The Dollhouse(19)

“I’m so excited for you. I couldn’t imagine doing such a thing. What courage you have.”

“Courage is easy when the other choices are folding sheets and dealing with guests all day. When you want to get out of a situation fast, you get courage.”

“It must be difficult, dealing with so many girls.”

“It’s a dirty, nasty job. But to make up for it, I do something beautiful at night.”

“What’s that?”

“If you like, I’ll show you. Come out with me. I finish at nine thirty.”

“I couldn’t. I’d miss curfew.”

“You can easily sneak in the back way. I’ll show you how.”

“That’s awfully late, isn’t it?”

“Did you have other plans?” asked Esme.

Darby swallowed and tore off another piece of bread. “Not really.”

“Have you been out since last weekend?”

She hated to admit she hadn’t. It had taken all her energy to get to school and back each day, and although the other girls in her classes were friendly enough, she’d been too skittish to try in earnest.

Esme didn’t give her a chance to respond. “C’mon, Darby, live a little. Come out with me tonight. I’ll meet you outside. Don’t be late.” She walked over to Darby’s small closet and opened it, pulling out the black brocade dress she’d last worn at Daddy’s funeral. “And wear this.”

When Darby walked out of the Barbizon at nine thirty on the dot, Esme ran toward her, squealing. She’d changed into a bright red taffeta dress with a delicate scalloped trim around the neckline. Her hair, unleashed from its updo, fell in gentle curls around her head. She looked more fashionable than any of the girls on Darby’s floor.

As the cab ventured into the East Village, the street scene changed. The buildings were no higher than six stories, the sidewalks dirty with cigarette butts and crumpled newspapers. Darby almost gagged at the smell of urine as she stepped out of the taxi, but she followed Esme along a narrow alleyway between two buildings to a tiny, treeless courtyard at the back of the one of the tenements.

Esme smiled up at a black man smoking a cigarette outside a doorway and dragged Darby into the darkness.

“Where are we going? How do you know where to go?” Darby asked.

“I work here some nights as a hatcheck girl. Good tips, and it’s a wild scene.”

“What is it, exactly?”

“The Flatted Fifth. A jazz club. All the greats come here, after they’ve played at the posh places on Fifty-Second Street. It’s gritty and grubby and the best.”

She agreed with the first two adjectives. They walked through a tiny kitchen, where a cook stared hard at them as they breezed by.

“What are you doing, Esme?” he said. “You know he doesn’t like it when you bring in nonpayers.”

Esme thrust out her chin and put a hand on her hip. “Sam, meet Darby. Darby, this is Sam. He thinks he runs the place, but he doesn’t. Right, Sam?”

The cook scowled back. “If he catches you, you’ll get fired, Esme.”

Darby stared at him. While none of his features was remarkable on its own—the nose too large, the edges of his eyes sloped downward—he was oddly handsome, with a perfect dimpled chin. He looked to be in his mid-twenties but had a boyish frame, all long limbs and sharp points.

He turned back to the oven.

“Manners, Sam. I’ll have to talk to your dad about that.” Esme didn’t wait for a reply but pulled Darby farther into the bowels of the building, pushing past a swinging door.

They were in the basement of the tenement. The low-ceilinged main room was packed, a mixture of blacks and whites, young men and women posturing and smoking and talking over one another.

Esme squeezed Darby’s hand. “We’re waiting for Stick Hawkins. They say he’s coming tonight, but you never know with that cat.”

Stick? Cat? Darby looked at Esme, perplexed.

Esme laughed. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch on.”

Darby wasn’t so sure. The place was frightening, and she scanned the exits, wondering which was the quickest way out in case there was a fire or a fight. All these people pressed together, in the smoke and darkness, made her heart beat faster and her mouth grow dry in panic. She wanted to run away, go back to the lonely safety of her room. But she couldn’t bear another night of tossing and turning and ruminations.

“You look like you’re about to be sick.” Esme’s eyes were animated, slightly mocking.

“No. I’m fine. What do we do now?”

Esme pulled her to a table with a couple of free seats. A waiter wearing a long white apron, a white shirt, and a thin black tie whispered something in Esme’s ear. She touched the inside of his wrist with her finger, laughed at what he’d said, and ordered them a couple of whiskey sours.

“Now we drink. You’ll feel braver if you aren’t sober.”

The noise level in the room astounded Darby. Even though two walls of the room had been draped with Moroccan rugs to absorb the sound, they weren’t very effective. The two other patrons seated at the rickety table didn’t bother interrupting their loud conversation to acknowledge them. Darby took a sip of her drink and glanced around. The decor was minimal at best. One long wall consisted of exposed, chipped bricks. Behind the stage, old playbills had been plastered up as a kind of backdrop, their corners curling and frayed. A layer of dirt, grease, and cigarette ash covered the floor.