Levon had also fallen out of touch. His April show had been a success, but since then, the city had folded in on itself, retreated from art, from music. No doubt he was suffering financially as much as Clara was, if not more so. The Grand Central School of Art had indeed been forced to shut its doors until the situation improved. The once-dazzling art scene of New York was like a golden sarcophagus locked away in a dark tomb.
What if, as rumors suggested, the current economic disaster was permanent? The daily breadline just down the street at St. Vincent’s Hospital had doubled in length from last summer; newspaper accounts put it at five hundred people and growing as the weather worsened.
Angela broke into her morbid thoughts. “May I ask where you’re going, Miss Darden?”
“Don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine.” Clara took Angela’s hands in hers. “Off you go, and thank you.”
“Best of luck, Miss Darden.”
“You, too.”
She took a last look into each room, remembering the silly times they’d had, when what to wear for Oliver’s dinner parties had been the most important decision of the day. She hoped he was well and his family’s fortune safe.
Her two suitcases sat in the foyer. One was filled with her art supplies, her livelihood. The other contained her clothes, what remained after she’d taken dresses to the consignment shop in the summer. To keep her hopes up for a return to better times, she’d held on to the dress Oliver had bought her for the May Ball. Maybe one day she’d wear it again, appreciate it anew.
The October air sliced into her lungs as she covered the eight blocks to her new home on East Seventeenth Street, the unimaginatively named Hotel 17. A man leaning on crutches scooted out of the way as she walked up the front steps. Inside, she handed over a month’s rent to a grizzled woman behind the front desk and took the elevator up to room 35.
She busied herself setting up her meager possessions, which took only five minutes. At least the hotel had good bones. The dark moldings were handsome, and with some polish she’d be able to make them gleam again. The room had once been larger, but now a shoddily constructed partition divided it in half. She tried not to think too much about the occupant on the other side.
There was nothing to be done about the sink, as no amount of soap would scrub away the rusty stains encircling the drain. Sure, the place was a dump, but it was cheaper than a boardinghouse. She’d manage. She always had.
A burst of sunlight came through the lone window beside the bed. For a moment, she considered asking for another room, one with northern exposure. But the feeble warmth changed her mind.
For now, she lifted her face, closed her eyes, and basked in the light.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
December 1974
Virginia ran into one of the phone booths at the end of her lunch hour the Monday after Thanksgiving, and rang the Lorettes to find out what the art expert had said. Mr. Lorette told her that their friend Sammy was quite intrigued by her find, but that it would take a few weeks.
Intriguing. That sounded promising. Newly energized, Virginia grabbed a bottle of Windex and spent the next few hours wiping down the glass windows that encircled the information booth. After all her hard work, the place was looking spiffy, if she did say so herself, and one of the supervisors had even remarked on the difference. Terrence kindly gave Virginia all the credit, and the supervisor had shaken her hand.
She had a final section to wipe down, including Totto’s window, and she worked as quickly as possible. “You’ll like this, I promise,” she said to him. “You’ll be able to see your customers much better.”
“Why would I want to see them better?” He flipped over the WINDOW CLOSED sign and pulled out the newspaper.
“Virginia?”
Virginia froze. She knew that voice anywhere. Betsy.
She turned, clutching the Windex and rag close to her body, as if that would stop Betsy from noticing.
“I thought that was you. What on earth are you wearing? And what are you doing here?” Betsy’s hair fell in perfect sausage curls along her cheeks; her eyelids shimmered a glittery blue. Virginia, meanwhile, was lost in her too-big blazer, her face bare.
“Hi, Betsy.” She accepted an air kiss on one cheek, stammering for a suitable reply to her question. None came. Better to redirect. “What are you doing here?”
Betsy pointed to her umbrella. “It’s pouring out there, and I figured I’d take my chances and cut through Grand Central, try to get a cab on the other side.” She gasped. “Oh my God. Now it all makes sense. I was at the Carlyle over the weekend with some of the girls from the PONY committee and swore I saw Ruby working as a barmaid. I thought, ‘That can’t possibly be.’ And now here you are, a cleaning lady at Grand Central? You must be in terrible straits. Divorced and now this? What can I do?”
“I’m fine. Really.” What else was there to say? Her humiliation was complete. By the end of the day, everyone would know that she’d fallen on hard times. A cleaning lady whose daughter worked in a bar.
“I’m so sorry for you, Virginia. If you needed a cleaning job, I could have used you in the penthouse. Lucinda just quit. With no advance notice, I might add.” She looked about, her mouth curling with disgust. “This place is revolting. I hope you’re careful, with all the rats and roaches and dirty people wandering around.”
“Hey. Watch it, lady. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Virginia turned around. Totto was leaning forward on his counter, his arms crossed.
“What?” Betsy looked from Totto to Virginia. “Who’s that?”
“Get off your high horse, lady,” Totto snapped. “Don’t you come in here with your ugly blue eyeshadow and bad-mouth this place. We’ve gotta work here, day in and day out, and your attitude doesn’t help one bit.”
“Totto, enough,” said Virginia.
“Miss Clay.” Winston had come out of the booth and took the Windex and rag from her. “I’m so sorry to have forgotten these. I hope you won’t tell the stationmaster.”
Virginia stared, speechless.
“Miss Clay is running the whole place these days, you know, as the chief information officer.” Winston addressed Betsy with his laconic southern accent. “She’s a tough taskmaster, but we don’t know what we’d do without her.”
Betsy gaped at Virginia. “Chief information officer?”
“Well, yes.” Virginia tried to sound confident. “Thought I’d see what I could do to help out, something to do with my free time.” She looked over at Winston, who nodded in encouragement. “I decided there should be more to my life than shopping and going out to lunch.”
“Well, isn’t that something? I had no idea.” Betsy nodded at Virginia. “I’ll let you get back to work, then. I’m very impressed. Just wait until I tell the ladies of PONY.”
After Betsy had trotted up the staircase and disappeared from view, Virginia followed Winston back into the booth. “Thank you, both, for that. For standing up for me.”
“I was standing up for the terminal, not you,” said Totto, switching his sign back around. “People like that make me want to scream.”
“And scream you did.” Winston handed back the Windex and rag and climbed onto his stool. “What a horrible woman. Is she one of your friends?”
“Ex-friends. Again, you guys were great.” She kissed Winston on the cheek and patted Totto’s arm. “Now back to work, both of you!”
“Don’t push it.”
Virginia could have sworn Totto smiled.
