freedom. Things do have a way of taking possession of people
 . . .
if one lets them.

I went back to my packing, filling the shelf of my trunk with toiletry articles, sewing supplies, a mosaic box in which I kept trinkets and hatpins. Too bad I’d never gone in for jewelry, or I might’ve had something to pawn. My heart locket, the only piece I cared about, hung securely around my neck.

Matilda eventually returned with a glum-faced brawny son. He didn’t say a word while helping her bundle up the clothes in paper wrapping. When they were done, she peeled my money off a wad of bills. Matilda might be poor, but compared to me, she was flush. I wondered how much time would pass before anyone handed me money again.

“By the way,” I asked, “do you know of a respectable place where I could get a room? I need a place to stay right away.”

“Can’t say I do.”

Her son spoke up for the first time. “What about Mrs. Craven?”

“You stupid?” she said. “This lady don’t wanna joint like that.”

He hung his head.

“Perhaps you could tell me where it is, just in case.” I felt bad for him and wanted to show my appreciation. She told me an address over on First Avenue. I wrote it down and thanked him for mentioning it.

After they took everything away, I noticed Father’s cigar box on his desk. I lifted the top; a whiff of tobacco went up my nose. Neat rows of cigars nestled inside. He’d never forgive me for throwing them down the garbage chute. I stuffed the box inside my already jam-packed trunk.

Finally, I’d finished my horrid tasks and could escape to bed. I washed up quickly, looking forward to lying down and freeing my mind from this new dreadful reality. Snuggling under the blanket, I thought surely I’d fall right off to sleep.

A half hour later, wide awake, I stared up at the ceiling. I couldn’t stop thinking about Father’s cigar box. It was foolish to take them with me. They’d make all my clothes smell of tobacco, and the sight of them would only make me sad. Missing Father hurt enough; I shouldn’t suffer over missing his belongings, too.

I threw off the blanket, got out of bed, put on my wrapper, and took the cigar box from my trunk. I couldn’t help staring at the two
women with their secret. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so awful to throw out the cigars and keep the box.

I removed the cigars from the box and shook out the remaining bits of tobacco. Then I went back to my trunk, pulled out the shabby little wicker basket that held my sewing supplies, and transferred all of its contents into the cigar box. Now that the basket was empty, I filled it with the cigars. For my final act of the day, I padded barefoot down the hallway to the garbage chute. After dropping the wicker basket inside, I waited for the faint, dull thud that let me know it hit bottom.