Lucia, Lucia Page 9

  A combo takes the stage and begins to play. The percussionist, lanky and with skin the color of toffee, moves wire whisks across the drums so smoothly and quickly that they seem like wings. “These guys are great,” Delmarr says. “They usually play at the Village Vanguard.”

  “Right near Commerce Street?” my father asks.

  “You could walk,” Delmarr tells him.

  Papa puts his arm around Mama. Maybe one of his New Year’s resolutions will be to take Mama to a jazz club in our neighborhood. The waiter places flutes of champagne on our table, then, with silver tongs, drops a raspberry into each glass, creating a pink fizz over the sandy bubbles. Papa pulls Mama close and kisses her ear. They are still in love, which seems like a miracle to me. Tonight they are carefree, away from work and bills and children who give them headaches. I get a pang in my stomach, thinking about how sad they were when I broke off with Dante. What good parents don’t want their daughter to meet a fine young man and fall in love and get married? They want me to have what they have.

  “If you’re gonna be my date, you’d better pep up. I don’t need a lead anchor on my ankle on New Year’s Eve.” Delmarr toasts me.

  “Is this better?” I sit up straight in my chair.

  “You’re the only girl in the room in gold lamé.”

  “That was intentional,” I tell him. After Ruth and I cut the material for this dress, I hid the bolt under last year’s samples.

  “You certainly stand out. I feel like I’m doing the town with Bathsheba. The way this spotlight is hitting you, it looks like you’re in Macy’s window.”

  “Excuse me,” a familiar voice says behind me. “Delmarr, how are you?”

  I look up, but it’s hard to see because the gentleman is standing directly in the beam of an overhead stage light. I shade my eyes. My dream man from Interior Decoration! It’s him! I can’t believe it! I was thinking about him so much today, I must have willed him here.

  “Well, if it isn’t young Clark Gable.” Delmarr stands and shakes his hand. “Mr. John Talbot, I’d like to introduce you to my date this evening, Lucia Sartori. And these are her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Sartori.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you.” John Talbot extends his hand, first to my mother, then to my father, and finally to me. When he touches me, the same woozy feeling I had in Bridal Registry overcomes me. I can’t wait to tell Ruth that it wasn’t the butter-pecan ice cream after all.

  John places his hand on Delmarr’s shoulder. “Well, I just wanted to say hello and wish you all a healthy and happy New Year.” He smiles and moves back into the crowd.

  “My, my, he’s handsome,” Mama comments.

  “How do you know him?” Papa asks Delmarr. Uh-oh, Papa already senses something. When it comes to me, he has radar.

  “He’s a jack-of-all-trades. I did some business with him on an overrun of fabric out of the Scalamandre Silk Mills. He made me an excellent deal,” Delmarr tells Papa matter-of-factly.

  Mama and Papa go back to their conversation and drinks. Delmarr leans in to me and raises an eyebrow. “Do you know him?”

  “I saw him at the store one day.”

  “He had the fish eye for you tonight.”

  “Do you think so?” If only Delmarr knew how much that thrills me. John Talbot. At last I know his name. It’s beautiful. I can see it engraved on a brass plate or a book binding. It’s an important name. It sounds upper-crust, like the names of the girls who order opera coats for every fall debut of the Philharmonic and live in town houses on the Upper East Side.

  “Don’t get any ideas. He’s a man about town. I see him at all the best places with all the best girls.”

  “But—”

  “Lucia, you’re not meant to be one in a stable. You’re better than that. You’re a stand-alone girl.”

  The lights dim further, and the combo launches into an overture. There is a drum roll. In the pitch black, the McGuire Sisters take their places behind three microphones, the silver staffs shining in the dark. They begin to sing their smooth a cappella harmonies, and the crowd goes wild as the lights come up. Delmarr says that the word is spreading about them; they are destined to be big recording stars. I can see why. Bathed in the stage lights, they are stunning redheads, with fine features and big dark eyes. And those figures!

  Mama and Papa watch the show with delight. To think that just last night, they were wearing their reading glasses, poring over bills at the kitchen table, and arguing about which ones to pay first. They never treat themselves. Mama sacrifices everything for her children. If I didn’t bring home fashionable shoes and clothes for her, she’d wear the same old oxfords for years on end. She refuses when I offer her money for the family till, though I make a good salary. She always says, “Put it in the bank.” I will never be one third the lady my mother is. I close my eyes and take a mental picture. When I’m old, I want to remember the two of them as they are now on December 31, 1950.

  Delmarr nudges me when the McGuire Sisters walk offstage one by one after the opening number. The lights and music change, and they reappear in Delmarr’s ruby-red gowns. (I wish Ruth were here to see our handiwork.) After a few songs, the sisters go behind an upstage screen and emerge in the emerald-green version of Delmarr’s gown, singing, “We’re in the money!” Papa raises his hands high in the air and applauds, as do many in the audience. Delmarr leans back in his chair and says, “Damn, I’m talented.”

  Then Phyllis McGuire, the baby sister of the group, comes forward. A man in a tuxedo hands her a papier-mâché clock, and she shouts, “Countdown to 1951: ten, nine, eight . . .” The crowd joins in, and when we hit “one,” the room goes wild. From giant nets along the ceiling, multicolored balloons and silver confetti rain on us. We’re all on our feet; Papa kisses Mama, Delmarr kisses me on the cheek and spins me around. The McGuire Sisters applaud as the crowd cheers. As I’m shaking my head and the confetti falls away like snow, Delmarr grabs me again, this time by the waist, dipping me almost to the floor. “Delmarr, put me down!” I laugh. But it isn’t Delmarr; this is a cashmere suit, and it isn’t deep blue, it’s black, and the tie isn’t Delmarr’s hunter green, it’s a silver jacquard. And though I have no intimate knowledge of Delmarr’s lips, I know these aren’t his, because this person doesn’t smell like Delmarr. This man’s neck smells like musky amber and spicy cassias and fresh rain. It’s John Talbot, and I fit in the crook of his neck like a violin.

  “Mr. Talbot . . .” is all I can say to him. Standing nose to nose with him, the sounds in the room fading to a muffle, I feel his warm skin and look into his eyes. He looks at me with such intensity that I have to close my eyes.

  “Happy New Year,” he whispers. He lets go of me and disappears once more into the crowd.

  “What was that?” Delmarr asks, looking after him.

  I don’t answer. I simply sit down in my chair.

  Mama and Papa are chatting with the couple at the next table. I’m sure they didn’t see the kiss. I put my hand to my lips so I will always remember how I spent the first seconds of this New Year. I look up at the stage where the huge foil numbers sway from the ceiling: 1951. In an instant, they look like lucky numbers to me.

  Ruth and I stay after hours in the Hub to finish the buttons on her wedding gown. The cityscape visible from our window is pure black studded with tiny yellow lights, like the combination of my favorite trim: jet beads and canary diamonds. Ruth’s Valentine’s Day wedding is a week away, and we’re feeling the pressure to finish. Delmarr was sweet enough to leave us the key, so we can let ourselves out through the employee entrance on the main floor.

  Ruth is built a lot like Elizabeth Taylor, so we took ideas from the actress’s gown in Father of the Bride and merged them with a design by Vincent Monte-Sano, who recently had a trunk show at Bonwit Teller’s. We feel like traitors when we go to trunk shows at other stores, but we can’t resist when it’s a designer we admire. We’re copying Monte Sano’s famous beadwork with small pockets in the skirt’s la
yers of white tulle and a small crystal dropped in each. When Ruth walks down the aisle to the chuppah, she will literally dazzle.

  My January 5 birthday was, as always, lost in the letdown following the holidays, though Rosemary made me a strawberry Napoleon cake and the girls took me to lunch at the Charleston Gardens. Socially, I’m treading familiar waters. I’ve had three dates since the New Year: one, a coworker of Helen Gannon’s husband from a stockbrokerage (boring); another, arranged by my mother’s cousin, with an architect from Florence (my Italian is far from flawless, so we nodded a lot without speaking); and a third with a friend of Delmarr’s who served in the army with him (a nice fellow but not for me). I danced with several of Ruth’s relatives at her engagement party, but those will never amount to more than a dance, because no good Jewish mother is going to offer her son in marriage to a Roman Catholic girl from Commerce Street. Or vice versa. And it’s just as well; I haven’t met anyone, Kaspians and Goldfarbs included, that I would set my permanent sights on.

  “Why don’t you call Dante DeMartino? Tell him you need a date for my wedding,” Ruth suggests. “Harvey always thought the world of him. He misses our double dates.”

  “Sorry to disappoint Harvey, but Dante would think I wanted to get back together.”

  “Don’t you ever want to? Even just a little?”

  “I have my moments,” I confess.

  “I knew it!”

  “Of course, Ruth. When I’m sad or lonely or bored to tears on a bad date, I think about Dante. But then I remind myself why we broke up. He’ll always work at the bakery, and that’s fine, but it also means that he’ll always live with his parents.”

  “So you’re right back where you started.” Ruth systematically pushes straight pins into her cushion.

  “Exactly. You see, Dante’s life after our wedding day would not have changed one bit. We’d have a Mass and a dinner dance, and we’d go to his home. I’d move into the room he grew up in, and into his bed, where I’m sure he’d be happy to have me for the next fifty years. But he wouldn’t have to give anything up. I, on the other hand, would be giving up everything. The day I married Dante, I would no longer work for B. Altman and Company; I would sign on to Claudia DeMartino Enterprises: washing, cooking, cleaning, and mending.”

  “If John Talbot walked through that door right now, you’d jump at the chance to date him, wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s not going to happen.” I should tell Ruth how tired I am of thinking about him. I wish he’d never kissed me. He ruined me for any men who might follow. No one could live up to that kiss. Delmarr is right. Good-looking, sought-after men like John Talbot cause little thrills all over town, only to check their watch one day and decide to settle down, and when they do, it’s with a debutante.

  I help Ruth into her gown for the final fitting. She stands on the model’s box and looks at herself from all angles. She looks like the ballerina in a music box. “You’re beautiful!” I tell her.

  “I love the dress. Thank you. You’ve worked so hard.”

  “I told you the boat neck with the cap sleeve was the ticket.”

  “Look at those crystals.” Ruth turns slowly on the box. “Someday we should open our own shop.”

  “I would love to.” I flounce the tulle until it stands away from her body.

  “Why not? There are career girls in my family. My own mother works alongside my dad at the lumber store. When anyone asks my mom if she works, she says, ‘No!’ But she’s there every morning at nine, doing the books and the payroll. She’ll tell you she’s only helping out for the day.”

  As I smooth the facing, I ask, “Does Harvey want you to work for him?”

  Ruth looks down at me. “A couple days a week. You know, to do the books.”

  “But you don’t do books! You design clothes! You hate math,” I remind her. “You always make me split the bill because you can’t add.”

  “I know, I know.” Ruth studies her gown in the mirror.

  “Oh, Ruth. Can’t you see what’s happening? Everything is changing.”

  “That’s how it goes, Lucia.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like this! I hate what’s happening to us, the way we throw our dreams away as though they’re nothing. We’re just a bunch of Ann Brewsters, a clique of nameless girls who come to work for a few years and bide their time till they’re married. Then we leave, and right behind us is another young, hungry group of girls who come in with the same dreams; then their time comes, and they marry and throw their dreams away. It goes on and on. No one ever stays and becomes what they imagined! And I can’t believe that you, of all people, don’t see it. Ruth, we get married and lose everything.”

  “You’re upsetting me,” Ruth says quietly.

  “Good! Get mad! Aren’t you angry at a world that thinks so little of your talent? You’re going to go and do Harvey’s books, which anybody can do, and leave a job here that nobody else can do like you. Think of all the nights we’ve worked overtime, not for the money but because our department was the best, better than Bonwit’s, Saks, Lord and Taylor’s. We weren’t just sewing. You were going to be the next Claire McCardell! Come on, Ruth.”

  “I don’t know what to say. You’re asking me to choose.”

  “Yes!” I yell. Ruth looks as though she is about to cry, and there is no sadder sight than a woman in tears in a wedding gown. I breathe deeply. “That’s all we have. If you don’t choose, believe me, there’s a line of people, starting with Harvey and ending with his mother, who will choose for you. Do you want that? Do you want to give away everything you’ve worked for to make them happy?”

  “Well, I can’t not marry Harvey. I love him.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking you to do. I’m asking you to consider how you really feel. Do you ever think about why it’s so easy for you to give up your dream?”

  I help Ruth step out of her gown and carefully place it back on the dress mannequin. She doesn’t answer my question, but why should she? It would only upset her more. I drape clean muslin over the dress, tucking it carefully around the hem so dust can’t get in. Ruth puts our supplies away as I lower the window shades and turn out the lights. We walk down the escalators, since they are stationary after hours, to the employee entrance on the main floor.

  “I’m sorry, Ruth.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay. You don’t need more pressure from me.”

  “It’s not pressure. You make a lot of sense. You gave me a lot to think about.”

  Ruth opens the door. A large gust of wind pins the door back, and it bangs against the building wall. Ruth motions for me to go outside first. She follows me out, then pushes the door shut, making sure it locks behind us. Snow has begun to fall. I bury my hands in my pockets to find my gloves. Ruth knots a scarf around her neck.

  “I’m sorry I disappointed you, Lucia.”

  “You’ve never disappointed me. I’m just looking out for you.”

  Ruth looks toward Madison Avenue. “It’s hard to keep everybody happy, but I know there must be a way. I have to find it.”

  “You will.” How can I tell my best friend that there is no way to keep everyone happy? I learned that firsthand from the DeMartinos. The thought that I’ve hurt her makes me sad. I can’t leave her tonight feeling sad. “Thank you, Ruth.”

  “For what?”

  “For at least saying you wanted to open a shop with me.”

  “I meant it.”

  “I know you did.” I give her a hug and turn toward Fifth Avenue.

  “Be careful getting home!” Ruth says to me as she heads east to her bus stop.

  “I will,” I tell her. I look up Fifth Avenue. There’s no sign of my bus. The wind is too cold to stand in, and I can pick up the bus a few blocks down, so I start walking. It’s better to keep moving.

  The tops of the skyscrapers disappear in a dense fog, and the light from the lower floors throws an eerie glow on the full clouds hanging in gray ripples o
ver the city like a ghostly meringue. I pull my black velvet rain hat with the wide brim over my ears and tie it under my chin with a bow. I bury my gloved hands deep in my pockets again and walk quickly downtown.

  I wonder what will become of me. Ruth is being kind by offering to open a shop with me, but that’s only a dream. Once she’s married, she’ll work for a while, and then she and Harvey will have a baby, and she’ll quit and stay home to raise her family. I could open my own shop, I guess. But how? I’m not a businesswoman; I sew. Maybe it’s because I grew up with brothers, but I see the business world as belonging to men. There are women who do it, though, women like Edith Head in Hollywood. I read in PhotoScreen magazine that Miss Head has a husband but no children. There aren’t many women who work and have children. Motherhood is certainly difficult, but impending motherhood is not easy, either. As Rosemary’s due date draws near, I see how she struggles and how nervous she has become. Roberto stands by faithfully but helplessly. I’m sure deep down he’s thinking, I’m glad she has to do this and not me. Once again, it seems, women have to do everything.

  Of all the men and women I know, the only one whose life I envy is Delmarr. When he’s not working, he’s out on the town, having fun. He dates interesting women, some intellectuals, some great beauties, some a combination of the two, and he always looks at life like it’s a party. He tells fascinating stories of socialites and dances and nightclubs and nefarious characters and artists—the sum total of his experience is so colorful, even he can’t believe his life sometimes. What a wonderful thing, to be satisfied and yet full of wonder.

  I make the long cross from the corner of Madison Square Park and continue down Fifth Avenue. The temperature seems to be dropping, and the snow is turning to sleet that hits my face like tiny daggers. I decide to hail a taxi. The trucks and cars whiz by me; not a cab in sight. When I spot one, it’s taken—no doubt coming from uptown, where, at the first clink of a raindrop, the cabs fill instantly. I’m about to give up and keep walking when a car pulls over and the window rolls down.