The Dollhouse

CHAPTER SEVEN

New York City, 2016

Rose 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.”

“No, not at all. What kind of company did Miss McLaughlin work for?”

“Some button shop on West Thirty-Eighth Street. Only retired five or six years ago, old goose.”

The clanking continued. “Do you want me to turn the heat off?”

“No, it involves taking all the plants off the windowsill and lifting up that shelf they sit on. It’s the least he can do, for the little I ask of him.”

“It must be strange to see the building change so drastically.”

“Everything changes. I couldn’t care less. I have my little slice of New York City and that’s enough for me.”

“You said you were good friends with Miss McLaughlin?”

“I didn’t say that. But we help each other out, now and again. I’m taking care of Bird while she’s away.”

The news surprised Rose. “Where did she go?”

“God knows. This morning she seemed upset, asked me to watch Bird while she’s gone for a while, and that was that. Said she had some business to take care of. Whatever that means. What kind of business can an eighty-one-year-old woman have? Said she’d be back in three weeks.”

Rose’s hopes fell. Tyler wouldn’t be happy. “Does she often go on trips?”

“Rarely. Can’t think of the last time she left town. Like I said, she was in a hurry. You said you talked to her?”

“Yes, we were going to set up a time to speak further. Were you here when she had the accident?”

“How did you hear about that?”

“One of the doormen. He was very respectful,” she added quickly.

“Patrick. Biggest gossip in the building.” Her voice became quiet, eerie. “I can’t help you out there. Darby’s private. She doesn’t talk much about it.”

“Do you remember the name of the maid who died?”

Stella let out a low whistle. “Can’t forget her. She was a wiseass. Esme. Esme Castillo was her full name. After it happened, it was all the girls could talk about for weeks. The hotel kept the scandal quiet, never even hit the papers.” She stared at Rose through narrowed eyelids. “Is that what you want to write about?”

“No, not if she’s uncomfortable. I would like to talk to her, though, about other things. Do you think you might explain what I’m doing the next time you see her?”

“You seem like a nice enough gal. I’ll see what I can do, but you shouldn’t hold your breath. Darby’s probably the last of the old-timers you’ll get to open up. After the accident, she closed herself off. Like a curtain coming down at the end of a play.”

Rose left her business card with Stella and took the stairs up one flight. On one hand, Miss McLaughlin’s sudden exodus put her story into a tailspin. On the other, Stella’s story would make an epic profile and might keep Tyler at bay until she returned.

Exhausted, she passed out on the couch until the ringing of her cell phone woke her up out of a heavy, black sleep. She hurried to it, hoping maybe it was Griff. Instead, Stella’s voice crackled across the line.

“I need your help.”

“Sure, Stella, what can I do for you?”

“Get my apartment key from Patrick and take Darby’s dog.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My doctor put me in the hospital for tests. Apparently it’s my heart, not my nerves. They think I’m having some kind of a heart attack or something.”

“I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

“What I just asked. Take care of Bird while I’m away. Patrick will give you the key.”

“I’m happy to help, but Miss McLaughlin and I barely know each other.”

“Darby doesn’t have many friends, so that’s nothing new. You live in the building, and I can track you down if you steal anything, not that we have anything to steal.”

“I won’t steal a thing, I promise.”

“If he runs out of food, there’s more in Darby’s apartment. Her key is on my kitchen counter. He’s a good dog, won’t poop on your rugs or anything like that. Darby’s instructions are on the kitchen counter.”

Rose tried not to sound too excited. Once Miss McLaughlin found out she’d stepped in during a crisis, she’d have to talk. Assuming she wasn’t too pissed off. Either way, Rose was just being neighborly, and it was an opportunity to move the story forward and connect with the primary source. “Okay, get well soon and let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

“Enjoy being young. That’s what you can do for me.”