Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (22 page)

Angelina glared at Celia as she rushed off. “That girl has a lot of nerve, talking to you like that!”

I tried to laugh it off. “I didn’t realize just how pitiful I was until she told me.”

“I’ve got half a mind to run and give her a swift kick in the rear.”

Finished with her customer, Sadie came over and joined us. “What did I miss?”

“Just a rude customer,” I said.

Angelina picked up her tray. “I don’t know how you stand it in sales. People are so much nicer when you give things away.”

“So’s my boyfriend,” Sadie said, “but that don’t get me nowhere.”

“Then maybe it’s time you start making him pay,” Angelina said with a wry grin before continuing down the aisle.

—

At closing time, I ran into Angelina down in the locker room. “Thanks for being discreet with Sadie about those girls.”

“Nothing she enjoys more than someone else’s suffering. You want to get a drink? I know a place with good cheap beer a few blocks down.”

I almost told her I didn’t drink beer, but what did it matter? I’d been so utterly lonely, and this beautiful, spirited girl wanted to spend time with me. “I’d love to, thanks.”

As we walked down Eighteenth Street, I inhaled the sweet, fresh air. Angelina’s skin had such a healthy glow; her coloring seemed immune to lack of sun. “Are you originally from Italy?”

“Sicily. Is my accent so obvious?”

“No, it’s subtle, actually, and sounds nice.”

“My parents came over when I was ten,” she said as we stopped at the curb. “Now I’m twenty-two and still can’t get rid of my accent!”

“I don’t think you should.”

A street cleaner passed in front of us. He managed to wink at Angelina while sweeping a pile of horse dung into his shovel and saying something in Italian that made her laugh.

“How about you?” she asked. “Are you from New York?”

“I was born in Cold Spring, about ninety minutes north by train. I just moved here . . . a few days ago.” It felt that way, anyway. The Manhattan I knew with my father existed somewhere else.

“By yourself? Must be lonely as the moon.” The policeman blew his whistle, and we crossed the street. “Don’t worry, you’ll make friends with the other girls at the store in no time.”

“That would be nice.” Though it didn’t seem possible. Not because I felt superior, as Celia would assume. Most of the girls I’d met were immigrants, or their parents were, and our experiences growing up had been so very different. On the other hand, Angelina was different, and that only made me more curious to know her.

She led me to a typical sort of saloon I’d seen all over Manhattan but never would have dreamed of entering. I followed her in the women’s entrance. White sand covered the cement floor. Beer ads plastered the walls. The smells of smoke and liquor infused the air. We collapsed across from each other at a sticky wood table near the back. Honky-tonk music drifted in from the doorway to the men’s side. At the next table, a bone-thin woman with painted lips and rouged cheeks sat alone, smoking a cigarette. A burly waiter came by, and Angelina ordered each of us a beer. “I’ve never been in a place like this,” I said.

“Mercy,” she said, observing me while twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “You are a riddle.”

“What do you mean?”

Her red lips curled into a good-natured smile. “Someone as classy as you should be shopping in a store, not working in one. Like that girl said, you’re too good to be a salesgirl.”

“On the contrary, I’m lucky to have a job.”

She let that ringlet of hair unwind from her finger and leaned forward over the table. “You’re in a bad way, aren’t you . . . because you lost your papa?”

My eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“You said something to that girl. And I can see a sadness in your eyes. I’m sorry, I’m too nosy.”

I hesitated over whether to tell her my story. I’d hate my hard times to become twaddle for salesgirl gossip. “You wouldn’t tell the others at work, will you?”

“No one keeps a secret as well as Angelina Spinelli. Not that you should say anything if you don’t want to.”

The need to have someone know who I was and what I’d been through won out. Ignoring the glass mug the waiter set down in front of me, I began telling her about Father. As I spoke, Angelina looked at me in silence with those penetrating black eyes. Her sympathy made my feelings rise to the surface, and everything spilled out in a muddle—even the story of my financial ruin.

“Poor dearie,” she said after I wound down. “That sure is the limit. Losing your papa and all your money at the same time.”

I pressed my lips together. Had I told too much?

“Have some of your beer,” she said.

“I don’t really drink,” I said.

“Now would be a good time to start.”

I took a timid sip; the bitterness was hard to swallow. “I didn’t mean to talk your ear off. I’m sure you’ve had your own troubles. I must sound terribly spoiled.”

“Who says? Could be worse coming down after you’ve been up instead of being down without ever knowing what it was like on the other end. And I bet you were close to your papa.”

“Yes.” I gripped my handkerchief as if holding on for dear life. The ache in my forehead spread to my temples. My body tensed up as if clenching my bones would freeze up my feelings.

Reaching across the table, Angelina gently squeezed my arm. “You must miss him something awful.”

My pride was no match for her compassion, and I melted into heaving sobs. “Please ignore me.” The woman at the next table
stared at us while exhaling a cloud of smoke. Pulling out a handkerchief, I hid my face while blowing my nose and tried to compose myself. “I wouldn’t be carrying on like this if I wasn’t so beat. I’ve not had a decent night’s sleep all week.”

“The El?”

I nodded miserably. “I’m meeting Sadie’s landlady on Sunday.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Mrs. Almond is a grouch, but she treats the girls fairly and keeps the place clean.”

“You lived there?”

“Back when I first started to work, after Papa kicked me out.”

“He didn’t want you working?”

“I was supposed to stay home and help Mama clean up after everyone else. I would’ve killed myself. With five brothers, I’ve done enough cleaning for a lifetime.”

Five brothers! Were they all as handsome as Joe? “Are you the oldest?”

“I’m second to last. Joe’s the baby, a year younger than me.”

That made him a year older than me. “Too bad your father couldn’t appreciate that you were earning money.”

“Appreciate? He thinks I’ve gone to the devil. When I went to work, he stopped speaking to me and said I was good as dead. If I managed to send money home, he sent it back, as if I made it by walking the streets at night. Joe finally brought him around to see me in the store. Papa never saw anything so grand in his life, not even back in Italy. He forgave me enough to take my money. Of course, I didn’t tell him about the fashion shows—that would’ve set him off all over again. He still won’t talk to me, though.”

“What work does he do?”

“Whatever he can get. Digging tunnels, paving the streets, laying sewers. You know the joke, right? He came to America thinking the streets were paved of gold. Turned out there wasn’t any gold in the streets, and he was expected to pave ’em.” She gave a hearty laugh.

I smiled along with her. “That was daring of you to move out against his wishes.”

“Not really. They were leaving New York anyway. Papa’s got a brother in San Francisco who owns a
ristorante
and wants to open another. He talked my parents into moving out there. My older brothers, too. They say the city is booming since the earthquake.” She grinned. “Lots of streets to pave.”

“You didn’t want to go with them?”

“There was already talk about marrying me off to some cousin out there I never even met.
Dio non voglia
. Mama can’t wait to see her brood married so she has a houseful of grandchildren. My parents think they’re still in the old country. She doesn’t speak any English and never got north of Broome Street. She hated New York.”

“She must miss her hometown.”

“Only because she’s forgotten almost starving to death. Papa’s no better. Thinks he’s gonna make America more like Italy. Try to get ’em to understand it’s the other way around.”

“And what about Joe? Why didn’t he go to San Francisco?”

“He had a sweetheart and his job at the store. But it turns out my brothers are making loads of money fishing the bay, so now he wants to go, too.”

“What about the sweetheart?”

“She lasted about a month. Longer than the others. I hope you aren’t planning on falling in love with him.”

“Don’t worry.” I laughed. “Not a chance.”

“He’s got his eye on you.”

“I’m sure we have nothing in common.”

“You mean he’s too common for you?”

“No.” Perhaps he was, but I didn’t want to sound snooty. “I meant we seem to disagree about most things, especially his views on women. I differ with most men on that score, which is probably
why I’ve never had a beau. I’ve never even been in love. Sometimes I wonder if I ever will be.”

“Don’t worry, you will, and then you’ll wish you weren’t—especially if you take a fancy to a scoundrel like Joe.”

“He is very handsome.”

“Don’t he know it. Joe’s like all the Italian men—thinks he’s God, and Mama lets him believe it. Meanwhile, I’m the family shame.”

“Well, they’re wrong, as I see it. I think you’re splendid. Look at how you take care of yourself. It’s impressive.”

“You’re taking care of yourself, too, so I guess you should be impressed with yourself.”

I picked up my nearly full glass of beer. “To us both for being impressive.”

Angelina clinked her nearly empty glass against mine. “
Salute
.”

“
Salute
.”

After finishing her beer, she set the glass down with triumph. “That was good.” She looked at my glass. “I guess there’s no point waiting for you to finish.”

“We’d probably have to stay all night.”

“Isn’t it vile how the evening hours pass so quickly? Before you know it, it’s time to go to bed, wake up, and there you are, back in the store again. Ready to go?”

I would’ve preferred to stay in that saloon all night with Angelina than go back to my dismal room. “Ready.”

AFTER TURNING ON
the lights, I took a quick look around the store to make sure everything was in order. The women’s clothing, all organized by decade, hung on racks along one entire wall. On the opposite wall, racks were divided between men’s clothing, sale items, some shoes, and a full-length mirror next to a tiny curtained-off dressing room. In the middle of the store were a few tables displaying purses, gloves, scarves, and sunglasses. My station was in the back, behind a counter with a glass showcase filled with costume jewelry and miscellaneous tchotchkes.

I started a CD of hits from the sixties. The Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Do You Believe in Magic?” filled the store. Once I got behind my counter, I was a prisoner until closing, at eight. My sales assistant, Bettina, did come in on weekends, and when I traveled to auctions and flea markets, she kept things running, but for the most part, the store opened and closed with me. Just as I began to set up my cash drawer, I got a text message from Jeff.

R u still upset about last night? Let’s talk ok?

He thought this was just another kiss-and-make-up fight. Tempted to let it be just that, I considered how to respond while booting up the desktop computer I’d programmed to use as a register. I still hadn’t typed a response when two customers walked in.

They turned out to be mother and daughter. Mom was visiting from out of town, ready to treat her daughter, an NYU student, to whatever she wanted. Daughter had a great figure and it was hard for anything to look bad. They kept me busy replacing clothes on hangers and making suggestions. It warmed my heart to see them having such a good time. Would I ever get to play mom? Daughter finally settled for a floral chantilly-lace flapper dress and an adorable pink polka-dot romper.

After they left, I returned to my phone and typed in my response.

U don’t think I’m serious but I am. Pls don’t contact me again. If I call or text or email figure moment of weakness and ignore for my sake OK? THX

Except we had to work out my debt. What should I say about that? Before I could figure it out, a customer came in, desperate to find a cocktail dress. I closed the phone again without sending the message.

“Special occasion?” I asked.

“Dinner with five girlfriends. We’re reuniting after losing touch for ten years.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Except they’re all married with kids, and I just got a divorce, so I really don’t want to look frumpy. I’ve been searching the department stores, hating everything. Then I remembered I could go vintage.”

“Absolutely. Let me pull a few things from the rack that would be a good fit. I bet we can get those housewives feeling like the frumpy ones when they see you.”

She did present a challenge: large hips, small waist, flabby arms. I selected a few dresses for her to consider. The first two didn’t work, but I had high hopes for a black chiffon dress from the sixties with sheer sleeves and marabou fur on the cuffs.