Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (11 page)

“Sardine sandwich and a lemonade, please.”

I watched her return to the kitchen. While waiting for my food, I listened in on two women sitting behind me.

“I don’t give a rap what Roosevelt says about race suicide. I’m only having two children—that’s my limit.”

“You ask me,” her companion replied with a laugh, “one is more than enough.”

“You’ll change your mind when you meet the right man.”

“Perhaps, as long as I have a chance to enjoy being married first.”

“Same here. I’m putting it off as long as I can.”

How would she do that? Keep her husband from having relations with her? Or did she know some other way? If so, what was it? Alas, they stood up to go before I could hear any more. As they passed my table, I noticed both women wore tweed suits.

The waitress brought my sandwich. It tasted delicious, and
I took tiny bites to make it last. My lack of sexual knowledge made me feel at such a disadvantage. The world seemed divided between those who knew and those who didn’t. Aunt Ida undoubtedly belonged to the group who didn’t, and she’d never been disposed to broach the subject. I’d warrant she’d never been kissed. If so, that meant we shared this condition; now
that
was a wretched thought. The most forthcoming she’d ever been was a warning about the honeymoon night. I could hear her voice in my head: “The first time is painful, and there will be blood.”

My girlfriends had only giggled over details they’d picked up in romance novels. Those now married were too discreet or embarrassed, or perhaps they lacked the intimacy with me to divulge any details.

Presumably, Daisy had been as ignorant on the subject as I. In any case, since we’d amused ourselves over a mutual disdain for men as inferior beings, expressing any interest or curiosity would’ve betrayed our bond.

As for Father, I’d sooner take a job in a bordello than ask him for the facts.

The Cold Spring library carried no books on the subject—a thorough search of the shelves had confirmed that. But I knew such books existed. For years I’d noticed certain titles in the medical section of the Montgomery Ward catalog. One was titled
Confidential Talks with Young Women.
How I would’ve loved someone to talk with confidentially! I never dared order it. If Father or Aunt Ida happened to open the package first, I would’ve died.

“Anything else you need, dearie? Piece of pie?”

Yes,
I wanted to tell her,
I’d like to have a confidential talk.
“No, thank you,” I said, “that will be all.”

After paying my check, I went directly to look at the suits. A salesgirl tried to help me find a skirt that was long enough to reach my ankles, paired with a jacket that wasn’t too loose. It took some
patience, but I finally found a smart green-and-tan-checked plaid that fit.

“It was made for you,” the salesgirl said.

Father would not be pleased to find out I’d bought a suit instead of a pretty gown. But I would be forgiven—after suffering through his teasing that I looked like a suffragette. “I’ll take it,” I said.

I YELLED TO
the cabdriver through the plastic partition, “Can you slow down?” Not because he was driving recklessly—which he was—but to avoid arriving early. I didn’t want to sit alone waiting for Jeff.

The driver acquiesced. I still felt nervous. I should’ve waited ten more minutes before leaving the apartment but had been too revved up to start the evening. My face-to-face encounters with Jeff, even casual ones that didn’t fall on my birthday, had a tendency to assume overblown importance. The fact that I’d taken extra care to look great only made it worse. Seeing him always involved planning when and where, secrecy, an underlayer of guilt—impossible to get together with any spontaneity. Even though I’d known Jeff half my life, I could still feel shy with him, like a fan meeting a celebrity for the first time.

At five minutes past eight, the driver turned onto Twenty-fourth Street and pulled up to the restaurant entrance just off the
park. Too bad it wasn’t five minutes later, but with any luck, he’d be there.

The maître d’ delivered the unfortunate news that I was the first of my party to arrive. Would I like to be seated? I followed him through the large deco dining room. The tiles on the floor were laid in a gold zigzag. He led me to a table underneath huge windows facing Madison Avenue and the park. Olive must’ve walked down that sidewalk all the time. Too bad I hadn’t thought of a stroll around the neighborhood before coming in. I got only a glimpse of the park foliage before the maître d’ pulled out the table so I could slide onto the leather bench facing in. He left me there with two menus and a severe case of self-consciousness.

Placing my cell phone on the white tablecloth, I checked out the other diners. People wore business suits, evening wear, jeans, T-shirts. It was impossible to guess anyone’s wealth by what they wore these days. My necklace would throw anyone off.

At a quarter past eight, a black-vested waiter asked if I’d like to order a drink. “I’ll wait, thanks.” I opened the menu. A three-course prix fixe dinner cost a hundred and fifteen dollars. My mouth watered as I read the selections: gnocchi with goat cheese ricotta, artichoke, olives, and bacon; poached Nova Scotia lobster that cost twenty dollars extra; bouillabaisse with bass, octopus, prawns, and chorizo. Where was he?
Relax.
Call him? No, he’d think I was waiting nervously. I stared at the menu if only to appear occupied. Twenty past eight. He could’ve called to warn me he’d be late. I shouldn’t have worn the necklace—the last thing I wanted now was to draw attention to myself. My phone rang. Jeff.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You’re late.”

“I had an emergency.”

“What happened?”

“My wife,” he said. “Denise.” He rarely mentioned her, but when he did, he added her name as a qualifier, as if I didn’t know.
“She was slicing an onion and cut a tendon. I had to rush her to the hospital. Would’ve phoned but couldn’t get a moment alone. You’re at the restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“I can’t get away. She’s in the operating room.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“Stop saying you’re sorry.”

“Sorry.”

I frowned at the phone in silence.

“That was a joke,” he said.

“I know.”

“Sort of,” he said.

“I know.” Tears stung my eyes. I attempted a cheery tone. “I might as well”—did he notice my voice wavering?—“go home.” And spend my birthday alone in my room, feeling like a stupid idiot.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll call you later tonight.”

I said nothing, afraid a sob would come out instead of a sentence.

“Amanda? You okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m hanging up now.”

“I love you,” he said. “You know that, right?”

I sighed loudly enough for him to hear; a sigh was safer than a word.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

I ended the call and gathered strength for my next challenge: getting out of the restaurant with my dignity intact. Taking a deep
breath, I pushed the table away and followed the zigzag back out through the dining room, muttered an apology to the maitre d’, and pushed open the door to the street. I thought of taking that walk around the neighborhood, but no, too dressed up, too hard to blend in. I needed to be alone so I could wallow in my self-pity in private. A cab turned the corner. I jumped in, slammed the door, and sank down in my seat as if paparazzi wanted a picture.

Leaving Madison Square behind, I cradled my cell phone in my palm and considered options. Call Molly? She was my only friend who still had the patience to hear about Jeff, and she was probably waiting to hear the details on Dr. Markoff. But it would be so humiliating to confess Jeff’s latest snub, and, at this point, wasn’t I getting what I deserved?

I could call some other friend and pretend to be happy.
Hey, it’s my birthday, and I somehow forgot to make plans, wanna do something?
Maybe I’d buy a bottle of wine at Astor Wines and get drunk. Swing by Pinisi Bakery and gorge on red velvet cupcakes. Or put an end to the day before it got any worse. Go straight home and hit the sack. Except I felt wide awake. Too bad I took that nap. If Dr. Markoff had doled out a prescription for sleeping pills, I’d be all set; instead, I had a ridiculous hypnosis tape. Like that was gonna do anything.

Another option? Call Jeff and tell him it was over.

God, I was such a fool. My tears finally spilled. I opened the window and let the air hit my face and the street noise cover my sobs. Home sounded lonely and depressing, but where else could I go?

I took a few calming breaths so I could speak to the driver in a steady voice. “Excuse me?” I sat forward. “Can you let me out at Astor Place instead?”

He nodded and I sat back. Whether I called Jeff to end it or chickened out, a good bottle of zinfandel would only help.

EVERYTHING WAS GOING
swimmingly, though it did feel odd to eat breakfast in the quiet apartment without Father sitting across from me, and the morning paper was filled with bad news. It didn’t help that my monthly had come and cramps seemed to be pummeling me from inside.

I moaned softly and rocked back and forth while reading about the copper scandal. Father’s prediction that no serious repercussions would result had proved wrong. The Knickerbocker Trust Company was in trouble, and some other banks, rousing fears they would fail. Thank goodness Father didn’t do business with any of them. But the stock market had sunk to new lows, and J. P. Morgan had been summoned from a vacation in Europe to solve the crisis. Everyone seemed to think he would sort it all out.

I sent the breakfast dishes down in the dumbwaiter and decided to take a bath. Perhaps soaking in the tub would ease my pains. While removing my belt and unpinning the sanitary pad,
I tried not to breathe in the sour odor of my blood. Then I made good use of that depressing newspaper by wrapping the soiled pad inside. Hoping not to be seen, I scurried down the hallway and tossed it in the chute. An ingenious invention, that garbage chute—something even Aunt Ida might appreciate. She used to burn our sanitary pads in the fireplace so they wouldn’t stink up the house.

While undressing for the bath, I caught a look at myself in the mirror and, as usual, looked away. I couldn’t fathom overcoming my modesty to do whatever it was husbands and wives did alone together in bed. What a relief it was to stretch out in the tub and let the warm water envelop my skin. Perhaps proper women kept their nightgowns on during the sex act.

If only I knew exactly what the sex act was.

All I did know was the man’s private part went inside the woman’s opening to insert the seed. I’d learned that ghastly piece of information from one of Father’s countergirls when I was a young girl. Her name was Tessie, and sometimes, if it was slow in the store, I’d get her talking about all sorts of things. Tessie was not the prettiest girl—stout, with reddish hair and freckles. But she did have a lovely deep voice, and I enjoyed listening to her talk about growing up on a prairie in Montana. She considered no subject out of bounds. Once she even told me about helping her mother give birth.

“You see, I had to. Papa was away, and there was a beastly snowstorm.”

“Wasn’t it scary?”

“Mama knew the routine—she already had three of us.”

“Did you actually see it come out of her?”

“Sure, I caught him with my own hands, slippery little devil. Almost dropped him on the floor.”

I didn’t understand why she’d need to catch it. “Don’t mothers give birth lying down?”

Tessie shrugged. “If they do, no one ever told Mama; she made it up as she went along. Stand, sit, squat . . . the only thing she didn’t do was stay still.”

“Wasn’t it dreadful seeing her in all that pain?”

“By the fourth one, she said the opening was all stretched out like a rubber band.” Tessie laughed and then leaned toward me, lowering her voice. “She told me it was like having a crap.”

I flushed at the vulgar word. “I don’t believe you.”