Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (41 page)

“I was so ashamed. Thought I’d die if you knew.”

“Of course. I understand.” How easily I could’ve been in her position.

We were silent a few moments as we sipped our tea. Then I made myself bring him up. “Does Joe know?”

“God forbid. He’d squeal to my parents in a second. I’d have hell to pay for eternity. I’m just thankful they’re on the other side of the country right now.”

“You can’t keep it a secret forever.”

“Yes, I could. Or maybe I’ll give it up.”

At first I wasn’t sure what she meant by that. “Could you bear to?”

“I might not have a choice. I’ve got a little money saved, as you know, but that’ll run out soon enough.”

“Angelina. You must let me help you.”

“You aren’t exactly rolling in dough.”

“I did just get a raise,” I said, taking care not to sound boastful. “Miss Cohen promoted me to assistant buyer.”

“Why, that’s grand,” she said. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m sure you’ll need every penny.”

“I’m not only talking about money. Who will help you when the baby comes?”

“I have a doctor.”

“You need someone to be with you during confinement, and then at least the first few weeks.” I didn’t dare say it, but what if something should go wrong?

“I’ll manage. My friends will help.”

“Might I count as a friend?”

“Of course.”

I had an idea. “Listen. I’m going to look at an apartment to rent on the upper West Side. Eighty-sixth Street and Broadway. It’s a
brand-new building—the roaches haven’t even moved in yet. You ought to come live with me there.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“It’s got a separate bedroom. And a private bathroom. With a tub!” If that didn’t tempt her, nothing would.

“They’ll never take two women. Especially one that’s almost eight months pregnant.”

“We’ll tell them we’re sisters. Your husband works overseas.”

“They’d never take us for sisters.”

“Sisters-in-law, then. Your husband is my brother.”

She laughed. “You have learned to manage.”

“Angelina. You went out of your way to be kind when I felt alone in the world. Let me return the favor.”

“Thanks, but I’m not budging from this place. For one thing, the doctor delivering the baby lives down on Cherry Street. I don’t want to be any farther away than this. Also, I don’t pay any rent.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Vogel owns the building.”

“Yes, of course.” Now I remembered her telling me how her “gent” helped get Joe the apartment next door. “And he’s letting you stay?”

“Maybe he’s too guilty to put me on the street. Or he just hasn’t gotten around to it.”

“But he could any time. When he gets back from Paris.”

“Maybe. Who knows? I never had a lease. The way I see it, he owes me, and this place doesn’t begin to pay his debt.”

“All right, then I’ll just have to move in with you.”

“Here? You’ve gone crazy.”

“Only until the baby is born and you’re back on your feet. I won’t let you be alone at a time like this. After I’ve seen you through, then I’ll move uptown.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine. My mama gave birth to all six of us with no trouble.”

“She had a husband, didn’t she?”

“You think he was any help?”

“Angelina. If you can swallow your pride and live here on Mr. Vogel’s dime, then you can swallow a bit more pride and let me look after you.”

She drew her eyebrows together. Me and my big mouth. I’d managed to offend her again. Angelina picked up the hat I’d returned and held it out. “You might as well take this back,” she said. “Because if you’re hell-bent on moving in, I’ll never be able to repay you for your kindness.”

“That sounds fair to me.” I took the hat.

July 13, 1908

My suspicions were right. Angelina is pregnant. Thank goodness I went to see her. Not only are we friends again, I’ve decided to move in with her—just until after the baby is born. That’s not my real sacrifice, though. Now, instead of going on vacation to the seashore in New Jersey, I’ll be up to my elbows in a bucket of soapy water, helping to clean her East Side tenement.

ANGELINA WAS THE
pregnant one, not Olive? Jesus. Only a few more entries were left, but it was a quarter past eleven already, so I made myself put away the journal. I didn’t want to be late meeting Rob; as it was, I’d need to hustle the five or six blocks to Mrs. Kelly’s.

In a way, I was glad to have an excuse to stop reading. I needed a chance to process the news. This meant Angelina was Jane Kelly’s mother. I was pretty sure the math worked out, even though the birth would happen a few months later than I’d figured for Olive. But then why did Jane Kelly have Olive’s trunk?

It was getting hot out. My black capris were too heavy, and my top was soggy from sweat. I stopped to buy a bottle of water. Too bad I didn’t have time to swing by the apartment and change.

Reaching the Stewart House, I entered the air-conditioned, gleaming lobby with relief. The doorman from my first visit called up to the apartment and told me I could take a seat. Perching on a white leather sofa, I realized it was highly unlikely that I’d get to the
store by one o’clock. Luckily, it was Saturday and my assistant would be coming in. So I texted Bettina to let her know I was running late and she’d have to open without me. She texted back right away that it wouldn’t be a problem. Good, one less thing to worry about.

I leaned back against the sofa and thought about how this building occupied the same footprint as the old Wanamaker’s department store, where Olive bought the book by the misinformed woman doctor. The main floor would’ve existed all around me.

The elevator door opened, and Rob stepped off, holding a box of jumbo-sized Hefty bags. Today he wore a pair of jeans and wore them well. Angelina’s great-grandson, not Joe’s.

“I knew I’d tempt you back,” he said as we went to the doorman for a key to the storage room.

“I have help in the store on Saturdays, so I don’t need to be in till later.”

“That’s lucky. For me, at least.”

The elevator took us down one flight to a dingy gray hallway. A steep metal staircase led to an even lower level where we passed a humongous boiler. Continuing along one more hallway, we reached a door marked
STORAGE ROOM
. Rob had to jiggle the key, but finally, it unlocked. After opening the door, he hooked the knob with a loop of rope nailed to the wall so it wouldn’t slam shut. “Only the most sophisticated safety precautions down here,” he said.

“I’m impressed.”

He flicked on the lights, illuminating a dungeonlike windowless room filled with floor-to-ceiling cages separated by chain-link fencing. I followed him down a narrow passageway past one padlocked cage after another stocked with valuable belongings: hot-air popcorn poppers, disassembled exercise equipment, rusted file cabinets. Things people couldn’t bring themselves to throw away but would never want; headaches destined to be dealt with by surviving members of the family.

We made a right turn and he stopped, checked a crumpled piece of paper with numbers on it, and announced we’d reached our destination. “My sister warned me about the mess,” he said with a frown. Indeed, everything inside the cage appeared to be randomly crammed inside and stacked into jumbled piles.

“Over the years,” he said, dialing the padlock combination, “Grandma’s had her bring stuff down here.” He pulled on the lock, but it didn’t open. He tried the combination again. “This was not the way my sister wanted to spend her free time, which, as she’s fond of reminding me, she doesn’t have.” He got the combination right and swung open the door.

Rob then proceeded to stand there, frozen with befuddlement over the task at hand. As one who lives for the thrill of scouring giant country flea markets and wholesale used-clothing warehouses, I stepped forward and took charge. “First we need to separate out the garbage from what might have value.” I pulled a yogurt maker, a typewriter from the fifties, and three old wood tennis rackets into the aisle. Rob joined in, and we gradually worked our way through. He tried to make a case for taking a kitschy lampshade with reindeers on it back to Santa Monica. I talked him into keeping an old dial phone from the forties. Everything appeared to belong to his parents or Jane and her husband, a businessman who died before Rob was born. “Doesn’t look like there’s any clothing here,” he said. “I completely understand if you want to go.”

“Are you kidding? I love this. You never know what’ll turn up next. Which reminds me—in the journal, I just read about an unexpected pregnancy that leads me to believe a woman named Angelina was Jane Kelly’s mother, not Olive Westcott.”

“Really? I don’t recognize that name, either.”

“I was hoping I’d be able to give you the journal today,” I said, which wasn’t quite true, “but I’m not done reading it yet.”

“No hurry. I’ll pick it up when I’m back in town.”

“Great, thanks.” I opened a box filled with one of the most
predictable stashes:
Life
magazines from the fifties and sixties. Was there a flea market in North America without a vendor trying to get rid of a stack? Another box held
Playbills
for Broadway shows from the fifties and sixties. Rob thought they were worthless, but I knew collectors who would buy them, so he set those aside.

We kept on weeding until the aisle got so cluttered with garbage bags that there was no room to navigate. Rob took as many bags as he could carry and staggered to the elevator. While he was gone, I battled my conscience. It was already a quarter past one, and I’d have to stop at home to change and shower before going to the store. I could do the responsible thing and leave right away, but then I’d have to say good-bye to Rob. And what if there was something buried here that had been Olive’s that I wouldn’t want to miss?

I continued to forage. Rob took up a couple more loads. Finally, the only stuff left in the cage was a cardboard box and two big rolled-up rugs leaning against the side.

“I’m sorry,” Rob said. “This is looking like a bust for you.”

“Believe it or not, I like doing this. Anyway, I never give up hope until every nook and cranny has been explored.”

“I think we’re down to about one nook and two crannies.”

While Rob dragged out one of the rugs, I opened the last box. Inside, rusty old pots and pans mingled with Tupperware, an electric can opener, and a cheese grater. Darn. But when I looked up, I yelped with surprise. “Look at who was hiding behind the rugs!”

On the floor, partially obscured by the other rug, sat a big round black-and-white-striped hatbox. Maybe one of Angelina’s creations was inside. I crouched down next to it and pulled off the lid.

No hat.

The stuff on top should’ve gone straight to a garbage pail. Take-out menus, used message pads, and envelopes of junk mail,
like coupons for limo services and carpet cleaners. Rob’s sister must’ve been particularly pressed for time that day. Underneath was a legal-size manila envelope. I opened it and found a treasure trove of ephemera: a booklet advertising French lessons in the Yersin Phono-Rhythmic Method; a receipt from Louis Goldzeiger & Son, Interior Decorators, dated 1914; a Hudson River steamboat timetable from 1919. Had they belonged to Olive? Angelina? “Oh, jackpot, here you go.” I handed Rob a baseball program from 1912. Maybe a husband had been the pack rat.

“Whoa. New York Giants versus. Boston Red Sox. World Series. This is worth, what do you think, a hundred bucks?”

“More than that. A lot more.”

As he flipped through the program, I found something else in the envelope: a yellowed front page of
The New York Times
dated March 26, 1911. It had a horrific headline.
141 MEN AND GIRLS DIE IN WAIST FIRE: HIGH UP IN WASHINGTON SQUARE BUILDING; STREET STREWN WITH BODIES; PILES OF DEAD INSIDE
. I stood up to get better light and read it more closely. Sad stories about the Triangle Shirtwaist fire and eyewitness accounts filled the page. At the bottom was a list of the dead. Someone had drawn a circle around one of them: Sadie Bernstein. It shocked me to see her name; she was real, not just some character imagined in my head. I stared at the photograph of the building with flames shooting out the windows of the top floors. What a horrible way to die. Poor Sadie.

“Anything interesting?” Rob asked, setting aside the baseball program.

“Interesting,” I said, “but sad.” I held up the clipping. “Triangle Fire. Mrs. Kelly’s mother must’ve saved this.”

“I’ve heard of that—it was terrible.”

“Maybe your grandmother would like to look through this hatbox.” There was still a lot piled inside.

“Nah, she’s been very clear. Toss everything unless it might be worth something, and then sell it.”

“Do you want to look through? There could be something else valuable in there.”

“Like an envelope holding a million dollars in cash? I don’t have the time. Why don’t you take it? Would you mind?”

“I’d be happy to. And I promise to let you know if I find that million.”

“I know you’re good for it,” he said with a grin.