The Dollhouse (16 page)

“We are; we appreciate your time. We're interested in finding out more about the people who frequented the Flatted Fifth in the early 1950s.” Rose sat on a scarlet couch dotted with garish saffron-colored pillows. Jason sat beside her and took out his camera.

“Do you mind if I record the interview?” he asked.

Mr. Buckley eased himself into a rail-back armchair upholstered in a nubby green fabric and nodded. “Fine with me.”

Jason nudged Rose and she followed his gaze. The entire wall of a hallway was filled with shelves of vinyl records, thousands of them.

“Can I take a look?” Jason asked Mr. Buckley.

“Go right ahead. My collection. Pretty much everything you need to know about the bebop era of jazz. The library at Lincoln Center asked me to leave my collection to them when I go. Nice to think of all those Juilliard kids getting a taste of what real music is like.”

“Are you Mr. Sam Buckley?” Rose couldn't help herself.

“Sam?” His face clouded over. “No. I'm Malcolm.”

Rose silently kicked herself. If she pushed him too hard, she might very well scare him, as she'd done with Darby.

“This is your album.” Jason held a cover with black graphics over a photo of a drum kit.

Mr. Buckley grinned. “That it is. I toured and played with the best of them. Until I got hooked on the hard stuff. Not an easy life, when you're always on the road. Easy to turn to whatever makes you feel good.”

Rose took out her notebook. “Heroin?”

“You got it. Went down the same path as Monk and Parker. I didn't die, so I'm not famous. Could've been, though. Later, I found steady work as an arranger.”

“Maybe it's better to be unknown and alive than famous and dead?” she said.

“Not so sure of that.” He looked down at the thick, arthritic joints on his hands. “It's tough getting old when everyone else is gone. What's your report about?”

“It's an article, with some video as well. It's basically about the Barbizon Hotel for Women and what it was like to be in New York City in the fifties and sixties.”

“How did you hear about the club?”

“One of the women who lives at the Barbizon has a menu from the Flatted Fifth. I understand the club was once owned by a Mr. Cornelius Buckley. I assume you're related?”

“Cornelius was my dad. My older brother, Sam, was the cook.”

Rose tried to stifle her excitement. “Sam Buckley. Right. We found a book he compiled, of various spices and recipes. Dated from 1952.”

“Not surprising. He learned about that from his time in the war, all those fancy spices and things. My dad always put him down, didn't want a cook for a son; he wanted a musician. My asthma kept me from being drafted, which meant I could focus on the drums. For a time I was the golden child. Until I washed out.”

“Can I put this record on?” asked Jason.

“Sure thing.”

She shot Jason a look, annoyed he'd changed the subject, but his back was turned to her as he fiddled with the stereo. The drums came loud and fast, the beat hard.

Malcolm's face lit up. “You picked a good one. Dizzy and Charlie Parker at Birdland in 1951. Classic bebop.”

Rose listened carefully. From the look on his face, music was the key to getting Malcolm to open up. Jason had already figured that out.

“What makes it bebop?” she asked.

Malcolm laughed. “Bebop was all about speed and virtuosity. Back then, everyone was used to swing, right?” He waved his arms in the air. “Dancing around, all that. The greats, like Thelonious Monk, Dizzy, Max Roach, they started exploring a different take on the music. Listen here.”

The trumpet solo screeched up into the higher register, and although
it always found its way back to the chord, at times the sound seemed strident, off-key.

Rose said so out loud and Malcolm nodded. “Yup. Not what you expect. It's aggressive.”

Jason spoke up. “Bebop made what sounded like the wrong notes the right notes.”

“You've got it, kid. That's it exactly.”

Score one for Jason. Maybe he wasn't so annoying after all.

Rose could hardly wait for the song to finish to ask her next question, but she did, so that the noise wouldn't interfere with the taping. “Is Sam still alive?”

“Don't know. Haven't heard from him in years.” He didn't look at her while he spoke. “Where did you get his spice book?”

“From a Miss Darby McLaughlin. Is that name familiar?”

He blinked a couple of times before answering. “Nope. But why don't you just ask her how she knew my brother?”

“She's incapacitated at the moment.”

“Huh.”

“The notebook is a work of art, full of information and drawings. Sam wrote in the front that he gave it to her for safekeeping, as proof of his love. The message implies they were in danger. I'm curious to know more.”

“Can't help you there. I was touring most of the time; didn't make it back much until Sam had taken off.”

“Do you know why he took off?”

“My dad said he ran into trouble and had to leave town fast. Last I heard, he was out in California.” He pulled at his earlobe. “Anyway, he's a private guy.”

The use of present tense was interesting. How did he know, if he hadn't seen him in years? “Do you know anyone named Esme Castillo?”

He squinted his eyes as if he were conjuring up a vision. “Esme. She was the hatcheck girl at the club before I went on tour. Good voice. Pretty, too.”

Esme was the missing link between Darby and Sam. She worked in the hotel and at the Flatted Fifth. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“Who, Darby?”

“No. Esme.”

“Right. They say she fell off a building and died. But I don't know much else.”

They continued talking for another twenty minutes, as Malcolm told story after story about his life as a jazz musician at that time. But whenever Rose tried to get him to tell her more about Sam, he clammed up.

Malcolm knew more than he was saying. He was protecting his brother for some reason. She was sure of that.

Outside, she let Jason carry on for a while about Malcolm's extensive music knowledge. “He's like a walking encyclopedia about bebop and hard bop and that entire era.”

“He really is. But I wish we'd found out more about Sam. Was it just me, or did you get the impression he knows where Sam is?”

“Definitely. He wouldn't look at you when he answered. We'll have to circle back to him, gently nudge him into opening up to us.”

“Hopefully, by our deadline. Thanks for diverting him when he was about to clam up.”

“Hey, I'm just the guy behind the camera. You were great with him, by the way, once I saved your ass.”

A jolt of pleasure ran through her at his praise, along with a spark of guilt for what she'd said about him earlier. “That means something, coming from someone who's covered wars. Thank you.”

“It's just the truth, Rose. You should think so, too.”

New York City, 1952

D
arby vowed to avoid the Flatted Fifth after the strange spice expedition with Sam. She still cringed with embarrassment each time she remembered the sight of her disheveled face in that mirror. Before she'd gotten a glimpse of herself, she'd imagined they were a pair in one of the romantic movies that played in Times Square, dashing around town breathlessly together. But instead of Natalie Wood, she'd looked like a drowned rat.

In an effort to wipe her memory clean, she threw herself into her classes at Katie Gibbs, making sure to show up on time and well rested. Once, she forgot her gloves on the way there, but she ran into Maureen outside the building, who gave her one of hers. They walked past the monitor, each clutching a folder with one gloved hand, the bare one buried deep in a coat pocket, and sailed through. Even if Darby had gotten off to a rocky start, she still had months left to prove to her teachers that she would make an excellent secretary. And she would.

She'd also successfully steered clear of Esme for nearly a week. But this morning, her friend was back on elevator duty and she'd talked Darby into meeting for lunch at Hector's Cafeteria on Fiftieth Street. The restaurant was packed when she walked in, and Esme waved at her from the back of the buffet line.

“You made it.” Esme handed her a tray and they shuffled along the stainless steel counter, which ran almost the entire length of the restaurant. Esme took a bowl of pea soup and a grilled cheese sandwich and Darby did the same.

The line ground to a halt while the servers refreshed the desserts.

“Where have you been?” Esme cocked her head at Darby. “Sam was asking about you.”

“I've been too busy with school. Mother wants me to stay focused.”

“Come on. You gotta whoop it up once in a while; otherwise you'll end up miserable, working for a boss who makes passes at you but won't leave his wife, and spending every Christmas and Valentine's Day alone. Is that what you want?”

Darby had to smile. “No. I don't want that. But I do have to support myself and this is the only way that's viable. You should be at the club; you're an entertainer. That's what you want to do with your life. For me it's too distracting.”

“Why, because Sam is after you?”

Her heart jumped every time Esme mentioned his name. She remembered the way he'd looked at her after she'd bitten into the steak, the way his finger tasted on her tongue.

“Sam's not after me. He's excited about his cooking, that's all. He was happy to have someone to share it with since his father doesn't approve.”

Esme looked about the room, holding up the line even further. Darby nudged her forward. They picked up two éclairs for dessert and paid, then made their way to a table in a corner. Esme took the chair facing the restaurant. “A friend of mine might be stopping by. I have to keep an eye out for him.”

Darby accidentally bumped into the table next to them, earning dirty looks from the older ladies seated there. “What friend?”

“Someone from acting class.” Esme put her napkin on her lap and dug into the soup. “Delish, right?”

“Very.”

“Listen up, I have a way for both of us to make some extra money. You interested?”

Perhaps she meant the extra “customer service” jobs they'd discussed at the Flatted Fifth, ones that promised greater tips.

Esme laughed. “Don't worry, I know what you're thinking and I'm not talking about that. Next Thursday night, Annie Ross is playing and they need two backup singers. People liked it when we sang together, and Mr. Buckley says we've got the gig if we want it. We each get twenty dollars. What do you say?”

“I couldn't. I'd be too scared.”

“What's there to be scared of? We'll rehearse together. I'll be standing right next to you for the gig, and then we go home richer. You've got to do it.”

“What about Tanya?”

“Disappeared. She was just a junkie anyway.”

“But I have to focus on my schoolwork.”

“You'll have all weekend to do your schoolwork. This is my stepping-stone to fame and fortune. Without you, it'll be a disaster. We work so well together, everyone noticed.”

“You can find someone who's much better, I'm sure.”

“It's not about that. It's about the way we sound together.” Confusion wrinkled Esme's forehead, her bright red mouth set in a pout. “You really don't want to?”

Darby didn't know how to make her understand. “You're destined for something big, I know that. But I'm not. Why pretend? I'll only embarrass myself.”

“You need to change the way you look at things. Why settle for your mother's sad little picture of you? Who cares what she thinks?”

Esme's words rankled. “You don't know my mother, or what we've been through.”

“I know that she wants to turn you into a bore. When you should be enjoying life, enjoying being a beautiful girl in Manhattan.”

“First of all, I'm not beautiful. Second, it's better to be a bore who can support herself than to throw everything away on a whim. Mother had to marry Mr. Saunders to survive. Her only skills are gossiping and playing tennis. She had nothing to fall back on. What will you do if everything collapses underneath you?”

Esme's eyes were fierce. “I'm scrambling to make a living, so I know what it is to work hard and take care of myself. If I don't become a star, I guess I'll be a maid at the Barbizon the rest of my life.”

“No!”

“You got that right.”

Darby blushed with shame. She had no right to assume anything about her friend. Coming to New York City from Puerto Rico was completely different from her posh train trip East. “You've got a point. You work hard. What have I done? Graduated from high school. That's it. You're glamorous and you can sing and act. You can probably tap-dance, too, am I right?”

Esme wasn't so easily placated. “Why do you hide from everything that life is throwing at you right now? You can make some easy money, and instead you want to stay uptown and practice typing. You have until June, and then my guess is you're going to run back to your mother and work as a secretary at the local high school or something like that.”

She didn't want to mention Charlotte's offer after the fashion show. Esme would get upset, and by the time Charlotte returned from London, she'd probably have forgotten all about their exchange anyway. “Mother wrote and said she'll be able to get me a job in Cleveland, working for some businessman Mr. Saunders knows. It's in the sanitation industry, apparently.”

Esme threw back her head and laughed, causing the old ladies sitting nearby to tut-tut at them. She pretended to be typing. “Dear ma'am, I'm sorry our toilets have been backing up on you. I assure you that your sewage is our foremost concern.”

“It's a steady job.” Darby scooped some custard out of her éclair with her finger. Esme's teasing hurt. “Or maybe I'll go into publishing.”

Esme grimaced. “Don't be stupid. Either way, you're stuck behind a desk all day. There's my friend. I'll be right back.”

Esme crossed the room, sashaying with every step, and sat down across from an older man, maybe in his thirties, with tightly cropped hair and a rumpled brown suit. He spoke hurriedly, barely moving his mouth. Esme reached into her purse and handed a small parcel to him, which he glanced at before tucking into his jacket pocket.

She was back at the table a couple of minutes later.

“Who was that?”

“Guy from my acting class. Wants to do a scene with me, but I'm not so sure.”

“Why did he come all the way here to meet?”

“He wanted the notes from our scene study class. He missed it last week.”

“What kind of notes?”

Esme picked up her éclair and took a big bite, the custard oozing out the other end.

“That's indecent,” Darby said, giggling.

“Anyway, his name is Peter and he's too old to be going to acting school. Kind of creepy, didn't you think?”

“I guess so. Is there an age limit on acting class?”

“Nope. Especially with the soldiers; we got lots of those.”

“Is Peter a soldier?”

“No idea. You have a lot of questions. Now it's my turn. What about Sam?”

“What about him?”

“He likes you. He took you to see his mentor, Mr. Kalai, right?”

“He did.” A cold sweat rose up her neck.

“Aren't you the lucky girl? Maybe when Sam's brother comes back, we'll double-date.”

“Sam has a brother?” She was surprised he'd never mentioned it.

“Drummer. Very talented. Mr. Buckley thinks the world of him and
lets him do whatever he likes. He's off on tour now, but he promised to take me out when he returns. Can you imagine, you and me as the Mrs. Buckleys?”

“But your career comes first.”

“It does. And don't ever forget that. Hey, I just thought of something to convince you to sing with me.”

“What's that?”

“Finish your dessert and I'll show you.”

Hordes of people had descended upon Times Square for the Wednesday matinees, and the girls were forced to walk in the street to avoid being separated.

“Like a bunch of cows this time of the week,” yelled Esme. “Being herded into their stalls for milking.”

Esme grabbed Darby's hand and pulled her close. She'd narrowly missed being sideswiped by a yellow cab. Darby stifled the urge to put her hands to her ears, overwhelmed by the noises. Honking, screeching brakes, and giddy conversation swirled around her. She clutched her purse to her side and held Esme's hand tight as they cut through the throng like ants tunneling through sand.

Once they were inside a double glass door, the noises were just as loud, only different. Arcade games blasted tinny music, and high-pitched bells rang at irregular intervals.

“What are we doing here?” Darby stopped in her tracks, refusing to go any farther. “I have a class to get to.”

“The Playland arcade; it's famous. Come on, this won't take long.”

At the very back of the arcade, nestled in a corner, was what looked like a blue phone booth.
VOICE-O-GRAPH
was printed on the outside in cursive letters. The side was emblazoned with
MAKE A
RECORD HERE, PLAY IT
ANYWHERE
.

The memory of the boy in the park, Walter, swept over Darby. He'd
worked for this company, had told her about the machine that recorded sounds. She didn't want to step foot in the thing.

“It's a kind of recording studio, a tiny one.” Esme stopped and posed beside it, twirling her wrists and presenting the booth as if she were one of the girls hawking washing machines on television ads.

Darby laughed. Walter wasn't anywhere near this place; she had no reason to be afraid. “What are you going to do?”

“I'll drop in a quarter, and then we sing into the telephone. Once we're done, a record drops out the bottom.”

“So you want to sing into it?”

“I want us both to sing. We'll do ‘Lover, Come Back to Me.' Then I'll play it back for you and you'll see what we sound like, what you sound like. Come on, it'll be fun.” Esme popped open her purse and held up a shiny quarter with her gloved fingers. “Follow me.”

They squeezed into the booth and Esme slammed the door shut behind them. Inside, the air was still and quiet, a relief after all the commotion. A regular telephone handset was attached to the machine with a black wire, with instructions printed in block letters at eye level. Esme dropped in the quarter and picked up the handset. “You ready? Come closer.”

Esme wrapped her free arm around Darby's waist and pulled their bodies together, as if they were conjoined twins. The red light turned to green and a nervous laugh escaped from Darby's lips. Esme sang the first line and Darby joined in, their eyes glued on each other. With no band behind them, the timing was slow, languid. Darby took her cues from Esme as Esme's fingers tapped the beat on Darby's side. As the seconds ticked by, the outside world faded away. Stenography, Sam, the girls at the Barbizon, none of that mattered anymore. Esme's face was just inches away. The button turned red in the middle of a line and they both stopped singing at the same time, then burst out laughing.

“That was ridiculous,” said Darby. “And fun.”

“I told you.” Esme didn't release her grip on Darby. Unexpectedly, she leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the lips.

Darby drew back as much as she could in the cramped space. “Esme.”

“Sorry, you looked so beautiful as you sang, I couldn't help myself.” She reached up and touched Darby's face, her fingers soft as they ran over her jawline and up to her ear.

Darby stood frozen in place as the feathery tracing of her ear sent tiny shock waves down her body. The gesture was innocent, almost childlike, and Esme gazed at her with her lips slightly parted. Their breasts touched when Esme inched closer and this time Darby didn't pull away. She wanted to soak up the essence of this woman, this human gravitational force who had pulled Darby into her orbit.