The Dollhouse (7 page)

“You look like you're about to be sick.” Esme's eyes were animated, slightly mocking.

“No. I'm fine. What do we do now?”

Esme pulled her to a table with a couple of free seats. A waiter wearing a long white apron, a white shirt, and a thin black tie whispered something in Esme's ear. She touched the inside of his wrist with her finger, laughed at what he'd said, and ordered them a couple of whiskey sours.

“Now we drink. You'll feel braver if you aren't sober.”

The noise level in the room astounded Darby. Even though two walls of the room had been draped with Moroccan rugs to absorb the sound, they weren't very effective. The two other patrons seated at the rickety table didn't bother interrupting their loud conversation to acknowledge them. Darby took a sip of her drink and glanced around. The decor was minimal at best. One long wall consisted of exposed, chipped bricks. Behind the stage, old playbills had been plastered up as a kind of backdrop, their corners curling and frayed. A layer of dirt, grease, and cigarette ash covered the floor.

The audience began to complain, calling for Stick and slow-clapping. Finally, four musicians stepped onstage. One slid in behind a set of drums and took a seat, another hooked a saxophone to the cord around his neck, while the third heaved a bass upright. A trumpet player stepped up to the microphone.

“Sorry, Stick's not here yet,” the trumpet player announced.

The audience booed, but the musician was undaunted. He held up a hand above his eyes, blocking the lights, and looked out into the audience. Beside her, Esme sat up tall, as if a jolt of electricity had suddenly passed through her.

“Where's Esme?” the man called out.

Esme turned and smiled at Darby, and suddenly she was up onstage, adjusting the mic and smiling out over the crowd.

“I know you want your Stick,” she purred into the microphone, “but stick with me for now, all right?”

The audience gave an interested grumble. Then Esme began to sing. Her voice was edgy and low and at first Darby strained to hear, worried
that Esme wouldn't be able to fill the space. But after a crescendo at the end of the second verse, she let it rip and her voice soared out.

Esme had a smooth, sexual presence onstage, her hips moving in time with the music, and her shoulders responding a moment behind the beat, in a slinky, slippery motion. When she finished, the crowd clapped and whistled. Darby hoped she'd sing more, but a movement at the front door caught her eye. A man sauntered through the tables, shaking hands and nodding. Stick had arrived. Esme quickly jumped off the stage and slid back into her seat.

“You're so talented, Esme,” said Darby. “You can really sing.”

“Wait until you hear this. My singing is nothing compared to this guy's playing.”

A few moments later a waiter came over with a couple of drinks. “From the gentleman over there.” He pointed to a man sitting alone two tables away, his table an isolated island in the middle of a sea of people pontificating and gesticulating wildly, cigarettes in hand.

Darby took a sip of her drink. A martini. She'd never had one before, and only knew it from the shape of the glass.

“Don't do that.” Esme grabbed the drink from her hands, spilling some on the floor.

Darby was too surprised to speak.

“Trust me, you don't want to take anything from that guy.”

“Why?” She stole a glance in his direction. He watched them, an amused expression on his pockmarked face. His eyes were enormous, like a basset hound's, with dark bags underneath. She'd never been sent a drink before and was unsure of the protocol.

“He's an undercover cop. Named Quigley. He's always sniffing around, trying to find out what's going on.”

“Is something going on?”

“Of course not. It's folks drinking and listening to music. What harm is there in that?”

“Then why is he here?”

“The cops are all over the jazz clubs, looking for horse. If you take a
drink from him, he'll think you're willing to talk, and all the musicians will hate you.”

Darby didn't understand what she meant. “Looking for a horse?”

“No,
chica
. Heroin.”

“Oh.”

“A lot of the musicians say that it's the only way to channel the music. If it worked for Bird, they want to do it, too.”

The names were like a secret code. “Who's Bird?”

“Charlie Parker, alto sax player. Got the nickname when he made his band stop a car on the way to a gig so he could chase a chicken. Ate it for dinner that night.”

“Have you ever done horse?”

Esme looked at Darby as if she were crazy. “Are you kidding? I have bigger things in my life than dozing off.”

“Then how does it help the musicians?”

“It makes them more creative, gives them ideas while they solo, I guess.”

Darby looked over at the policeman again. “Does everyone know that he's a cop?”

“Sure. It's a game we all play. We pretend not to know; he pretends that we don't know. My guess is he just likes the music. But you don't want to encourage him.”

Stick sat on the piano bench and counted off the beat. He wore a scraggly beard and a shiny black suit. While the other musicians played, he rocked back and forth for a minute, then got up and started to dance a kind of jig, one hand on the top of the piano. Finally, he dashed back to the bench, and his hands slid across the keyboard, barely touching the notes, while his loafered feet tapped out a beat of their own on the floor. The sounds were strange and haunting. Fast, furious playing that sometimes sounded wonderful, and at other times off-key.

Darby took another sip of her whiskey sour and almost choked as Stick performed a set of arpeggios so fast his hands were a blur. When he finished, the audience rose to their feet, demanding more.

The next song featured the horn player, and the sound came out thick and sad. When he seared out a solo, the intonation penetrated into Darby's body, like a musical bullet. She was reminded of the sound of the wind the night before Daddy died. A thermal had risen in the afternoon, the first strong, warm breeze after a long winter, smelling of mud and new growth. By the evening it was howling around the house.

“God sweeping away the cold,” Mother had said, to no one in particular.

Darby heard Daddy moan in pain upstairs, and she looked up from reading her book at the kitchen table. “Do you think we should give him something, or call the doctor?”

“Nothing to be done. The doctor can't help him. I can't help him.”

The last time Daddy was on the road, Mother complained about his absence, then turned on him viciously when he returned home and announced that he'd been fired. In a quiet moment, Darby asked him what happened. “I'm too likable,” he'd replied. “The boss considered me a threat to his job. And he was right.”

That winter, before he'd weakened, he bought a used sailboat and took to restoring it in their barn. Mother was aghast at the expense, and Darby could hardly blame her. The only water was the Maumee River, which wound its way through town. No one sailed there, too many rocks. Why buy a boat that you could never use?

Whenever the atmosphere in the house crackled with tension, Darby headed into the barn. Together she and Daddy planed the plywood hull, breathing in the scent of wood chips and varnish and shivering in the drafty space. Or she stuffed putty in the screw holes, then sanded them smooth while they compared their favorite Shakespearean characters. His was Falstaff. Hers, Cleopatra. When a waltz came on the transistor radio, he would grab her and they twirled around the barn together, and as the music ended, he'd bow low and call her Lady Darby.

His last night alive, Darby sat with him, reading aloud from
Henry V
.
After he stopped breathing, she placed his hands on top of his chest like she'd seen in the movies and woke Mother at dawn with the news.

Mr. Saunders came calling for Mother shortly after. As soon as they married, he began taking digs at Darby. Most evenings she snuck out to the barn and sat in the unfinished boat and read, remembering Daddy's whistle and the way he'd laughed and praised her handiwork. Until one day she came out to discover Mr. Saunders had smashed the boat to bits with an ax.

The trumpeter took center stage again. His knifelike sound pierced into Darby's armor, the one she'd worn since Mr. Saunders had moved in. Darby breathed deeply, her whole body vibrating with the music. Her stomach turned, the bitter taste of alcohol still on her lips, and she stood and stumbled her way out the back door. She knelt down, squatting on her haunches in the most unladylike way.

“You okay?” Sam stood in the doorway, looking down at her. A halo of light shone behind him, so she couldn't read his expression.

“I don't feel well.” Darby took a couple of deep breaths. “Must be all the smoke.”

He disappeared inside. She'd made a fool of herself. Not that it mattered, of course.

He reappeared holding a cup. “Drink. You'll feel better.”

She'd expected the harshness of black coffee, but instead her tongue came alive with a sweet, spicy flavor. Milk and sugar and something else.

“What is this?”

“Cardamom tea.”

“It's delicious.” She took another sip.

“The cardamom spice comes from the forests of India and is good for lots of things, including digestion, hiccups, even bad breath.”

She placed a hand over her mouth. “Do I have bad breath?”

He laughed. “I have no idea what your breath is like. I just figured you might be ill.”

“The music, the trumpet.” Her explanation sounded so silly, even to her.

“Like you're being chopped up into pieces, right?”

She looked up at him in amazement. “Yes. I couldn't control my thoughts. Is it always like this?”

“Only with the best musicians.”

“I liked it, I loved it, when they all played together and it made sense. But most of the time it didn't.”

“You'll understand after you've listened to enough bebop. It's like learning another language. It's all a muddle at first, but then it rings clear.”

Darby wasn't so sure.

“What the hell?” Esme poked her head out the doorway.

Darby passed the cup back to Sam and smiled. “I didn't feel well.”

“Did Sam give you one of his mojo potions?”

For some reason, the question hurt. Darby wished she'd been the sole recipient of his special tea. Even though that was silly.

Esme helped her to her feet. “Come on, let's scram.”

Darby was suddenly reluctant to go, but it was late.

Back at the Barbizon, Esme brought her in through the employees' entrance at the side of the building, and they hugged quickly before Darby began the long climb up to her floor. She trod lightly, staring down at the steps, which is why she didn't see the couple kissing on the third-floor landing until she was almost on top of them. They were pressed up against a tile mosaic, all blues and greens, some kind of lush underwater scene. Stella's mermaid-red hair stood out against the background.

“Sorry.” Darby glanced away and attempted to maneuver past them.

Stella yelped in surprise and craned her neck around her date's head.

“Oh, Darby, you gave me a fright! My friend Paul and I were just saying good-bye. But I'm glad to see you. I've been meaning to catch you and apologize. About the other night.”

“Okay.” She slid by them. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss the evening with Walter. But Stella untangled herself from her date and stepped out onto the landing, closer to where Darby stood.

“I'm impressed, you breaking curfew,” said Stella, flashing a conspiratorial smile. “You have a bad streak, too, don't you?”

Darby considered the idea. She was sneaking in late after visiting a jazz club in a seedy part of town with one of the maids from the Barbizon. This was not what Mother had envisioned for her.

But she didn't smile back.

“Yes, I guess I do.” She turned the corner and kept on moving.

New York City, 2016

R
ose jumped into a cab and gave the driver an address on the West Side, shaking off the effects of another sleepless night. She was running late, but the morning traffic had eased and the taxi sliced through the park at a high speed. Her father's nursing home was way over by the Hudson River, an old brick building surrounded by sleek glass high-rises.

His room was empty.

“Where's my father, Regina?”

The Jamaican nurse laughed and shook her head. “He's trouble, that man.”

“No, he's a doll. And you know it.”

“I'm afraid not.” The smile stayed on her face, but Rose couldn't tell whether she was kidding. “You best go to the breakfast room. Maybe you can get him up and out of there. If not, we're gonna have to call in the big guys.”

Her father sat at a table near the window and stared out across the water. She recognized the bushy eyebrows and handsome profile at once, but the rest of his body seemed to belong to a stranger. She had a sudden memory of him pushing himself away from the dinner table after a big meal, balancing on the back two legs of his chair and patting his round
belly. All the extra padding had disappeared over the past five years, as his mental state had become less agile. The high school math and science teacher who scribbled out calculations on napkins during dinner had slowly faded away. He didn't even remember how to hold a pencil.

She put a hand on his bony shoulder. “Dad?”

He dropped his head to his chest and puffed out his cheeks.

“I came by to say hello. Do you want to take a walk?”

“I want breakfast.”

She looked up. The staff was clearing tables. “Did Mr. Lewin get breakfast this morning?”

One of the aides nodded. “Ate it all. He want more?”

“Dad, do you want more?”

“No.”

His doctors had said he was depressed, a common side effect of the medication that kept him calm.

She waited, hoping he'd show some animation. He turned his face up to her and she caught her breath. A bruise covered his right temple, purple and blue hues vivid beneath the thin skin. “Stay here. I'm going to talk to Dr. Mehra, all right?”

The nurses paged the doctor, who trotted briskly down the hall. Rose had liked Dr. Mehra, as he had a gentle manner but didn't dance around the truth.

“What happened to his head? He's hurt.”

Dr. Mehra blinked. “Didn't they call you?”

“No.”

“He became belligerent last night, wanted to go outside. He slipped as they were getting him back to bed and hit his head on the safety rail. Not hard, he didn't lose consciousness.”

“But hard enough that it's badly bruised.”

“I examined him last night and again this morning. We see no signs of concussion.”

“How could you tell? He's not responding to anything I say.”

“Actually, we should sit and talk; do you have time?”

The pit in Rose's stomach grew bigger. She didn't have time. Tyler would be asking where she was by now, but he'd have to wait.

The doctor led her into his office. “We need to talk about the possibility of placing your father in the dementia unit.”

“Why? He needs to be looked after, but he's not that bad. He can walk and feed himself still.”

“He knocked down another patient last night as he was trying to get out.”

Rose sat back and gripped her hands together. “Was the other patient hurt?”

“Fine, nothing broken. But he's a danger to others.”

Rose mulled over the possibilities. “I wouldn't want anything to happen to someone else because of him. I'm just wondering if this is a one-time thing. He's been so docile.”

“You may need to reframe your thinking. He's in a decline, and it's only going to get worse. We ought to move him sooner rather than later, for everyone's sake.”

“I see. And how much more does that cost a month?” The question was crass, but pertinent. Before, Griff's money would have provided a cushion for emergencies like this. No longer.

“You'll have to talk to the billing department. They'll be able to answer all of your questions.”

She shook his hand. “I will. Thank you.”

By the time she got back to her father, he was dozing in the big armchair in his room. She touched the bruise lightly with her finger and straightened a lock of his gray hair that had fallen over his forehead. She imagined him waking up and chatting with her, suggesting they head to their favorite diner for a cheeseburger.

But she knew the truth: That was the past, a little girl's wishful thinking. He was lost to her more every week.

The fourth-floor hallway at the Barbizon was eerily quiet.

Rose tried Miss McLaughlin's door again but didn't get an answer or even a yap from Bird. She was probably out walking the dog. Several other residents opened their doors a crack, before shaking their heads and declining to speak further after she'd told them she was a journalist. Another, a large woman in her seventies, had a coughing fit and said she was too ill to speak.

Strange. Rose had figured these women would be bored and lonely, eager to speak about the minutia of their lives. In fact, they treated her like a pain in the ass.

A wreath of ivy encircled the peephole of the farthest door. Rose knocked and waited.

“Who is it?” cried a hoarse voice.

“My name is Rose Lewin. I live on the fifth floor. I'm a journalist, working on a piece about the Barbizon Hotel for Women.”

The door opened and a strong-featured woman peered out. “You live here?”

“Yes, just one floor up. I moved in a few months ago.” She didn't add that she'd be moving out shortly.

The woman looked her up and down. “You want to talk to us crones?”

The harsh term took her by surprise. “I'd like to talk to you, if you have a moment.”

The woman shook her head. She had dyed red hair cut in a flattering pixie. “No, thank you. Read
The
Bell Jar,
read her poems. I've got nothing to add.”

“I take it you've been approached by the media before?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Please. Everyone wants to know about Sylvia Plath, the guest editors, the drama. I don't know why. That was years ago, over and done with. But every few years, we get another gal like you, wanting to know the ‘real story' of what happened to her here.”

No wonder the other women of the fourth floor weren't willing to talk to her.

“I'm not interested in Sylvia Plath,” Rose said. “I want to know more about the place, from your perspective. What rules you had to abide by, what your life was like, that kind of thing.”

“Huh.” The redhead made a face. “I can't tell you how often we get notes passed to us from the doorman—from journalists, from tourists, from lonely teenagers—asking if we knew Sylvia the Great and Greatly Wounded.”

“Even though she lived here only a month, I guess the tragedy outshines the facts.”

“Exactly. Who do you work for?”

“I work for a media company called WordMerge.”

The woman gave a throaty laugh. “That's a terrible name for a business.”

“Trust me, I know.”

“I'll talk with you, but I only have twenty minutes before I have to go see my doctor. You can come in and have some tea if you like. I just boiled the water.”

Rose followed her inside, surprised at the stark contrast to the renovated units. The apartment was small and dark and needed another coat of paint. Or rather, several layers of paint needed to be scraped off first. The moldings that ran along the ceiling and around the windows were shellacked with latex. Deep grooves marred the dark wood flooring. The kitchen featured a shiny avocado-green refrigerator and matching oven, left over from the seventies.

Rose tried not to stare at the outdated decor as the woman poured out two cups of tea. “My hope is to talk with each of the fourth-floor residents, compile an oral history. I think we take for granted so much that happened between then and now.”

“You mean ‘we' as in women?”

“Exactly.”

“No one cares. Trust me. Everyone moves on, there's nothing new to write about; it's all been covered. Move on to something more interesting.”

“Like what?”

She stopped and put her hands on her hips. “How do I know? You're the journalist, sweetheart.”

A wild yapping erupted from another room, and Bird tore down the hallway toward them.

“Damn dog. I thought I'd closed that door.”

“Is that Bird?”

The woman studied Rose closely. “You know Bird?”

“Miss McLaughlin and I talked just the other day.” Not exactly a lie. Rose talked, and Darby McLaughlin listened. “I'm Rose Lewin, by the way.” Rose stuck out her hand.

“I'm Stella Conover. But like I said, I only have twenty minutes.” She rubbed one arm. “My nerve pain is acting up again. I recognize you from the news show. You don't work there anymore?”

“No.”

“Good. You all looked like a bunch of idiots, sitting around yapping just like Bird here. Hope that doesn't offend you.”

“Far from it. I think you summed up the job perfectly.”

Ms. Conover handed her a mug. “Although it was terrible the way they forced you out. Especially since you were right about Senator Madden all along, that sleazebag. Embezzling money from senior citizens. You're the hero, in my book. You and Gloria Buckstone.”

Rose remained silent. She'd learned by now there was no point in setting the record straight. After all, she'd benefited from the assumption that she was an aggressive journalist with a righteous cause. It had landed her the job at WordMerge.

“Come into the other room. And I'm only doing this because you're a fellow resident.”

“Of course, and I appreciate it.”

They ventured into the living room, where two south-facing windows filled with plants served as the focal point, along with an oversize couch.

“It's not grand, but in New York, it's a steal.”

“I'm sure.” Rose sat down on the couch, sinking in so far her knees rose above her hips, and tried not to spill her tea. “So kind of you to do
this, Ms. Conover.” She placed the cup on the table beside her and took out a notebook and a pen from her bag.

“Oh, please, call me Stella.”

“Stella. When did you come to the Barbizon?”

“Back in 1952. I was scouted by the Eileen Ford agency. I worked as a model for ten years, and then became a muse of sorts for the designers, if you know what I mean.”

Rose blinked.

“I made the rounds. Let certain men take care of me for the pleasure of having me on their arm. Don't be squeamish. Figured it would lead to other Cinderella-type things like in the movies, but no such luck. I did well, though. I made enough to take care of myself.”

“I see.” If all of the women were as forthright as Stella, the piece for WordMerge would be terrific. “What was it like when you first arrived? I understand men weren't allowed above the first floor?”

“The rules were strict. I remember coming down in slacks one day and the matron on duty, this dour woman, told me to go right back upstairs and change. I couldn't cross the lobby in pants, only a skirt. And this lasted through the sixties, mind you. Seems so silly today.”

“What about the girls who went to secretarial school?”

“Right. The Katharine Gibbs girls. We always felt so smug when we saw them dressed in their gloves and hats for class. They had their own floors and we didn't interact much. The place was like a beehive with all these tiny rooms off long, dark hallways. Lively, though, everyone had a great time. J. D. Salinger used to show up at the café on the ground floor, hoping to pick up one of the models.”

“Did you date J. D. Salinger?”

“No, not my type.”

“This is exactly what I'm looking for; the history is fascinating.” She tapped the notepad with her pen. “You know, I've tried to reach some of the other women on the floor, but they don't want to talk, it seems.”

“Old biddies, the lot of them.” She let out a husky laugh. Her profile was aristocratic, with a high forehead and strong nose. Rose could very
well imagine her dressed to kill in the cinched, girdled fashions of a bygone era. “When it was still a hotel, they used to sit in the lobby all day commenting on the other guests like a Greek chorus. After it went condo, loitering was discouraged, so they withdrew to the fourth floor.”

“What about Darby McLaughlin; did you know her back then?”

Stella paused for a moment, then seemed to choose her words carefully. “She was an odd duck at first. We had an uneasy beginning, but we eventually reached a kind of detente. Darby went to Gibbs, then worked as a secretary for the same company for years and years until she retired.” The radiator began to clank. “Oh, dear God, I keep telling the super to come up and turn the damn thing off already, but he's too busy kowtowing to the rich tenants. Don't be offended.”