Someone has come for her — someone is here! — and gossip speeds so
readily through Ladies’ Undergarments that Frieda, in a twinkling, is
forewarned. (The elevator boy tells the stock girl, who tells her.) She grins,
but as the newest- hired wrapper at Jordan Marsh she’s still minded awfully
closely by Mr. Crowley, so she struggles against the glee and keeps to work.
She snaps a box open and handily tucks its ends, crimps tissue around the
latest stranger’s buys: a nainsook chemise, a crêpe de Chine camisole. But
her fingers, as she’s knotting up the package, snarl the string.
She’s been waiting for him to come again, conjuring. Every day
this week, she’s woken half an hour early to wash her hair and put herself
together. On the modest black shirtwaist required by Jordan’s dress code
gleams her only brooch: Papa’s gold seashell. She’s nibbled at tablets of
arsenic to pale her face, rubbed lemon zest on her wrists and her throat: the
pinpoints where her flurried pulse beats. A girl who can’t afford to buy
perfume finds other lures.
Now, at last, Felix has come, as he promised. She fills her mouth
with the hum of his name: Feel-ix. The feel of his thumbs on her hipbones,
hooked hard. The taste of his taut, brazen lips.
He’s come for her at work again, for where else could he search?
Their first — their only — time, they didn’t use her room (the landlady would
have kicked her out, and quick). Instead they went where he wanted, and
afterward, in her fluster (her brain swirly with passion, with a fib she’d caught
him telling), she neglected to give him her address. Her rooming house has
no telephone.
Lou, who was with Frieda when Felix swept her off, predicted he
would soon enough be back. Lou didn’t speak to him but says she didn’t
have to; she knows from boys, knows all she needs. Frieda scans the
department for her surefire companion, hoping to score a last bit of advice.
But Lou is nowhere to be seen. She must be in the fitting room with a
customer.
It hits Frieda that Minnie, the stock girl, said someone. Why not
say a man? Or speak in code? The shopgirls have their secret tricks of
talk. “Oh, Henrietta!” one will call, although no clerk goes by that name,
meaning: That customer’s a hen, not worth the bother. And if a cash girl
whispers, “Could you hand me some of that?” she means, Don’t look yet, but
is he handsome!
Minnie didn’t ask to be handed anything; all she said
was “Someone’s here for you.” For an instant Frieda fears that the visitor is
Mama; Mama’s tracked her down and come to fume. Frieda is still six
months shy of eighteen, so Mama retains parental rights. She could have
Frieda booked on a charge of stubbornness. She could force her to go live
with awful Hirsch.
Silly, no, the explanation’s simpler: Minnie’s just too new to know
the code. She’s worked at Jordan’s less than two full weeks.
Frieda had her own missed-signal mishap, her very first Friday at
the store. She was struggling after lunch to keep pace at the wrapping
counter when Lou, her new pal, hastened by, tapping her wrist twice for the
time. Strange — that very wrist was adorned with an Elgin watch — but
Frieda’s mind was cottony with fatigue; she said, “Ten past two,” and went
back to her bundles.
Seconds later, she heard, “Excuse me,” and looked up. The man
was gray-templed, enticingly tall, a crisp-rimmed homburg in his hands.
“Yes,” he said. “Hello. What I need are undergarments. Corsets,
brassieres, camisoles.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Frieda. “I’m just a bundle wrapper. You’d have
to find a salesclerk for that. Try Miss Garneau” — that was Lou — “or Miss
Fitzroy.”
A bold, mesmerizing novel about the woman known as "Typhoid Mary," the first known healthy carrier of typhoid fever in the burgeoning metropolis of early twentieth century New York.
Stranger than fiction, blending tragedy and farce, How to Create the Perfect Wife is an engrossing tale of the radicalism, and deep contradictions, at the heart of the Enlightenment.
Z, the novel about the life of Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald is at points charming and; like another reviewer, I kept thinking of the movie, "Midnight...
read more
Although heavy on the scientific details, which slowed down the story for me (OK, I admit, I was one of those liberal arts majors who skipped out on...
read more
Loved this book. Magical, quirky, enchanting I could go on. All books do not have to be literary fiction, sometimes it is just so comforting to read...
read more
British Parliament asks Amazon to clarify why it pays $9 million in income tax on $23 billion of UK sales.(May 20 2013) Amazon will be called back to give further evidence to members of the British Parliament "to clarify how its activities in the U.K. justify its low corporate...
Full Story
