wearing the craziest getup I’d ever seen—big buckled shoes (like a Pilgrim in a child’s Thanksgiving drawing), a gold brocade cape with a ten-foot train, and a French chef’s hat with a giant fake ruby brooch pinned to it. Underneath all that, her school uniform. She looked patently ridiculous, as always, but Marjorie Lowtsky was not one to be taken lightly. Mr. and Mrs. Lowtsky didn’t speak the best English, so Marjorie had been doing the talking for them since toddlerhood. At her young age, she already knew the rag trade as well as anyone, and could take orders and deliver threats in four languages—Russian, French, Yiddish, and English. She was an odd kid, but I had come to find Marjorie’s help essential.
“We need dresses from the 1920s, Marjorie,” I said. “Really good ones. Rich lady dresses.”
“You wanna start by looking upstairs? In the Collection?”
The archly named “Collection” was a small area on the third floor where the Lowtskys sold their rarest and most precious finds.
“We don’t have the budget just now to even be glancing at the Collection.”
“So you want rich lady dresses but at poor lady prices?”
Edna laughed: “You’ve identified our needs perfectly, my dear.”
“That’s right, Marjorie,” I said. “We’re here to dig, not to spend.”
“Start over there,” Marjorie said, pointing to the back of the building. “The stuff by the loading dock just came in over the last few days. Mama hasn’t even had a chance to look through it yet. You could get lucky.”
—
The bins at Lowtsky’s were not for the faint of heart. These were large industrial laundry bins, crammed with textiles that the Lowtskys bought and sold by the pound—everything from workers’
battered old overalls to tragically stained undergarments, to upholstery remnants, to parachute material, to faded blouses of pongee silk, to French lace serviettes, to heavy old drapes, to your great-grandfather’s precious satin christening gown. Digging through the bins was hard
and sweaty work, an act of faith. You had to believe that there was treasure to be found in all this garbage, and you had to hunt for it with conviction.
Edna, much to my admiration, dove right in. I got the sense she’d done this sort of thing before. Side by side, bin by bin, the two of us dug in silence, searching for what we did not know.
About an hour in, I suddenly heard Edna shout “a-ha!” and looked over to see her waving something triumphantly above her head. And triumphant she should have been, for her find turned out to be a 1920s crimson silk-chiffon and velvet-trimmed robe de style evening dress, embellished with glass beading and gold thread.
“Oh, my!” I exclaimed. “It’s perfect for Mrs. Alabaster!”
“Indeed,” said Edna. “And feast your eyes upon this.” She turned over the back collar of the garment to reveal the original label: Lanvin, Paris. “Somebody très riche bought this dress in France twenty years ago, I’ll wager, and barely wore it, by the looks of it. Delicious. How it will glint on stage!”
In a flash, Marjorie Lowtsky was at our side.
“Say, what’d you kids find in there?” asked the only actual kid in the room.
“Don’t you start with me, Marjorie,” I warned. I was only half teasing—suddenly afraid she was going to snatch the dress away from us to sell in the Collection upstairs. “Play by the rules. Edna found this dress in the bins, fair and square.”
Marjorie shrugged. “All’s fair in love and war,” she said. “But it’s a good one. Just make sure you bury it under a heap of trash when mama rings it up. She’d murder me if she knew I let that one get away from us. Lemme get you a sack and some rags, to hide it.”
“Aw, Marjorie, thanks,” I said. “You’re my top-notch girl.”
“You and me, we’re always in cahoots,” she said, rewarding me with a crooked grin. “Just keep your mouth shut. You wouldn’t want me getting fired.”
As Marjorie wandered off, Edna stared at her in wonder. “Did that child just say, ‘All’s fair in love and war’?”
“I told you that you’d like Lowtsky’s,” I said.
“Well, I do like Lowtsky’s! And I adore this dress. And what have you found, my dear?”
I handed her a flimsy negligee, in a vivid, eye-injuring shade of fuchsia. She took it, held it up against her body, and winced.
“Oh, no, darling. You cannot put me in that. The audience will suffer from it even more than I will.”
“No, Edna, it’s not for you. It’s for Celia,” I said. “For the seduction scene.”
“Dear me. Oh, yes. That makes more sense.” Edna took a more careful look at the negligee and shook her head. “Goodness, Vivian, if you parade that girl around stage in this tiny getup, we are going to have a hit. Men will be lined up for miles. I’d best get started on my rice-water diet soon, or else nobody will be paying attention to my poor little figure at all!”
ELEVEN
Iturned twenty years old on October 7, 1940.
I celebrated my first birthday in New York City exactly as you might imagine I would: I went out with the showgirls; we gave the jump to some playboys; we drank rank after rank of cocktails on other people’s dime; we had tumults of fun; and the next thing you know we were trying to get home before the sun came up, feeling as if we were
swimming upstream through bilgewater.
I slept for about eight minutes, it seemed, and then woke to the oddest sensation in my room. Something felt off. I was hungover, of course—quite possibly still even officially drunk—but still, something was strange. I reached for Celia, to see if she was there with me. My hand brushed against her familiar flesh. So all was normal on that front.
Except that I smelled smoke.
Pipe smoke.
I sat up, and my head instantly regretted the decision. I lay back down on the pillow, took a few brave breaths, apologized to my skull for the assault, and tried again, more slowly and respectfully this time.
As my eyes focused in the dim morning light, I could see a figure sitting in a chair across the room. A male figure. Smoking a pipe, and looking at us.
Had Celia brought someone home with her? Had I?
I felt a heave of panic. Celia and I were libertines, as I’ve well established, but I’d always had just enough respect for Peg (or fear of Olive, more like it) not to allow men to visit our bedroom upstairs at the Lily. How had this happened?
“Imagine my delight,” said the stranger, lighting his pipe again, “to come home and find two girls in my bed! And both of you so stunning.
It’s as though I went to my icebox to get milk and discovered a bottle of champagne, instead. Two bottles of champagne, to be exact.”
My mind still couldn’t register.
Until then, suddenly, it could.
“Uncle Billy?” I asked.
“Oh, are you my niece?” the man said, and he started laughing. “Damn it. That limits our possibilities considerably. What’s your name, love?”
“I’m Vivian Morris.”
“Ohhhh . . .” he said. “Now this makes sense. You are my niece. How disheartening. I suppose the family wouldn’t approve if I ravaged you. I might not even approve of myself if I ravaged you—I’ve become so moral in my old age. Alas, alas. Is the other one my niece, too? I hope not. She doesn’t look like she could be anyone’s niece.”
“This one is Celia,” I said, gesturing to Celia’s beautiful, unconscious form. “She’s my friend.”
“Your very particular friend,” Billy said, in an amused tone, “if one is to judge from the sleeping arrangements. How modern of you, Vivian! I approve heartily. Don’t worry, I won’t tell your parents. Though I’m sure they’d find a way to blame me for it, if they ever found out.”
I stammered, “I’m sorry about . . .”
I wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. I’m sorry about taking over your apartment? I’m sorry about commandeering your bed? I’m sorry about the still-wet stockings that we’ve hung from your fireplace mantel to dry? I’m sorry for the orange makeup stains that we’ve smeared into your white carpet?
“Oh, it’s quite all right. I don’t live here. The Lily is Peg’s baby, not mine. I always stay at the Knickerbocker Club. I’ve never let my dues lapse, though God knows it’s expensive. It’s quieter there, and I don’t have to report to Olive.”
“But these are your rooms.”
“In name only, thanks to the kindness of your Aunt Peg. I just came by this morning to get my typewriter, which, now that I mention it, appears to be missing.”