“Mrs. DeMartino has been nice to me. I don’t have any complaints.”
“Lucky you. Mrs. Goldfarb is helping to plan our engagement party. She wants to do it at the Latin Quarter.”
“Could you try to sound a little more excited?”
“No,” Ruth says flatly. Her tone makes me laugh. “I’m too practical to get all hepped up, you know that. I don’t want to go to the Latin Quarter with either my relatives or Harvey’s. They’ll sit there like stumps. Like a bad breeze from Brooklyn.”
“Give them a chance.”
“Well, I guess I should just be honest. I don’t want to be a Goldfarb.” Ruth rolls up her sketch and stuffs it in a tube. She hands it to me, and I place it in the bin behind my desk. Later we’ll lay out all the drawings for Delmarr, and he’ll choose a few to show our customers for next spring.
“But you love Harvey,” I remind her.
“I love him. Yes, I do. Since I was fourteen and he was fifteen and I danced with him at Morrie’s Acres in the Poconos after he bought me a hot dog. But I’ve always hated his name. I can’t believe I have to trade Kaspian, a name I love, for . . . Goldfarb.”
“Don’t,” Delmarr says as he drops work orders into the bin. He takes a final drag off his cigarette and tosses the butt out the window. “It’s 1950. There are plenty of women who don’t change their surnames.”
“Sure, they’re called spinsters,” Ruth says.
“No, married women. Particularly in art and design. Actresses. Women in the public eye who had a life before meeting their future husbands.”
“Who?” Ruth wants to know.
“You’ve heard of Lunt and Fontanne?”
“Sure.”
“They’re not Lunt and Lunt, are they?” Delmarr shrugs and takes the paperwork into his office.
Ruth lowers her voice so Delmarr can’t hear. “Harvey is not going to go for Kaspian and Goldfarb, I promise you. It sounds like a fish market on the Lower East Side.”
“Maybe you should ask him what he thinks. He might let you keep your name.”
“Fat chance. I could never even bring up the subject. I’m his girl, and I’m going to take his name, end of story. Harvey makes decisions ten years before he has to. He’s already named our kids: Michael, for his grandfather Myron; and Susan, after his grandmother Sadie.”
Suddenly I feel claustrophobic, listening to Ruth talking about children and names and what Harvey wants and what Harvey doesn’t want. Ruth is a brilliant artist, she can draw anything, she has excellent taste and an eye for what works. Delmarr believes she’ll be a great designer someday. All this talk of Harvey and babies makes that seem like a faraway dream. Can’t Ruth hear what she is saying?
“What, you don’t like Susan?” Ruth looks at me.
“No, no, it’s a nice name.”
“What’s the matter?” Ruth looks at me intently. She knows what I’m thinking, but I don’t want to get into an argument. I love her too much to force my opinions on her. So I smile and say, “Nothing.”
“Faker.” Ruth breaks off a piece of black chalk and begins sketching. “You have nothing to complain about. DeMartino is as nice a name as Sartori. You’re lucky.”
I look down at my engagement ring, one round carat nestled in a circle of gold on my left hand. I guess I am lucky. I’m engaged to a nice Italian fellow whom I’ve known all my life. My parents like him. Even my brothers don’t mind him.
“Dante’s the kind of guy who would let you keep your name. He’d do anything you ask. I don’t know how you did it, Lu. You ended up with a looker who has a good heart. Not many of those to go around.”
“Lucia, Ruth, I need to see you in my office,” Delmarr says from his doorway. Ruth and I look at each other. Delmarr’s tone sounds official, and official usually means bad news.
“Okay, what did we do wrong?” Ruth asks as we take our seats in Delmarr’s office. “Mrs. Fissé hated the collar on her opera coat?”
“There’s no problem, which is why I went to Hilda Cramer and asked her to give you gals a raise.”
“A raise!” I look at Ruth.
“What did she say?” Ruth asks evenly.
Delmarr smiles. “You got it. You go from forty-six seventy-five a week to forty-eight dollars and fifty cents.”
“Thank you!” I clap my hands together.
“Thank you,” Ruth says solemnly, letting the good news sink in slowly.
“You two make my life pleasant around here. You work hard, you take on extra assignments when I ask, you even work weekends once in a while. You’re professional, smart, and can actually carry on a conversation. I’m glad Hilda Beast bit on my request. It makes me very happy.”
Ruth looks at me, I look at her. We stand to embrace Delmarr to show our gratitude and realize that’s a line we’ve never crossed. She knows what I’m thinking, and I know what she’s thinking, so we cross the line anyway and throw ourselves on Delmarr. He pushes us away like eager puppies.
“That’s enough, kids. We got work to do. Sartori, let’s go. We got a date in B.”
I go to my desk, pull the pincushion over my wrist, grab the seamstress chalk, and follow him into the fitting room. Our favorite model, Irene Oblonsky, a six-foot blond Russian beauty, all neck and legs and angular edges, stands in her slip on a pine block. From every angle in the three-way mirror, she looks like a rose, one lean line with a bloom at the top. The only curve on her body is the round descent of her shoulders into her long, slender arms. A cigarette dangles from her mouth. She looks bored. She is bored.
Delmarr gently takes the cigarette from Irene’s mouth and places it in an ashtray. “Scissors.” He holds out his hand. I place the scissor handles in his palm, like Kay Francis when she played a surgical nurse in one of her melodramas. I watch as Delmarr drapes white cotton muslin tightly over Irene’s frame and begins cutting. Where he cuts, I pin. I follow his every movement, across her back, under the arms, over the décolletage, nipping in the waist, draping the skirt, closing the seams. Soon Irene is totally covered in a muslin that looks like a strapless gown.
“Take it in at the knee. Jacques Fath is showing the mermaid,” Ruth says from the doorway. “Make it so tight that she walks in short steps.” Delmarr nods in agreement, and I pin the gown closely around the knees like a second neckline.
“Needs interest over the bust, or we’re looking at another dull strapless.” With his scissors, Delmarr creates giant petals from the muslin, handing them to me to hold. Then he takes a large runner of muslin and ties a giant bow over her bust. He anchors the petals of fabric under the bow, creating a stiff base over the bodice. I pin them quickly. The slim silhouette works. It is bolder than the New Look, already passé with its circle skirts and tight waistlines. This is much more dramatic and modern.
“Done.” Delmarr steps back, and I finish pinning.
“Now, that’s interesting,” Ruth says.
Irene lifts and extends her arms, slowly turning. She stops and looks at herself in the mirror. “Goot.” She shrugs.
“Let’s do it in satin. Ruby red. Not cherry. Not garnet. Ruby. And make me a wide belt, let’s say four inches, with a simple square closure. The belt should ride over her natural waistline. Cover all of it in satin, I don’t want to break the line. I don’t want to see a black grommet, nothing but red from bosom to floor. Make one, complete and finished. By Friday.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Helen, Violet!” Delmarr calls, never taking his eyes off Irene.
Helen Gannon, the pattern cutter, a lanky redhead so lean she could be a model herself, breezes in. She stops when she sees the gown, and complains, “Uh-huh. Big bow the size of Jersey City. Nice, Delmarr. Didn’t your mother teach you simple is better? This thing has more layers than a tulip.”
“It’s called au courant,” Delmarr tells her. “Violet, where are you?”
Violet Peters, a small brownette in charge of assembly, comes running. “I’m here. I’m here,” she says nervously. Viol
et worries about everything, but she needn’t worry about her job. Delmarr trained her himself, so they have a shorthand. Violet looks at Irene. “Whoa.” Then she says to Delmarr, “This is labor-intensive.”
Delmarr disregards her. “Uh-huh.”
Helen and Violet hover around Irene like bees and remove the pieces of muslin one at a time, placing them neatly on a long table off to the side.
I go directly to the fabric room next door to check our stock. As I flip through the tall tubes, bolts of velvet, wool, silk, and gabardine, the only satin I find is a sheer beige, left over from a trousseau we built for a Greek girl from Queens (there’s lots of money in those diners).
“Why the rush?” I ask Delmarr on the way back to my station.
“The McGuire Sisters have a new show at the Carlyle. And they want Paris runway.”
“The McGuire Sisters!” Wait until I tell Ruth.
“Deliver a fabulous gown, and there may be some ringside tickets in it for you.”
“Please. My dad loves them!” I say.
“What about your fiancé?”
“What about him?”
“I was thinking a romantic evening, just you and Dante.”
“He’s not the nightclub type. Bakers are in bed by eight. The dough has risen by three A.M., so that’s when they get up to make the bread.”
“I’ll remember that the next time I order ham on a roll. I’ll think of your Dante, who gave up all fun so that I might have fresh bread for lunch.”
“You do that,” I tell him.
After a day of hemming black satin opera coats with Ruth (the Philharmonic’s fall schedule resumes this weekend), I am ready for a good meal and a glass of wine. This is the first time the DeMartinos and Sartoris have had dinner together since Dante and I announced our engagement. We see so much of the DeMartinos in the neighborhood, since they supply the Groceria with bread and pastries, that an official dinner about wedding details seems a little much. But Mama, who wants to do things right, insisted we sit down and discuss all the plans with both sets of parents. “Respect,” Mama says. “You’ll find out it’s more important than food on the table once you are married.”
Dante and I have been engaged for six months, so it’s time to start planning in earnest. It’s not easy when Dante works around the clock with little time off. At least Papa closes the Groceria on holidays. My future father-in-law challenged me when I suggested that he close the bakery once in a while. He said, “What day of the year don’t people eat bread?”
After waiting a few minutes for the bus, I decide to walk home. I love my long walks in the city. Nature itself doesn’t change as much as the store windows on Fifth Avenue, where there is always something new to see. The streets empty out after work hours. For several blocks it’s actually quiet enough to think.
I take a right turn on Ninth Street toward Sixth Avenue, passing stately brownstones with wide stoops and bay windows bedecked with elaborate silk draperies. There are a couple of large apartment buildings with green and white canvas awnings stretched over the sidewalk on polished brass rods. I’ve wondered all my life what it would be like to live in one of those buildings, to have an elegant uniformed doorman hail cabs and help with boxes after a day of shopping uptown.
The most beautiful homes in New York City are always situated near the parks, in this case Washington Square. The doormen wink at me as I pass, and sometimes I wink back. Some days I get more winks than others, usually when I’m wearing this hat. There’s something about blue velvet. As I wait to cross Sixth Avenue, a truck comes to an abrupt halt in front of me.
“Get in.”
“Exodus, for crying out loud!”
“Move it, sis.”
I climb into the delivery truck with Exodus, the most rugged of my brothers and the one who’s usually in trouble for one thing or another. Exodus has light brown hair with some red in it. His face is shaped like Papa’s, and he has Mama’s eyes. He’s often mistaken for one of those tall, broad-shouldered Irish boys, but once you hear him curse in Italian (which he does often), you know he’s one of us. I’ve always admired his bravado; he’s honest, and couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of him. He can also keep a secret, which is a plus in a large family.
“Ma’s tearing her hair out. The DeMartinos are sitting there like marble statues. I just dropped off a case of soda, so it’s an eyewitness account.”
“They’re already there?” I should have known to get home sooner. The DeMartinos are always early. When Dante and I once went to the movies with his mother, she arrived so early that she saw the end of the show before ours and ruined it for herself.
“Yep. I hope when you have a girl, it don’t look like the old lady. Faccia de Bowwow.”
“She’s not that bad,” I tell him.
“Here’s how I see things. A beauty like you marries into a tribe like that, you have a baby girl, and the beauty gets half canceled by his mother automatically, no questions asked.”
“Thank you for pointing out that our children—your future nieces and nephews—won’t get a fair shake in the beauty department. It gives me great comfort.”
“Why you wanna marry him, anyway?”
“I thought you liked Dante.”
“He’s a dolt. They’re all dolts. They work in dough, for Christsakes. Yeast rises, and how? It’s full of air. How smart can they be?”
“They run a very successful bakery.”
“Who can’t make cookies and make a living? That’s nothin’. I hope you know what you’re doing, Lucia.”
“I absolutely do. Besides, nobody asked you.”
“Yeah, well. You should. I know you’re gettin’ old and all, but it doesn’t mean you got to rush.”
“I’m not rushing.” If only Exodus knew how slowly I have taken things with Dante. I love my fiancé, but I wish I could stay engaged another year or two. I like how things are.
When Exodus pulls up to our house to drop me off, Papa is waiting on the sidewalk.
“You’re late.” My father opens the door for me.
“Sorry, Papa. They weren’t supposed to be here until seven.” I jump out of the truck. “I have news. You’ll never believe it. I got a raise!”
Papa claps his hands together joyfully, just as I did, and smiles broadly. “That’s my girl!” he says with pride. “You deserve it. My mother would be so proud. See, all those sewing lessons she gave you paid off.”
“I wish she could see me put up a hem now. I hardly miss a stitch!”
“She sees you. She knows.” Papa puts his arm around me as we go up the steps. I am happy about the raise, but the best part is making my father happy. His approval means everything to me. As we enter the house, I hear Perry Como on the phonograph. The sweet smell of sage, roasted onions, and basil greets me in the hall. I don’t bother going to my room to freshen up. I open the door and walk into the front parlor.
“Mrs. DeMartino, you look lovely.” I kiss my future mother-in-law on the cheek. She smiles at me. Exodus is right; this is a plain face with a touch of the bulldog. “I like your hair.”
“I went to the beauty parlor.” She fluffs the curls in her jet-black hair. “Why so late, Lu?”
“I walked home.”
“O Dio. Alone?” Mrs. DeMartino looks at her husband.
“Yes. But don’t worry about me. I stick to a safe route. I know all the doormen.” As soon as I say this, I realize I shouldn’t have. I sound cheap, as if I collect doormen like racing stubs. Mrs. DeMartino leans over and mutters something to her husband in Italian that I don’t catch.
“Mr. DeMartino, it’s wonderful to see you.” I extend my hand.
“How are you?” Mr. DeMartino is wearing wool slacks and a shirt and tie. I’ve never seen him out of his white apron.
“Where’s Dante?”
“He’s locking up the store. Your brothers went to pick him up.” Mrs. DeMartino looks at my dress intently.
“Oh, thank you for this lovely dress.”
>
“My cousin brought several back from Italy, my girls picked theirs, and I thought you might like one. I know you’re fussy about clothes, but I figured this one would do.” She smiles.
“I like it very much. If you’ll excuse me, I should go and help Mama.”
I go into the kitchen, where Mama is ladling tomato sauce over the bracciole, small bundles of tender beef stuffed with basil. “They got here so early!” she whispers.
“I see.”
“I’m going to give you some advice. You’re young. You can bend. Never argue with Claudia DeMartino. She will kill you.”
I laugh loudly. Mama shushes me. I say, “It’s not like when you were a young bride and Nonna lived here and you were practically her maid. Times have changed. I don’t have to take orders from my mother-in-law. I’ll do my fair share because I want to, not because I have to.”
“Have to, want to, doesn’t matter. She’s the padrone,” Mama whispers.
“Lucia?” Dante stands in the doorway. He looks so handsome in his suit, and his smile is so warm, I am reminded why I love him. Dante bears a strong resemblance to the movie star Don Ameche, with black eyes, thick brown hair, a strong nose, and a full mouth; and my Dante definitely has his broad shoulders. When I was a girl, I made a scrapbook of newspaper clippings about all of Don Ameche’s movies, and when I saw Dante for the first time, I thought it was fate that a boy from the East Village looked like my favorite movie star.
I throw my arms around my fiancé and kiss him on the cheek. “Sorry I kept your parents waiting,” I apologize.
“It’s okay. Mama’s been waiting all day to taste your mother’s bracciole.”
Mama grunts softly at the competition. We ignore it.
“Dante, I got a raise!” I tell him proudly.
“Good for you!” Dante kisses me. “You work so hard. I’m glad they noticed.”