The Dollhouse (15 page)

They stepped inside and she was assaulted by the scent of a thousand spices. Almost every surface was covered with wares. Barrels were heaped with dried red chilies, their skins shiny and bright. Open boxes of colorful powders and strange seeds lined the floor, and the shelves on the walls held jars filled with dried plants and stems. Years of foot traffic had grooved the narrow aisles. Sam shouted a loud hello. From the back, a voice called out in response. She couldn't identify the accent, but the sound was deep, with the reverberations of a double bass.

At first she wanted to run back out into the damp evening air and sneeze a dozen times, but eventually her nostrils adjusted to the olfactory mayhem.

“Where are we?”

“The Kalai Spice Emporium.”

“Wow. It's a little overwhelming.”

“At first, sure. But with the right teacher, it all begins to make sense. This store is my own personal Katie Gibbs.”

A loud argument broke out in the back room, and Darby looked at Sam for reassurance. He smiled down at her. “It's nothing. It's the way Mr. Kalai communicates. You'll see.”

A young man shot out the door of the back room and walked quickly out to the street.

“Good riddance.”

The voice came from nowhere, startling her. She turned to see a bespectacled man in a black dress shirt and pants standing in the inner doorway, staring intently at her. The angularity of his square forehead offset his round cheeks and bulbous nose, and his brown skin was shiny with sweat. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Who's this?”

“Mr. Kalai, this is my friend Darby McLaughlin. From the club.”

Sam had remembered her surname. “Mr. Kalai, it's a pleasure to meet you.” She offered up her bare hand, embarrassed at her lack of gloves, but he didn't seem to mind.

“You want more spice?” he asked Sam.

“No. I tried the Banda mix tonight. Worked well.”

“Good, good.”

“Mr. Kalai learned the art of spices through generations of his family. He's descended from the sultan of Ternate.”

“The island with the tree?”

Mr. Kalai's smile wasn't warm. “The one with the tree.”

“I want to show her what a nutmeg looks like,” said Sam. “Do you mind?”

Mr. Kalai shook his head. Sam opened one of the jars and scooped out an egg-shaped piece of fruit. Mr. Kalai handed him a knife and he cut the fruit cleanly in half before giving it a twist. Inside was a brown seed covered with thin red veins. “The nut, when dried, makes nutmeg, and the red stuff becomes mace. It's the only tropical fruit that makes two different spices.”

She touched the delicate webbing around the seed. “I had no idea.”

Mr. Kalai took the fruit out of Sam's hand. “When the spices were first discovered by the other countries, ships bearing all kinds of gifts arrived at my island. The sultan had a crown made from hundreds of jewels, big as your fist, and four hundred women in his harem.”

Darby blushed, relieved when Sam spoke up.

“Then the Dutch took over and killed every man over the age of fifteen.”

“When did this happen?”

“Almost three hundred years ago.”

“But here you are carrying on the tradition.”

Mr. Kalai nodded. “Sam's a good boy. Take a look around, but then I'm closing up. I have business outside.”

Sam reached up to one of the top shelves and brought down a thick book. “I'm working on a compilation of everything I'm learning here. Take a look.”

He rearranged some of the jars on the countertop to make room. The pages were crisp and she leaned down close. “It smells like the shop.”

“Everything in here smells like the shop, including us by now.”

She leafed through the pages while Sam explained. “I'm keeping track of each spice, where it came from and its history.” He pointed to a drawing. “Like here, the Egyptians used cassia for embalming the dead.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Yet it has such a pretty name.”

“It's delicious, a type of cinnamon, and good if you have stomach problems as well.”

“I'm impressed. What are you going to do with your book?”

“I'd like to open a restaurant eventually. I'm meeting the right people through Mr. Kalai, working on a way to get myself out of the Flatted Fifth.”

He closed the book and placed it up on the shelf with care. When he turned around quickly, she stepped back, aware that she'd been standing too close.

“Thank you for coming down here with me,” he said.

“I'm impressed. And hungry.”

“I'll make you something back at the club. In the meantime, taste this.” He scooped a dark powder out of one of the jars and poured a tiny amount into the palm of his hand. He dipped one finger in and held it up. “Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.”

“Should I close my eyes as well?”

He laughed. “Sure, if you want.”

The gentle touch of his finger on her tongue was enough to make her
knees wobble, but then a robust bittersweet sensation overwhelmed her taste buds.

“Great, right? It's Mayan cocoa.”

“Sure is.” She opened her eyes. On the wall behind him hung a small cracked mirror. Normally, she avoided mirrors, and she wasn't expecting to see herself. In her reflection, her cheeks burned bright red against her cauliflower-colored skin, and her hair stuck up at all angles, except for one section that was plastered across her forehead like a toupee.

Mother was right; she was an ugly girl.

What was she doing? She stepped away from him. “We should go back to the club.”

“Of course. Hopefully, the kitchen isn't on fire by now.”

They walked out into the night air, where a cool breeze had replaced the heavy, humid air with a touch of crispness. The few times he tried to start a conversation, she murmured one-word replies, hoping he wouldn't look at her.

“Is something wrong?” he asked as they neared the club. He swallowed twice.

“No. Nothing. Just tired, I guess.”

“I hope I wasn't too forward, taking you to the emporium. I thought you might like it, is all.”

He thought he'd done something wrong. When all along she was the one feeling stupid. She rushed to set him right. “I loved it. I really did. And meeting Mr. Kalai.” She lowered her voice. “It's funny, when I lived in Ohio, I would read about extraordinary, eccentric characters in books and plays, but I couldn't imagine them in real life. Then I came to New York.”

“Where everyone acts like they're the main character of their own book.”

She laughed. “Between you and Esme, I'm seeing a whole side of the city I didn't even know existed.”

“You seem like a nice girl.” He held the door open for her. “Funny to see you with Esme.”

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugged and looked inside the club. She could tell he was itching to get back to his kitchen. “She's a handful, that's all.”

First Stella, now Sam. “I'm not sure what you mean. She helped me a lot when I first got here, tried to make me feel at home. You saw how she got me onstage. I'm not normally like that.”

“Oh, Esme pretty much always gets what she wants. She's too in love with herself to take no for an answer. You, on the other hand, are sweet. Innocent. That's all I'm saying.”

Darby pressed her lips together and nodded. Sam was trying to tell her something, in the nicest way possible. Esme was special and Darby was not. And while he might enjoy Darby's friendship, it would never be more.

New York City, 2016

R
ose almost didn't pick up her cell phone when she saw Maddy's name. She'd gotten to work early and spent the quiet hour, before anyone else arrived, finishing up a book on the history of the Katharine Gibbs School, written by a former teacher. To think that the venerable Mrs. Gibbs began educating women for positions in business, where they were less than welcome, before women even had the right to vote. Fierce.

“Where have you been hiding?” Maddy's voice was mocking but held an undertone of worry. Rose had left her a message after the migraine broke to tell her that she'd be dog-sitting for a neighbor for a few days, but they'd played phone tag ever since.

“Sorry, I've been swamped at work.”

“You doing okay? And any news from Griff?”

“Nothing from Griff. I assume he's too busy reconstructing his nuclear family.”

Maddy guffawed. “God, he's such an asshole. I told you not to date guys with old-man names. ‘Griffin Van Doren.' Jesus.”

In spite of herself, Rose laughed. “I remember. Who could have predicted that just this once you'd be right?”

“Ha-ha, very funny. So when are you coming by? And which neighbor
are you dog-sitting for, anyway? I thought everyone in the building was unfriendly.”

That was true. After she and Griff moved in, she'd expected a couple of the neighbors to stop in and say hello. But none did, and even if she ran into one or two waiting for the elevator, they weren't very enthusiastic. “It's one of the older ladies who's lived there forever, since it was a women's hotel. I'm doing a piece on her and the other women for work.”

“Do you really want to stay in a stranger's apartment? It'd be fine to bring the dog with you. The kids would love it.”

“I'm not sure how much the dog would love the children, to tell you the truth. He's a feisty old guy.” As she spoke, the decision to stay in Darby's apartment, at least for the short term, solidified. It provided privacy, access to the women, and peace and quiet. She'd be out before Darby came back and no one would be the wiser. “Don't worry, his owner returns in two weeks, at which point I'll be moaning with self-pity on your couch.”

“Something to look forward to. So how's your dad?”

Rose pressed her knuckles into her forehead. A couple of the other reporters had arrived and she lowered her voice. “He was moved yesterday. I stopped by; he seems like he's adapting.”

Indeed, her father hadn't made a fuss. His eyes had been blank, his jaw working back and forth with nervous energy. The dementia ward had lavender-colored walls and locked doors. A large black carpet had been placed in front of the elevator. One of the nurses explained that most patients in the ward were reluctant to step on it, thinking it was a dark hole, and that kept them from trying to escape.

How awful, to have a pit placed between you and freedom, or the world as you remembered it. She was sure her father remembered snippets of their old life. Before she'd left, he'd asked if she'd done her homework and called her Rosie, as he used to when she was a teenager. Then he'd burst into tears, mucus running down his nose and chin. No matter what she'd said, he wouldn't be calmed, until the nurse kindly suggested she leave.

Maddy let out a sympathetic sigh. “You're really getting spanked, aren't you? What can I do to help?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Do you think Griff would've gone back to his wife anyway, even if Miranda was okay?”

“Maybe.” Connie was a powerhouse of energy, well matched to Griff's temperament. Together they could run a small country. “I don't know what to think anymore. How's the soap business?”

“Trashy. The other day, I had to do a postcoital scene with Robert Hanes-Sterling. He tried to play footsie under the sheet, until I scraped his shin with my toenails. I think I made him bleed.”

“That's truly disgusting.”

“And that's why they pay me the big bucks. Tell me more about the story you're working on.”

“There's a group of elderly ladies who live in rent-controlled apartments, who've been there for years and years. One goes back as far as 1952.”

Maddy whistled. “The Sylvia Plath era.”

Plath again. “Sylvia Plath was only there for a month. These other women are the heart and soul of the place. They've seen the Barbizon change drastically, and seen New York City change drastically, too. Their stories should matter to us.”

“I like the way this has you all worked up. Surprised it got approved, though.”

“Barely squeaked by, and only because Tyler wants to sensationalize it. One of the ladies has a pretty tragic history. That's why I'm dog-sitting for her, to find out more.”

“Is that kosher? I mean, in terms of journalistic integrity and all that?”

She preferred not to answer the question. “Coming from someone who gouges the legs of her coworkers.”

“Right. I think he went to get a tetanus shot once we wrapped.”

“As well he should.”

“Are you sure this isn't some weird kind of masochism, staying at the
Barbizon when Griff and Connie are there together?” Typical Maddy, like a dog with a bone. “Why put yourself through that kind of torture?”

“It's only temporary.”

“So you're not using it as an excuse to stick around, hoping he'll want you to come back to him?”

She hated to admit it to herself, and she sure wasn't going to admit it to Maddy. “Of course not. This is a combo of helping out a neighbor and getting some work done.” Time to change the subject. “It's all going to be fine, especially if I can find a way to deal with the video producer I'm working with.”

“Why's that?”

“He's a tough guy, shot documentaries in the Middle East, that kind of thing. Probably feels this job is beneath him.”

“Then tell him to go back to Afghanistan or wherever.”

“His mother fell ill and passed away, so I guess he's biding his time for now. I understand that concept.”

“Is he cute?”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Please. He's not my type. I feel like Snow White with her dwarf Smirky.”

Maddy laughed. “Well, hang in there. And we're ready for you anytime. There's a bottle of Pinot in the fridge with your name on it.”

The sound of throat clearing made her look up. Jason stood on the other side of her cubicle, one arm draped over the partition.

From the expression on his face, he had heard every word.

Rose studied Jason's face, trying to figure out her next move. One side of his mouth curled upward and he looked amused, entertained even. But when their eyes met, he blinked once, and she knew he was covering his dismay, putting up a front.

She hadn't meant to hurt him; she'd been joking with Maddy, trying to get her off her back about the Griff ordeal. But her joke was nasty.

“You hungry?” Jason asked. “Because I have an apple back at my desk.”

She leaned forward in her chair, hands gripping the edge of the seat. “I'm sorry, that was awful. It's my friend Maddy. I didn't mean . . .” She trailed off, hoping he'd say something to stop her from groveling. But he just stood there.

“Just checking in to see if you need me today. I finished another piece early and have the rest of the morning free.”

She had to find a way to make this up to him, to smooth things over. Especially if they were going to work together for the next few weeks. “I was going to head downtown, check out the location of that old jazz club, the one with the menu tucked into the book of spices.”

“The Flatted Fifth?”

“Yes, exactly. It shut down in the seventies. But I wanted to see the building it was in. You could film it and we could use before and after footage.” The idea was lame, but she hoped he'd say yes.

“Not very dynamic.”

“No. But it's all I have for now. Will you come?”

He nodded. “I'll get my equipment and meet you in the lobby.”

They took a taxi down. The cabbie drove like mad, braking suddenly and accelerating aggressively, which didn't allow for much conversation. Rose gripped the hand strap above the window to avoid careening into Jason, all while filling him in on her visit to the button shop.

“This young girl might be Darby's only real friend, from what I can tell. I'd love to find her.”

Jason raised his eyebrows. “Well, we know her name begins with an
A
. Shouldn't be too hard.”

The taxi pulled up to a stop at a five-story building on Second Avenue. The gray stone facade was filthy, as if it had been rubbed with a giant piece of charcoal, and graffiti marred the front door. At ground level stood a French bistro.

She pointed to the restaurant, which had a
CLOSED
sign in the window. “That's where the club used to be.”

Jason shot some exteriors, then knocked on the glass door.

A young woman appeared, looking harried and tired. “We're not open until five tonight.”

Rose explained who they were, adding that they were researching the location of an old jazz club from the fifties. The minute she said WordMerge, the woman's face lit up. “Of course, I love WordMerge. If you want, come on in and look around. The shell of the place is the same, but everything else has been renovated.”

The brick walls had been recently whitewashed and big windows looked out onto the street, making the space seem larger than it actually was. Jason pulled up a black-and-white photo on his phone, showing the interior of the club during a show. Men in suits and ties and women with coifed hairdos were tightly packed into the space, practically on top of one another, while a sax player stood at the edge of a low stage. Without the windows and whitewashing, the space had been dark and seedy.

“It looks like the stage was here, and the entrance around here.” Jason pointed out the locations. “I can take some interiors if you want.”

“Sure, why not.” Rose turned to the woman. “Do you know if anyone in the building has lived here a long time? They'd have to be pretty old by now, in their eighties.” It was a stretch.

“There's Mr. B. He comes in for a steak frites every Wednesday, before it gets too crowded. Nice guy, talks about the old days. He's the one you want to talk to.”

“Do you happen to have his contact info?”

“No, but he lives in apartment 5D. If you buzz him and tell him that Nicole said he should talk to you, he might let you up. Or you can come back on Wednesday and catch him here.”

The name on the buzzer for 5D said
BUCKLEY
.

Jackpot. Maybe Sam had been living a ten-minute taxi ride from Darby the past fifty years. A rush of adrenaline surged through her.

Rose hit the buzzer and waited. Nothing. “He's got to be an old guy; we'll give him time.”

“You're the boss.”

She turned to him. “Look, I'm really sorry about what I said before. I don't think I'm Snow White, I assure you of that. And you're not . . .”

Again, she couldn't finish the sentence.

He did. “A dwarf?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Most dwarfs would take offense at the comment, by the way. They like to be called little people.”

“It was just an expression.” Sweat prickled her neck. She really didn't want to have this conversation. “I didn't mean it.”

“Whatever you say.”

God, he was frustrating, always with that stupid smile. “But you do smirk.” She couldn't help herself. “You're smirking now.”

“No, I'm not. I'm smiling. You're getting all bent out of shape and I'm enjoying it immensely.”

“That's the definition of smirking.”

He laughed. “Point taken. Am I smirking now?”

She couldn't help grinning. “Yes! You are.”

“Hello?”

The voice was crackly, although it was hard to tell if it was from the intercom or the person speaking.

Rose leaned in. “Mr. Buckley? Nicole downstairs suggested we try to reach you. We're doing research on a news story about the Flatted Fifth and she said you might be able to help. My name is Rose Lewin and I'm with my colleague, Jason Wolf. Would you be interested in coming down and talking for a moment? We'd be happy to take you out to coffee nearby.”

“I can't come down there. You come up here.”

Rose looked at Jason and he nodded. “Let's go.”

The stuccoed hallway smelled of rotting vegetables, and the once colorful tile floors were edged with brown grout. When Mr. Buckley finally opened the door to his apartment, Rose was shocked at the contrast from the building's public spaces. Sunlight streamed through the windows and the place was inviting and well kept.

“Come on in. You're reporters, you say?” Mr. Buckley walked with a
cane. He'd once been a tall man, but now his spine curved painfully forward. He had a gray beard and wore thick-framed glasses that overpowered the sharp angles of his face. He looked them both up and down before leading them to the sitting room.