Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (14 page)

“I didn’t realize that.”

“In any event,” he added, “you’ll owe for the month of November, seeing as we need fourteen days’ notice to cancel the lease.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Redstone. You’re saying I must pay rent for next month even though you won’t allow me to live there?”

“Those are the conditions of the lease.” He took advantage of my stunned silence to end the call. “Let me say, Miss Westcott, that I’m so sorry for your loss. If there’s any way I can be of help, please do let me know.”

After replacing the receiver on the hook, I couldn’t think of what to do, so I went up to my room, and sat on the edge of my bed. I didn’t belong in this girlish room, decorated with pink-and-white-striped wallpaper, white lace curtains, and a yellow chenille bedspread. I didn’t belong in New York, either.

I didn’t belong anywhere.

“Olive!” Aunt Ida called for me from the parlor. “I need your help!”

I went back downstairs. At least someone needed me for something.

“It’s time to beat the rug,” she said while vigorously sweeping
the old maroon carpet. Her valiant effort only kicked the dust up into new locations.

This was my least favorite chore, but anything was better than sinking into melancholy. We moved the furniture aside and lugged the rug to the clothesline in the backyard. Exposed to the light of day, the maroon wool carpet took on a magenta hue. Aunt Ida smacked it over and over with a bamboo cane. Clouds of dust billowed into the air. I turned toward the bare apple trees and the vegetable patch where my aunt planted beets, leeks, lettuce, tomatoes . . . all dormant now. The long winter lay ahead. Somehow we’d have to get through it.

When Aunt Ida had to stop for a coughing fit, I stepped forward. “My turn.”

She handed me the cane. “I spoke to old Jimmy about your father.”

“Good.” Jimmy, a local stonemason, specialized in carving gravestones.

“He said he’s busy and can’t get to it for another few weeks.”

I waited for the dust to settle. “There’s a trade that will never run out of customers.”

“The old man is worth waiting for. He did a lovely job with your mother’s gravestone.”

Positioning myself in front of the rug, I gripped the bamboo cane with both hands and swung. A cloud of dust exploded into my face. I stepped back to get a breath of clean air. The question came out as if I were making a casual inquiry. “What happened when I was born?”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what happened during the birth that made my mother bleed to death?”

She squinted with uncertainty. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes, I do.” I spoke with confidence and kept my face dispassionate so she wouldn’t spare the details.

“Your mother’s pelvis,” she said, “was too small. You were stuck in the birth canal. Your mother, poor dear, was in labor for over two days.”

“And how did I finally . . . get out?” My voice quivered. I hoped she didn’t notice.

“The doctor tried forceps, but they didn’t work. She was getting weaker and weaker, so finally, he made cuts to widen the opening. Soon after that, she went into shock. Bled to death. He managed to save you. Of course, it wasn’t your fault; he had to do it, or the both of you would’ve died.”

Even as I nodded, I thought it surely was my fault. If she’d never gotten pregnant, or if I’d been smaller . . . “I wonder why our bodies aren’t better designed to give birth.”

“Eve’s curse.”

“You don’t honestly believe that, do you?”

“Women have to suffer for her sins.”

“Doesn’t God want babies to have their mothers?”

“It’s not for you to question the Lord’s ways, young lady.”

Her sharp tone silenced me but not my doubts. How could I
not
question His ways? Did the Lord intend for me to bring about the death of my mother? Was the Lord punishing me for something? I felt an old familiar feeling, an unpleasant one, almost a physical revulsion to myself. As if something must be horribly, intrinsically wrong with me—something that was there before I was even born. My aunt had a way of stirring it up.

Positioning myself in front of the rug, I whacked as hard as I could. Any temptation to move back to Cold Spring must be resisted. I whacked the rug again. I’d go mad. I whacked, and whacked, and whacked. Perhaps this wasn’t the worst chore in the world.

—

“The will was written many years ago,” Mr. Beringer explained while cleaning his spectacles with a handkerchief.

Aunt Ida and I sat side by side across from the lawyer. The will sat on his desk. I didn’t expect a large inheritance; just enough to provide a comfortable and secure future.

“Charles had meant to make some changes,” he said, putting on his spectacles, “but he didn’t get around to it before his untimely death.”

Mr. Beringer read the passage that stated my aunt was the sole beneficiary of the estate. As my legal guardian, she was to care for my financial needs with “generosity and discretion.” Upon her death, the remaining assets would pass to me.

“As it should be,” my aunt said.

I kept my mouth shut. Aunt Ida had never been ill a day in her life and might very well outlive me. I didn’t doubt her love and knew she wanted what was best for her niece, but we were bound to disagree on what that was.

“As you know,” Mr. Beringer said, removing his spectacles, “Charles was sophisticated about the stock market and did a lot of trading over the years. Though he did enjoy taking some risks, he usually made out well. After all, the market was climbing to new highs the past ten years; it was nearly impossible to lose money even if you tried.” At that point he gave us a look of pity that made my stomach turn. “As you can imagine, hardly anyone has been immune from the recent developments in the market. I’m afraid your father was no exception.”

“He told me he was doing well,” I said. “That we needn’t worry.” Or had he said the worst was over? That he hoped the worst was over?

“Perhaps. But as you must be aware, the situation with United Copper has led to the collapse of the Knickerbocker Trust. The repercussions are just now being felt.”

“Yes,” I said quietly. The other day, in the taxi to Grand Central Station, I saw it with my own eyes: a line of people stretching all the way down the block, frantically waiting to withdraw their
money from a bank. At the doors, an angry crowd was pushing and yelling as policemen tried to break up the brawl. I could hear Father saying they shouldn’t panic—it only made everything worse.

Did he panic?

“But Father didn’t have any money with those banks,” I said.

“No, but I’ve been in touch with his broker. Evidently, Charles was holding a great deal of stocks on margin. He thought the market would turn around and didn’t want to sell at the bottom. He refused to get out. So he had to sell bonds to meet the margin calls. But the market sank lower and lower, and he still wouldn’t get out.”

I nodded, but in my mind, my head shook side to side.

“By the day of the accident,” Mr. Beringer continued, “he had nothing left to sell. One can’t help but wonder what was going through his mind while he was on the road . . .” The lawyer slumped for a moment of reflection before delivering the next blow. “I’m sorry to have to tell you he couldn’t cover the margin calls.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” my aunt said in a burst of fury. “Just tell us what the estate is worth!”

“The holdings of the estate,” he said, “have been exhausted.”

I must’ve heard him wrong. That couldn’t be. “Gone . . . completely?”

He drew a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. I thought he might shed a tear, but he used it to clean his spectacles again. “As a matter of fact, the estate currently owes money to the bank . . . and the brokerage house.”

“This is absurd.” Aunt Ida sat erect. “Charles would never let this happen. You’ve made a mistake.”

“I know this is dreadfully upsetting, Miss Westcott. But you have to understand, Wall Street has just suffered its worst losses since 1893.” Replacing his spectacles, Mr. Beringer opened a thick file of documents and rifled through. “Union Pacific,
General Electric, Western Union, Standard Oil . . . down, down, down, and we’re not talking a little. Some of these over a hundred percent. It’s bad all over. I’m hurting, too, everyone is.”

A lump in my chest seemed to smolder and expand. I stared down at my black wool skirt as he continued. “No one could’ve predicted this, but when you buy on margin, you take that risk.”

“What about the house?” Aunt Ida asked.

“That’s the good news. You have the house to sell. That should take care of most of the debt.”

“Sell the house?” my aunt practically screamed. “Where are you suggesting we live?”

“Or,” he said, “it can be used as collateral to borrow. But the banks can’t be generous right now with their rates, and you have no income to repay a loan.”

Father was dead, and we were in debt. Worse than broke. There had to be a way out.

“I don’t see that you have any other options,” Mr. Beringer went on, “apart from selling anything else you own of value, and of course . . .” He paused to examine his nails, which allowed him to avoid looking at us while making another suggestion. “You might want to consider employment of some sort.”

“We’ve heard enough for now.” Aunt Ida stood. “And I have some errands to run.”

“Wait,” I said, unsure what I wanted to say, knowing only that I couldn’t leave his office like this.

Mr. Beringer waited for me to speak. “Do you have a question?”

I gripped the armrests of my chair. “Something must’ve been overlooked.” Father had told me he left money in his leather box, and I knew it couldn’t be much, but there had to be something, somewhere. “What about cash? The bank account? Is there nothing at all?”

“You wouldn’t be able to withdraw money from his New York
accounts. Those are in his name only, and the assets automatically go to the estate. However . . .”

I looked at him with hope. He cleared his throat and turned toward my aunt, who stood behind her chair. “I shouldn’t say this, but you and Charles had a joint account at the bank here in town. You might want to go there directly to withdraw the balance before the assets are frozen.”

Money! My spirits rose. But how much?

“As soon as I file these papers with the state,” he continued, “that money will be held in escrow and used to pay off creditors. I believe you have approximately thirty dollars.”

That was all? Just as quickly, my spirits sank.

“We’ll go there now, thank you,” my aunt said, already on her way to the door.

I made myself stand but kept staring at the will on the desk. Father must’ve known all of this when he began that drive back to New York.

“I’m sorry to have to break such unpleasant news,” Mr. Beringer was saying, “before you’ve had a chance to recover from the shock of this dreadful tragedy.”

“Olive? Are you coming?”

I crossed the room as though approaching my own execution. At the door, Mr. Beringer bowed his head and bid us a solemn farewell. “We shall all miss Charles very much. And of course . . .” He cleared his throat. “Under the circumstances, I’m willing to defer my fees until a more convenient time to settle the bill.”

Aunt Ida and I went straight to the bank to withdraw the balance—thirty-seven dollars and sixty-four cents, to be exact. She gave me five dollar-bill. “You’ll need cash to go down to the city to pack up that apartment.”

“Thank you.” She stacked the rest of the bills into a neat pile, slid them inside an envelope, tucked the envelope inside her purse, and snapped her
purse shut. I couldn’t admit to owing the Mansfield eighty dollars. That envelope held her entire fortune.

November 3, 1907

Since I never knew my mother, I never felt her absence, like I do with Father. My ears keep expecting to hear his voice. My eyes keep expecting him to come into view. How is it possible that a person can simply disappear off the face of the earth? I must get back to Manhattan and see for myself that he isn’t there, either.

The black marble clock on the mantel ticked as we ate dinner, just us women.

“I do have some money in my savings account,” Margaret said, taking a slice of corned beef from the platter. “I wish it were more, but under the circumstances, every bit helps.”

“That’s very kind.” Aunt Ida passed me a bowl of peas. “But you need to live on that, and we can’t accept.”

“We’re all in this together,” Margaret said. “And if you have to sell the house . . .”

“We aren’t selling the house.” Aunt Ida took a piece of meat. “It’s out of the question.”

“We may not have a choice,” I said, handing Margaret the peas and taking the platter of meat from my aunt.

“The girl’s right, Ida. I didn’t want to give up my house.”

“We’ll think of something. To begin with, we’ll start selling things.”

“The furniture?” I never did like the black walnut table with its fussy bow legs or the matching black walnut cabinets and cupboards.

“Better to start small,” my aunt said. “We don’t need the entire
town knowing we’re pinching. There’s some jewelry from my mother. I could take it to a dealer in Poughkeepsie.”

“Selling things can help only in the short term,” I said, cutting a piece of meat. “I, for one, will take Mr. Beringer’s suggestion and find a job.”

“I imagine they’ll take you on at Woolworth’s,” my aunt said.

“For three dollars a week?”

“You used to work there for nothing.”

I clenched my jaw. “That job is a dead end.”

“It might feel degrading at first, but we have to be practical.”

Margaret wisely ate her meal in silence, staying out of the conversation.

“It makes much more sense for me to work in a department store. At least I could work my way up.”

“Luckey, Platt?” she asked, referring to the department store in Poughkeepsie.

“There’s much more opportunity in New York.”

“You can’t live in that vile city by yourself!”

I tried to keep the trembling out of my voice. “Lots of girls go to New York to make a living. I daresay some of them have less brains than I do.”