The Dollhouse (26 page)

“Well, we don't want to pressure you. But yes, we'd love to get your perspective. To try to put the pieces together.”

Malcolm returned to the table. “We've got to go, Sam.”

Rose pressed her card into Sam's hand. “My cell number is on there; feel free to call anytime you want to talk.”

“I'll think about it.” He reached for his cane and stood. “It was a pleasure meeting you both.”

The two men shuffled out of the club.

Rose and Jason took the elevator down to the ground level and walked out into the night. She grabbed him by the arm and pointed. Malcolm and Sam stood by the line of taxis, arguing. Sam spoke rapidly, but he was too far away to be understood.

“He wants to talk to us. We should go to him.”

Jason sighed. “No. Let them work it out; we don't need to cause any more problems than we already have.”

She couldn't resist. She ran over and touched his arm. “Sam, let's go get a drink; there's a pub across the street. Please.”

Malcolm leaned into Sam. “I'm telling you, you've got to watch what you say.”

“Please, Sam. One drink.”

“One drink,” he agreed. “Maybe it's time to let go of some ghosts.”

Malcolm pulled Rose aside as they crossed the street. “Take it easy on him, that's all I ask. He was a mess when he turned up in San Francisco all those years ago. His life was going one way, and then it suddenly took a sharp turn. It took him a long time to recover.”

Rose nodded. “I understand, believe me. We won't push him.”

They sat at a table in the back of the empty bar, where Frank Sinatra crooned gently over the sound system.

Sam sat next to Malcolm and began to speak, staring out over their shoulders and into the past.

New York City, 2016

D
arby and I had fallen hard for each other by then,” said Sam. “Or at least I had fallen hard for her. She was a combination of smart and innocent, not like most of the girls who hung around at the club.”

“I heard a recording of Darby and Esme,” said Rose. “Darby did the harmonies, but it was gorgeous.”

“Darby's voice was pure as snow. You see, when she sang, it wasn't about showmanship or glitter but about the song and the words. You were captivated when she opened her mouth. And she had no idea. Sometimes she'd put herself down, like she was some dowdy girl from the Midwest, but she was much more than that.”

“What was Esme like?” asked Rose.

“That girl was ambitious, always had been. I knew she was working for Kalai; a lot of people were; it was how the system worked. But the minute she got paid to squeal, she was asking for trouble.”

“What happened the last day you saw Darby?” asked Jason.

“My father showed me the article in the paper, where Esme ratted out the musicians and Kalai. Kalai was furious, of course, and word on the street was that he was after me and Esme, both. He and his sons figured I was a snitch, too.”

“But you weren't.”

“Didn't matter. I convinced Darby to leave with me; we were going to go to California together. By then she'd been kicked out of school. I went downtown to pack and as I was pulling my stuff together, I heard Kalai's guys come into the club downstairs. I was trapped. So I wrote a message in the spice book and tossed it out the window to one of the busboys, told him to bring it to the Barbizon for Darby.” A tiny muscle in his jaw twitched. “I was taken to Kalai, where they beat the hell out of me and held me for several days.”

Rose shook her head. “I'm so sorry.”

“They had no mercy, none. I was locked in a room in the back of the spice shop. That's what kept me going hour to hour, trying to take my mind off the pain by figuring out what spices I could identify by smell. Until my nose became too bloody to breathe through.”

She couldn't imagine the terror. “Your father must've known where you were. Couldn't he tell the cops?”

“Kalai controlled the neighborhood, and he controlled my father. When it came to a choice between the club or his son, my father chose the club. But Kalai loved me better than that in his own way. He wanted his men to punish me, but he didn't want them to actually kill me. Once he figured I had learned my lesson, he released me to my father with a warning to leave town. That same evening, my father took me to the bus depot and sent me across the country, to my brother. By then, my mind wasn't right.

“After a few months, I pulled myself together. I sent Darby a letter, explaining what had happened to me, and asked her to join me. Esme wrote back and told me that Darby had died, that she was living at the hotel now and I should move on.”

“Did she tell you what happened, about the accident?”

He didn't respond to the question. “What do you know?”

Rose had to be careful; he'd been through enough. “We think there was some kind of skirmish up on the terrace. We don't know exactly what happened, but we think Esme got slashed badly on the face, and Darby
fell to her death. From that letter, along with some other pieces of evidence, we assume Esme took on Darby's identity.”

“That way she'd avoid Kalai looking for her.”

Rose nodded.

“They were the same size, had similar builds,” recalled Sam. “Strange, to think she could get away with it for so many years.”

“The letter you received must've given you quite a shock.”

“It did. I had imagined her going to the club and my father telling her I'd gone away and wouldn't be coming back, not giving her any further details. The thought made me sick. So I was thrilled when I got a letter back with the Barbizon Hotel on the return address. I was sure this would be a new beginning for us. The news of Darby's death hit me hard. I never forgot her, or what we might have done together.” He took a long sip of his drink. “Esme said never to contact her again; that much was easy.”

“Do you think Darby slashed Esme with a knife?”

Sam shook his head. “She wasn't like that. Only if she was being attacked. Otherwise, it doesn't make sense to me.”

So many unanswered questions. And in the meantime, Sam and Darby's love had been subsumed by something dark and ugly.

“Well, I'm glad we were able to talk, as it helps us understand most of what happened,” said Rose.

Outside, they said their good-byes and Rose and Jason promised to stay in touch.

Sam held Rose's hand tightly in his. “It was all so long ago, but what's funny is I still dream of Darby. Just last night, in fact, I dreamed of her. That she was singing at the club and it was as if she was only singing to me. That's what it was like, watching her. Like you were the only man in the world.”

New York City, 2016

R
ose asked Jason to help her move her things to Maddy's after their talk with Sam; she didn't want to wait until morning. As they climbed the back stairs for the last time, she was hit by a wave of nostalgia. She was connected to the building like no other in Manhattan, even her West Village studio, even the town house she'd grown up in. Knowing that hundreds of women had walked the halls—it was a history she was pleased to have been part of, even if it was only for a few months.

She opened the door to the fourth-floor hallway. “Thanks for helping me out.”

“Of course.”

She put the key into the lock and opened the door.

The figure of a woman stood less than two feet away.

Rose jumped backward and let out a screech.

Esme.

Her figure was cast into silhouette by a bright light behind her, making her seem more like a dark ghost instead of a human being. When she spoke, her scratchy voice echoed in the small hallway. “Well, well, well. Looks like Goldilocks has returned.”

Rose's heart pounded in her chest and her mouth went dry. “You're back.”

“Indeed, I am.” She studied Rose and Jason through a brown hat and veil that sat slightly askew, as if she'd quickly planted it on her head. She stepped aside and waved them in.

Rose cautiously led the way, hoping at the very least that Bird would jump into her arms, happy to see her. But he remained on the couch, panting like a lunatic, as if he were curious to see how this all played out.

Her suitcases were stacked beside the coffee table, the throw she'd used as a blanket these past few weeks neatly folded on top of the pillow she'd borrowed from the bedroom.

“You've made yourself right at home in my absence, it appears. Sleeping in my bed, drinking my coffee.”

“I wasn't sleeping in your bed. Just on your couch.” As if that helped.

“Are you being impertinent?”

“No, not at all. I'm so sorry about this.”

“So tell me.” Esme crossed her arms. “Why are your belongings in my apartment?”

“You see, Miss Conover—”

Esme cut her off before she could go on. “Yes, Stella tells me you walked Bird while I was away. And I thank you for that. But you don't need suitcases to walk a dog.”

“You remember I lived right above you? Well, I had to leave my apartment.”

“And why was that my problem?”

“I had to move out, but I didn't want to leave Bird. No one else on the floor offered to take him in.”

“Bunch of hermit crabs. Not surprised at that.”

Encouraged, Rose carried on. “So you see, I decided to stay here until you returned. Miss Conover said you wouldn't be back until Monday.”

“Were you planning to make a quick escape before I came home?”

Not being able to see Esme's eyes made it difficult to connect with her, to gauge what she was feeling. “To be honest, yes. I felt horrible, doing this, but it was an emergency, because Miss Conover had to go to the hospital.”

“I ought to call the police on you. I know exactly what you were up to. You wanted to find out more about what happened to me, so you made yourself right at home and went through my things.” Her voice rose. “This is a complete invasion of privacy.”

Jason stepped forward. “Rose's father just passed away. She lost her job, her father died, and taking care of Bird became very important to her. She was out of line, that's true, but she didn't mean to do you any harm.”

“Who are you?”

“Sorry, Esme, this is Jason Wolf. He's a journalist as well.”

“Jason Wolf. Quite the name.” She looked him up and down before turning back to Rose. “Why did you call me Esme?”

She'd blown it. But considering there was no way this woman would ever grant them an interview, the truth might as well come out.

Rose pointed to the bookcase. “One night I took out your copy of
Romeo and Juliet
. It caught my eye, the binding was so old. It's a gorgeous edition.” She paused. “And a letter dropped out.”

“And you read it, of course.”

The awfulness of what Rose had done hit home. This poor woman wanted nothing more than to live in peace, not have to relive what must have been the most horrific few moments of her life. No matter what she'd done in 1952 to Sam and Darby, decades had since passed. “I apologize. I wasn't thinking straight. I never should have read it. Or come in here at all.”

“You got that right.”

“Esme, I know what happened at the club, about the drugs, and Sam, and I wanted to know more. I couldn't help myself. Maybe it's because I'm a journalist. But it's also because I'm a woman in a tough spot, not totally unlike the one you and Darby were in. No one's here to blame anyone.”

“How dare you talk to me of blame?” Waves of anger emanated from her body.

She was blowing it. “Please, for Sam's sake. He should know the truth
as well.” Rose was taking a risk. Either Esme would rise to the bait, or she'd close them off forever.

Esme opened her lips, but no sound came out for a moment, all of her bluster faded away. “Sam?”

“He's in town. We saw him a few hours ago. I'm sorry if that's a shock.”

“A shock. Yes, you could say that.”

“Can I get you some water?”

“Yes, please.” Esme lowered herself into the armchair. Rose grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and by the time she'd returned, Jason had draped the throw over Esme's shoulders. Her fierceness was gone, replaced by an overwhelming melancholy.

Rose knelt at her feet and looked up. “Please. What can I do to make this up to you?”

“Put on my record.”

She knew the one Esme was referring to. She walked over to the small record player, turned it on, and, with a shaking hand, lifted the needle and placed it carefully on the edge of the revolving vinyl. The familiar recording of the two women's voices began, Esme and Darby, singing, followed by the tiny giggle at the very end.

Rose couldn't help but smile. “I heard you playing this the day we met in the elevator. It's beautiful. And intriguing. Your voices are remarkable together.”

“I'm
so
pleased you think so. And now it is time for you to get the hell out of my apartment.” Esme's mouth was set in a firm line, her cheeks slightly flushed.

“Okay, we'll go. I'm sorry it all came crashing down. I only started asking questions because I was worried about you. Being all alone—I get that. I'm alone now. No family, no job. I have to start again from the ground up. I'll be the first to admit my behavior here was suspect. But it's because I need to know how to do this. How to start again.”

“Don't compare our situations.” Esme pointed a long, crooked finger at Rose and slowly rose back to her feet. “Maybe I could have had a different life; we'll never know. Once I was marked, scarred, it was all over.
I was only a shell after that, working in the back room of a button company, balancing books and paying bills, staying away from people who felt sorry for me or wanted to find out the lurid details.” She paused, breathing heavily. “That's what you want, isn't it? Do you want to see it for yourself? Me as a freak?”

“Not at all,” protested Rose. “I don't presume to know what you've been through.”

The woman gave out a low moan. “You speak of blame. And you're right. I deserve everything that's happened to me. I destroyed lives. Including my own.”

“Don't say that.”

Rose's own despair was nothing compared to the years of torment her neighbor had been through. She looked at Jason in a panic, and he held up his hands. “No, we're very sorry. We're going now.”

“Don't move a step. You want to see the damage? Is that what you want?”

Without ceremony, Esme pulled off the hat and veil and tossed them on the floor. What first struck Rose was the elegant line of her neck and head, like a ballet dancer's. But the slashes from the knife had brutally disfigured the upper part of her face. A thick white gash cut across her forehead like a waxy centipede, and another crossed from the corner of her forehead, down across the bridge of her nose and below the eye, stopping at the top of her cheekbone. The skin around her nose and forehead was pulled taut and looked weirdly translucent, and one eye drooped at the corner. The blade had barely missed her greenish-gray eyes, which stared back at Rose with bitterness.

Rose kept her gaze steady. She needed to reach this woman, to make her see that she was not the enemy. “What happened to you was awful. You've suffered, and we think we understand what happened. Would it help to talk to us? We won't publish anything, we won't tell a soul.”

On the couch, Bird whimpered.

“You charge in here, take my dog, spread your things around.” Esme
grabbed the urn from the windowsill and held it up with one hand. “Redecorating, were you?”

Horrified, Rose ran over and snatched it from her, holding it close to her chest. “No, it's not like that.”

“Now you know what it feels like to have a stranger manhandle your belongings.”

Shame washed over her. She should have never camped out at the Barbizon after Griff kicked her out. What she'd done was unforgiveable.

“Rose, are those your father's ashes?” Jason spoke quietly.

Rose nodded.

Esme's eyes grew wide. “Her what?”

“Her father's ashes.”

“Dear God.” Shaking her head, Esme sat back down in her chair, mouth slack. She looked at her empty hands. “Dear, dear God.”

“No, this was all my doing. I'm sorry. We'll go now.” Rose stepped toward her suitcases.

“Stop.” Esme thrust out her chin. “Sit. I need a moment to think.”

They did as she commanded, side by side on the couch.

Rose held her breath.

“You are obviously in distress, Ms. Lewin, and I was once like you.” Esme lifted her head. “I'm going to tell you what you want to know. But only because I don't know which of us needs this confession more.” She took a deep breath. “You. Or me.”