Well Behaved Wives(30)
So what if she was conflicted about her life? Today wasn’t about her. There was nothing wrong with teaching the girls how to look better. Then she recognized the judgment that thought implied and cringed.
Well, if she was honest, her assessment might be judgmental, but it was the truth. The girls could look more refined, maybe except for Harriet, who seemed to have a knack for current fashion and trends.
Lillian didn’t blame the girls for their shortcomings—not the way she blamed herself for her own—and wasn’t that what mattered?
She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray, eased the Lincoln onto City Line Avenue, and left her doubts on the road behind her as the car turned onto Fifty-Fourth Street.
Lillian pulled into a parking spot. She checked her face in the rearview mirror and reached into her purse for her compact. She dabbed powder on her nose and chin to ward off any shine. After snapping the compact shut and tossing it back into her purse, she was ready. Threading her arm through the bag’s leather handles, she stepped out onto the asphalt. The routine comforted her as much as a bowl of chicken noodle soup.
She strode toward the revolving door, head high, adrenaline coursing and buzzing through her, adding a rhythmic bounce to her step. She felt solidly in her element. The stores Lillian frequented—Saks, Gimbels, Lord & Taylor—the places she was seen without Peter, were where she floated with an effortless, even autonomous, grace.
Lillian flushed with shame at the thought, deepening the color of her cheeks.
Because without Peter’s charge account, she couldn’t buy dresses, coats, cosmetics, or the latest fragrance. She gazed at the ground; the stones embedded in it sparkled, cheering her slightly. Surprising—the places she could find beauty if she just looked.
Did it irk her that her social status and shopping privilege—while generous—were reliant on Peter’s permission and the money he provided? Or was she grateful?
She couldn’t deny it. Both were true. Lillian was unaccustomed to being wishy-washy. It didn’t feel good, and she strode toward the shopping experience to keep on solid ground.
Ten minutes later, Ruth, Irene, Harriet, and Carrie were gathered beside Lillian, surrounded by the cloud of new perfumes and the crystal atomizers of the fragrance department. The rich, sweet scent of jasmine assaulted Lillian, sending her into the past. Every night before Lillian’s father had walked in the door from work, her mother had patted her neck and wrists with Dorothy Gray Jasmin Bouquet eau de cologne while sitting at her vanity table.
“It’s his favorite,” her mother had said between dabs. As a girl, Lillian had giggled and swooned at the idea of her mother’s romantic gesture. Did her father ever acknowledge it? Comment on the scent? She didn’t remember.
As an adult, Lillian fixated on the choice of that perfume. Had it also been her mother’s favorite fragrance? The question vexed her.
“Is Shirley coming?” Harriet asked Ruth. Lillian knew the answer.
“Not today,” Ruth said. “On Mondays she plays mah-jongg.”
And, of course, the meat loaf. Lillian knew Shirley also made meat loaf on Mondays. Her friend and mentor was a creature of habit, set in her ways. Inflexible. Maybe it was a good thing this shopping day was on Monday. She didn’t need Shirley to check up on either her or Ruth.
Lillian turned to the counter girls. “Thank you, ladies. We’ll be sure to stop back.”
She smiled and waved, always polite to anyone who assisted her, whether at the San Marco with Peter on a Saturday night for surf and turf, or at Gimbels when she wanted a yontif dress for the holidays. And at Woolworth’s when she needed a new pencil.
Lillian might have been a stickler for propriety, but not at the cost of kindness. She’d learned that from her mother, who’d worked in the layette department of Gimbels. The precious employee discount enabled Anna Feldman to afford the store’s holiday clothes for her daughter. Ill-behaved and snooty customers often insulted her mother and sullied her pleasant disposition. On more than one occasion, Lillian had heard her mother cry in the bathroom at home. Little Lilly couldn’t imagine any other cause, so she blamed the cruel, rude characters in her mother’s Gimbels stories.
Still, department stores brought primarily happy thoughts of her mother. Her father, a broad, brawny navy yard mechanic who used coarse language, had wanted her mother to quit the job. Anna was a realist who knew better—they couldn’t afford it.
She never complained about working, but Lillian had sensed the subject was a springboard for the arguments between her parents. She and Peter had no such touchy topics because Lillian always behaved as was expected and kept dissenting opinions to herself.
As a child, her parents had argued and fought. That likely meant Anna had spoken up and her husband didn’t like what she’d said. Gran had said Anna liked to stir the pot. It was more of an accusation than a statement.
Maybe a little pot-stirring was harmless. Wasn’t it? Lillian flinched, not sure she believed it. Look what had happened to her mother. Her mother had gone away.
The Diamond Girls—Lillian quite liked the epithet—fell into line behind her. They trailed through furs, leather goods, and children’s wear, their heels and soles clicking in time with hers, like a trail of tap dancers.
Lillian held open the door to the women’s dressing room, ushering the girls into its soft lighting and sense of privacy. “Take a seat and we’ll get started.” She motioned to the gold, fabric-covered slipper chairs set in a semicircle around the fitting platform flanked by a three-way mirror. Lillian stood next to the platform.