The Dollhouse

by Fiona Davis

  “Miss McLaughlin, are you all right?”

  Darby coughed. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “I’ve warned you before about your distracted behavior, and your teachers tell me that you’ve been having a difficult time adjusting. Is that right?”

  “I did have a difficult time, in the beginning. But I’m enjoying class very much now. I think in the next month or so, you’ll see I’ve made real progress.”

  “I see.” She looked down at a piece of paper on her desk. “Your scores are low. Very low.”

  “Right. As I mentioned, I got off to a bad start. But I promise you I’ll make it up. I can do the work.”

  “What exactly has been the problem?”

  She was unsure how to continue. “It’s not what I expected. All the drills. I find it difficult to concentrate because the work is . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Dull?” Mrs. Tibbett’s mouth softened, ever so slightly.

  Darby sighed with relief. Presumably, other Gibbs girls had experienced similar pains adjusting to the program. “I’m afraid so. It’s awfully repetitive. But I’ll get used it. I’m already getting used to it.”

  “My dear child, not every girl can be a Gibbs girl. It takes a certain can-do-it-ness. It’s about serving others, not thinking of ourselves.”

  Or thinking for ourselves. Darby didn’t say it out loud, just nodded.

  “You may know that I sent a second notice to your mother last week, indicating that you were doing poorly. And after hearing from the other teachers during midterm conferences, we’ve decided that it’s best if you don’t finish out the year.”

  Darby’s chin dropped. “I’m sorry?”

  “You’ve been given many chances, but we don’t want to waste our time with a girl who shows up late and half asleep, performs badly, and feels she’s above the role of secretary. We think you’d be happier elsewhere.”

  She’d walked into a trap.

  “No, you don’t understand,” Darby sputtered. “I didn’t mean the work was dull, not at all. It’s my dream to be a secretary, and you see, my mother has spent all of her savings on my tuition. I can’t fail.” She imagined Mother reading the letter of expulsion, knowing that none of the fees were refundable, and a cold sweat enveloped her. She reached out a hand and gripped the edge of the desk. “You can’t tell Mother. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Please. Tell her that I’m still enrolled, that it was a mistake.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss McLaughlin. Please take your belongings with you. You are expelled.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  New York City, 2016

  Ms. Doris Spinner of apartment 4G gave Rose a charming smile. “We would sneak boys up all the time. The girls who worked the back elevator would keep quiet if you gave them a lipstick, or you could climb up the back stairs. There was a woman in charge, Mrs. Eustis or Ewing, I can’t remember, who was intent on running a tight ship, but there were leaks here and there, no doubt about it. I lost my virginity in this building, to a boy who worked in a bank. He had a wicked way about him.”

  Rose waited two beats and then signaled for Jason to stop recording. The sound bite, and Ms. Spinner’s interview, couldn’t have gone better.

  “That the kind of thing you’re looking for?”

  “Yes, exactly. Thank you so much for your time. And your level of detail. We really appreciate it.” They’d taped several interviews that morning, and Rose was relieved to find that her relationship with Jason wasn’t strained from their strange parting in the cab. If anything, they were more in sync than ever while interviewing the women of the fourth floor. Rose had spaced out the schedule so they could take their time with each one, shooting either in their apartments or in the second-floor lounge. She deliberately avoided coming up with a list of questions beforehand, preferring to allow the interview to ebb and flow like a real conversation, and the result was better than she’d expected. Tales of back-room abortions and rampant sexual harassment were tempered with stories of young love and the joys of living in an intoxicating city.

  But that wasn’t the least of the good news. Rose had shown up uncharacteristically late to the first interview, after visiting the New York Public Library at Forty-Second Street earlier that morning. As soon as the library’s doors opened, she’d followed the grand marble hallway into a shabby room with dropped ceilings and fluorescent lights. It was a place she knew well, having done hours and hours of research there as a newly promoted assistant producer, and it felt like coming home. She always enjoyed digging up the past, whether it was for a tribute for some star who’d passed away or deep background for an investigative piece.

  Even though the clunky microfilm machines probably dated back to the 1970s and scratches marred the glass viewfinder, she patiently scrolled through back issues of every newspaper in New York City from the week of October 31, 1952, including the ones that had gone out of business. She was constantly surprised at what she found: a listing in the real estate section for a two-bedroom, terraced apartment on the West Side for one hundred dollars a month; help-wanted sections divided up by gender, where women could find work as typists and receptionists while men were sought in engineering and sales positions. This was the world Darby had encountered when she’d come to New York.

  A few hours in, she hit the jackpot.

  After showing Ms. Spinner to the elevator, Rose returned to the lounge, bursting with excitement. Jason was packing up, wrapping a cord around his elbow and wrist with quick, sure movements.

  “You did a really good job today,” he said.

  “Thanks. I always find the best quotes come from the least likely questions, the ones tossed off at the end, as an afterthought.”

  “Do we dare take a cab back? I have to say I enjoyed our ride the other night.”

  Remembering the few seconds they’d kissed sent a ripple of pleasure through her. Weird how a man so completely different from Griff could have that effect on her.

  Griff. Over the past week, as she’d dived into the story, she’d stopped thinking about him quite as often. Instead, she’d been consumed with the narrative structure of writing about Darby and her neighbors. And she wasn’t about to jump into another relationship so soon.

  She needed to be clear with Jason. “Look, I just got out of something serious and it’s complicated.” She hated how much her words sounded like everyone else’s. She’d never get away with writing that kind of cliché. “I think we work well together, and I’d hate to fuck that up.”

  “We do work well together, I’ll give you that.”

  God, he was distracting. Before he could say anything else, she reached into her bag and pulled out several sheets of paper. “Here’s the reason I was late this morning.”

  “What’s this?”

  “I went to the library, going through every issue of every city newspaper printed around Halloween of 1952, when Stella said Esme fell.”

  “The library? Serious old-school research.”

  “I looked for anything in the local news that might be related to our story, and not only was the Flatted Fifth mentioned, but Benny Kalai’s name showed up as well.” She pointed to the top page. “This was in the October 31st issue of the New York Herald Tribune. ‘Harrowing Tales of Heroin.’”

  She read aloud from the article, which included a transcript of a conversation between the police and an informant:

  Q: How old would you say the buyers are?

  A: Sixteen, maybe. I know one couple who give drugs to their young baby.

  Q: How old is this baby?

  A: Less than a year old. When the baby cries, they give him a shot of heroin to shut him up.

  “My God.” Jason looked ill.

  “I know. Awful. But here’s the juicy part.”

  Informant conference with Esme C., Puerto Rican hatcheck girl at the Flatted Fifth, interviewed by Det.
Quigley.

  Q: What about where you work?

  A: Should I mention names?

  Q: Yes.

  A: Charlie Parker and Stan Getz always buy heroin. Same when Gene Adams’s group comes. Sonny Stitt when they’re there, and when the Machito band is there, there’s a lot of cocaine.

  Q: Where is it sold, right in the Flatted Fifth?

  A: Yes. And at Hector’s Cafeteria on 50 Street and Broadway. The addicts come in, put their money down, pick up the drugs, and leave.

  Q: Where does it come from?

  A: A guy named Benny Kalai.

  Jason whooped. “This is huge. Esme was involved in heroin.”

  “Looks like it. No mention of Sam in there, just Esme. And Kalai.”

  “I wonder if Darby knew what was going on.”

  “We’ll have to ask her that when we see her.”

  “I can’t wait. Speaking of which, any news as to when she’ll be back? Tyler wants a rough cut and the first draft by the end of next week.”

  “It’ll be close,” said Rose. The discussion of deadlines ignited a fizz of nerves deep in her belly.

  He leafed through the pages. “I wonder what happened to Kalai after this came out?”

  “I had the same question. Turns out Kalai ended up in Sing Sing in 1954. Looks like it took some time to indict him. He died there ten years later.”

  Jason beamed at her. “Tyler will love this.”

  “Maids and heroin deals in the fifties? You bet.”

  “Right up his alley, twisted fuck.”

  “Makes the story more interesting, rather than the reminiscences of a bunch of old ladies.”

  “That’s harsh. Their stories are fantastic. You know that as well as I do.”

  She tried not to gloat at the reversal. Jason was championing the cause. “Yup.”

  Her phone vibrated. The ID read ASTOR ASSISTED LIVING. She answered immediately.

  “Is this Ms. Lewin?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Brenda from Astor. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m afraid your father’s had a fall.”

  Rose closed her eyes and swayed ever so slightly, trying not to panic. “Is he okay?”

  The woman’s answer was not reassuring. “You should meet us at Mount Sinai West.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  New York City, 1952

  Darby sat down to write a letter to Mother as soon as she got back to the Barbizon. Strange how now that she’d been expelled from Gibbs, her room took on an unexpected, nostalgic hue. She’d miss the view from the window. Even the garish curtains and bedspread seemed endearing.

  The door opened with a bang and Maureen rushed in.

  “Darby, I heard the news.”

  “Right. I guess everyone at the school knows by now.”

  Maureen leaned over and gave her an awkward hug, then sat on the bed. “I can’t believe they’d do this to you.”

  “It’s so unfair. I explained to Mrs. Tibbett that I was really trying, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m writing a letter to Mother explaining everything, saying that I’m sorry to disappoint her but that I’ll go back to Defiance and work hard, pay her back in full.” Esme came to mind, working one job during the day and another at night, all while going to school. “I know I can do it.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Maureen’s gaze drifted over to the open door, where two Ford girls trying on princess costumes for Halloween squealed over each other.

  Darby shrugged. “I’ll be fine, I’m sure. I feel bad about the money, of course, but it’s probably all for the best.”

  Maureen nodded, her mouth slightly open, still entranced by the creatures in the hallway.

  “I’ll miss you and the twins.”

  Maureen snapped back to attention. “And I’ll miss you terribly. Why don’t I go to Mrs. Tibbett and put in a good word? Do you think that’d help? I know Edna and Edith will join me. They absolutely adore you.”

  “I doubt that would do any good. Maybe I’m not cut out for New York after all.”

  Without excusing the interruption, one of the Ford girls turned and beckoned to Maureen from across the hall. “You. We need your fingers. Sandra’s zipper is stuck.”

  Maureen scuttled over and did as they commanded, holding the material together as the other girl slowly encased Sandra in a taffy-colored satin gown. After, Maureen remained in the doorway, watching them drift off without even a thank-you. Not that she needed one. For Maureen, just getting noticed by one of the giraffes was enough reward. Thanks to Esme, they no longer had such an effect on Darby.

  Once she’d broken free from the spell, Maureen insisted that she and Darby be pen pals, and after Darby promised to write, they hugged a teary good-bye. Darby finished the letter, sealed it in an envelope, and placed it on top of her desk. Part of her was relieved to no longer have to pretend that she wanted to be a secretary, but she’d never let anyone down like this before. Mother’s displeasure would be crushing.

  A knock on the door broke her concentration. She recognized the sharp rap. “Come in, Esme.”

  “Hey there, chica. What’s going on?”

  She didn’t bother softening the news. “I’ve been expelled.”

  Esme perched on the window ledge and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s because of me, isn’t it? I was a bad influence on you.”

  The same thought had gone through Darby’s head. What if she hadn’t made friends with Esme and gotten dazzled by nights filled with bebop and Sam?

  She shrugged off the thought. “I’m the one who showed up late, who failed tests. I hated secretarial school, but I liked what we did together. Anyway, I just wrote to Mother. Once she gets this and sends me train fare, I’ll be on my way.”

  “How long do we have?” A note of desolation crept into Esme’s voice.

  “I don’t know. A week, maybe.”

  “Do you really have to go?”

  “I can’t stay. I can’t make a living here.”

  “Of course you can.”

  Darby let out a scornful laugh. “I don’t think you understand. I’ll never be a secretary now. It’s over.”

  Esme leaned forward. “So do something else. Why is it so important to go back?”

  “Mother spent all her money to send me here and I have to pay her back. I owe her that much. I’ve completely disappointed her.”

  “What about how she’s disappointed you?”

  Darby shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “She married that Mr. Saunders. It seems to me she’s the one who put you in this position to start with. What if she’d taken the money and gone to school herself? Learned to be a nurse or something? Then she could have supported herself without having to lean on a man and lightened up on you.”

  Darby couldn’t imagine Mother pursuing a career; she was of a different generation. All she knew was dinner parties and tennis. “That was never going to happen.”

  Esme stood up and paced the room. “You’re gonna have a career, just not the career your mother thought you would.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we work together to get a recording contract. We can call ourselves the Downtown Dollies.”

  Darby squirmed. “I’m not sure that’s realistic.”

  “Sure it is. Hell, we’re just getting started.”

  “And how do I feed myself in the meantime?”

  “We find an apartment together, something cheap. You can take up some shifts at the club as a waitress. Sam and I can put in a good word for you there. We hang on until we hit it big. Whichever comes first: me on Broadway or us together as a singing duo.”

  “I don’t know.” Even
as she said it, Esme’s plan was taking root in her brain. Being in New York City but not having to go to secretarial school had never figured into Darby’s thinking. The two were intertwined from the very start. Maybe Esme was right. Maybe she could stand on her own two feet. She touched the envelope sitting on her desk, imagining what Mother would think when she heard of her plans. “I’m not sure if I can do it.”

  “Of course you can. Look at me and my papa. He was the center of my world in Puerto Rico; we obeyed him and did whatever he said and were terrified to cross him. But when I got to New York City, I had the power. I took control, did what I had to do. Now it’s your turn.”

  “The only money I have is from our gig. And I’d have to send that to Mother, to show her that I’m planning on paying her back.” She did the calculation in her head. “I don’t see how I can swing it. Even if I found a job right away.”

  “I’ll take care of that. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll take care of you.”

  A terrible thought sprang into her head. “You won’t be doing that thing you talked about, when the men came after you, will you?”

  Esme snickered. “No way. I have resources at my fingertips and they don’t involve turning tricks.”

  Darby choked at the frank choice of words and gave Esme a weak smile. Her mind raced with a list of possibilities. She could go home, face Mother and Mr. Saunders, and lick her wounds. Or she could stay here, with Esme and Sam, and figure out another approach. One she had never imagined.

  Darby picked up the letter to Mother, took a deep breath, and ripped it in half.

  Esme let out a yip of delight. “That’s my girl.”

  “I’ll write to Mother and explain everything. Maybe she’ll understand.”

  Or maybe her news would come as a relief. The household was probably more peaceful now and would remain so if Mr. Saunders could continue to pretend she didn’t exist. Darby was a constant reminder of her father.

  “What do we do first?” she asked.

  “You’re paid up at the Barbizon until the end of the month, right?”