The Dollhouse (13 page)

New York City, 2016

S
ix out of ten interviews booked.

“Not bad for a hard day's work.” Rose smiled down at Bird, who gave her the evil eye.

She refilled his water bowl and he slurped it down messily, then slunk off to his usual place on the couch.

The minute she'd woken up that morning, Rose had showered and dressed, and snapped Bird's leash onto his collar. But instead of heading outside, she'd sat on the sofa, waiting for the elevator's bright ring or the slamming of a neighbor's door, and then sprinted with Bird to the front door.

She and Bird would pop into the hallway and cheerily greet whichever neighbor was making her way out. When the neighbor inquired about who she was, she stopped and chatted, mentioning that she was helping out Stella with Darby's dog while she was away. Luckily, Stella had made many more friends than Darby over the years, and the neighbors responded with sympathetic clucks and expressions of gratitude. Most had recognized her from the news and, after she mentioned that she was doing a story on the elegant lives of the Barbizon ladies, four had immediately agreed to do a sit-down interview within the next two weeks. In one case, the woman had gone on at length about Sylvia Plath, whom she'd
seen once in the lobby, before Rose could impress upon her the idea that she was interested in her own story. Blushing, she'd readily agreed.

After each chat, she'd taken Bird around the block and back into the apartment, where she'd lain in wait for her next victim. She'd also reached out to Stella, who'd sounded annoyed at being stuck in New Jersey but relieved to hear that Bird was doing fine, and had agreed to be interviewed next week. Including Alice, that made six interviews lined up. Poor Bird was exhausted, and she'd given him a long ear-scratch for his troubles.

Her phone rang. Jason.

“I'm in the neighborhood; why don't you show me around the building?” He didn't even bother saying hello.

Rose's mind raced. He would have to see the building at some point, particularly if they were going to get the women on camera in their apartments. And she'd have to get permission from the management company to film B-roll in the public spaces. Video sucked. If she were writing a piece for
The
New Yorker
, she wouldn't have this problem. Ten thousand words, maybe a few photographs. But at WordMerge, even if it aspired to be a site for narrative writing, images and video were required. No one could be bothered to use their imagination anymore.

Since it was Saturday, Griff and Connie were probably up at the house in Litchfield, so she would be less likely to run into them. “Okay, but we can't film today.”

“Fine. Just show me the place so I can figure out what we'll need.”

She arranged to meet him at the service entrance. He wore the same army jacket and jeans, looking like a war correspondent on his day off. Which, of course, he was.

“So this is the place, huh?” He looked up and squinted in the bright sunlight.

“Yup. Follow me.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

She brought him inside, past the porter who worked the door on weekends.

“How's Mr. Bird's stomach?” he asked. He was a young kid, new to the doorman's union and eager to please.

“What?”

“You've been in and out all morning. Figured he'd eaten something that wasn't agreeing with him.”

“Right. Little guy's got the runs, but he's doing much better now, thanks.”

She entered the stairwell.

Jason's heavy steps trudged behind her. “Three questions.”

“Shoot.”

“Is Mr. Bird a bird, do birds get the runs, and why are we going up the back way?”

She reached the second-floor entrance. “Mr. Bird is a dog I'm dog-sitting, I don't know the answer to question number two, and we're going up the back way because it's a more direct route to where I want to take you.”

She led him down the hallway and pushed open the door to what the real estate agent had called the lounge, a public space that ran the length of the building.

Jason gave out a low whistle. The room remained a showpiece of the art deco era. Cream ceilings and walls contrasted with the polished mahogany floor, and love seats and sofas had been arranged in tableaux over geometric-patterned rugs. A black baby grand piano gleamed in the center of the room. Hardly any of the residents used the lounge, as far as Rose could tell. It had an air of sterile elegance, the walls dotted with black-and-white photos of some of its more famous residents.

“This is one of the public rooms, back then and still today.” She hugged her arms to her chest. She would have sworn the air still held the weak scent of perfume and cigarettes.

He took out his phone and shot some rough video, as well as several photos. “We should do the interviews in here. How many do you have lined up so far?”

“Seven.” She included Darby in her count, even though she probably ought not to assume.

“Nicely done.”

“Thanks. But keep in mind, this is a print story first and foremost.”

“Print is dead. Or seriously ill, at any rate. Your story is going online, with video elements.”

“I didn't mean print like paper.” She hated how flustered he made her. “I meant that the words come first, then the visuals.”

“What do you have against video?”

“Nothing. I just prefer long-form writing. Where the writer tells the story, visually, using words. I think we rely on images far too often these days. No one can be bothered to learn about any subject in depth, because it's all about the images. There's no intricacy.”

He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, as if he were suppressing a smile. “But what about images of events that rile people up, make them want to improve the world or change things? What about Hurricane Katrina, or Abu Ghraib? Do you think readers would have reacted the same way without the photos, the video?”

“Those images summed up the story in a way that caused outrage, no question. But what about when you're dealing with a subject that has multiple layers?”

“Give me an example.”

“Watergate. What one photo could explain the ramifications of political corruption in the White House?”

“I'm sure I could think of something.”

She'd backed him into a corner, but there was no reason to make enemies today. He'd be frustrated soon enough, once he realized how flimsy her hold was on Darby. “Anyway, thanks. I figured I was the only one working on a Saturday.”

“Just let me know what I can do to help.”

The offer was unexpected, and for some reason, her eyes burned with a rush of emotion. She shrugged her bag up on her shoulder and looked around. “I think we're good here. There's not much else to show.”

“Where did the maid fall from?”

“It was called the sky terrace in all the old articles on the building, but now it's part of someone's apartment. I'll work on that as well.”

“In that case, let's take a quick look around the lobby, then I'll buy you a coffee so we can brainstorm some ideas.” He paused. “If you have time, of course.”

Griff had to be in Connecticut. She made a silent prayer as they took the stairs down to the lobby. “You've seen the black-and-white photos of the lobby from when it was first built, right?”

“I have. Lots of palm fronds, if I remember correctly.”

“They went in a different direction when they renovated. Not a frond in sight.”

She breathed a sigh of relief that Patrick wasn't on duty. He didn't typically work weekends, and he was the only doorman who would ask about Connie's takeover.

Jason stood in the center of the lobby's marble floor and looked around. “I kinda miss all the original details, that grand balcony, for instance.”

“Yes, they basically stripped the place of all its character when they went condo, in my opinion. Not much to shoot.”

“Could be a great before and after. Once you've gotten permission, of course.”

“Of course.”

A loud voice reverberated across the room. “We'll want to make it a rush. Priorities are the bed and the dining room table. And the credenza. You agree?”

In a small alcove off the lobby, two women sat side by side on a sofa, staring down at some cut sheets laid out on the glass coffee table. The woman facing away from Rose and Jason had a single streak of gray that began, Rose knew, at the middle of her forehead and ran the length of her thick brown hair. Once, Griff had proudly recounted how he'd forbidden Connie to dye the streak when it first appeared in her twenties. He'd sounded so proud of the fact that she didn't look like all the other wives.
A toxic combination of jealousy and panic threatened Rose's fragile composure.

She turned around and pointed to the revolving door. “We should go.”

He followed her in silence until they got out onto the street. “Problems with your neighbors?”

“Exactly. One of the more difficult residents.”

She led him to a coffee shop on Lexington, her heart still pounding from the near miss.

They chose a booth near the back and ordered coffee. Jason tapped the edge of the table with his index finger. “So how did you get into journalism?”

“In high school I worked on the paper. Then I majored in journalism in college. I loved collecting facts and then making a story out of them. The perfect combo of science and art. How about you?”

“I thought the outfits were cool. You know, those flak jackets with all the pockets.”

She couldn't help but laugh.

“I'm only half kidding.”

“I'm not surprised. So let's talk about the structure for the story.” She fished for her notebook in the bottom of her bag. “I figure the text will start with the history of the place, then mention the denizens of the fourth floor.”

“
Denizen;
fancy word.”

“Resident, then.”

“No, I like denizen.”

Why was he toying with her? She couldn't get a good read on this guy. “I'll mention Darby McLaughlin's story in the opening, but then jump to each woman's story, in the order of when they first arrived. We'll cover the changes over time through their voices. At the end, I'll circle back to Darby and reveal what happened to her. We'll include extras like on-camera interviews, shots of the place past and present, that kind of thing.”

“Very nice. Won't get you the Pulitzer, though.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“There's no injustice, no quest. It's a boring feature.”

“I prefer to let the story reveal itself, rather than try to define the narrative immediately. It's all about asking the right questions.” She pushed her coffee to the side. “For now, I'm interested in learning more about these women's lives, what they wanted when they first came to the Barbizon, and whether they got it.”

“They obviously didn't get it. You're talking about a bunch of cat women who never moved, never had families. Otherwise they wouldn't still be there.”

She sat back and crossed her arms. “Do not call them cat women. Okay?”

“Fine. What should I call them?”

“This kind of thing drives me crazy.” Her words came out short and sharp. “Did you know there are dozens of terrible names for old women? Crone, cat lady, hag, battle-ax. But there's no male equivalent. Instead, old men are the roosters of their retirement homes, flirting with the scores of women left behind, considered valuable commodities.”

“So that's how you think of older guys? Like inanimate objects to be traded around when the girls get bored? How un-feminist.”

She was in no mood to be teased. “What about the fact that women have been no more than possessions for centuries? No man, no safety. No man, no honor. No man, you die. Thank God I live in a time and place where women don't need husbands in order to survive.”

She should have stopped talking, stayed professional, but she couldn't help herself. “Did you know the Barbizon used to be called the Dollhouse? Can you get more objectifying than that? As if these women were simply playacting until the magical powers of marriage turned them into living, breathing people. I want to humanize them, include photos of when they were young, descriptions of what their lives were like. Just because they don't look fresh-faced anymore doesn't mean they aren't the same people inside, that they've lost their worth as human beings. You can simply call them by their names.”

“Okay, okay. You made a good point. Several, in fact.” He leaned forward on his elbows.
“An old woman rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.”

She was surprised. “So you read Sylvia Plath's poems. Don't call them terrible fish, either.” She paused. “Have you read
The Bell Jar
?”

“Finished it yesterday. Look, I get what you're trying to do. I do. But we need more of a story.”

“I'll get it, I promise.” She wanted to get him off the subject, wrap this meeting up. “Tyler said you did war documentaries, is that right?”

He leaned back and ran his hand over his head. His torso was broad, but not overweight, and his hands were solid.

The corners of his mouth turned up. He'd caught her staring at him. “Yes, I did some work with the children in Iraq once a reasonable peace had been achieved. We brought together Kurdish and Sunni kids, divided them into mixed groups, and had them create their own documentaries about their lives. Then we did a documentary about their documentaries.”

“Pretty amazing.”

“It was good.” His stare unnerved her.

“I'm sure it was. Why did you stop the international work?”

He rubbed his face with one hand. “My mother got sick. I had to move back to New Paltz to help her out until she passed.”

“I'm sorry. My dad's sick. That can be really devastating.”