Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (38 page)

He slumped in his chair and looked up at me. “I’m sorry. I’ll say it a million times if it will do any good. I’m sorry!”

It didn’t do any good. Not one bit. I pulled the bracelet off my wrist and set it on the table. “I can’t accept this.”

“Amanda, don’t be ridiculous.”

“I should go.”

“I know you’re in shock. I know this is a lot to absorb. You need to give it some time to sink in.”

“Time isn’t going to help.” I went to the bedroom to find my shoes. He followed me in.

“You feel that way now,” he said, “but at least the truth is out. That means we can talk about it and figure something out together. And we will work it out, I promise.”

I slipped on my flats. “No, we won’t.” Now I knew ultimatums pertaining to me didn’t matter. My needs didn’t factor in here. “There isn’t anything to work out, Jeff.” Though that wasn’t totally true. “Except the money I owe you.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“I’ll pay it back somehow, I promise.”

“The money doesn’t matter,” he said with annoyance. “Forget the money.” He held out the bracelet. “Please take this. It’s your birthday present. I want you to have it.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry.” He looked so sad, like a little boy; it made me want to kiss him and make everything better. Instead, I forced my legs to walk away from him. “I’ve gotta go.” I went back to the living room, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door.

Jeff, still barefoot, followed me down the hallway to the elevator. “I’ll call you later.”

“No. Please?”

“We can’t all of a sudden just stop seeing each other.”

“We aren’t. It’s taken me years to all of a sudden just stop seeing you.”

I got on the elevator without giving him the chance to kiss me. We stood across from each other, two sad people in a situation that couldn’t be fixed. I waited for the door to slide shut between us.

ON MY WAY
home from Joe’s, I stopped in a bakery for some fresh, warm rolls. While walking up the block, I promptly wolfed one down. A newsboy was selling papers on the corner. A headline caught my eye.
THAW LOSES SUIT FOR RELEASE: COURT DECLARES PRISONER INSANE
. I bought a copy to read in my room later.

The more distance I put between me and Joe, the more stupid I felt for my behavior, the more nervous I became over the consequences. What if my memory of the fertile period was wrong? I might’ve switched it around in my mind, just as I did when I was trying to remember what Angelina had told me. Or perhaps
she’d
switched it around. Or perhaps she’d been right and the information in my book was wrong. No, I could trust Dr. Galbraith. But now I couldn’t remember if she’d said the woman was
most
fertile during her monthly or
least
fertile. My god. I might be pregnant this very moment. It would be disastrous. My entire life ruined. How could I be so careless? I hurried the rest of my way home.

As soon as I reached my room, I took
The Four Epochs of Woman’s Life
from the bottom of my trunk and flipped through the pages. He’d pulled out just in time, the sticky residue on my belly proved it, but still . . .

Indeed, as I remembered, Dr. Galbraith said it was a well-established fact: The woman was most likely to conceive on the days immediately before and immediately after menstruation. How reassuring those words were. A well-established fact. I closed the book. My monthly had finished eight days ago. Everything should be fine.

I washed up and ate another roll while reading the newspaper. The judge who’d presided over Thaw’s trial said he felt the verdict was correct. In his opinion, Thaw was paranoid and ought to remain in the asylum as long as he’d be a danger to society.

Angelina once said I didn’t understand Harry Thaw because I’d never felt passion. Perhaps she’d been right. For the first time, I felt sorry for the man. I understood how passion could make you crazy. Joe’s kisses had made me temporarily insane. My body had decided my actions instead of my head. Reason had flown out the window. Part of me wished I could tell Angelina what happened—perhaps she’d change her mind about me. But I could never admit it was her brother who’d seduced me.

—

I took myself out for a proper breakfast at the Child’s on Fourteenth Street. Eating my eggs with hash, I remembered how bereft I felt the last time I’d been here, just after Father died. At least I felt like a part of the city now, no longer on the outside looking in. After finishing my meal, I decided to stroll by the Mansfield. Even though it wasn’t far, my first home in New York seemed like a world away.

The same red-haired doorman who’d summoned Matilda stood in the doorway. He didn’t notice me, or pretended not to, as I
passed by and took a peek inside. The lobby looked the same as before, yet I was a completely different person. Or perhaps I was more myself than I’d ever been.

Turning down Fourth Avenue, I noticed the time on a street clock. Joe’s train wouldn’t be leaving for another hour. Instead of wandering aimlessly, I could be racing to the station to see him. Had I been a fool not to go with him? I smiled at the idea of being with him in San Francisco, living as the wife of a fisherman, giving birth to a brood of Italian babies, and learning how to cook spaghetti from his mother. Grand Central was only twenty blocks north. A fifteen-minute walk could lead to an entirely different future.

It didn’t seem worth the effort. He’d throw me over soon enough, or I’d grow tired of him. His mother would never accept a girl who wasn’t Italian, and his father would run me out of the state.

I entered the park. The steel frame of the Metropolitan Tower had grown taller, reaching almost its full height. The marble facade encased around twenty floors. The sleek skyscraper dwarfed the Madison Square Garden and made it look old-fashioned and quaint. The city was already leaving Stanford White behind.

—

Monday morning I passed by the lace counter. Workmen had dismantled the old counter and were replacing it with a new showcase designed specifically for the Madame du Jardin cosmetics. Mr. McGillicutty showed me how the interior was fitted out with special hidden reflector lights that were designed to draw the eye. “How clever,” I said. “When do you think it will be ready?”

“I expect you’ll be open for business by the end of the week,” he said. “I believe someone is coming to familiarize you with the products on Wednesday. I don’t know if this will be one of the most popular counters on the floor or one of the most criticized.”

“You needn’t worry, Mr. McGillicutty. I’ll manage just fine.”
The past week had thoroughly prepared me to be both popular and criticized.

“Have fun at the Majestic?” Sadie asked when I took my place behind our counter.

“It was fine.”

“Looked like more than that.”

“Not particularly.” Did she know something? It was impossible.

“If you say so,” she said.

So far I hadn’t missed Joe one bit. Granted he’d been gone only one day. And I did find myself remembering how it felt to have those hands touching my skin, our bodies pressed together. At least I finally knew what made everyone else snicker, condemn, rhapsodize . . .

No. I had to forget. I turned to my first customer of the day. “May I help you?”

—

Mrs. Maytell, an attractive woman with a proper British accent, came to show me how to apply Madame du Jardin’s cosmetics. We installed ourselves behind the beautiful new mahogany showcase and placed the entire line of makeup on the glass countertop. The pretty collection of tiny pale pink boxes decorated with yellow irises consisted of three shades each of powder, rouge, lip pencil, and eyebrow pencils. Before using one of the other girls as my guinea pig, she wanted me to have the customer experience. I perched on a tall stool at the end of the counter. She leaned over me, dabbing powder on my forehead and cheeks. I inhaled the scent of her lavender perfume.

“I have absolutely no experience when it comes to cosmetics,” I confessed.

“You’ll catch on soon enough. Once you start using these products, you’ll feel naked without them.” She went on to apply rouge to my cheek. “Using two fingertips, always blend upward to combat the effects of gravity.”

I hoped she’d use it sparingly but didn’t dare speak up. After all, she was the expert. Her gentle touch did feel soothing. The customers would likely enjoy the personal attention. “What are the ingredients?” I asked.

“Madame du Jardin insists on keeping that a highly guarded secret. If anyone wants to know, tell them she rescued the recipes from a locked cabinet that dates from before the French Revolution.”

“She must be an interesting woman. Will I have the chance to meet her?”

“Oh, no. Madame is getting on in years and has become something of a recluse. She used to be a great beauty, but now she can’t bear the idea of anyone seeing how she looks.”

“How sad.”

“Don’t breathe a word,” she said, lowering her voice, “but I heard she once tried to kill herself with arsenic. A wealthy woman like that! There now, we’re all done.” Mrs. Maytell stepped back to assess her work. “Lovely. Let me show you.”

As she reached for a mirror, I held out hope that Mrs. Maytell had managed to add a new facet of beauty to my appearance. When she held up the glass to catch my reflection, all I saw was a woman trying too hard to prove she was a woman.

—

The morning my new counter opened for business, I arrived early to make sure everything was ready to go, especially my face. Trying to achieve the most natural look possible, I applied the products with a light touch. Miss Cohen arrived just as I put away my cosmetics box.

“Everything looks perfect,” she said, “except you. Are you wearing the makeup?”

“Yes. I wanted to keep it subtle.”

“But not invisible. You’ll have to put on more.”

“Yes, Miss Cohen.” I retrieved my supplies. Miss Cohen stood
there while I applied more lip pencil, rouge, and a dusting of powder.

“That’s more like it.”

I nodded and smiled and felt like a tart. Miss Cohen wished me luck as Mr. McGillicutty signaled the doormen to allow the waiting customers in. Moments later, I faced my first customer.

“I’m looking for powder that won’t cake on my face.”

Nature had blessed this young woman with a pink-cheeked, healthy complexion and smooth, unblemished skin. I wondered why she felt the need to cover it.

“Perhaps your skin is dry.” I set a box on the counter. “I suggest applying a layer of Madame du Jardin’s face cream under the powder. It has a lovely scent of geranium.”

“I’ve tried using creams, but they never work.”

“Just use a very small amount. After you’ve blended it completely, add a light dusting of the powder, and use a chamois to smooth it out.” I put a pink chamois tied with a gold ribbon next to the box.

“I don’t know . . . they make my face look too greasy.”

“This one won’t. I have a sample right here.” I opened the jar, and she dipped the tip of her finger in. “The secret is to use a tiny amount. One jar can last an entire year. It works wonders—like food for the skin—and it prevents wrinkles, too.”

“You don’t say.”

“For a limited time, if you buy the cream along with the powder, you’ll receive a twenty-five-cent discount.”

“Well then, I suppose I’d best get them both.”

“Can I interest you in some of her cosmetics? The lip pencils come in three shades; the lightest one would work perfectly with your coloring.”

“No, thank you, I think cosmetics are hideous.”

“I used to think so too, but they’re becoming quite popular.
Perhaps another time. Shall I include the chamois? It’s only fifteen cents.”

“Might as well.”

All day women flocked to my counter. Many stopped short of buying the rouge and lip pencil, unsure if those had reached the showcase with God’s approval, but they spared no expense at the altar for face creams and powders. It seemed Madame du Jardin had answered their prayers for youth and beauty. Too bad she felt too old and ugly to enjoy her success.

June 8, 1908

Eight days have passed since Joe’s send-off. I haven’t seen Angelina all week. She must be involved in preparations for the next fashion show. I suppose I’m feeling lonely. I ought to try harder to be sociable with the other girls at the house. Nowadays my only friend seems to be Sadie, and I don’t like her so very much! I have some mending to do. Perhaps I’ll take it downstairs, where the light is better.

I poked my head in the sitting room. A chorus girl who was out of a job pounded out a show tune on the piano while some other girls sang along, letting her brassy voice drown them out. In the sewing room, two machines droned away, as usual. The parlor was empty. I took a seat on the musty couch next to a kerosene lamp and set Father’s cigar box with my sewing supplies on the side table. I desperately needed to fix a rip in the silk lining of my muff. My journal kept getting caught on the satin and ripping it further. In the past I’d always given my mending to a tailor or Aunt Ida. Sewing was not one of my talents; I’d never met a needle that didn’t draw blood.