The Child Lives On
Chapter Twenty One
Large leafy trees and utility poles raced by. Wires stretched out like lines drawn by a child, trailing on and on and on. The engine and tires made droning noises, not unlike a swarm of bees. Ogden stared intently at the road ahead, hands gripping tightly to the wheel. I could only assume there was a road, circumstantial evidence let me know it was there, but when I gazed out of the window, all I could see were trees, poles, wires and sky.
Our destination: New York City. The purpose: a business conference. If you are in the fashion industry, as Ogden has been for many, many years, you will need to connect with the city in one way or another. Most of the big designers are there.
The war was over, and Ogden was bringing in a new line. During the war years, his factory produced army uniforms. Now with peace and the hope of prosperity, excitement and optimism were the order of the day. I could see it in his face, and hear it in his voice.
Even at my age, I am not allowed to stay at home alone. I was given a choice: accompany Margie to Schenectady, or accompany Ogden to New York City. Now, I have nothing against Margie's aunt, c'est une douce dame, I merely thought la grande ville would be more interesting. Besides, Margie needed time to herself. La familiarité engendre le mépris, or so they say.
"Manhattan," Ogden called out. "It won't be long now." Extremely tall buildings loomed. Raucous noises filled my ears. Excitement and anxiety threatened to overwhelm me. To keep my hands from shaking, I clasped them together on my lap. Ogden pulled his motorcar up to the entrance of the fanciest of fancy hotels. A man in uniform opened the passenger side door and offered me a gloved hand. I took his hand and hopped out as ladylike as I could manage. Another uniformed man took the keys from Ogden and drove the motorcar away.
Taking my hand, Ogden led me through a glass door into a lobby three stories high with gigantic staircases and gold trim in every conceivable location. I had never seen anything like it, or even imagined such a place could exist. A crowd was gathering near the elevators while a string quartet played Mozart (ma musique préférée), barely heard amidst the buzz of conversation.
The elevator carried us to a conference room somewhere high up in the building. I do not know just how high. I was lost amongst the giants and could not see the numbers. When the elevator door opened, and the occupants dispersed, a large glimmering room made of glass and steel appeared before my eyes. A long glass table was situated in the middle, with smaller glass tables set up all around. Floor to ceiling windows revealed a stunning view of the city. People of all ages, shapes and sizes were milling about, laughing and chatting. Ogden was greeted with hearty handshakes and good-natured slaps on the back. Like I said before, excitement and optimism were the order of the day.
The first part of the meeting contained a lot of mind-numbing numbers and charts. I lost interest quickly. When the beancounters finished their presentation, Ogden woke me with a nudge. The participants were then ushered down elevators and led through a maze of hallways to a theater for a fashion show. The show featured both men and women models. As an 18th century girl, I still find it hard to comprehend and accept 20th century mores. Not long ago, a bare ankle was considered scandalous. Now, I cannot go anywhere without seeing painted faces and revealing clothes. Where will it all lead?
After the show, we were ushered into a lounge for a cocktail party. Jazz music was playing in the background. A woman in her forties, or thereabouts, and pretty once, I should think, latched on to Ogden. Her dress was flashy, her manner, showy. When she deigned to notice me, she said, "What an adorable child. Ooo, I just want to pinch those chubby little cheeks."
Suddenly afraid, I took a step back.
"And so old-fashioned," she said to Ogden. "Do you dress her?"
"No," he said. "She dresses herself."
"I am not as old-fashioned as I used to be," I said. "A hundred years ago, it took me almost an hour to don my petticoats."
Ogden laughed nervously. "She loves old novels. You know, Jane Austen and the like."
"Charming," said the woman
An old man tapped me on the shoulder. He was small (for a man) and thin, smartly dressed, and walked with the help of a cane. His wrinkled and time-worn face wore a pleasant smile. "Pardon me," he said. "We haven't been introduced. You are…?"
"Emily Charbonneau."
"Julius Morgan."
"Bonjour."
"I was noticing your sweater. Is it handmade?"
"Oui, Monsieur, I fashioned it."
"Lovely."
Ogden must have overheard. "I've been selling Emily's creations for years," he said.
"Years?" Monsieur Morgan raised a bushy eyebrow.
"She's slightly older than she appears."
"I see. The baby-face had me fooled."
At this point, the woman turned Ogden around and regained his full attention.
"Does he give you a good percentage?" asked Monsieur Morgan.
"Oui," I said, "but I put it into savings. Ogden provides everything I need."
"And what is your relationship to Ogden?"
"He is my guardian and friend."
"I thought he might be your grandfather."
"If only he were."
"You have the cutest little accent. From where do you hail?"
"France. Barfleur to be exact."
"Oh, I do love France."
"As do I."
"It used to be such a wonderful place."
"The war is over, Monsieur. Ma Chère France will rise from the ashes and be beautiful again."
"Vive la France!" he cried, flourishing his cane.
"Vive la France!" I cried as well.
In the excitement of the moment, I was tempted to sing 'La Marseillaise', but decided against it.
I found an empty table, and climbed into a chair. Ogden and the woman joined me. A handsome young waiter placed a small glass in front of me. I held it up to my nose and sniffed. "What is it?" I asked.
"A Shirley Temple," he said. "Don't worry, it's nonalcoholic."
I took a sip. "Ginger ale and..."
"Grenadine."
"Sweet."
"Like you."
"How do you know?"
"I can tell."
As he was walking away, he looked back and gave me a wink.
The party dragged on and on. I will go to the lobby and listen to Mozart, I said to myself; then thought again, No, no, I must not. I will most certainly get lost. Now and then, I would glance over at Ogden and the woman. She is awfully chatty, I was thinking. What could she possibly be talking about? Have you ever felt lonely in a crowd? Out of all the people in the room, the waiter was the only one to take notice of me. He returned often with drinks, hors d'oeuvres, and kind words. He said to me, "You remind me of my little sister."
"You treat her well, n'est-ce pas?"
"Oui, Mademoiselle. As Grandpa likes to say, she's the apple of my eye."
"A most fortunate girl."
"I could introduce you, if you like."
"Je suis désolé, we are only in town for one night."
"Oh well, it was just a thought."
The crowd was thinning out, and the woman showed no signs of stopping. In all my years, I have never seen anyone talk so much. At long last, when I was beginning to despair, she stood up abruptly, said goodbye, and walked away - just like that. Ogden looked over at me. "I didn't want to be impolite," he said, smiling sheepishly.
"You are the most patient of men."
"Either that or a coward."
"Ne sois pas absurde, Ogden. You are kind and generous to a fault, and I would have you no other way."
Having visited the city many times before, Ogden knew the best restaurants. The restaurant he chose was all glitz and glamour, right out of a Hollywood movie. The staff were young and beautiful and impeccably dressed, trained to make every guest feel like a movie star.
A handsome Maître d' in a tuxedo escorted us to a table, elegantly set. He asked, "Shall I put something on the chair for the young lady?" This was a predicament not new to me. Do I eat comfortably or retain my dignity? was the question I was asking myself. In the end, I chose comfort. Raising a hand in the air, he signaled to someone on the other side of the room. A young man rushed over with a small, smooth-edged wooden box, about the size of a phonebook. He set the box on the chair. The Maître d' lifted me onto the box, and pushed my chair in up close to the table.
The food and drinks were brought to the table with panache. The waiter, who resembled Rudolph Valentino, asked, "Shall I cut up your steak, miss?" Of course, I am perfectly capable of cutting up my own steak; but it seemed to make him happy, so I let him.
While we were enjoying our meal, Ogden and I talked of everyday things, then I had to go and put my foot in it. "Would you rather not be dining with a glamorous woman?" I asked. "Such as…"
"No," he said, curtly.
His tone should have been a clue, but sometimes I am a little less than observant. "But surely there is a woman to interest you."
A sigh escaped his lips.
"I have hit upon a sore subject, n'est-ce pas? We will talk of…"
He blurted out, "I was almost married once."
"Oh?"
"She was killed when a train derailed on the way to St. Louis."
"Killed?"
"Yes."
Suddenly, I felt like the biggest idiot in the world. Why did I not know? "Am I so selfish?" I said. "We have known each other for thirty..."
"Now, now, my dear," he said, "don't worry yourself. You are not at all selfish. I just don't talk about it."
He was hurt so much that he never considered another woman? Jacques was the same, I remember. Love must be more powerful than I ever imagined.
"What about you?" he asked.
"Hmm?"
"Have you ever had a boyfriend?"
"Oh, little boys like me for a time, then they grow up."
"Little boys like you?"
"I am not without my charms."
"Of course, you are quite charming, my dear."
"However, they grow up and lose interest."
"I get the idea."
"Ogden, I have been wondering: Is it proper for an old lady to play with little boys?"
Heads turned at the sound of Ogden's loud guffaw, which shook him all over. When he regained control of himself, he said, "Your secret is safe with me, old lady. Ha ha ha ha..."
After dinner, we went to a Broadway theater and watched Annie Get Your Gun. He laughed at the most inappropriate times. During the ride to our hotel, I could hear him chuckling. The next morning at breakfast, he was still laughing.
Back home in Binghamton, he began to call me old lady. He would say, "Pass the salt, old lady," or to his friends, "Let me ask the old lady," and never failed to see the humor in it.
I have no one to blame but myself.