Astor Place Vintage: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

you straight home!”
    The little girl raged even louder. Luckily, when we reached the second floor, they stepped off and veered toward the shoe salon, and I could journey to the third floor in relative peace and quiet.
    Father’s attitude was not unlike that of his employer, Frank Woolworth, who believed the proper place for women was in the home, despite the fact that he employed hundreds of countergirls. To carry out his philosophy, he never promoted his female workers, and he paid a low fixed wage. This was for their benefit, so to speak, so the job would be seen as a temporary condition before marriage. This stance certainly benefited Mr. Woolworth, seeing as lots of the countergirls stayed in their positions for years without a raise.
    With no employment other than housework, I felt utterly useless by the time my birthday came around in August. The anniversary of my birth had always been a dubious event, since it was also the anniversary of my mother’s death. But I found that year particularly distressing. I turnednineteen, and my mother died at nineteen. Nothing could point up more keenly how unfairly short her life had been: finished and done at the same age I now had the privilege of frittering away. She never should’ve given up her existence for mine. If only we could go back in time and trade places.
    Arriving on the third floor, I joined a cluster of women stuck behind an elderly lady who stood before the next flight of rising stairs as if working up the courage to hop on an amusement park ride. I came up beside her and offered my arm. “Would you like to step on with me?”
    She hooked a fragile hand in the crook of my elbow and gave me a most grateful look. “Thank you, dearie.”
    We stepped forward together as if in a dance. Standing beside her, I couldn’t help but feel tenderly for my frail partner. “Everything moves faster nowadays, doesn’t it?”
    “Dreadful how it’s changed since I was a girl.”
    “I can imagine,” I said without bothering to champion the merits of progress. “I think it’s grand that you venture out despite the challenges.”
    “What would you have me do instead?” she asked. “Sit in my room all day?”
    By the end of that summer, all I wanted to do was stay in my room. Sometimes I didn’t want to get out of bed. Since I didn’t know what to do with myself, I couldn’t see the point in doing anything. Nothing seemed worth the effort. Everything was a waste of time. My appetite disappeared, and my naturally thin figure became gaunt. Out of nowhere, I’d tear up and cry.
    Aunt Ida finally called in the family doctor. He prescribed bed rest, leeches, and when he noticed the stack of Dry Goods Weekly on my nightstand, the banishment of all reading materials.
    “Here we are,” the old woman said as the moving staircase reached the fourth floor. We stepped off together, she let go of my arm, and we wished each other a good day. As she wandered off to the gourmet food section, I continued on to the fifth floor.
    The memory of that doctor’s advice had the power to infuriate me still. In a sense, he did help restore me. My anger toward him fueled a healthy surge of energy that no amount of bed rest could have achieved. I refused his leeches, insisted the magazines stay where they were, and got myself out of bed. His ridiculous Victorian ideas reminded me that my sense of worthlessness was a reasonable response to a society bent on limiting the sphere of women.
    That very day I presented Father with an ultimatum: Give me a regular job at the store, or I’d ask for employment in every shop on Main Street, and my first inquiry would be with his chief rival, Mr. Gottlieb, owner of the general store across the street.
    Father compromised by giving me an official position behind the counter, but to ensure that my womanhood wasn’t tainted, he made it clear to my coworkers and our acquaintances that I was doing it simply to amuse myself. Despite the lack of pay, my mood