Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (27 page)

“And they say,” she went on, “your chances are best during your monthly.”

“Best to get pregnant?”

“Best
not
to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure—the doctor told me so.”

“Thank you for being frank with me. Honestly, I feel like such a dunce when it comes to men and anything having to do with, well, you know.”

“Sex?”

“Yes,” I said shyly. “And you’re so worldly.”

She laughed. “My family would say wicked, not worldly. God knows, I’m well on my way to hell if everything the Church says is true.”

“If you ask me, too many who preach religion are just trying to impose their own views on other people.”

“I think so too,” she said. “At least I hope so, seeing as I stopped going to confession. I got my fill of telling the priest what a sinner I am. Do you think that’s awful?”

“Not at all. My aunt who raised me is a devout Christian. She never hesitated to make sweeping pronouncements about what is and isn’t God’s will. I have to say, I find it very suspicious when any mere mortal claims to know with certainty what God wants.”

“That makes perfect sense, and I never could’ve put it so
well. You may not know much about men, Olive, but you sure are clever.”

“Why, thank you,” I said, feeling pleased as punch—until we reached the restaurant. “Oh, my.” A terribly long line of customers stood waiting.

“This is mad.”

“We could leave the Garden and find someplace nearby.”

“I’m too beat. Let’s stick it out.”

“I bet the line will move fast,” I said, observing the vast sea of tables.

I bet wrong. Having claimed their bits of real estate, the seated patrons seemed happy to remain settled for good. Nor did they appear to be moved by the hungry, tired, and outright hostile looks coming from those of us in line.

“I almost forgot,” Angelina said after we’d been waiting awhile. She began to unpin her hat. Thus reminded, I did the same. We made our trade as people around us watched with perplexed faces. Then each of us made sure the other’s hat and hair were in place.

“I have this crazy idea,” she said after the exchange was accomplished.

“I hope you’re going to tell me what it is.”

“You must promise not to laugh.”

“I give my word.”

“Someday I want to own my own millinery shop. Someplace elegant, on Fifth Avenue, where I can sell my own designs to an exclusive clientele. Or to the less exclusive clientele on Sixth Avenue,” she added with a modest smile. “Or even”—she laughed—“the Bowery, if I must. Of course it’s just a pipe dream.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know a thing about owning a shop.”

“You could learn.”

She shook her head. “I’d be a dreadful businesswoman. My heart has a knack of ignoring my good sense.”

“Even if you’re selling your own creations?”

“Especially if I’m selling my own creations.”

When we were finally seated, it took half a century for the waiter to take our order. After he scurried off, I feared we might never see him again. “I don’t think owning your own shop has to be a dream,” I said. “May I ask something that’s none of my business?”

“Ask away. Then we’ll see if I answer.”

“How much does he pay you?”

She knew who I meant. Her eyes refused to meet mine. “Plenty.”

“I can’t even guess what that would be.”

“Five, usually, after spending an evening together.”

“May I ask how he gives it to you?”

“Cash.”

“Yes, but how? Isn’t it awkward?”

“He slips it in my purse when I’m in the bathroom, freshening up. And let me tell you,” she said, finally looking me square in the face, “the chance to use that porcelain tub instead of a tin bucket makes
me
want to be the one to pay
him
. He keeps a room at the Plaza, you know, that new hotel that just opened up on Central Park.”

“Does he really?” I took care to hide my disapproval so she could have the chance to impress me.

“Everything is so grand. The water closet flushes simply by pressing a little button, can you imagine?”

Her choice of detail made me smile. “That truly is a luxury.”

“You should see the room, all done up with the most elegant furniture, a gorgeous marble fireplace, and it’s up on the fourteenth floor. I can look out the window and see a glorious view: little people way down on the sidewalk; the traffic going by; horse cabs all lined up in front of the park; the mansions on Fifth Avenue . . .”

“It does sound lovely.” The Plaza Hotel most certainly would have turned me away that night when I had nowhere to go.

“The best part is, we can telephone to the kitchen, day or night, for food. He lets me order anything I want off the menu, no matter how expensive, and a bellboy rolls a table on wheels right to our room.”

“What fun,” I said, remembering the pleasures of breakfast delivered on a dumbwaiter.

“If he ever does throw me over, I can’t imagine going back to counting pennies.”

“You must have a good amount saved.”

“How much do you think?”

“I don’t know.” I took a wild guess. “Two hundred dollars?”

“If only! Closer to fifty.” She confessed the number as if admitting a crime.

“That’s a good sum.”

“I should be saving more. Seems like there’s always something to spend money on.”

“True enough. Perhaps you ought to draw up some sort of plan.”

“Of what sort?”

“For your business. So you’d know how much capital you’d need to get established.”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Let’s pretend the rent would be twenty a month for any place decent. Plus the cost of coal and oil. And you’d need at least thirty a month for food and clothes and other necessaries.”

“So much?”

“You can’t scrimp on health or the way you look if you’re going to run a business.”

“I suppose.”

“Multiply all that by twelve, and you’ll have a general idea of how much would be required for a year. There are also onetime
expenses like furnishings, and you’d need insurance . . . and let’s not forget the cost of supplies so you could make your hats!”

“Mercy, I’m snowed under just thinking about it. You do have a mind for business, don’t you.”

“Mostly, it’s common sense. But I suppose I picked up a few things from my father.”

“More than a few things. Say, you know what? We should become partners.”

“Partners?”

“It’s brilliant! We’ll open my hat shop together. I’ll handle the artistic side, and you’ll take charge of the business part.”

“But I don’t know anything about owning a shop.”

“You know more than you think, and you’ve obviously got the smarts and good sense.” She put her hand on my mine and squeezed. “Say you’ll do it, won’t you?”

“My goodness.” I couldn’t resist humoring her. “It does sound like an intriguing idea.”

“Just imagine! We’ll be our own bosses, do what we love most, and make tons of money so we can buy beautiful, expensive clothes and eat in all the swank restaurants.”

“Listen to you, spending our profits before we’ve made any.”

“See?” she said. “You’re my perfect partner.”

I blushed. I liked the idea of being important to her. In fact, the scheme was growing on me by the second. By the time the waiter brought our food, we were discussing how the shop ought to be decorated, and I no longer knew if I was simply humoring her or not.

AFTER CLOSING FOR
the day, I took the two garbage bags full of Mrs. Kelly’s Edwardian clothes up to my apartment. I’d spend an exciting evening sorting through to see what needed washing and mending. Except before doing any of that, I really needed to go over my accounts.

I glared at my laptop. Facing those numbers seemed incredibly depressing. How had my life turned into such a disaster?

Nothing to do but go across the street and have a stiff one. Carol would be on tonight. She’d worked as a bartender at Phebe’s ever since I’d moved to the block. Carol gave me courage, and not just the liquid kind. She was surviving her fifth decade just fine—living with a longtime boyfriend, looking great, still pursuing an art career with zest. Life could continue on just fine after your first half century.

I took my favorite seat at the end of the bar, but where was Carol? Instead of her mop of red curls, a head of straight black hair on a young skinny body took my order. She had the de rigueur
trendy piercings—tongue, nostril—and a butterfly tattoo on her wrist. When she set down my Jack Daniel’s with Diet Coke and a bowl of peanuts, I asked about Carol.

“She had to take off for a couple days. Death in the family.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve known Carol for years. Do you know who it was?”

“Her mom. Sucks, right?”

I nodded.

“Awesome top,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“My name is Hadley. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Poor Carol. Poor me. Poor everybody. Mothers shouldn’t die. It just shouldn’t be allowed. I reminded myself to call my mom about going up to Woodstock on Sunday night. Then I downed a nice big sip of my drink. Goddamm it. Was I ever going to be a mother? Had I already blown my chance? Molly was right to freak me out. Suddenly, her idea of chucking it all and moving in with my mom to raise my baby appealed to me.

I could become a Woodstocky, tie-dyed hippie, natural-foods single mom. All I needed was the sperm. Forget the anonymous donors, though. I’d get Jeff to contribute. Didn’t he owe me after using up my most fertile years? Bonus points: If I were raising his baby, I wouldn’t have to feel obligated to settle my financial debt. After his kids were off to college, he’d come for me in Woodstock, ask for my hand in marriage, and whisk me back to the city.

I finished off my drink. Dizzy and a little buzzed but perfectly in charge of my facilities . . . faculties . . . whatever . . . maybe I should’ve gotten something to eat.

Hadley came by and asked if I wanted another.

“Okay.”

I watched her mix the drink while I chomped on some peanuts. My new plan had me all excited. Only fear could stop me now. I should text him immediately, before changing my mind. As
Hadley set down my drink, I took out my cell phone and began typing.

Hi there.
Nice casual opening.
I’ve been thinking. I’m not getting any younger.
Delete.
I’ve been thinking. I wasted my thirties on u. So u really do owe me.
Delete.
So I had this wild and crazy idea.
No.
Hi, how are ya? We have something very special. And circumstances have kept us from being able to be together. But I love you, and I want to have your child.
Oh my god, did I really just type that? Delete, delete, delete. It was absurd to be texting something important like this. At the very least, I had to be businesslike. It was business, after all. Didn’t Molly say so? And no one gives away the important information until they have to.
I have an idea and need to discuss it with u.

I stared at the screen. Sipped my drink. Went back and changed the “u” to “you.” That was it. Sure, I could wait to send it in the morning, when I might be thinking more clearly, but then I might chicken out. Chicken out on my eggs, ha ha. Except maybe I didn’t want to think clearly. I moved my finger to the send button.

No! Don’t do it! Don’t be a fool!

I moved my thumb to delete.

Don’t be a coward! Move things forward! You aren’t getting any younger!

Was this my mood swinging here? Was I experiencing the apprehension, anxiety, doom, and mental confusion of a perimenopausal thirty-nine-year-old? Screw that. I pressed send.

Damn. Why did I do that? Now it was gone . . . into the ether, cyberspace, wherever it went, impossible to retrieve. I texted him again.

PLS IGNOREPREVIOUS TXT. THX

Before I could convince myself that text was equally pitiful, I pressed send.

—

Back in my apartment, I put a package of frozen mac and cheese in the microwave and sat down in front of my laptop with the honorable intention of opening Quickbooks. The whiskey was in my system, though, and my level of concentration, not to mention motivation, was not conducive to getting anything done. I checked my e-mail.

My friend Karin had agreed to sushi in Tribeca. She added that we should seriously consider Home Cooking next time because
The New York Times
said they had the best pancakes in the world. After e-mailing back that I looked forward to my tuna roll, I clicked on the Home Cooking website. The decor was retro midcentury modern, so “in” these days. I was pretty sure Olive wrote about going to a Child’s restaurant that used to be on the same corner—maybe in the very same building. To think I could’ve gone there with Rob Kelly instead of drunk-texting Jeff for his sperm.

I checked the time. Ten o’clock. I was too weary to be productive, but if I drank coffee, I’d be up all night.

The microwave bell rang. I got out the tray of mac and cheese, pulled off the plastic, and sat down for my scrumptious meal. Two bites later, I pushed it away with disgust. I needed
real
comfort food, and this wasn’t making the cut. Why sit around getting depressed when I could go and enjoy the best pancakes in New York? I grabbed a black sweater and went out into the night.