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Authors: Dorothy Salisbury Davis
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you?”
“I think maybe he did, you know, the idea of my seeking him out and coming to see him about Pete on my own. And I really did admire his art collection.”
“That might be it, don’t you think,” Jeff suggested gently, “a way in?”
“I’m not the greatest authority on art,” Julie said, and thought of Scarlet Night. Something she had not yet told Jeff about. It didn’t seem exactly relevant at the moment.
“Even if you were, you would want to defer to him under the circumstances. Do you know how to contact him?”
“I have his unlisted number at the shop.”
“I have only one word of advice at the moment, Julie: don’t wait too long. Make your contact.”
TEN
J UANITA WAS BACK IN front of the shop when Julie arrived in the morning, trying to make her gallant band of crippled dolls shape up. Her mother was in the upstairs window, elbows to pillow to windowsill. “Hi, Mrs. Rodriguez. How was the vacation?”
“No good. My husband’s brother—he wants us to bring the whole family to New York.” A business catastrophe for Mrs. Rodriguez, Julie thought.
She spoke to the child. “Did you miss me?”
If Juanita had she wasn’t saying. The only word in her vocabulary that Julie knew of was “bad.” Someday she was going to break out in two languages and either tell Papa that Mama was a moonlight hustler or tell Mama what she could tell Papa if it seemed to her advantage. Blackmail: childhood’s ultimate weapon. Juanita needed an ultimate weapon.
“Julie…?” the mother crooned.
“No messages,” Julie said and let herself into the shop.
She was glad when she heard Mrs. Rodriguez call the child upstairs. She could never quite overcome a feeling of responsibility when Juanita was hovering outside the shop door. She ought to have brought her something from Paris, a doll, one more doll to tear the limbs from. What she might do was give her the Tarot cards and defy in herself that lingering superstition. But the cards had a certain beauty, worn though they were by perhaps a generation of gypsy hands…Señora Cabrera, whom she knew only from Mrs. Rodriguez’s description. She might mount the cards or make a collage of them and hang it alongside Scarlet Night. She glanced at the painting where she had hung it on the plasterboard partition between the front and the back of the shop. She had turned her desk sideways to that wall. If anything in the room looked temporary it was Scarlet Night with its bold heavy frame. The goose-neck lamp shone bleakly on the notebook, open to two empty pages. There were three director’s chairs around the table she had cut down to knee height for reading the cards. On the table were the crystal ball through which the most she had ever seen was the magnified grain of wood in the table, and the collected poems of William Butler Yeats.
Sweets Romano. She dialed the unlisted number.
As had happened on the previous occasion, the man who answered took her name and number and promised to call right back.
She waited, her heartbeat noisier than the drip of the tap in the bathroom sink. Mrs. Ryan was right: the place needed more air and light. On the other hand, considering the things that came out from the walls to play, who wanted to see them?
The phone rang.
“Romano here, Mrs. Hayes.”
“I don’t know if you remember me, Mr. Romano…”
“I do. Someone who cared what happened to Peter Mallory.”
“I’d like to talk to you for a little while, Mr. Romano, if we could make an appointment.”
“It would give me pleasure. Today? Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow would be better for me.”
“Come for lunch. My car will pick you up. Is it the same address?”
“Yes, but Mr. Romano, couldn’t I just come on my own?”
A second or two of hesitation. “Very well. Alberto will be waiting for you in the lobby. Twelve-thirty.”
One step at a time, Julie cautioned herself when she hung up the phone. She had twenty-four hours for preparation. She wound up the
“I think maybe he did, you know, the idea of my seeking him out and coming to see him about Pete on my own. And I really did admire his art collection.”
“That might be it, don’t you think,” Jeff suggested gently, “a way in?”
“I’m not the greatest authority on art,” Julie said, and thought of Scarlet Night. Something she had not yet told Jeff about. It didn’t seem exactly relevant at the moment.
“Even if you were, you would want to defer to him under the circumstances. Do you know how to contact him?”
“I have his unlisted number at the shop.”
“I have only one word of advice at the moment, Julie: don’t wait too long. Make your contact.”
TEN
J UANITA WAS BACK IN front of the shop when Julie arrived in the morning, trying to make her gallant band of crippled dolls shape up. Her mother was in the upstairs window, elbows to pillow to windowsill. “Hi, Mrs. Rodriguez. How was the vacation?”
“No good. My husband’s brother—he wants us to bring the whole family to New York.” A business catastrophe for Mrs. Rodriguez, Julie thought.
She spoke to the child. “Did you miss me?”
If Juanita had she wasn’t saying. The only word in her vocabulary that Julie knew of was “bad.” Someday she was going to break out in two languages and either tell Papa that Mama was a moonlight hustler or tell Mama what she could tell Papa if it seemed to her advantage. Blackmail: childhood’s ultimate weapon. Juanita needed an ultimate weapon.
“Julie…?” the mother crooned.
“No messages,” Julie said and let herself into the shop.
She was glad when she heard Mrs. Rodriguez call the child upstairs. She could never quite overcome a feeling of responsibility when Juanita was hovering outside the shop door. She ought to have brought her something from Paris, a doll, one more doll to tear the limbs from. What she might do was give her the Tarot cards and defy in herself that lingering superstition. But the cards had a certain beauty, worn though they were by perhaps a generation of gypsy hands…Señora Cabrera, whom she knew only from Mrs. Rodriguez’s description. She might mount the cards or make a collage of them and hang it alongside Scarlet Night. She glanced at the painting where she had hung it on the plasterboard partition between the front and the back of the shop. She had turned her desk sideways to that wall. If anything in the room looked temporary it was Scarlet Night with its bold heavy frame. The goose-neck lamp shone bleakly on the notebook, open to two empty pages. There were three director’s chairs around the table she had cut down to knee height for reading the cards. On the table were the crystal ball through which the most she had ever seen was the magnified grain of wood in the table, and the collected poems of William Butler Yeats.
Sweets Romano. She dialed the unlisted number.
As had happened on the previous occasion, the man who answered took her name and number and promised to call right back.
She waited, her heartbeat noisier than the drip of the tap in the bathroom sink. Mrs. Ryan was right: the place needed more air and light. On the other hand, considering the things that came out from the walls to play, who wanted to see them?
The phone rang.
“Romano here, Mrs. Hayes.”
“I don’t know if you remember me, Mr. Romano…”
“I do. Someone who cared what happened to Peter Mallory.”
“I’d like to talk to you for a little while, Mr. Romano, if we could make an appointment.”
“It would give me pleasure. Today? Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow would be better for me.”
“Come for lunch. My car will pick you up. Is it the same address?”
“Yes, but Mr. Romano, couldn’t I just come on my own?”
A second or two of hesitation. “Very well. Alberto will be waiting for you in the lobby. Twelve-thirty.”
One step at a time, Julie cautioned herself when she hung up the phone. She had twenty-four hours for preparation. She wound up the
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