The Dollhouse

CHAPTER SIX

New York City, 1952

The elevator girl hit the light switch in Darby’s room and closed the door behind them. “Ignore the giraffes; they’re a nasty bunch.”

Darby stared at the girl. Esme, they’d called her. She was about her height, with velvety brown eyes accentuated by the severity of her hairstyle, which was pulled back in a tight bun.

“Giraffes?” she croaked, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief.

“All long necks, loping along like prey. Just hoping a big lion will attack, if you know what I mean. A big, manly lion.”

As she talked, she walked behind Darby and unzipped her dress. Darby allowed it to pool at her feet and stepped out of the circle of fabric.

“I’ll have this washed and mended and it’ll be fine. Don’t worry about that.” Her accent was crisp, slicing through the air.

“Where are you from?” Darby couldn’t help asking.

“Manhattanville. Puerto Rico before that. I’m Esme, by the way. Do you know where Manhattanville is?”

“I’m Darby. And no, not exactly. Sounds very pretty.”

“No, chica. Trust me. Stick to the East Side for now. You just got here, right?”

“Yes.” Profound misery enveloped her once again. She was surrounded by girls who were nasty, when she hadn’t done anything to inspire their wrath. Or had she? Was there some code or password she’d missed out on? During high school she’d preferred novels to her classmates: They were in every way easier to read.

“Don’t start crying again. That’s what those girls like. You gotta toughen up.”

“I just want to go home.”

Esme stood quietly for a moment, then led Darby to the bed and sat her down. “The city is scary at first, even for these girls. For me, too. When I got off the plane from San Juan, I thought I’d freeze to death. Snow, ice, everywhere. My aunt told me that when she first got on a subway, she tried to find the cord to make it stop, like you have on a bus, right?” She swore under her breath and Darby couldn’t make out the word. “You’ll get used to it, don’t worry. You gotta decide what you want out of it. Don’t let them trample you.”

“I imagined them as gazelles, the girls.” Darby smiled, in spite of herself. “I like giraffes better.”

“That’s the way. Laugh it off. And put in a request to Mrs. Eustis to switch floors. You should be with the other Katie Gibbs girls, not with these monsters. They’re the messiest of all the guests here at the hotel. Leave their stockings and girdles all over the bathroom, not caring who sees what. It’s disgusting.”

Darby didn’t mention that spitting was fairly disgusting behavior as well.

“Thank you for helping me, Esme. That was nice of you.”

“Sure thing. I figured you weren’t like them.”

“Clearly not; just look at me. My dress is all wrong, my hair. You can take the dress and burn it, for all I care. I’ll never wear it again.” She still tasted Walter’s breath and tongue, the feel of his hands on her.

“It’s a little dullsville, to be honest. Why umbrellas?”

Her response caught Darby off guard. “I thought it was an interesting pattern.”

“You need to get glamorous. Umbrellas aren’t glamorous.”

“You don’t understand. I’m going to be a secretary. Secretaries aren’t meant to be chic.”

Esme walked over to the window and yanked it open. She sat on the ledge, repinning the maid’s cap on her head. “Why limit yourself? I don’t. I’m going to be a famous entertainer. I’m auditioning this week for the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. I’m gonna make films and have fans swoon over me.”

Darby studied Esme with renewed interest. She’d never seen anyone with her kind of accent as a major film star. In the background, sure, but not like Judy Garland and Katharine Hepburn. They didn’t talk or look like this girl.

“I know, you think I’m not the right type. But I can do proper, and I can do fiery. I’m going to show them when I audition. I’ll knock their socks off.”

“What kind of thing do you have to do for the audition?”

“I’ll be performing a monologue from Romeo and Juliet. By Shakespeare.”

An ambitious choice. “How exciting.”

Esme grabbed Darby’s bathrobe where it lay on the armchair and tossed it to her. “Hey, we should go out sometime this week. I can show you the best places in town. The real ones. Not the stuck-up supper clubs.”

Darby wasn’t sure how to respond. Mother would never approve of her hanging about with one of the maids from the hotel. The uncertainty must have registered on her face, as Esme shrugged and stood. “You don’t have to. I’m sure you’ll be busy with your school stuff.”

Darby hated the idea of rebuffing the only person, besides Stella, who had shown any kindness to her. Then again, look what Stella had led her into. She had to keep her distance, be careful. “But thank you for the invitation.”

“Sure. Here’s what I recommend: Talk to Mrs. Eustis, and stay away from the giraffes. Good luck.”

Darby wanted to say more, to reach out in some way and let Esme know how much she appreciated her help and kind words, but Esme closed the door with a quiet click before she could utter a word.

Mrs. Eustis had promised to look into a room transfer for Darby, but four days later, she hadn’t heard back. Darby’s routine consisted of getting up early, before the other girls rose, running in and out of the bathroom as quickly and quietly as possible, and then heading off to class at the Katharine Gibbs School. The first day, the school director had listed off the qualifications for Gibbs graduates, including a strong work ethic and a respectable background. When she added that graduates were known for having a “natural physical endowment,” Darby could have sworn she looked right at her, and not in a good way. What the heck did that mean? Pretty? Buxom? She’d pulled her shoulders back and sat up straighter.

The classes were tedious, for the most part: typing, shorthand, communication, and spelling tests. She’d already received bad marks for having a run in her stockings, and another for slouching. She missed her English teacher from high school, who’d assigned short stories and Russian novels to be analyzed in great detail. Learning to type and memorizing Gregg shorthand symbols were deadly boring in comparison.

By Thursday evening of her first week, she was frustrated. And hungry. She’d waited until all the other girls left before going down to the Barbizon dining room, and missed dinner by five minutes. She was staring longingly at the menu posted outside the doorway when Esme walked by, carrying a mop and bucket.

“Esme?”

“Miss McLaughlin.” Esme nodded in her direction but kept walking.

“Wait.” Darby dashed after her and put a hand on her arm. Esme’s expression was pleasant but not warm. “I wanted to say thank you for everything you did for me last weekend. You really helped me out there.”

“I’m glad.” She put the bucket down. “Are the giraffes leaving you alone?”

“So far. And I asked Mrs. Eustis for a transfer and she’s working on it. In the meantime, I try to work around their schedules. I’m in school full-time now, so it’s easy.” She didn’t mention that she was dreading the upcoming weekend, when she had nothing at all to do. If she sat inside her room the entire time, she’d go mad, she was sure of that.

Esme nodded in the direction of the dining room. “You miss dinner?”

“I did. So busy with homework.”

“Do you want me to get you a roll or something?”

Darby clutched at her stomach. “Would you? I’m starving. Could you do that without getting into trouble?”

“I’ll meet you up in your room. Be there in ten.”

As promised, Esme showed up with several slices of bread tucked into her laundry basket, along with a small jar of raspberry jelly and a knife.

“Oh, this is wonderful, thank you! Do you want some?”

“No, I’ll just fold some sheets here while you dine, if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead.” Darby sat at her desk and slathered the jam on the bread. “May I ask about your audition?”

Esme gave her a wide smile. “It was great. I had it yesterday, and they’ll let me know in a week or so.”

“Tell me, what was it like? Were you nervous?”

“I’m never nervous. I think they were, though. The minute I opened my mouth, you could see they weren’t expecting a Puerto Rican to apply to their fancy academy. All the other people auditioning talked right. But I did my speech and the judges flipped.”

“I’m so excited for you. I couldn’t imagine doing such a thing. What courage you have.”

“Courage is easy when the other choices are folding sheets and dealing with guests all day. When you want to get out of a situation fast, you get courage.”

“It must be difficult, dealing with so many girls.”

“It’s a dirty, nasty job. But to make up for it, I do something beautiful at night.”

“What’s that?”

“If you like, I’ll show you. Come out with me. I finish at nine thirty.”

“I couldn’t. I’d miss curfew.”

“You can easily sneak in the back way. I’ll show you how.”

“That’s awfully late, isn’t it?”

“Did you have other plans?” asked Esme.

Darby swallowed and tore off another piece of bread. “Not really.”

“Have you been out since last weekend?”

She hated to admit she hadn’t. It had taken all her energy to get to school and back each day, and although the other girls in her classes were friendly enough, she’d been too skittish to try in earnest.

Esme didn’t give her a chance to respond. “C’mon, Darby, live a little. Come out with me tonight. I’ll meet you outside. Don’t be late.” She walked over to Darby’s small closet and opened it, pulling out the black brocade dress she’d last worn at Daddy’s funeral. “And wear this.”

When Darby walked out of the Barbizon at nine thirty on the dot, Esme ran toward her, squealing. She’d changed into a bright red taffeta dress with a delicate scalloped trim around the neckline. Her hair, unleashed from its updo, fell in gentle curls around her head. She looked more fashionable than any of the girls on Darby’s floor.

As the cab ventured into the East Village, the street scene changed. The buildings were no higher than six stories, the sidewalks dirty with cigarette butts and crumpled newspapers. Darby almost gagged at the smell of urine as she stepped out of the taxi, but she followed Esme along a narrow alleyway between two buildings to a tiny, treeless courtyard at the back of the one of the tenements.

Esme smiled up at a black man smoking a cigarette outside a doorway and dragged Darby into the darkness.

“Where are we going? How do you know where to go?” Darby asked.

“I work here some nights as a hatcheck girl. Good tips, and it’s a wild scene.”

“What is it, exactly?”

“The Flatted Fifth. A jazz club. All the greats come here, after they’ve played at the posh places on Fifty-Second Street. It’s gritty and grubby and the best.”

She agreed with the first two adjectives. They walked through a tiny kitchen, where a cook stared hard at them as they breezed by.

“What are you doing, Esme?” he said. “You know he doesn’t like it when you bring in nonpayers.”

Esme thrust out her chin and put a hand on her hip. “Sam, meet Darby. Darby, this is Sam. He thinks he runs the place, but he doesn’t. Right, Sam?”

The cook scowled back. “If he catches you, you’ll get fired, Esme.”

Darby stared at him. While none of his features was remarkable on its own—the nose too large, the edges of his eyes sloped downward—he was oddly handsome, with a perfect dimpled chin. He looked to be in his mid-twenties but had a boyish frame, all long limbs and sharp points.

He turned back to the oven.

“Manners, Sam. I’ll have to talk to your dad about that.” Esme didn’t wait for a reply but pulled Darby farther into the bowels of the building, pushing past a swinging door.

They were in the basement of the tenement. The low-ceilinged main room was packed, a mixture of blacks and whites, young men and women posturing and smoking and talking over one another.

Esme squeezed Darby’s hand. “We’re waiting for Stick Hawkins. They say he’s coming tonight, but you never know with that cat.”

Stick? Cat? Darby looked at Esme, perplexed.

Esme laughed. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch on.”

Darby wasn’t so sure. The place was frightening, and she scanned the exits, wondering which was the quickest way out in case there was a fire or a fight. All these people pressed together, in the smoke and darkness, made her heart beat faster and her mouth grow dry in panic. She wanted to run away, go back to the lonely safety of her room. But she couldn’t bear another night of tossing and turning and ruminations.

“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.