“The bastard even ruined Christmas,” Roberto says.
“Yes,” I say quietly. He ruined our wedding, our future, and even Christmas. And I would like to know why, even after all of that, I still love him.
The days off between Christmas and New Year’s are usually my favorite, because my work is done. Whoever needed a new dress bought it, and by Christmas Eve it has been altered, pressed, and delivered. But this was supposed to be my first Christmas as a married lady. I am full of unanswered questions about what happened with John, and I haven’t been able to sleep since he showed up at my door. If only I could understand why he left me, I would be able to press on.
Most of my friends try not to bring up the subject. It could be that they want to spare me the embarrassment, but I suspect that they believe it was due to some flaw in my character that I didn’t anticipate it. I was asleep at the wheel of my own life, and I deserved what happened to me. I made this bed, and I lie alone in it.
I’ve been called in for questioning by the police, which, on top of the personal shame of the situation, fills me with fear and dread. What if they think I had knowledge of John’s business dealings? I called the only lawyer I know personally, Arabel’s husband, Charlie Dresken. He assuaged my fears and told me that he would be there with me, and that I should fully cooperate with the investigation. “You have nothing to hide,” he told me. That may be true, but why is it that all I want to do is hide?
The police didn’t give Charlie all the details of John’s illegal activities, but they did say they were extensive. The police have asked me for a complete list of all the gifts John gave me. They also requested a calendar of our social life, including times and places, as far back as I could remember. It wasn’t hard to assemble, since I collected keepsakes from the moment I met him: the McGuire Sisters program from New Year’s Eve, menus from restaurants, matchbooks, scribbled poems, even a dried rosebud plucked off a trellis in Montauk from the day we first made love. Putting it all together, though, was almost unbearable.
While the police gather their information, I begin to gather my own. There’s one person whose face has haunted me over the last several weeks. I had grown fond of John’s mother, Mrs. O’Keefe, and she had begun to look forward to my visits, too. Even though she couldn’t speak, she was alert and aware of everything going on around her. I’ve been worried about her through the holidays. John Talbot is still in jail, and I doubt she knows what happened to him.
As I walk from the train station to the entrance of Creedmore, I wonder what I will say to Mrs. O’Keefe when I get there. The regular receptionist is on duty, but when I greet her, instead of waving me in as usual, she asks, “How can I help you?”
It dawns on me that I’ve always come here with John, so she might not recognize me on my own. “Could I go inside and see Mrs. O’Keefe?”
Her expression changes from friendliness to concern. “Didn’t anybody tell you?”
“No.” I get a pain in my stomach.
“She passed away.”
“When?”
“Let me check the date.” She studies a log behind the desk. “Sylvia O’Keefe died on November sixth.”
I don’t thank the nurse. I simply turn toward the door. But before I can walk away, I need to know one more thing.
“I’m sorry to bother you again,” I say, turning around. “But . . . was she alone?”
The receptionist reaches out and pats my hand. “That nice son of hers was with her when she passed.” November sixth? Why didn’t John tell me his mother died? What kind of man withholds such information?
On my first day back at work after Christmas vacation, Charlie Dresken waits for me during my lunch hour outside the police station on East Sixty-seventh Street. When we go inside, Charlie speaks to an officer at the front desk. Then I follow him to a small office, where we are greeted politely by a nice Italian detective around Papa’s age, whose badge identifies him as M. Casella. I begin by telling him that I went to see Sylvia O’Keefe. He was already aware of her passing.
“Miss Sartori, how long did you know John Talbot?”
“One year.”
“Was that the only name you knew him by?”
“Are there others?” I ask, my dismay mounting.
“He used five aliases, all with the first name John. The other surnames are O’Bannon, Harris, Acton, Fielding, and Jackson. Sounds like a law firm, doesn’t it?” He smiles, but I don’t. “Hmm. He used his real name with you.”
I don’t respond to the detective’s comment. It does not make me feel better to know that John’s name was the only true thing he shared with me.
“Did he live with you?” the detective asks matter-of-factly.
“We were engaged to be married. I live with my family. And always have,” I tell him in a tone that lets him know my character is not to be disparaged, despite my poor taste in men.
“Did you ever know a woman named Peggy Manney?”
“No.”
“She’s Sylvia O’Keefe’s daughter. She was not on speaking terms with her mother, which created a perfect situation for John Talbot, as you called him, to move in and take control of Mrs. O’Keefe’s finances.” My mind goes back to the day John told me he was an only child. “Mr. Talbot spent the last several years bilking Mrs. O’Keefe out of her savings, cash, and goods.”
“What?”
“John Talbot is a con man, Miss Sartori. He made his living by what we call negotiated theft. He’d build trust with people, and pretty soon he’d be in business with them. They provided the money, and he’d use it to fund whichever scam he had going at the time. When things didn’t work out, he’d run. It worked for a long time, because most people are too embarrassed to report when they get taken.”
“But you think he stole from his own mother?” I can’t believe it. I saw their close relationship. He loved her.
“She wasn’t his mother.”
“What?” Was there anything I knew about John Talbot that was true?
“Talbot found her at church, can you believe it? Went to Saint Anthony’s Parish in Woodbury and tagged her. She was a perfect victim—wealthy, lived alone, estranged from her daughter, eager for companionship—so he set about charming her, ingratiated himself into her life. She more or less took him in as her own. In time he convinced her to let him manage all of her finances. When she got sick, he put her in Creedmore. As far as we know, he never physically harmed the old lady, but he certainly brainwashed her. Her home in Woodbury became his base of operations.”
“But he lived at the Carlyle Hotel.”
“Sure, he had a suite there off and on, depending on what he was up to in the city. Guess whose money was bankrolling it? Sylvia O’Keefe’s. That’s why we need an accounting of whatever he gave you, in case any of it technically belongs to her rightful heir. Peggy Manney has made a list of her mother’s jewelry that’s missing.” Detective Casella hands me the list, and I pass it to Charlie. My head begins to pound, and I rest my face in my hands.
“I know, it’s unbelievable.” The detective shrugs. “And if Mrs. O’Keefe hadn’t died and the money hadn’t run out, he’d still be fat and happy.”
“And married to me,” I say softly.
“You’re lucky. So are a string of other girls he almost victimized. Amanda Parker, for example.”
“What’s she got to do with this?”
“Talbot tagged her, too. He wanted her father to bankroll some construction scheme he had going. We tracked this story down through a developer out on Long Island—”
“Jim Laurel?” I ask weakly.
“How do you know Jim Laurel?”
“John had supposedly purchased land in the Cascades development from him. He said he was building our house on it.”
“That was never going to happen. Jim Laurel is a smart businessman. Talbot told him that he was in business with Daniel Parker, and Laurel wanted in. But it turned out to be all smoke and mirrors. Did Talbot ever get any goods or ca
sh from you?”
“Almost all of my life’s savings. Seven thousand five hundred dollars.”
The detective makes a note of my loss. “Do you know that John Talbot was with Mrs. O’Keefe when she died?” I ask him.
“That was the least he could do.”
“I think he genuinely cared about her.”
The detective shakes his head as though I’m an idiot. “We found a storage unit filled with stuff. Boxes and boxes of stuff from B. Altman’s. You work there, correct?”
“Yes. Our bridal registry was there, too.”
“So this stuff, you think . . .” He hands me another list, which I scan quickly.
“These were for our wedding. I had all the registry gifts sent to a post office box in Huntington. John said he was picking them up and taking them to our house.”
“These goods aren’t stolen, then. They should be returned to you.”
“I don’t want any of it.”
“You can decide that when we return them. By law we can’t keep this property if it belongs to you. You’re not the one under arrest here.” He jots down some notes and then looks at me. For the first time, Mr. Casella softens. “Take the stuff back. He owes you.”
Then he goes on to ask me more questions, mostly about places John and I had been.
“There’s one more item Mrs. O’Keefe’s daughter asked about. Did Talbot ever give you a two-carat emerald-cut diamond in a platinum setting?”
“For our engagement.”
I can tell the detective doesn’t want to say what he has to say next. “You need to return that. It was stolen from Mrs. O’Keefe and rightfully belongs to her daughter. You understand, I’m sure.”
Charlie nods at me. “It’s okay,” he says, and pats my hand.
I open my purse and give the detective the ring, which I have kept in a ring box. I get up to leave.
“If we need to get in touch with you . . .” the detective begins.
“Call my office.” Charlie gives Mr. Casella his card.
Out in the street, I become so angry that I can’t think. “I’m such a fool!”
“No, you’re not a fool. John Talbot was an excellent con man,” Charlie insists. We hail a cab, and we ride in silence until Charlie drops me off at work. “Lucia?” he says. “Forget him. You’re a young girl, and dwelling on this won’t do you any good.”
“Thank you for coming with me today, Charlie.”
As I enter the store, even the smell of exotic perfumes can’t revive my spirits. Ruth is waiting for me in the Hub, ready with a cup of hot coffee and a cinnamon bun from Zabar’s. “So, what happened?”
Delmarr comes out of his office and motions to me.
“Come on, Ruth,” I say. “I might as well tell the story once.”
“Jesus, I heard the whole story down in the islands,” Delmarr begins.
“What?”
“John Talbot went after Daniel Parker’s dough. Tried to get a loan, then tried to get a job in his brokerage firm. But Parker had someone run a background check on him, and they found a lot of holes in his stories. They also wanted a complete report on what he had in the bank. Before things went too far, Talbot ditched the whole plan, even if that meant ditching Amanda, too. To mess with a guy like Dan Parker . . . I don’t know if that makes Talbot courageous or an idiot.”
“Did Amanda Parker talk to the police?” I ask, knowing the answer. “Of course not. Girls on the Upper East Side don’t get dragged into police stations to have their integrity called into question. No need to make it worse for her.”
“It is worse for her,” Ruth says. “It made the paper.” She hands me an article from the morning Herald. The headline reads, SOCIETY POSER NABBED. I close my eyes, not reading another word. I give the article back to Ruth.
After returning all of the gifts on the police list, including the starfish brooch (another of Sylvia O’Keefe’s pieces), there’s only one other bit of business to tend to before I am finished with John Talbot for good. I must talk to Patsy Marotta at the Vesuvio.
The cabbie gives me a roguish grin as I climb into his cab with an enormous muslin sack. “For me?” he asks.
“Nope,” I say flatly.
“It ain’t a dead body, is it?”
“No, sir,” I say, a touch of impatience creeping into my tone.
“You got enough room back there?”
“Yes, sir.” I give him the directions to the Vesuvio. I’m not feeling very chatty.
The restaurant doesn’t get busy until about eight o’clock, so I’ve planned to arrive around six. As I push through the polished brass door, I can’t stop myself from thinking that this is the first time it wasn’t opened for me by John Talbot.
I stand in the doorway and look around the dark restaurant, which smells of fine tobacco, sweet wine, and prime rib roasting in rosemary, which must be the special tonight. Patsy is where he always is, at the bar, half propped on the stool, one foot resting on the brass rail and the other extended out, as if he’s always ready to jump up and run to the kitchen. The bartender gives Patsy a look when he catches sight of me. Patsy puts out a cigarette, then turns to face me. “I thought you’d come see me eventually.”
“I won’t take too much of your time,” I say.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asks.
“No, thank you.” I glance at the empty tables. “Could we talk there, maybe?”
Patsy rises and shows me to a table.
“Did you know about John?” I ask him. “Do you know he’s in jail?”
“The police spoke to me.” He shrugs.
“Well, Mr. Marotta, since John Talbot gave me this mink coat in your restaurant, I’m returning it to you. I figure you would know where it came from.”
“I do know where it came from.”
“Where?”
“From Antoine Furriers of New York City and Toronto. It’s totally on the up-and-up.”
“Antoine Furriers may be on the up-and-up, but I’m sure this particular coat was stolen.”
“It wasn’t. He earned it.”
“I doubt that.”
“No, really. From time to time I would hear of jobs and pass along the information to John, because I knew he had his finger in several pots. Or so I thought. The owners of Antoine Furriers have lunch here a few times a week. They told me they were looking for someone to transport furs between New York and Toronto. They had a driver and a truck, but they needed a more experienced businessman to accompany the goods over the border and make the transaction. John did it for several months, and he asked for the coat in lieu of cash. It was entirely legit.”
There’s that word “legit” again. It makes my skin crawl.
Patsy continues, “You keep the coat. It’s yours.”
I stand and pick up the unwieldy bundle. “You know, everybody keeps telling me to keep this stuff, as though it’s the stuff that matters. Like a coat or a ring or a chafing dish can make up for all that’s happened to me. I can tell you, Mr. Marotta, that they don’t make up for anything. I get no comfort from these things.”
Patsy doesn’t answer me. He just gazes toward the kitchen before taking a puff of his cigarette.
I thank him, and knowing that I won’t come to his restaurant again, I say good-bye.
“You’re a good kid” is the last thing he says to me.
The official closing of the Custom Department at B. Altman & Company is set for November 1, 1952. They graciously informed us this morning by a mimeographed letter on each of our desks, signed by someone whose name we’ve never seen before. The letter said we have exactly seven months to wrap up any outstanding work; but first, dear employees, kill yourselves through another June Swoon so that you’re too exhausted to find yourselves a new job outside the company.
Ruth swears that closing the Custom Department is a step toward luring us all into retail, where we will sell from the floor and oversee alterations from time to time. The rats are jumping off the sinking ship on a
regular basis. Every day someone else comes in and announces his or her resignation. Violet left to become a housewife. Only Delmarr, Ruth, and I hold out. When we have lunch with Helen, we tell her that baby David came at the right moment. She is spared the painful details of disassembling our shop. It started with the high-end fabric stock, for which no further orders were to be placed. Then they began to take our best machines and send them God knows where. And we’re actually supposed to refer our private customers to a new department called In-Store Consultation, where girls right out of high school run around the store gathering garments they think the customer will like. This is what B. Altman’s now calls “personal service.” We hear it was the brainchild of Hilda Cramer, who wasn’t fired but was given a sweet deal that moved her out of Altman’s and into her own private salon in White Plains. Occasionally we hear her on the radio with the style maven Ilke Chase, talking fashion for the working woman. Ruth and I joke that we may call and make an appointment with her, since we’re unemployed career girls who could use some good advice.
I turn in my seat and look out the window. This morning I felt okay; not better, but on my way to better. It’s been a month since I was questioned by the detective. I know I have to stop dwelling on the past year and start thinking about my future. Last night I made a list of the designers I most admire, and even went so far as to look up their addresses and phone numbers. I intend to call every one of them, even Claire McCardell, and see who’s in need of an experienced seamstress with a specialty in the application of beadings and trim.
Ruth calls to me from the front desk. Even our receptionist is gone, so whoever is walking by picks up the phone. “It’s for you, Lu.” I answer.
“Lu? It’s Roberto. It’s Pop again. He fell.”
“Is he at Saint Vincent’s?” I ask.
“No, come home.”
I jump in a cab and rush home. I run up the stoop and find Rosemary waiting at the door. She looks miserable, six months pregnant, standing in the door with tears streaming down her face. “It’s not good, Lucia,” she tells me.