“I didn’t mean that, Lucy.” How did the conversation veer off to this place? Lucy tucked the last curl into the knot on Allene’s head, but she was frowning with something between irritation and concern. Allene surrendered. “Very well. Tell Father I’ve gone out to the new hat shop on Seventh Avenue and am going to see a film with Andrew’s sister. I’ll be home by dinner.”
Lucy nodded primly. When the driver asked for instructions, Allene didn’t even have to look at the folded paper in her beaded reticule.
“Three-thirty Fifth Avenue, Brooklyn.”
Dawlish was even more cabbage-like than usual; he likely hadn’t yet had his morning tea. He frowned upon hearing the address. “Brooklyn? Why, I was just there—”
“Oh, Dawlish, just go, for heaven’s sake.”
He turned around in his seat and wordlessly drove. Wise man. A copy of the Times was on the seat next to her. Dawlish always kept a recent paper there for Father to read, as it was usually he who was chauffeured first thing in the morning. Allene perused the headlines. “Liner Had Five Deaths Due to Influenza: Big Passenger Steamship Reports Twenty-One Cases on Voyage to New York.”
“Well. It’s a good thing I’m not traveling,” she said to no one in particular. Hmm. Could Florence have succumbed to a sudden illness? She doubted it. From what she knew, influenza wasn’t so flagrantly ambitious as to suddenly kill off healthy young people like herself or Florence.
“Here we are, Miss Allene.”
Allene looked out the window. She had barely noticed the streets and bridge whizzing past, and here she was. The brownstone building had bricks shadowed in black stains and a broken first step. The windows were darkened by curtains, and Allene immediately had the sense that the structure itself was trying its darnedest to shut her out.
“Shall I wait for you, miss?” Dawlish asked. He seemed more anxious than she.
“No. Come back for me around quarter to six. Good-bye.”
Dawlish idled at the curb anyway. Up and down the street, men and women were walking to work. Mothers led children to the school yard down the street, where the little ones peeled off. Men walked with a telltale arthritic, stiffened gait and leaned on canes. There was something odd about the proportion of men to women. She narrowed her eyes.
Oh. So many young men had gone to war, of course.
Well, not all had gone. She thought of Jasper and Andrew—both yet too young for the draft, and Father was too old. Father occasionally wrote to the family of his former butler, Stephen, who was fighting in France. Her cousin was there too, but she never asked Father for news about Clarence—she didn’t really want to know. All news was bad news. Allene was thankful every day that she had been born a girl. She thought of Jasper and remembered hearing that his older brother, Oscar, had died—was it from some terrible training accident? She couldn’t recall. Why, Jasper hadn’t mentioned him one bit at the party. And what was worse, Allene hadn’t asked how he fared as an only child like her, or as an orphan.
Across the street, two posters on a shop window glared at her. Uncle Sam pointed at her so rudely—Lord, she was tired of seeing that obnoxious finger—and the other showed a girl bedecked in stars and stripes, dozing on a chaise. “Wake up, America!” it yelled at Allene. Father bought plenty of Liberty Bonds to help with the war effort, and they’d drastically cut down on buying sugar lately. She drank her tea plain, didn’t she? She allowed Esther to enforce Meatless Tuesdays and Wheatless Wednesdays.
After one last glance at the poster, Allene murmured under her breath, “No one with an ounce of sense would wear a scarf like that. How utterly gauche.”
She stepped to the front door of Birdie’s apartment building and knocked, but the door opened immediately. Birdie stood in the doorway, clad in a plain work dress of faded green, a satchel in hand. Allene looked over her shoulder and waved Dawlish away like he was an errant gnat, and the shining motorcar grumbled off.
Allene embraced Birdie and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. A waft of stale air oozed out from the building’s stairwell. Allene tried not to make a face.
“Well, good morning! Aren’t I to come up to your place first?”
Birdie stiffened. “Whatever for? Did you have breakfast yet?”
“Oh yes.” Seeing Birdie’s face, she realized Birdie didn’t want her there. But she was curious, especially about Holly and Hazel. Her eye twitched, and disappointment pushed out her lower lip. “Well, I suppose we should get on. Anyway, the posters on the street are giving me the evil eye. Let’s go.”
“Is . . . is that what you’re wearing?” Birdie pointed.
Allene spread her skirt with her gloved hands. Was it not sufficiently au courant? Had it creased on the drive over? “Well, yes. Should I be wearing something else?”
“You don’t look like you’re going to work. We’re going to a factory. You look as if you own it.” There was an inscrutable expression on her face. “Did you bring another dress to change into?”
“Oh dear, no. Well, must you go to work? Surely you can take the day off.”
“I can’t.” Birdie hesitated. Finally, she mumbled, “We need the money.”
“Well, what I have to tell you can’t wait until Saturday.”
“I have to work Saturday too.”
“Good God, you do?” She bit her lip, thinking. “Very well then, maybe I can borrow a day dress from you?”
Birdie reddened. She seemed trapped. A streetcar rumbled by a few blocks over. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed.
“All right. Come on up. We don’t have much time.”
Birdie widened the door, and Allene slipped inside. The stale air turned into a stench. Somewhere, someone’s toilet wasn’t working; she covered her mouth, and Birdie’s eyes flicked to the floor as she led her up the stairs.
“It’s not always this bad. I’m sorry. We’ll be out of here soon enough.”
Allene nodded, paralyzed into silence by the odor. The stairwell had plaster stained brown here and there, and a few scraps of rubbish adorned the corners. The steps creaked with each footstep as they made their way up. On the second floor, Allene took her hand away so she could breathe more deeply despite the smell. By the fourth floor, she was panting with exertion. She’d never had to climb more than two flights at a time in her entire life, and not in such conditions. The Cutter house took up almost half a city block and was a three-story affair, but Allene hardly ever felt the need to run up those steps.
At the top of the stairwell, Birdie unlocked a door and quietly pushed it open, poking her head inside before letting Allene in. The room wasn’t a sitting room or kitchen or bedroom chamber. It was everything at once. The sink and icebox were crammed into the space by the door, decently clean, though everything was old and tired. The upholstery on the sofa was worn and tattered at the edges. The space was mercilessly depressing.