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FOR DAVID SHABER

If there was one place in this world Edith never expected trouble, it was Bloomingdale
’
s.

For two reasons, one minor, one major. The minor reason was familiarity: Edith had shopped the store since childhood. The family duplex was at 65th and Park, so when her mother needed to buy her overalls or Mary Janes, logic dictated Bloomingdale
’
s.

Edith
’
s mother never much liked the place. And with good enough reason, since it
’
s difficult for people today to remember that not so long ago, the giant department store at 59th and Lex wasn
’
t much above Macy
’
s in quality, and certainly ranked far below Altman
’
s or Bergdorf s or Saks.

Mrs. Mazursky, a sweet tub, naturally could have afforded cabs anywhere she wanted, but something in her rebelled at the financial waste. She was wealthy now, very, but she had been born middle-class Brooklyn, and even though her body presently inhabited Manhattan
’
s Upper East Side, her soul would never budge from Flatbush Avenue.

By the time Edith was ten, she was allowed to go off to the store alone, on the proviso that she had been good the day before, which Edith generally managed to be only on days ending in
y.
So she would bathe carefully and don her best party dress and take a small purse and skip on over.

And spend, literally, hours. Riding the escalators, and lingering in the toy department, and staring at the foods from all over the world, and sitting in the furniture floor samples while imagining adventures that often involved her having to step in for Nancy Drew when Nancy was mysteriously taken ill, and studying the paintings on the walls in the decorator showrooms, carefully
noting how the painting would have altered if she had been dealing with the canvas.

Country children often fantasize on hilltops or in treehouses; Edith
’
s magic place was Bloomingdale
’
s and it kept its hold o
n
her while she grew. No better proof need be given than the simple recounting of the furor Edith caused when she was thirty-two and attending one of Sally Levinson
’
s
very
formal dinner parties.

Sally had been Edith
’
s roommate at Radcliffe, and was her dearest dearest friend. (She was also an anglophile of maddening proportions. A Chicago girl, her English accent would have shamed Alistair Cooke.) Upon graduation, with part of her inheritance, she opened an art gallery on 57th Street. She was aggressive and tasteful and willing to gamble on unknown talent, and soon she had one of the best galleries on 57th Street. Once that fact was established, Sally said
“
screw
”
to all the fancies and moved to the Village, and when that became too chic, to SoHo. Eventually she bought a building in TriBeCa before anyone could even spell it, and today people come from this country and abroad to see just what it is that Sally Levinson is up to
now.
Few things still give Sally more pleasure than standing by her windows and watching the rich, with that panicked look in their eyes—ye Gods, where
are
we?—moving along TriBeCa
’
s streets frantically trying to find the sanctuary of the Levinson Gallery.

Sally was born rich but she never thought much about it. She wasn
’
t sure if she
’
d been born a Lesbian or not, but she knew she was one. She hid it, of course, kept her hair long, wore lots jsf makeup, dated every weekend at Francis Parker in her teens. She was popular at Radcliffe, probably more than Edith, who became her roommate junior year. They had both wanted singles, the administration had erred, they decided what the hell, let
’
s try it and see.

By Christmas of that year, Sally was terribly, and as it turned out, permanently in love with Edith. Oh, not physically. She would have cut off her hand before it tried to touch.

It was just that if you were Sally, Sally the dyke from Chicago, if you had her demons inside you, dawn and night inside you, you had to love Edith Mazursky, she was just that tranquil, that decent, that nonjudgmental. Edith was simply, in other words, so fucking
good.

By spring vacation, the time had come to decide on senior year
roommates. Edith, one morning over coffee, suggested they continue on. Sally, of course thrilled, simply blew hard into her steaming cup and said that well, she
’
d have to think about it. Edith, certainly surprised, perhaps hurt, said that well, that was probably a wise thing to do.

Edith took her books and went off to classes. Sally cut her classes and lay alone on her bed, chain smoking. She had always suspected it would be hard the first time she told someone. She never guessed it would be immobilizing. It seemed fair to her that before she accepted Edith
’
s suggestion, Edith know her truth. But more than that, Edith was the first straight person Sally had met who she felt might not just not scorn her, but might even understand.

How to tell, though; how to tell?

That night, late, when Sally came in from
‘
Having a few at the local
”
as she always put it, Edith was getting ready for sleep, face scrubbed, sitting on the edge of her bed, brushing her thick reddish hair. Sally suspected that if Edith had ego about anything, it was that, her hair; on an Irisher like Maureen O
’
Hara it was nice enough; on a Jewish girl from Manhattan it was gold.

Sally flopped in the overstuffed chair across the room.
“
Phillip again?
”
she asked. Edith had been seeing Phillip Holtzman for several months now and they were obviously in love.

Edith nodded, went on brushing her reddish hair. A hundred strokes, no matter what.

“
Ya get in?
”
Sally wondered.

Edith didn
’
t honor the remark with a reply.

“
Well how
‘
bout bare tit?
”

Edith gave Sally a look.

“
That
’
s how men talk, isn
’
t it? I mean, tell me that
’
s not the way they go on about us? Gonna marry Phillip?
”

Edith put her brush down, sat there in silence, just staring at her roommate. Waiting.

“
Me, I wonder if I
’
ll ever marry,
”
Sally said finally.
“
Where is it fucking written that marriage is ice cream? Sure, if it
’
s kids you
’
re after, I wouldn
’
t want some bastard, that
’
s shitty to the kid,
but maybe I
’
ll just
”
—
and now the words came faster—
”
you wanna screw, you live with some guy, you
’
re bored, it
’
s on to the next, no papers, no contract—-or living alone, who
’
s to say that
’
s so terrible—you get horny, you hit your local, pick up some jerk,
bring him back, let him plug away for a while, or maybe, or maybe if that
’
s not the answer, then—
”

Suddenly from Edith now:
“
Shh.
”

Sally quieted.

“
I know.
”
And it was clear from her tone that she did know. Everything. And that she didn
’
t much care. Sally got out the vodka, poured herself a double. Edith went back to brushing her hair …

So they roomed together senior year, becoming like sisters,
spatting like sisters too, often about Sally
’
s anger that Edith pissed
away her talent, because it was evident to Sally even then that
Edith had the hands
and
the eye, that Edith could paint. Though
she rarely did.
_r

On graduation, Edith married Phillip and Sally got terribly angry that Edith was so hidebound by tradition that she wouldn
’
t let Sally be best man at the ceremony.

And when Edith got quickly and happily pregnant Sally went to England where she studied art for two years and came back with that accent that only Edith was allowed to tease her about. And she opened her gallery and began giving parties at her
“
digs,
”
a large, terraced Fifth Avenue apartment just up from the Pierre, that she bought with another part of her inheritance. The view of the city was startling and different, depending on the time of year.

The parties were more or less the same. A dozen guests. Talented painters, some of them known; endless English, some of them titled. Art critics and art buyers, and Edith and Phillip whenever they wanted to come. The main courses were always fancy French—even Sally couldn
’
t bring herself to inflict shepherd
’
s pie on the unsuspecting. But the wine was always
“
claret,
”
the appetizer smoked salmon from Fortnum and Mason
’
s.

The Bloomingdale
’
s furor that Edith created happened all very fast. Lady somebody or other, who was seated to Edith
’
s left, had never been to America before and quietly inquired as to where it might be best to shop.

Edith
’
s answer was obvious.

“
Bite your tongue,
”
Sally said to Edith, and then to Lady somebody or other,
“
Edith
’
s a bit of a wag, ignore the child. Bendel
’
s or Bergdoff s would more than suit your needs.
”

“
I prefer Bloomingdale
’
s,
”
Edith replied.

“
Ticky-tacky,
”
Sally said.

Edith turned to Lady whatever.
“
You
’
ll thank me.
”

“
Edith,
”
Sally warned, with just enough of a shift in tone to bring all other conversations to a halt. Phillip, seated between the ladies, had heard and loved these spats for years. He sat there, arms folded, the only one at the table smiling.

“
Let her try it and see
, S
ally
…
”

“
—why don
’
t you send our visitors to Lane Bryant, Edith?— no—
no
—I
’
ve got it—they can feel really ritzy and visit S. Fucking Klein
’
s—
”

“
—you
’
re a silly child, Sally
Levinson, because I think Bloom
ingdale
’
s happens to be the greatest department store in the world—
”

And now the battle was fully joined.
“
Greater than Harrods, you twit?
”

“
Far! Yes!!
Now and forever!
”

“
Stop her, Phillip,
”
Sally said, reaching for his hand.
“
Stop her or you
’
ll find me in
art
early grave.
”

Alas, it was Edith who found one
…