The Dollhouse

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

New York City, 1952

Darby watched as Esme readied the hatcheck room, which was really an old closet with a Dutch door, for the evening rush at the Flatted Fifth. When Esme had encouraged Darby to come down to the club earlier that day, she’d quickly agreed. She’d put on the dress Daddy always liked, a black-and-white polka-dotted cotton with a pleated full skirt, and pinned the new black beret on her head so it tilted dramatically to one side.

“Tell me, Esme, what’s acting school like?” she asked.

Esme thrust out her chin. “I’m learning to talk right. Check it out: ‘If you like peanuts, you’ll like Skippy.’”

She sounded like a movie star, with no noticeable trace of an accent. “That’s amazing. They teach you television ads?”

Before she could reply, two men walked in the front door and stood in front of the hatcheck. Neither removed his coat.

Esme stiffened. “Club’s not open yet.”

“We’re not here for the club. We’re here for you.” The taller man spoke with a growl. “You need to work harder, Esme.”

“Not sure what you’re talking about. I can only check as many coats and hats as come in.”

“You know exactly what we’re talking about. Come along and let’s have a little talk in the back.”

Darby opened her mouth to call for help, but Esme put her fingers to her lips. “Shush. I won’t be long. All part of the job. Gotta keep the goons happy.”

They walked off into the club, and Darby wrapped her arms around herself. She was debating what, if anything, to do, when the front door slammed shut behind her.

“Where’s your friend?” Mr. Buckley stepped into the foyer and shook the raindrops off his hat.

Darby whirled around and stared up at him, dumbstruck. His height, authority, and demeanor reminded her of her stepfather. “You mean Esme?”

“You look like a fish. Close your mouth.”

She did.

“So where is she?”

“She stepped away, just for a moment.”

“She’s fired if she doesn’t get back here when we open in ten minutes. It’s pouring out there, and I can’t have everyone sitting in their wet coats during the show.”

If Esme lost her job, she wouldn’t be able to pay for her acting classes. “I’ll do it. I’ll cover until she gets back.”

Twenty minutes later, Darby was near tears. The men and women coming into the club had piled their coats on the small divider without waiting for tickets. A couple even tossed their umbrellas at her as she frantically tried to keep up with the onslaught. The air smelled of wet wool and underarms, her skirt clung to her legs, and her hair was plastered to her skull. Even worse, she’d had to shove the beret into her purse after it’d fallen onto the muddy floor. She’d never be able to sort this mess out, and every coat looked exactly like the others. Mr. Buckley would fire Esme and never let her sing again. And what if Esme was in terrible trouble right now? Who were those men?

“You look like you just took a bath.”

Sam appeared, holding a coffee cup in his hand. He leaned back on the opposite wall and took a sip.

“Esme was taken away.” Darby could hardly get the words out. “Two men. I’m not sure where they went.”

Sam seemed unperturbed. “Don’t worry; that Esme can take care of herself.”

“But they seemed awfully angry.”

“All bark and no bite. Everyone’s a tough guy downtown.”

His laconic manner put her slightly more at ease. “And someone just threw an umbrella at me. Threw it.” She grabbed a hanger and stuffed a coat onto it. “They’re a bunch of animals.”

“If it makes you feel any better, they don’t treat the waitstaff much differently. Or the musicians, if they see them in the street. Up onstage is one thing, but the magic is gone in the light of day.”

“I don’t know how Esme handles this night after night. I’d go crazy.”

“You sounded great the other night, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Seriously. Esme’s voice is like velvet, but yours is silvery, like a nightingale.” He scuffed one foot on the floor.

As she paused to catch her breath, the enormous pile of coats slid off the divider and landed in a mad crush on the mud-stained hallway floor. She and Sam stared in dismay at the mound of fabric, then burst out laughing.

He placed his cup on a nearby table, and reached down and lifted the pile in one fell swoop. “Open the door.”

She did and stepped to the side. He handed her a coat and she hung it on a hanger, placed it on the rack, and shoved them together to make more room. They kept at it, over and over. The motion reminded her of the slam of a typewriter carriage return at the end of a line.

“Why aren’t you in the kitchen?” she asked.

“They’re fine in there, they don’t need me.”

“But you’re the cook.”

“They’re just making simple stuff—peas, fries, and chicken liver sauté. Nothing they can’t handle.”

Every so often, their fingers would touch during the handoff of the hangers, and he was close enough that she could pick up the scent of fryer oil and clove on him. An interesting mix, and not unpleasant.

To her embarrassment, he noticed her sniffing the air. “I hope I don’t reek.”

“No. You smell like clove. Reminds me of the holidays.”

He smelled his forearm. “I’ve been working on a new recipe. Steak with a mixture of clove, turmeric, and honey.”

Her mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten anything since a Danish from the Barbizon coffee shop that morning. “Sounds lovely.”

“We’ll see.”

“Will you put it on the menu?”

His laugh was harsh. “Not if my father has anything to do with it. He doesn’t want anything that tastes ‘weird,’ in his words.”

“So you found out about combining spices in the army?” She liked hearing him talk. And it was much easier to have a conversation when they were both focused on the coats.

“Right, in Southeast Asia, working as a cook. I had to use what I found.”

“And what did you find?”

“So much. There are ten tiny islands clustered in the Banda Sea that used to be the only source for nutmeg and mace. And the oldest clove tree in the world is located on an island called Ternate in the Molucca Sea.”

“How old is it?”

“They estimate between three hundred and fifty and four hundred years old. It even has a name. Afo.”

“Afo.” Such an exotic word. “What did it look like?”

“It’s tall but lifeless, with some bare branches. I saw it when we took over the island from the Japanese at the end of the war.”

“I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.” To go to islands at the other end of the world, to visit dead trees and learn about history that went back so far in time, was unfathomable.

He shrugged. “In the beginning, lots of guys were complaining about the food. The rations were pretty horrible. But then I began experimenting with what the local folks used. I started adding spices to everything we served: eggs, fish, meat. Even desserts. Some of the guys hated it, of course, but they were idiots. Everyone else raved. They gave it a chance. Although, to be honest, the soldiers didn’t have much of a choice. Unlike my father.”

His rush of words surprised and flattered her. He thought she was someone worth talking to. She hung up a coat and surreptitiously smoothed her hair behind her ears. “Has he tasted any of your experiments?”

“No.”

“Well, I’d like to.”

Esme appeared, looking flushed but unhurt. “Sorry, D.” She startled when she noticed Sam. “What on earth are you doing in the hatcheck girl’s closet?”

“Helping out your friend, here, who was helping you keep your job.”

Esme’s eyes grew wide. “You are the most wonderful amiga in the world, Darby.”

“Well, we didn’t do a very good job. I have no idea what coat goes with what person. And what was with those two men? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Her voice was steely. She didn’t want to talk in front of Sam.

He took the hint. “I’m heading to the kitchen. Darby, come back and visit me when you’re through. I have something to show you.” He sauntered off, hands in his pockets.

Darby pulled Esme close and lowered her voice. “What was that? Who were they?”

“Just some guys who think they can tell me what to do.”

“What did they mean, you have to work harder?”

“Stupid stuff. They have a deal with all the businesses in the neighborhood. They offer protection, and in exchange the owners let them skim off the top. Which means they’re always pushing me to do certain things, you know, for the customers. To bring up the tips.”

“Mr. Buckley makes you do that?”

“The girl before me did, so everyone thinks I should, too. But they don’t know who they’re dealing with. I’m not a cockroach they can step on.” Esme reached into her handbag and pulled out a switchblade with a silver handle. “See, I can take care of myself.”

“A knife? You need a knife? Why don’t you tell Sam what they did? Maybe he can help. Reason with his father somehow?”

Esme gave out a bitter laugh. “You got a lot to learn, girl. A lot to learn.” She shooed Darby out of the tiny room and fitted herself inside. “Go see your man. Maybe he’ll give you a taste of something sweet.”

The steamy front entrance to the club was nothing compared to the junglelike humidity of the kitchen, where the line cooks banged pots against the stove and yelled at each other over the steady drone of the ventilation system. Sam led her to the grill, where a chunk of marbled meat sat on a plate. Burgers sizzled over the fire, and he used a spatula to rearrange them and make room before placing the steak in the center.

The flames flared up. “Here, smell this.” He held a small white dish to her nose, filled with yellowish powder. The color reminded her of the maple tree outside her window at home, after the peak of autumn had past, a burnished mustard. The smell was bright and savory, a mixture of toast and turmeric.

“You see, I rub the steak with it and let the meat rise to room temperature.” His eagerness was that of a young boy. She wished he’d had a father who would take him under his wing and tell him he was doing well, the way Daddy had done when she’d disappointed Mother yet again.

Once the steak had cooked to his liking, Sam let it sit for several minutes and turned his attention to what the rest of the kitchen was doing. He had an air of authority about him, speaking to a waiter in clipped tones to correct an order, before turning to a busboy to help him lift a tub of dishes into the sink.

He returned to her side and poked the steak with his finger. “Not quite yet. Esme said you go to secretarial school, is that right?”

She didn’t want to be reminded of her uptown life. “I do. It’s awful.”

“Why?”

“I’m a terrible secretary. Or I’ll make a terrible secretary. I wish I could do something creative, like this.”

“What would you do?”

Charlotte’s offer still tantalized, but there was no guarantee she’d remember making it, or even meeting Darby, when she returned. “I really don’t know. Is it ready yet?”

He cut into the steak, its juices running red onto the wooden cutting board. “Try this.”

The texture of the beef mingled with the spices and sent her mind racing, the same way the jazz music had done that first night. Flavor flooded her palate, first savory, then a strange flowery bitterness, before the spices amalgamated into a final burst of clove.

“Astonishing.” She wanted another bite and another.

He fed them to her, laughing at her voraciousness.

“Sam, I’ve never tasted anything like this. It reminds me of what it’s like in the fall back home. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Do you want it explained?”

“I do.”

“Then follow me.” He took off his apron and grabbed her hand. She took it, eager to see where he was going to lead her but reluctant to leave the juicy steak behind.

Sam walked quickly, darting through the crowded streets and pulling Darby along after him. Below Houston, the streets ran in every direction, and she had no idea where she was. The rain had stopped, so she wasn’t wet, but she felt naked without a coat. Sam didn’t seem to care, just forged through the crowd.

She didn’t even have her purse, having left it with Esme. Sam turned around to check on her, puzzled at her distress.

“Where are we going?” She tugged at the Peter Pan collar of her dress.

“I can’t tell you; it’ll be a surprise. But if you liked the steak, you’ll love this.”

Maybe he was taking her to dinner at a restaurant that served curries and other exotic foods. She hoped she’d be able to eat what was served, that it wouldn’t be spiced innards or something too gooey.

He stopped at a nondescript building where laundry hung limply from the fire escapes. The sign on the door was written in unfamiliar characters, the number 12 the only symbol she could recognize. Even stranger, the window was blacked out.

They stepped inside and she was assaulted by the scent of a thousand spices. Almost every surface was covered with wares. Barrels were heaped with dried red chilies, their skins shiny and bright. Open boxes of colorful powders and strange seeds lined the floor, and the shelves on the walls held jars filled with dried plants and stems. Years of foot traffic had grooved the narrow aisles. Sam shouted a loud hello. From the back, a voice called out in response. She couldn’t identify the accent, but the sound was deep, with the reverberations of a double bass.

At first she wanted to run back out into the damp evening air and sneeze a dozen times, but eventually her nostrils adjusted to the olfactory mayhem.

“Where are we?”

“The Kalai Spice Emporium.”

“Wow. It’s a little overwhelming.”

“At first, sure. But with the right teacher, it all begins to make sense. This store is my own personal Katie Gibbs.”

A loud argument broke out in the back room, and Darby looked at Sam for reassurance. He smiled down at her. “It’s nothing. It’s the way Mr. Kalai communicates. You’ll see.”

A young man shot out the door of the back room and walked quickly out to the street.

“Good riddance.”

The voice came from nowhere, startling her. She turned to see a bespectacled man in a black dress shirt and pants standing in the inner doorway, staring intently at her. The angularity of his square forehead offset his round cheeks and bulbous nose, and his brown skin was shiny with sweat. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Who’s this?”

“Mr. Kalai, this is my friend Darby McLaughlin. From the club.”

Sam had remembered her surname. “Mr. Kalai, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She offered up her bare hand, embarrassed at her lack of gloves, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“You want more spice?” he asked Sam.

“No. I tried the Banda mix tonight. Worked well.”

“Good, good.”

“Mr. Kalai learned the art of spices through generations of his family. He’s descended from the sultan of Ternate.”

“The island with the tree?”

Mr. Kalai’s smile wasn’t warm. “The one with the tree.”

“I want to show her what a nutmeg looks like,” said Sam. “Do you mind?”

Mr. Kalai shook his head. Sam opened one of the jars and scooped out an egg-shaped piece of fruit. Mr. Kalai handed him a knife and he cut the fruit cleanly in half before giving it a twist. Inside was a brown seed covered with thin red veins. “The nut, when dried, makes nutmeg, and the red stuff becomes mace. It’s the only tropical fruit that makes two different spices.”

She touched the delicate webbing around the seed. “I had no idea.”

Mr. Kalai took the fruit out of Sam’s hand. “When the spices were first discovered by the other countries, ships bearing all kinds of gifts arrived at my island. The sultan had a crown made from hundreds of jewels, big as your fist, and four hundred women in his harem.”

Darby blushed, relieved when Sam spoke up.

“Then the Dutch took over and killed every man over the age of fifteen.”

“When did this happen?”

“Almost three hundred years ago.”

“But here you are carrying on the tradition.”

Mr. Kalai nodded. “Sam’s a good boy. Take a look around, but then I’m closing up. I have business outside.”

Sam reached up to one of the top shelves and brought down a thick book. “I’m working on a compilation of everything I’m learning here. Take a look.”

He rearranged some of the jars on the countertop to make room. The pages were crisp and she leaned down close. “It smells like the shop.”

“Everything in here smells like the shop, including us by now.”

She leafed through the pages while Sam explained. “I’m keeping track of each spice, where it came from and its history.” He pointed to a drawing. “Like here, the Egyptians used cassia for embalming the dead.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Yet it has such a pretty name.”

“It’s delicious, a type of cinnamon, and good if you have stomach problems as well.”

“I’m impressed. What are you going to do with your book?”

“I’d like to open a restaurant eventually. I’m meeting the right people through Mr. Kalai, working on a way to get myself out of the Flatted Fifth.”

He closed the book and placed it up on the shelf with care. When he turned around quickly, she stepped back, aware that she’d been standing too close.

“Thank you for coming down here with me,” he said.

“I’m impressed. And hungry.”

“I’ll make you something back at the club. In the meantime, taste this.” He scooped a dark powder out of one of the jars and poured a tiny amount into the palm of his hand. He dipped one finger in and held it up. “Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.”

“Should I close my eyes as well?”

He laughed. “Sure, if you want.”

The gentle touch of his finger on her tongue was enough to make her knees wobble, but then a robust bittersweet sensation overwhelmed her taste buds.

“Great, right? It’s Mayan cocoa.”

“Sure is.” She opened her eyes. On the wall behind him hung a small cracked mirror. Normally, she avoided mirrors, and she wasn’t expecting to see herself. In her reflection, her cheeks burned bright red against her cauliflower-colored skin, and her hair stuck up at all angles, except for one section that was plastered across her forehead like a toupee.

Mother was right; she was an ugly girl.

What was she doing? She stepped away from him. “We should go back to the club.”

“Of course. Hopefully, the kitchen isn’t on fire by now.”

They walked out into the night air, where a cool breeze had replaced the heavy, humid air with a touch of crispness. The few times he tried to start a conversation, she murmured one-word replies, hoping he wouldn’t look at her.

“Is something wrong?” he asked as they neared the club. He swallowed twice.

“No. Nothing. Just tired, I guess.”

“I hope I wasn’t too forward, taking you to the emporium. I thought you might like it, is all.”

He thought he’d done something wrong. When all along she was the one feeling stupid. She rushed to set him right. “I loved it. I really did. And meeting Mr. Kalai.” She lowered her voice. “It’s funny, when I lived in Ohio, I would read about extraordinary, eccentric characters in books and plays, but I couldn’t imagine them in real life. Then I came to New York.”

“Where everyone acts like they’re the main character of their own book.”

She laughed. “Between you and Esme, I’m seeing a whole side of the city I didn’t even know existed.”

“You seem like a nice girl.” He held the door open for her. “Funny to see you with Esme.”

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugged and looked inside the club. She could tell he was itching to get back to his kitchen. “She’s a handful, that’s all.”

First Stella, now Sam. “I’m not sure what you mean. She helped me a lot when I first got here, tried to make me feel at home. You saw how she got me onstage. I’m not normally like that.”

“Oh, Esme pretty much always gets what she wants. She’s too in love with herself to take no for an answer. You, on the other hand, are sweet. Innocent. That’s all I’m saying.”

Darby pressed her lips together and nodded. Sam was trying to tell her something, in the nicest way possible. Esme was special and Darby was not. And while he might enjoy Darby’s friendship, it would never be more.