Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (7 page)

Lola wasn’t done. “Inside the locket is a photograph.”

“Is this true?” the father asked.

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Someone who looks very much like you,” she said.

My heart was beating fast, but I refused to be taken in or give anything away.

“Your mother?” she asked.

Still I said nothing, though my cheeks burned.

“Her spirit is here with us,” Lola continued. “She wants you to know . . . you must not feel guilty. She forgives you.”

I couldn’t resist asking. “For what?”

“She says . . . she says she loves you more than life itself.”

I fought to swallow, despite a huge lump that had formed in my throat. Was she saying I shouldn’t feel guilty for my mother’s death? No one would blame an innocent baby, but it couldn’t be denied that I’d been instrumental to ending her life. I couldn’t possibly pose the question aloud—couldn’t believe she’d fooled me into caring.

Lola Cotton moved on to her next victim. After a few moments, I opened the locket and looked at the photograph of my mother. Her straight hair was pulled up in a tight bun. Short sausage bangs fringed her forehead. Dark eyes stared straight ahead. I always thought she looked terribly sad, as if she’d known her life would be cut short. My aunt said we had the same chestnut hair, fair skin, and deep brown eyes. But I knew she was prettier, petite and delicate, whereas I had my father’s tall frame and long limbs.

The rain had stopped. As I walked down the block, everything seemed somehow different, as though all the stores had changed their window displays during the performance. At the corner, I checked the street sign and realized I’d been going in the wrong direction. I laughed at myself. That performance had made me daft. Walking back the other way, I recognized people from the audience. Some of them stared curiously at me. At least Lola took my mind off that ghastly job interview. If only she could also find
me employment as a buyer. And, while she was at it, bring my mother back to life.

October 2, 1907

One advantage to searching for a job in secrecy is that I don’t have to tell Father about that horrid interview. But can I hope to find one without asking him to write me a reference?

After the waiter set down our oyster soup, I asked Father the question I posed every night at dinner. “And how was business today?”

“Not as good as I’d like.”

The decor in the Mansfield dining room was nothing exciting: white tablecloths, green drapes, and paintings of various species of birds. But the prices were easy to swallow, and nothing could beat the convenience. “When the train station opens, I wager sales will boom.”

I’d seen the construction site of the Pennsylvania Station—eight square blocks that used to be crowded with tenements, now a colossal dirt pit.

“If it ever opens,” he said. “And how was your day?”

Between sips of salty broth, I told him all about Lola Cotton. “I must say, she spooked me a bit. How did she even know I was wearing the locket?”

“Didn’t you say that boy spoke to you in the lobby? He probably saw it.”

“Of course,” I said with relief. “He must’ve told her.” Why hadn’t I thought of that? Because I wanted to believe, like the rest of the audience? “Still, the way she said Mother loved me more than life itself. Those exact words. ‘More than life.’ As if she knew what happened.”

“You’re giving her too much credit. Imposing your meaning on her words.”

“I suppose. Every daughter feels guilty about something when it comes to her mother.”

“And what mother doesn’t love her daughter unconditionally?”

I gave my father a satisfied smile. But while sipping the last few spoonfuls of soup, I couldn’t help thinking that my mother never had a chance to love me unconditionally. After all, she gave birth to me on the dining room table; soon after that, she was dead. I’d never asked for details—had always been afraid to know. Now that marriage and childbearing hovered in the air, I felt more curiosity than fear. I really ought to know. And it wouldn’t require a mentalist to tell me. The man who knew sat right across the table. I was on the verge of posing my question when he announced they’d be using a new type of straw for the soda water fountain.

“The paper is saturated with paraffin wax,” he said. “One straw will last through an entire drink.”

“Sounds brilliant.”

The busboy swept away our bowls as the waiter arrived with our entrées. My mouth watered as I inhaled the steaming chicken croquettes: deep-fried, cork-shaped mounds of chicken, mushroom, and cream. While he ate his steak with gusto, Father went on to complain about the aggravations of installing a soda water fountain in the store. The moment to ask had passed. I’d broach the subject of my birth later.

That evening, after changing into my wrapper, I joined Father in the parlor. He sat on his overstuffed chair, reading the latest issue of
The Horseless Age
. I curled up on the sofa with the evening paper and noticed a headline about Niagara Falls. My parents had gone there on their honeymoon. Evidently, another one of those daredevils had tried to ride over the falls in a barrel. The article described how a crowd looked on as an assistant closed the lid
over his head. Two men hauled the barrel into the river and let him float away. They all watched as it slipped over the edge and plunged to the waters below, disappearing into the thick sprays of mist. Some men ran to fish him out. After opening the lid, they found him inside—dead. The poor man.

“The doorman recommended a garage,” my father said.

I looked up from the paper. “Is it close by?”

“Second Avenue. I think I’ll bring the car down.”

“I’m glad you two will be reunited,” I teased.

“According to this article, John Jacob Astor has twenty-two motorcars in his stable, and owning fewer than four is poverty.”

“Then we must be quite poor indeed.”

Father went to his desk to take a cigar from the box. He’d smoked the same brand since I could remember. On the top of the cigar box was the picture of a beautiful woman with long dark hair whispering into the ear of another beautiful woman with long dark hair. I’d always wondered what she was whispering.

“I have a question, Father.”

“Only one?” he said, lighting the cigar.

“What happened when I was born?”

“That nonsense with the mentalist still troubling you?”

“No, I’m just interested to know.”

The tip of his cigar smoldered with an orange glow. “Don’t you worry about that, my little Olive.” He blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling.

“I want to hear the details. You don’t have to coddle me.”

“There are no details of any importance. She had a long, difficult labor. Lost a lot of blood. The doctor did what he could.”

“You must remember more about what went wrong.”

He sat back down and stared at me with a grave expression. “It wasn’t your fault. Nature is flawed. She made the ultimate sacrifice in what is an all too common tragedy. And it won’t do you any good to dwell on it.” With that, he returned to his magazine.

If there was more to know, he wasn’t going to tell me. I turned back to Niagara Falls. An illustration pictured the barrel falling. I wondered what the man thought about as he rode down. Was it a thrilling journey that ended abruptly before he knew his life was over? Or did he realize his mistake right away and plummet to his death full of regret? Everyone said the power of Niagara Falls was mesmerizing. I couldn’t imagine tempting death like that. Life was precarious enough.

MY CELL PHONE
rang just after I left Dr. Markoff’s office. Caller ID flashed Jeff’s name. “Hi there,” I said.

“How’s the birthday girl?”

“I went to the hypnotist and let him put me in a trance!” A man walking past looked at me and laughed. Did I just yell that? “I don’t think it did anything, though,” I said, lowering my voice.

“Maybe you’re in a trance and you don’t know it.”

“Because I’m walking down the street naked?”

He laughed. “No, that sounds like the same old you.”

“Very funny.” But it was the same old me: answering his call, pretending to be cool with everything.

“So everything is set for tonight,” he said.

Except I could snap out of this. Tell him I was done. What did Dr. Markoff say?
You know the answers.
“Great.”
You just have to allow yourself to hear them.
“I can’t wait.”

“Eight o’clock. I’ll text you the restaurant. Happy birthday.”

We hung up. It was really bright out, so I put on my sunglasses while waiting for his text. Before it came, I got one from Molly.

Happy birthday! How was Dr. M? Can’t wait to hear. xoxo Molly

I considered calling her but decided to wait until I got home. Since she’d paid for the session, I wanted to sound upbeat. I’d pull that off better after having a chance to chill out. Maybe, if the hypnosis actually worked, I’d be able to deliver a glorious success story in the morning.

Jeff’s text came a minute later with the name of the restaurant. Eleven Madison Park—one of the hardest reservations to get in the city. Across from Madison Square Park, it was on the ground floor of a gorgeous art deco skyscraper that connected to the Metropolitan Tower.

Jeff and I shared a love for the city and its history. As an architect, he was compulsive about pointing out landmarks and architectural details, and I’d become somewhat of an expert myself. He was also a major contributor to my collection of books about Manhattan. Some were vintage, some not, but almost all were out of print. I had oral histories, biographies, photographic collections, guides for tourists from various decades, and history books written when Canal Street really was a canal. I could pass hours of slow stretches in the store flipping through them—the more photographs, the better.

Continuing down Washington Place, I approached an important city landmark: the building where the Triangle Shirtwaist fire took place. Since the fire was contained on the top few floors, the building survived. A plaque on the corner reminded me which year it happened: 1911. Olive was probably transfixed by the catastrophe, along with the rest of the city. Sometimes, walking by, I couldn’t help imagining the horrible scene. I’d read about the
bolts of fabric igniting into flames. Girls jumping out the windows. Dead bodies on the sidewalk right there, right under my feet. Historians called it the worst workplace disaster in New York City until the planes hit the World Trade Center.

Now the building was owned by NYU. Students probably didn’t even know what happened up on those top floors almost a hundred years ago. I wondered if they ever felt haunted in their classrooms. Not that I believed in ghosts. I just liked to think about how we occupied the same spaces as people from the past.

My own family history made me feel tangentially connected to that disaster. My grandmother liked telling me about the day her mother arrived in America. As she was leaving Ellis Island, my great-grandmother was approached by a contractor who took her straight to a factory, before she even had a place to live, and put her to work. It happened to be a glove factory on Mercer Street, where she met her future husband, so fate allowed for my eventual existence.

I turned down Broadway to Fourth Street; a red light brought me to a standstill at the thoroughfare of Bowery where Greenwich Village officially morphed into the East Village. It felt particularly hot on that corner under the glaring sun; no cars came, so I crossed. Olive may never have ventured down to my territory. Back then, middle-class women avoided going south of Eighth Street. The Lower East Side stayed pretty seedy all the way into the fifties, when beatniks began to make it cool. In the sixties, people started referring to the area north of Houston Street as the East Village, and real estate agents latched on to the name to associate it with the romantic and quaint Greenwich Village. The Bowery now boasted a glitzy new art museum and luxury condos so expensive that foreigners had to buy them.

I reached my street, one of the nicer tree-lined blocks in the neighborhood. My store, Astor Place Vintage, occupied the ground floor of the building where I lived. Not that it was on Astor
Place—that was a couple of blocks north—but I figured the association with John Jacob Astor, Manhattan’s first multimillionaire, couldn’t hurt.

Lots of small businesses kept my humble street vibrant: a food co-op, a custom-made lingerie shop, hair salons, a cutesy coffeehouse with room for five tables, and a couple of off-off-Broadway theaters. When the used record store occupying the street-front retail space in my building closed down in 2002, I decided to go for it. I’d learned enough, managing the store on Mott Street, to run my own business, so why not be my own boss for a change? Rents in the East Village had plunged after the World Trade Center disaster, which made it possible to negotiate a five-year lease with a reasonable rent. The federal government coughed up a small business loan that helped get me up and running.

After a year in business, I found myself operating at a loss while taking a lower salary than I had while managing the Mott Street store. Then my accountant told me the store was in danger of going under. Neither of my parents had money to spare. Jeff offered to supplement my income with a monthly check that basically covered my overhead. Saving the store was worth compromising my dignity; I took him up on it.