The Pink Suit: A Novel (10 page)

Mr. Charles kept on drawing; he didn't look up. He'd waited until Maeve had left to tell Kate and Schwinn. Kate knew this would not turn out well. The last time this happened, it was the Paris trip. The final dress, which bore the Chez Ninon tag and no mention of Mr. Charles, was a navy-blue silk shantung suit with a matching overcoat. Its twin now hung in the sample room. Based on the clean lines of Givenchy, with a slightly flared skirt, the ensemble was a huge success. The First Lady adored it. As soon as she returned from Paris, she wrote Mrs. Molly Tackaberry McAdoo about how enchanted she was. “Practically a uniform—there is never a day, or an occasion, where I can resist wearing it.”

Stories about the  navy-blue silk suit appeared in all the newspapers, not only in New York and Washington, but all over the country, in places where Kate didn't think people even cared about fashion, like farm country and the high desert and the rugged coast. Mr. Charles's drawing was often on the front page, usually in the lower left column. But his name was never mentioned. The credit line was
Supplied by Chez Ninon.
He was upset for weeks. And now he would be upset again.

“What color should we make this one?” he asked, but he didn't sound entirely pleased.

Schwinn patted him on the back. “It can wait until tomorrow, Noel.” He never called Mr. Charles by his first name. No one did.

“I just want to get the ideas down,” he said. “She needs to see the sketches in a week.”

“How about white on white?” Kate said. “Like Norman Hartnell's depiction of India on the Queen's coronation gown. He did a single lotus flower inlaid with mother-of-pearl, seed pearls, and rhinestones. It looked like diamonds and pearls in an ocean of diamonds.”

Mr. Charles frowned. “But how would it photograph? White on white could get lost or flare in the light of flashbulbs.”

“Can't some things just be beautiful?”

“Of course not. It's just as I said to Maeve. The First Lady is our perfection.”

“I understand that, but everybody likes something beautiful—”

“This is not everybody,” Schwinn said. “This is the Wife.” He leaned over the table and added a few faint freckles to the forehead of Mr. Charles's drawing. “Marta at Bergdorf once showed me one of her orders. It was a series of drawings with swatches for an entire wardrobe of hats—all of them were carefully designed to photograph perfectly. She even indicated camera angles. For a woman like that, beautiful is never enough.”

Schwinn took a chocolate-covered cherry from the box, popped it in his mouth, and smiled at Mr. Charles with that country-boy grin of his. “Let's do this tomorrow.”

“She is our perfection, though. Isn't she?” Mr. Charles said.

“She's our dream.”

Kate wasn't sure if Schwinn had answered the question, but he picked up his rusting bike to carry it down the stairs. “Night, all,” he said. The door slammed behind him.

Mr. Charles kept on sketching. Kate poured the remaining tea into his cup. She wanted to say something to console him, but she had no idea what. The fluorescent lights hummed above them. The radiator knocked and hissed. Her hands still held the scent of the toile—of Chanel No. 5—but it was quickly fading.

“I should go, too. I promised that I'd be on time tonight. My sister's been after me. I'm already late, of course.”

Mr. Charles looked up from his drawing. “Have you thought about the shop?”

“Of course.”

“Of course, yes?”

“It's a mad scheme.”

“No. It's a business proposition. I'm offering you a share of the profits. I'll also teach you how to design couture.”

Her sketches of the blouses lay on the table next to him. “Don't I design now?”

“Not exactly. You have very nice ideas. I perfect them. What I do requires skill.”

Kate wasn't going to let that annoy her. “I think we're all tired,” she said.

He rubbed his eyes. “I can't stay at Chez much longer, Kitty. You don't know what it's like to design things and not get the credit.”

I most certainly do,
she thought, but said nothing, put on her coat.

“Don't forget your box,” he said. “It isn't every day that a back-room girl gets a special delivery from The Carlyle hotel.”

Kate had forgotten it completely.

K
ate made it all the way to Central Park before she opened the box from The Carlyle. Inside were her hat and gloves—of course—and an envelope. The amount on the bill was shocking. Even though it was late, and a Saturday night, Kate walked all the way to the hotel. She thought that maybe if she explained that she'd made a mistake, things could be worked out. Maybe she could do some sewing or darning in exchange for the bill.

When Kate turned onto Madison Avenue, she turned back around again. She couldn't do it. She could see the elegant hotel on the corner of East Seventy-Sixth, but it was so very East Side to her. Limos were pulling up; women in their furs were sliding into them. Kate didn't want to face the humorless doorman again. She didn't want to give him the distinct pleasure of showing her where the service entrance was.
Another time,
she thought. Maggie would be furious enough as it was.

Her sister's apartment was dark when Kate arrived. Even though it was the weekend, Big Mike was on the night shift. The dining room table had been cleared, and plates were piled in the sink. The place smelled of meatloaf and tea. Maggie made a particularly wretched meatloaf. She always used too much oatmeal, so Kate was somewhat glad she'd missed it, although she hadn't missed it by much. The teapot was still warm.

There was a light on in the back, in Maggie's room. Kate took off her shoes so as not to make the carpet dirty—beige was such an impractical color for a rug—and walked carefully past the plaid colonial furniture that Maggie Quinn had once loved so much and now desperately hated. The door to Little Mike's room was ajar. Kate looked in to find him sleeping. The boy still was Gerber Baby sweet; he hadn't quite outgrown that yet. Kate dreaded the day when that would happen, when his arms and legs would go long and his shoulders would broaden and he would understand what the word
secret
really meant and collect them as he now collected rocks, thinking them to be precious and worth keeping.

A kiss would wake him, even a careful kiss, so Kate let him be. She was taking him into the city in a couple of days. She would hold his sticky hand then, and be happy that it still fit in her palm.

At the end of the hall, Maggie was sitting in her bedroom, cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by long cardboard boxes from Chez Ninon.
Just a girl and her little coffins,
Kate thought. That was what the boxes were called. Couture clothes are so delicate that hanging pulls them out of shape, dust destroys—but, wrapped in tissue, coffins will always keep them safe.

“I'm sorry,” Kate said.

Her sister was clearly upset. Maggie ignored Kate and continued arranging her coffins in chronological order: Campaign Trail, Inauguration, Day Wear, Dinners, Receptions, Private Parties, Travel, and Horseback Riding. Kate was surprised by how many there were. She'd clearly lost count.

“I really am sorry I missed supper.”

Maggie looked like a little girl building a fort. Her blue housecoat was thin, starched and pressed, but worn. Big Mike's black sweater was wrapped around her. She looked as if she'd been crying. Kate sat down at the edge of Maggie's bed and watched her slowly arrange and then rearrange the boxes. She was not hurried or frantic. Every time she picked up a box, she appeared burdened by the weight of it. With her unruly tangle of smoky hair, the impossibly green eyes—Kate's sister was beautiful even when she was furious.

“I left a plate for you in the icebox,” she said finally.

“You're angry.”

“No.”

“Disappointed?”

“Patrick Harris was here. He came for dinner.”

Kate's face went hot. Patrick had given up a night's business from the telephone operators to have dinner with Kate—even on a Saturday night, that must be quite a loss. Not to mention missing the opportunity to bask in the adoration of all those pretty operators, fawning over blood pudding and pork steaks.

“You should go over and talk to him now,” Maggie said. “It's not that late. He was worried about you. Apparently you put on quite a show last night.”

It wasn't even eight o'clock, but it had been such a long day. Kate was exhausted. She knew if she went to the butcher shop, it wouldn't be for a simple chat. Not now. Not anymore. Not with Yeats looming over them.

“I'm sure he'll still be worried tomorrow.”

Kate opened the box, marked
DAY WEAR.
Inside, carefully folded in tissue, was a day suit in ivory wool in the style of Christian Dior. The ivory was more flattering on Maggie, much more so than the red the Wife had chosen.

“This one gave me fits,” Kate said. “The collar was maddening.”

Kate had placed three large, black buttons on the side to give it that fitted look that the Wife liked; it suited Maggie as well, but Kate couldn't remember the last time she saw Maggie wear that suit. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time Maggie wore any of the Wife's clothes.

“You should wear this on Monday. Come with us to the zoo. We'll take pictures. Little Mike will cherish them forever. It's very lovely on you.”

“To the zoo? People would think I'd sprung a leak. It's too fancy for the zoo, Kate.”

“The Wife would wear it. You could wear black flats to dress it down. Gloves would still be nice, though. A hat, of course.”

Maggie took the box from Kate and looked at it oddly, as if she'd never really seen it before. “What was this for again?”

“Day Suit. That's what the Wife called it.”

“Just something to wear around the house?”

“Well, something to wear in the day. Out to lunch. Shopping. The zoo.” Kate tried not to look at the holes in Big Mike's sweater that left Maggie's elbows exposed. “The Ladies were just told that the Wife might wear hers on a Valentine's Day television special about Maison Blanche. Did I tell you that? Hers is red, not ivory like yours. Very clever of her to wear red on that day; makes you think of sweethearts.”

“Patrick Harris told me that you came to his pub last night. You called his friend a prostitute.”

“You two certainly talk a lot.”

“He said you took sick. Are you sick, Kate?”

“I'm fine.”

“I don't think you are.”

Maggie took the ivory day suit from Kate and held it by one arm as if it were a white flag and she wished to surrender.

“Here, let me fold it,” Kate said. “I'll put it away.”

Maggie threw it on the ground. Kate leaned over to pick it up. Maggie kicked the pale suit away, just out of Kate's reach.

“Leave it. It's mine, and I want it on the floor.”

Kate had worn cotton gloves to make that dress so that she wouldn't get it dirty. The material was very fragile.

“That's uncalled for,” Kate said. “I'm sorry I missed dinner, but—”

“Dinner. That's always quite the occasion, isn't it? Something to get all tarted up over.” Maggie opened the box marked
STATE DINNER
. “Maybe I should have worn this, then.”

It was an evening gown. The original was a Nina Ricci with a deep brown sleeveless bodice and a full yellow silk skirt with a large silk bow at the waist. The Wife hated brown, and so Chez Ninon re-created it in black, but Kate loved the original so much that she made Maggie's exactly like it. She had even hand-knotted the large, yellow sash as Nina Ricci had required. It took her over a month.

“You could have worn it tonight, just for the fun of it.”

Maggie threw it on top of the ivory wool. Kate couldn't believe it. All her hard work.

“If you're not going to respect these clothes—”

“Then you'll stop making them? Because that's what I would like. I would like you to stop doing this. I have told you over and over again. These clothes are too much. All of this is too much.”

“You can dress them down—”

“Kate, these are clothes to go horseback riding in and to dance all night in, at balls at foreign embassies.”

“And they're beautiful.”

“People laugh at me. They laugh, Kate. And sometimes to my face.”

At that moment, Maggie was not Sunday-china beautiful, like the Wife. She was wild, untamed. She had the kind of beauty that drove ships onto the rocks. She stood on top of the mound of dresses with her dirty shoes.
The ivory wool,
Kate thought,
the yellow silk.
It was unbearable to see her do this to such beautiful things.

“Maggie. Please.”

“What you said about Patrick's friend, and you being sick in the Gents'—that's too much. You were drunk. People talk, Kate.”

“Did Patrick say that?”

“No. He said you were overly tired, which is a polite word for
drunk
.”

“Why are you so angry?”

“Because you behave as if there aren't rules. But there are rules for people like us, Kate.”

Kate noticed that the ivory dress now had a scuff on it from Maggie's shoe. It pained her.

“Think about Little Mike,” Maggie said. “Children are cruel. He goes to school this year. We can't have the others picking on him because of the Wife, because of you.”

It felt as if the world had suddenly been put on pause. That night when Patrick sang “God Save the Queen.” And those girls laughing when they saw her outside the butcher shop. And even Mrs. Brown—she seemed sincerely interested in Kate and the Wife, but you never knew.

“Everyone laughs?”

Kate heard the hurt in her own voice. Maggie heard it too, and that softened her a bit.

“Not Patrick,” she said. “He doesn't laugh.”

But you,
Kate thought,
you do.

There was nothing more to say. Kate closed the door gently behind her, leaving her sister standing on the most exquisite clothes in the world, surrounded by a fort built from the coffins of another woman's life.

On Sunday morning, Kate went to mass alone. She then took the train to Grand Central Station to eat at the Horn and Hardart, the Automat. Maeve said it was a good place to go when you had nothing to do, and so Kate spent most of the afternoon watching travelers drop a nickel in a slot, turn the knob, open a tiny door, and take their food. It was very clean and brightly lit. It was the sort of place where you could have your coconut custard pie and hot tea without anyone knowing you or talking to you or being disappointed by who you were.

On Monday, when Kate arrived to pick up Little Mike, Maggie's apartment smelled like fresh porridge and burnt toast, although neither was offered. The little coffins were lined up by the front door, in alphabetical order, with
CAMPAIGN TRAIL
on the top. That box held a copy of the double-faced scarlet wool “lucky” coat. The Wife's version was clearly a Paris original from Hubert de Givenchy, just as
Women's Wear Daily
had claimed. The fine craftsmanship was evident in the welted seams. However, the First Lady issued a statement saying it was bought at Ohrbach's department store. As soon as she said that, Ohrbach's coat suddenly became so popular that women fought to buy it even at forty dollars. So Chez Ninon knocked it off for the ready-to-wear set, just for good measure. The coat was a knockoff of a knockoff. Piling it in the hall was punitive. Everyone in the country had one.

“Maybe you know someone who'd like these,” Maggie said.

“I thought I did.”

“I'll stack them in your kitchen while you're gone.”

“Lovely.”

Maggie never even asked where she'd been on Sunday.

Little Mike was in a quiet mood, or maybe he was just trying to match Kate's. He was only four years old but he was a very serious child, the kind of child who, if not taught an appreciation for foolishness, would grow up to be an accountant more prone to enumerating the days of his life than living them. Or maybe he would grow up to be like his mother, so filled with regret. Or, Kate thought, maybe he'll grow up like me—apparently, horrible.
Well, at least according to Maggie.
Clearly, Kate and her nephew were in need of fun.

They took the A train into Manhattan. To celebrate Little Mike's fourth birthday, Kate had taken the day off so they could visit the new children's zoo in Central Park. They'd planned to pet Whaley, the smiling gray fiberglass whale that looked big enough to eat them both, and then to walk down the plank to Noah's Ark to feed the ducks and maybe end up chasing the White Rabbit down Alice in Wonderland's tunnel. From there it was only a short walk along Park Avenue to Chez Ninon, so the back-room girls could give Little Mike a tour—they'd seen so many pictures of him, they felt as if he were one of their own. Kate had promised her nephew all of this—but only if he took the subway and only if he was a little gentleman and if he didn't cry.

Ice cream, too?

Ice cream, too.

It was morning rush hour when they boarded the train. The crowd pushed in around them. At least the day was cool and the car was not dark or dirty but clean, and smelled of office workers and their dime-store perfumes.

“Who looks smart?” Kate whispered in Little Mike's ear. It was a game that she'd taught him. “Who is the most stylish?”

The boy pointed to two people who had just entered the train at the Dyckman Street station, the stop after hers. Their skin was black as river stones. Instead of a hat, the woman wore her hair wrapped in vibrant scarves, intricately patterned and in shades of orange and red and that particular burnished gold that reminded Kate of Egypt and its queens. The man's suit was perfectly cut and fitted. He wore a fine cotton shirt and a brilliant blue tie. He had the air of an intellectual, but Kate could see by his overcoat that he was a traveler, or a preacher, perhaps. His clothes were road weary but had a dignity that was undeniable.