From Dust to Stardust: A Novel by Kathleen Rooney

Author:Kathleen Rooney [Rooney, Kathleen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2023-09-04T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

THE ATTIC

Our lunch arrives: grilled cheese sandwiches with pickles, french fries, and brownies for dessert. I leave my potatoes untouched; I used to be able to eat like Gladys and remain as gangly as she, but my metabolism is not what it used to be.

“Soda-counter discoveries are just a fairy tale, huh?” says Gladys, sipping an orange pop.

How to explain to Gladys, or to anyone, that as much as the flapper controversy gave me power, it also gave me a fence of sorts to kick against in order not to be trapped. By definition, fame resides in others, so while it may be something you’ve attained, it always has you more than you have it.

“Largely. You have to have an inclination toward stardom. It also doesn’t hurt to have a handle by which the public can grasp you. Rudolph Valentino, the Latin Lover. Charlie Chaplin, the Little Tramp. Clara Bow, the It Girl.”

“Doreen O’Dare, the Perfect Flapper.”

“Precisely. And once the public grabs that handle, it doesn’t let go until it’s done with you,” I say, unwrapping my brownie. “I wished I could still take the streetcar after I became famous, but it wouldn’t have been safe. Rest assured I can take public transportation now, though. I took the bus to get here, in fact.”

“You didn’t,” she says.

“I’m old now, Gladys. To remain a star, you can’t lose your novelty. Jack—my husband at the time, a publicist by trade—was a genius at keeping news of me new.”

“Only being interested in new things sounds like hell to me,” says Gladys. “But I’m a museum person. Pretty boring, I guess.”

“I don’t think you’re boring,” I say. We are once again veering toward the topic of preservation, which I’d rather avoid. “You’re right, though, that novelty comes at a cost. My real name, as you may have seen on the deed of gift for the Fairy Castle, is Eileen Sullivan. For years, ‘Doreen O’Dare’ was just the name of the job I did. After Flaming Youth, I became Doreen to almost everyone except Jack, even to my family.”

She points a french fry at the castle like it’s a magic wand, leveling it at the cramped triangular space squeezed above the Princess’s Bedroom. “Shall we talk about the Attic next? We can start whenever you’re ready.”

“The Attic is the most recent addition,” I say, “and the only room for which I can claim no credit. Endre Vitez—the museum’s former art director—suggested adding it when he began to grow overwhelmed by all the new miniatures I kept sending.”

“Suggested? That doesn’t sound like Endre.”

“Well, he insisted. Clutter gives him a migraine, he said.” I picture Endre gesturing with his broad sculptor’s fingers, ordering any disarray sorted in his Hungarian accent. “This is where the fairies have agreed to stow things that don’t quite fit elsewhere but are too precious to throw away: some Battersea stools, a silver samisen, and Rumpelstiltskin’s spinning wheel, whenever it’s not in use.”

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