Chapter Four #2
The place is brightly lit but not yet open to the public for the day, its employees seeing to their final chores before the massive clock in the atrium strikes eight.
Just as we approach the rear of the store, Mamma takes hold of my arm and leans toward me, her voice low.
“Be polite but keep quiet. Don’t go out of your way to converse with the other salesladies unless they ask you a question.
If you don’t get in the way, then hopefully they’ll leave you be.
But remember, if anyone does ask, how old are you? ”
“Sixteen.”
“Good girl,” Mamma answers, the skin between her two eyebrows hitching upward. I nod to assure her that I understand, that no one in this store will know that I’m a thirteen-year-old girl who hasn’t yet made it to high school. And is wondering if I ever will.
When we step behind the counter, Mamma reaches into a drawer and then straightens back up, saying: “Put this on.” She presses into my hand a white apron, pristine and starched stiff as a bone, which I dutifully slide over my blouse and skirt.
Fifteen minutes later, as the colossal clock in the middle of the store chimes eight times, the front doors of Wanamaker’s open to the public, and the first shoppers begin to stream in, ladies entering mostly in pairs or trios.
I can’t help but stare all over again: they already look so fashionable, so elegant.
What could they possibly need that brings them in here seeking even more?
“Here they come,” Mamma says, turning her focus toward ensuring that the countertop before her is as spotless as can be.
I feel my breath catch, and I immediately fix my eyes on the floor, hoping that these shoppers won’t look too closely.
Hoping that they’ll allow me to stay and earn wages.
That, I know, will depend on my making myself both indispensable and invisible.
My first shift, long as it is, passes in a blur of work.
I measure the bolts of velvet and gingham like I’m told.
I iron and fold the reams of chintz. I help Mamma drape swaths of lace over the mannequins while she pins the delicate fabric just so.
I sweep before anyone has a chance to notice dust on the floor and polish a glass case as soon as I see the tiniest smudge.
I am there to keep things running smoothly, to keep the salesladies happy and the display tables well stocked.
At lunchtime, as Mamma and I sit in the back alleyway eating our cheese sandwiches, I miss Kit.
And school. I wonder if my classmates are confused by my absence.
I wonder, with a pang, how my little brother’s day is going.
Wonder if he’ll miss me as he walks home this afternoon and has nobody but our cat to greet him at the door, passing the evening hours with only Titania for company.
The store closes at six o’clock, and Mamma tells me our shift will end at seven once we are done cleaning.
But the work keeps me busy enough, and soon it’s evening, and Mamma and I are folding one last pile of delicate undergarments before we may finally head home.
I can’t wait to get off my feet, plop down before the stove with Titania in my lap, and tell Kit all about the day.
I hope he’s been able to fix himself something to eat.
And that’s when it hits me—the realization of just how hungry I am for some supper of my own.
—
The next day I’m back at it. And the one after that.
Each morning, once Kit has been bundled off to school, off I go with Mamma, in my long skirt, my stiff apron knotted tight at my waist. Every day but Sunday, from seven o’clock to seven o’clock, I am officially one of the breadwinning crowd, paid every two weeks.
Tiring as the schedule is, that fact fills me with a sense of deep satisfaction.
Someday soon, with Mamma’s and my wages combined, we might be able to move out of our cramped room into lodgings with more space.
Perhaps even a big window with a view of some grass or trees.
Since I miss school so much, I try to find other ways to expand my smarts.
I practice sums in my head as I arrange fancy goatskin gloves from Paris, adding up their prices in case a customer ever asks me for a quick figure.
I’ve learned to avoid the section on the second floor where the beautiful porcelain dolls are displayed, knowing that if I look too long, I might give away my girlish desire to pick one up, to stroke its honey-colored hair or admire the thin wisps of its blinking eyelashes.
I’ve also learned to keep my eyes averted when ladies are shopping near me.
Sometimes they look. Sometimes their eyes sweep my figure or linger on my face.
But more often they just sail past me, focused on their quarry of fans or stockings or perfume.
And that’s precisely why, on this one morning in late spring, I’m beginning to feel a bit uneasy as a lady shopper keeps looking in my direction.
I’m in the headwear section on the ground floor, assigned to dusting the shelves and stands where the hats are arranged in their colorful displays.
It’s a quiet morning in the store, and I’m pretending to be extremely preoccupied with cleaning a spray of Malmaison roses that are nestled on top of a broad-brimmed silk hat.
The lady approaches, yet again, hovering in a way that calls to mind a pesky fly at a picnic.
“Lovely,” she says, to no one in particular.
I throw a sideways look in her direction.
She’s alone, unlike most of the ladies who shop in here accompanied by a friend or a daughter or even a maid.
She’s dressed more simply, too, in a day dress of pale linen and a simple straw hat.
Her face is round and ruddy, her auburn hair pulled back as if it were an afterthought.
She’s staring at me, so I decide some sort of polite answer is necessary.
I think she was remarking on the hat I was dusting, so I say, “Oh, yes, ma’am. ”
“I’m partial, however, to this one.” She fingers a nearby hat of pale green.
Of all the hats on the floor, this is the last one I’d be partial to.
Perhaps it’s the most interesting, for it has a jeweled serpent twisting around it.
But I’m not certain what sort of an occasion might warrant such a piece.
And it seems an odd choice for this lady, given her bland attire.
I offer a noncommittal shrug. The lady moves on, picking up a cap of pink velvet with a profusion of silk flower petals.
“When it comes to all these silk blooms,” she muses aloud, “I’d much rather have the real thing. ”
“Don’t keep as long, ma’am,” I answer in defense of the fake flowers. But as soon as I’ve said it, I regret the words. Mamma would have told me to keep my eyes down and move along.
The lady, however, seems eager to engage. “No, I suppose they don’t. But doesn’t that add to their appeal? Prompts us to live with a certain sense of purpose, does it not? Urgency, even. To know our days are numbered. Our age is always advancing.”
I swallow, saying nothing, turning to a cream-colored bonnet crusted with small pearls.
“Speaking of age…” she goes on, her voice unnervingly steady even as I feel the blood churning in my veins. “How old are you, girl?”
“Sixteen, ma’am,” I answer, managing—I hope—a mild tone.
The woman lets out a small titter of a laugh. She’s no longer even pretending to look at the hats—she’s looking only at me. I don’t meet her gaze, but she says: “You’re not a day over thirteen.”
“If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I’m needed elsewhere.
” I offer a quick curtsy and scamper off, feeling her gaze on me the entire time as I make my way back to the counter.
There, Mamma takes one look at my flushed, harried appearance and her eyes go wide.
I give a small shake of my head, and she does not probe me.
She says only, “Florence, it’s time for your break. Why don’t you step away for a moment?”
I do as Mamma suggests, not looking back toward the hats, though I know that the lady shopper is still standing there, watching me as I go.
One of the best parts of the job is that we are allowed, through an unspoken agreement, to avail ourselves of the foodstuffs that have gone unenjoyed by our patrons.
There is an elegant restaurant on the fourth floor of the store, where the ladies take their lunch and afternoon tea.
There’s even, I’ve heard, a soda fountain made of carved marble, splashing out drinks of cherry, vanilla bean, and sarsaparilla.
While I’ve never set foot inside that space, I do know that Mr. Wanamaker, being a kindly man, gave the directive that his cooking staff is to put the extra food items out in the back alley at the end of each shift.
There, I can grab cans of mustard or jars of nearly finished jam, ends of bread loaves, sometimes even leftovers of smoked salmon tea sandwiches.
Discarded and undesired scraps that no one will miss but that, to me and Kit, taste like a feast.
And so that’s where I go at the end of our shift that evening while Mamma waits out front.
I find, to my delight, half a loaf of bread and I pounce on it, just like I used to do in the alleyway behind Haudenshield’s butcher shop in Pittsburgh.
I’m wearing my coat of pilled cloth, dark blue so it doesn’t show stains, long sleeves rolled up.
I tuck the bread into my oversized pocket and turn to skip back out of the alleyway to meet Mamma.
It’ll be enough for all three of us, even for some generous scraps for Titania.
Because it’s late and the sun is setting, because the alley is draped in shadow and my thoughts are already turned toward supper, I don’t notice the other person back there until I’ve nearly bumped into her.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” I offer, my tone contrite, but as I hurry to shuffle aside, the loaf slips out of my pocket.
I look up at whomever this person is, concerned now; is she going to chide me for picking up Mr. Wanamaker’s food?
Sure, it’s understood that we are permitted to do so, as long as we don’t make a scene doing it.
But will she complain to a store manager that some girl is filching like a stray at the back door?
I stare at this stranger, begging her with my expression to show me a small scrap of kindness and let me pass.
And that’s when I see: it’s the lady from before.
The lone shopper, the one who looked at the green hat with the snake, before looking a bit too closely at me.
And she’s still looking too closely at me.
Please just let me be, I think.
Now, with her voice low, she says: “Goodness, my darling. Your eyes! You are breaking my heart right here on the spot.”
Her words, her tone, her entire appearance catch me by surprise, and before I can manage to pull my features into a mien of composure, she says: “Goodness, and now look at you. So expressive.”
She takes my chin in her hand, and I feel the immediate instinct to recoil.
To turn and flee and keep on running. But then I realize: it’s not like it is with the men in the boardinghouse, the way she’s looking at me.
It’s not menacing. This woman is studying me.
She’s interested, as though she wants to know something.
It’s not desire in her gaze, in the gentle cradle of her fingers.
And then she repeats her question from earlier: “How old are you?”
So I repeat my answer, just as I’ve been told to do. “I am sixteen, ma’am.”
She frowns, allows her hand to drop and release my chin. Then she cocks her head to one side. “How old are you, really?”
“Sixteen,” I answer again, my voice a bit more insistent.
“All right, you’re sixteen. And a terrible liar.” The woman glances up at the store sign. Then she sighs, gazing back down at me. “But they’ve accepted it. So I suppose I can.”
I’m confused by this remark, and growing increasingly unsettled.
Mamma is waiting for me at the front of the store, and if she were to find me speaking like this with a customer, she’d be furious.
But the lady is not yet done with her questions.
I am torn between two conflicting mandates: don’t be impolite to a customer; don’t engage with a customer.
The woman goes on: “Girl, have you ever posed?”
“Posed?”
“You know, for an artist.”
I remember once back in Tarentum, Daddy arranged for a family portrait.
Mamma groused about the expense, but she seemed happy enough to comb our hair and fashion new outfits for the occasion.
A black and white image, all of us done up in our best. But I don’t suppose that’s what this lady means. “No, ma’am.”
“Would you like to?”
I shake my head. I need to be going. I give her a quick curtsy and mumble, “Have a nice evening, ma’am.”
But as I’m turning to walk out of the alleyway, her voice follows me. “I’d pay you,” she calls out into the darkening evening. “A dollar for a sitting.”
I halt my steps. I don’t turn to look at her, but my whole body is coiled in attention. Did she just say she would pay me a whole dollar? Now I turn to face her, but something in me braces, tells me to wear a casual mask as I ask, “What would I do?”
“You’d sit for me. While I sketch. Inside, warm.
Safe. And in the end, I’d give you the dollar.
” She looks at the scrap of bread I’ve taken back into my hand.
Then she says: “I could offer lunch, too, if you wanted to come by around ten in the morning. How do you like roast chicken and apple pudding?”
My mouth waters just to hear of it. But I keep that mask fixed tight on my face. “I don’t see what’s so hard about sitting for a bit,” I say, throwing in a shrug.
She steps toward me and hands me a small piece of paper. A calling card with an address scrawled on it. “Chestnut Street,” I say, liking the way it sounds and wanting to show off to this woman that I can read.
“What is your name, child?”
“Evelyn.”
“Do you have a last name?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, then, what is it?”
“Talbot. Evelyn Talbot.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Evelyn Talbot. My name is Mrs. Dawson,” she says. “Leah Dawson. I’m a sketch artist, and that is the address to my studio.”
“My mamma will want to come with me,” I say.
The woman nods. “Of course. She is more than welcome. Quite frankly, my dear girl, with your doll looks, I wouldn’t have you going anywhere without your mamma.”