The Dollhouse

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

New York City, 2016

Six 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.”

“Sure can.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Do you want to go back to what you were doing?” she asked.

“Eventually. Not right now. I’m picking up work here and there, freelancing for now.”

“Well, this shouldn’t be too tough. Interviews, B-roll, and we’re done.”

“Speaking of going back to what you were doing, why was Gloria Buckstone reinstated at the network but you had to leave? You were both proved right in the end after all. Madden was as crooked as a three-dollar bill.”

She hadn’t been right.

Rose fiddled with the spoon on the table, stalling for time. When a source had sent her bank statements that supposedly showed Senator Madden was skimming money earmarked for state nursing homes, she’d known it was a huge get. With the senator’s unstoppable popularity, the story had explosive potential, the power to take Rose’s career to the next level. Except something about the documents themselves felt off to Rose. She’d begged her superiors to wait until she had further proof of Madden’s crimes before taking the news to air. At the time, Gloria Buckstone was Rose’s friend and mentor, and unfortunately, she was also her boss and desperate to have a big exclusive.

In the end, Rose’s protests fell on deaf ears. When it turned out the bank statements were, in fact, doctored, the whole thing became a massive PR disaster for the news desk. Luckily, the loss of face lasted all of a week before a different whistle-blower came forward with irrefutable evidence of the senator’s wrongdoings. Now all anyone remembered was that Gloria and Rose had broken the story first.

Everyone thought she was a renegade, fighting to get the truth out. But if it were up to her, they’d never have run the incorrect version in the first place.

“I left because I missed writing too much,” she said. Always a handy excuse. Made her sound intellectual. The waitress tossed the check on the table and Rose snatched it up, relieved by the interruption. “Allow me.”

Outside in the sunshine, Rose considered her next steps. First off was to find the button store Stella had mentioned, and see if she could get some more color on Darby’s life.

Jason shrugged his backpack over one shoulder and stood, legs spread wide. He looked like an urban lumberjack. “How is it working for Tyler?”

She considered the question. Best to be ambiguous. “Interesting.”

“He’s the nephew of one of the guys I worked with in Iraq. Comes from a lot of money.”

“So he says. Money buys power.”

“That’s true. Stupid name, WordMerge.”

Rose nodded. “It’s impossible to pronounce without laughing. My boyfriend said it’s . . .”

She stopped.

“What does he say?”

“Nothing, it was silly. I don’t want to be bad-mouthing the boss, not cool.”

“I’m a freelancer; what do I care? I shoot the video, cash the check, and move on.”

“Must be nice.”

“You should try it.”

“Can’t afford it.”

“Do you miss network news?” His eyes searched her face, as if he were trying to suss her out. “I always wondered if there was more to the story than came out.”

“Nope, that’s it.”

He swung the backpack to the other shoulder. “Ah. Anyway. You didn’t deserve what happened.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

“And Tyler is lucky to have you.”

Ever since the debacle, she’d hated running into people in the business, knowing they’d gossip about their encounter within ten minutes. “I’m doing what I like now. Writing, I mean. Happy to leave the shooting to experts like yourself. It’s what I should have done all along.” Even to her own ears, her tone was brusque and dismissive.

“Right. Got it.” He turned to go. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

He strode away, head held high. Here she’d been complaining about the lack of collaboration at WordMerge but couldn’t have a normal conversation with the first person who seemed to know what he was doing. In any event, what did it matter? She’d probably never work with Jason again; he’d be off to Iraq or Iran or somewhere, shooting footage that put her features to shame.

No, that was the wrong way of thinking.

She’d do whatever it took to make this story work.

Samson Button Shop on West Thirty-Eighth Street sported a black-and-white checkerboard floor, and walls covered with every style and color of button imaginable. The overall effect was slightly psychedelic, and only by focusing on one section at a time could the details be fully appreciated: big black plastic buttons, rose-shaped ones made from silk, others that glowed with a metallic sheen.

Determined to find Darby’s former place of business, Rose had googled “button stores” on Thirty-Eighth Street and been surprised at how many were still in existence. The garment district, once a bustling rectangle of New York streets, where pedestrians fought for sidewalk space with workers pushing clothing racks from factory to showroom, was now a burgeoning home for trendy high-rise hotels and tech start-ups, but a dozen or so stalwarts held on. Rose had made her way west from Fifth Avenue while scanning the storefronts, popping into all those that sold buttons.

“May I help you?”

A thin man with a large belly strode over. He wore jeans and an untucked shirt with disappointing white plastic buttons down the front.

“I was wondering if a Miss Darby McLaughlin used to work here.”

“Of course. Is she all right?”

“Yes, she’s fine. She’s an old friend of my mother’s.” If she didn’t lie, she’d never be able to get any information from this man without him wanting to talk to Darby first. And there was no time for that. If anything, the debacle with Gloria Buckstone had toughened her up. Or twisted her ethics. Depended on how you looked at it. “We’ve only just found each other on Facebook. Luckily, too, as she needed some help with Bird.”

He smiled. “Ah, Bird; she brought him by a few years ago.”

“She’s not as mobile as she used to be, and she asked me to come by and say hello since I was in the neighborhood.”

The man laughed. “Excellent. Tell her that Stanley Junior is in charge, and all is well.”

“I will. How long did she work here? Seems like a long time.”

“Well, she started in the fifties. Kept showing up, day after day, year after year, until she retired five years ago. “

“Did she sell buttons?”

“No. Never wanted to be in the front of the store. She did our books, kept records, acted as a secretary for my father. Sweet lady.”

“Very sweet.” Rose ran her hand through an open box of ebony-colored buttons. They clattered like pebbles. “Very private, though. She never takes off her veil.”

“Always kept her face covered here at work, too, at least above her nose. I knew she’d been in some kind of accident, but since I grew up with her, I never questioned it. Or if I did, my father shut me up soon enough.”

“Right. Well, she’ll be happy to know that you’re still going strong.”

“I don’t know about that. We sell most of our stock online these days. I’m looking into the possibility of getting out of the bricks-and-mortar part of the business.”

She looked around the room. “Do everything online? That would be a shame.”

“Another piece of New York City gone with the wind.”

Stalling for time, Rose selected six coffee-colored buttons that looked like round chocolates, good enough to eat.

“Good choice.” Stanley Jr. brought them to the register and wrapped them in tissue paper. “These will liven up a fall or winter jacket. Very stylish.”

As he rang up the purchase, Rose pressed on. “What kind of person was Darby when she was younger? I only ask because she’s such a grande dame now. Curious how she was in her youth.”

“She was careful, wry. Ate a tuna sandwich for lunch every day, year in and year out. She didn’t mind if I played near her desk. In fact, I think she liked it. She had a great sense of humor, loved to play practical jokes.”

“Jokes? Really?”

“Sure.” He shrugged, thoughtful. “She may have kept to herself because of what happened to her, but she’s no stick-in-the-mud. Darby is a tough cookie. She has class, style. Swagger, almost. An elegant mystery, my father liked to say.”

Rose placed the buttons in her bag. “Does Darby have any family or anyone close to her? My mother is hoping she’s well taken care of these days but doesn’t want to be rude and ask her outright.”

“Not really. She complained about her neighbors quite a bit, said they were way too nosy for her taste.”

No surprise there.

“But her young friend seemed like someone who would look out for her.”

Rose stopped in her tracks. “What friend?”

“Young girl, in her teens. Stopped in a few times. Lovely girl.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“Allie, Abby, something like that.”

“Her last name?”

He shook his head. “I’m sure Darby mentioned it when she first introduced me, but I don’t remember.”

“And she never said who she was, how she knew her?”

“Gosh, no. Darby was pretty tight-lipped about everything. The girl made her happy and seemed nice enough, so I didn’t push.”

“Right. Well, thanks for your help. And the buttons.”

“Sure thing. Tell Miss McLaughlin I said hello when you see her.”

“Will do.”