by Gore Vidal
“Now, Nurse, we must try and understand what he . . . what she has had to go through these last few days.”
“What we’ve had to go through,” grumbled the “nurse,” at the very least the mistress of an Assistant Secretary of Defense, so cheeky is she.
Her superior was coldly unsympathetic (obviously a division in their ranks; one I shall exploit). “I suggest we tend to our job, Nurse, and take the rough with the smooth.”
“Yes, Doctor.” She tried to sound chastened but failed. Then she withdrew the thermometer and said, “Normal,” and looked disappointed. It is quite evident that they want me to die of what appear to be natural causes. Fortunately, my body will no more surrender to their poison than my mind has. I shall outwit them all, and prevail! If they mean to kill me they will have to take direct action, and so leave clues.
“Good news!” The charlatan beamed, writing in his code book. “We’ve passed the danger mark and I’m pleased as all get-out!”
Get out, I thought, smiling bravely, like . . . what’s her name in . . . my memory seems to have left me. The drugs must have been enormously powerful. Or did they use electroshock treatments? That would explain my condition like who was it in . . . I can’t recall that film’s title either. Whole sections of memory are missing. But I shall regain them: it is simply a matter of will. Meanwhile, they are certain that I can find no way of getting a message to the outside world but in this, as in everything, they underestimate me.
They are gone now. I am sitting up in a metal bed placed at the center of a small cell disguised as a hospital room. There is even the awful odor of disinfectant to lend verisimilitude to the otherwise ridiculous decor. Any fool can see that this is a prison, not a hospital. Why else are the venetian blinds shut?
I am encased in what appears to be plaster of Paris from neck to ankle. Inside this carapace I can hardly move. My legs feel as if they had just been asleep and now, tingling, are coming to life again. I can wiggle my feet: that is something, and my poor arms, though discolored, are intact and I suppose, in time, I shall be able to peel off this plaster strait jacket . . . unless of course they keep such careful watch over me that any attempt at freeing myself will be thwarted. For the moment, it is my intelligence upon which I must rely.
I cannot recall the name of Lana Turner’s first film! Something has been done to my brain. I know that I am Myra Breckinridge whom no man may possess, but what else? Film titles are lost to me. The past is a jumble. I must not panic.
What’s the last thing I can recall before they captured me? This is difficult. Santa Monica. The mesa? No. Not mesa. A word like it. Canyon. The Santa Monica Canyon. A winding road. Sun in my eyes as I drive. Alone? Yes, alone. No one is in the car. A dog? Yes, a wirehaired fox terrier puppy. Sitting on my lap. Sun in my eyes. That means it was late afternoon and I am coming from Hollywood to the sea—oh, the mind of Myra Breckinridge can never be broken or too long deranged, even by the CIA!
I park the car in front of a small house, green with white shutters, overlooking the ugly ocean. Fortress? Canal? Pilings? Palisades . . . that’s it: Pacific Palisades are visible. It’s our house. Ours? Who else? No. I’m going too fast now and my head is throbbing. Sodium pentothal obviously.
I park the car on the main road. I get out of the car. I stand and wait for the dog to jump out. The dog does. He runs up the driveway. He stops at the door of the house. I start to follow then
39
Struck by a hit-and-run automobile, I have been unconscious for ten days. I sustained twelve broken ribs, one cracked femur, one fractured shin, a dozen torn and bruised ligaments, as well as a concussion of the brain. Only my powerful physical organism was able to save me, according to Dr. Mengers, who has been an absolute saint during my ordeal.
“Frankly we didn’t think you were going to make it,” he said earlier this evening. “But the first moment I saw you I said to myself: that one’s going to put up a good fight, and you did. The night nurse is still home, convalescing.”
“Night nurse? What did I do?”
“Bit her arm to the bone.”
We had a merry laugh about that. Then I spoke seriously. “I’m worried about my memory, Doctor. For instance, I can recall the stars of The Uninvited (Ray Milland, Ruth Hussey, Donald Crisp) and I know that Charles Brackett produced the film for Paramount in 1944 but who . . . who was the director?”
“Lewis Allen.” He did not pause to think.
I was momentarily distracted from my own problems at finding a doctor who knew so much about movies. Apparently he too had seen every film made between 1931 and 1947. He was even, for a short time, Roland Young’s physician. We exchanged movie lore excitedly, and as we did, I found myself recalling more and more details which I had thought were forever lost to me. But not until I listed every film Edith Head had worked on did Dr. Mengers show his delight. “You see? You can remember. It’s just a matter of practice. Nothing serious has happened to your mind. With the sort of concussion you sustained, it is like having the wind knocked out of you . . . takes time to catch your breath. Don’t worry. You’re doing fine.”
I was relieved, to say the least. I have every confidence in this marvelous doctor who is to me now more friend than physician. So close do I feel to him that I am able to confide in him. I did this evening, though not without a degree of embarrassment.
“Dr. Mengers, I realize I’m not looking my best, what with this turban which is not exactly flattering to my delicate features, and being all bruised, but there is one thing that does alarm me. I seem to be . . .” I could hardly get the words out. “I seem to be growing a beard.”
He became immediately evasive. Why? In the vaguest of terms, he told me not to worry; he even suggested that I shave! To which I responded, rather sharply, that a woman who takes a razor to her face may as well say farewell to her femininity. “What I plainly need,” I said, coming to the point, “is a massive shot of female hormones.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question in your present condition. Such an injection would interfere seriously with the healing process. Later, perhaps.” But though he was soothing, I detect something very odd in his manner. Is it possible that my first impression was correct? That there is indeed a plot against me? I must be on my guard at all times and not allow myself to be lulled into a sense of false security by a man who claims to be a doctor but knows altogether too much about films.
Apparently Mary-Ann has been trying to see me. She comes to the hospital every day, the adorable girl! I told Dr. Mengers to tell her that I love her dearly and when I am looking less ghastly I will see her. Meanwhile, I talk to her twice a day on the telephone.
“You don’t know what I’ve been through!” she exclaimed when she first heard my voice, and promptly burst into tears of joy. I’m afraid I wept, too, at the sound of my darling’s voice. In any case, all is well at the house. The dogs are almost housebroken though there are still occasional accidents, particularly on the new curtains in the living room. Mary-Ann continues her singing lessons and attends the Academy where I am much missed. Buck inquires daily about my health and Dr. Montag is coming to see me tomorrow.
The driver of the car that struck me has not yet been apprehended. The police hope for me to give them some clue but I cannot. I have no memory of anything once the dog ran up the garden walk. Apparently I was struck from behind.
Was it an accident, or was it . . . who? Rusty? Buck? I am suddenly filled with suspicion. Two weeks ago I was almost run over in front of Larue’s. A coincidence? Well, if either of those sons-of-bitches did this to me I will have his God-damned head or my name is not Myron Breckinridge!
40
The room is filled with the smell of Randolph’s pipe. Across the floor, burnt-out cinders indicate his various maneuvers. He was in good form. So am I, despite constant headaches and the odd sensation that my legs are filled with burning pins. Fortunately the cast will be removed tomorrow.
To my surprise, Randolph did n
ot think me paranoid when I told him my suspicions.
“It crossed my mind, too,” he said, sucking at his pipe. “It could very well have been Rusty’s revenge.”
“Or Buck Loner’s. He would do anything to remove me from the Academy. Even murder.”
Yet as I gave voice to my suspicions I cannot, in my heart of hearts, really believe that anyone in his right mind could wish to remove me from a world so desperately in need of me. I prefer to have faith in my fellowman. I must even have a certain tenderness for him if I am to change, through example as well as teaching, his attitude toward sex. There was a time in our evolution when hate alone was motor to our deeds. But that age is ending, for I mean to bring to the world love of the sort that I have learned from Mary-Ann, a love which, despite its intensity, is mere prelude to something else again, to a new dimension which I alone am able to perceive, if dimly. Once I have formulated it, the true mission will begin. But for now I must be cryptic and declare that nothing is what it seems and what nothing seems is false.
“I would suspect Rusty more than Buck,” said Randolph, plunging his thick paws into the huge get-well basket of fruit sent me “with love” from Uncle Buck and Bobbie Dean Loner. Randolph crushed a peach against his jaws. I looked away. “The motive in the case of Rusty is more profound psychologically.” Randolph’s teeth struck the peach’s pit with a grating sound that sent shivers along my spine.
“Well, it’s done and past. And I’m willing to forgive whoever it was.”
“Are you really?” Randolph sounded surprised, not prepared for the new me.
“Of course. Suffering ennobles, doesn’t it?” I had no desire to confide in Randolph, particularly now when I am assembling an entirely new personality with which to take the world by storm. “But I do wish you’d talk to Dr. Mengers and ask him to give me a hormone cocktail. I’m sprouting hair in all directions.”
Randolph wiped his lips free of peach juice with a banana which he then unpeeled. “Yes, he told me about your request. Unfortunately, it’s medically dangerous at the moment.”
“But I can’t let Mary-Ann see me like this.”
“I’m sure she’ll understand.”
Before I could remonstrate with Randolph, he was launched upon one of his monologues whose subject, as usual, was Randolph Spenser Montag.
“ . . . office in Brentwood, a quiet neighborhood. Many of my patients live nearby which makes things easy for them if not for me. I’ve already made the down payment on the house, which is Spanish-style ranch-type, and so I should be ready for business in a few weeks. Culturally the Los Angeles area is far richer than I had dreamed, with many extremely stimulating people . . .”
I was spared Randolph’s rationalizations by the sudden opening of the door and the nurse shouting, “Surprise, surprise!”
The surprise was an incline board on wheels which the nurse rolled backwards into the room, to my amazement. Was I expected to get on it and be wheeled about like a sacred relic or Pharaonic mummy? The mystery was solved when, with a flourish, the nurse spun the thing around to reveal Letitia Van Allen in a neck brace, strapped to the board.
“Darling!” Letitia was exuberant, despite the strangeness of her position. “Thank God, you’re conscious! We were so worried!”
“I’m Dr. Montag,” said Randolph gravely, never one to be kept for long out of a conversation. I made the introductions.
“Sorry I can’t shake hands.” Letitia was intrepid. “My neck is fractured and two spinal discs have fused. Otherwise I’m in a great shape.”
The nurse agreed. Obviously she worships Letitia. “Miss Van Allen is just bursting with energy. It’s all we could do to keep her in traction.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked, suspecting what had happened.
“Two days after your accident, I took a header on the stairs at Malibu, and here I am, getting the first real rest I’ve had in twenty years.”
“Except she’s a naughty girl and not resting at all.” The nurse was adoring. “She has moved her whole office into the hospital. You should see her room. It’s a madhouse!”
“Sweetie, will you mix us a nice martini? Beefeater gin, no vermouth, on the rocks, with just the tiniest dash of rock salt.”
“Oh, Miss Van Allen, you know hospital rules . . .”
“And a glass of champagne for yourself. Hurry up now! Letitia is parched.”
The nurse departed. Letitia beamed at us. Then she frowned. “Angel, what’s wrong with your face? It looks like you’re . . .”
“. . . growing a beard.” I sighed. “Well, I am. A result of some sort of hormonal imbalance caused by the accident. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
Randolph blew sparks at Letitia, and agreed, at convincing quasi-scientific length. All the while, Letitia was studying me with a thoughtful look. I cursed myself for not having used a thick foundation makeup.
“You know,” said Letitia, when Randolph had wheezed into silence, “you would make a marvelouslooking man. Really, Myra, I mean it.”
“Don’t be silly!” I grew hot with anxiety, as well as rage at Dr. Mengers for not having done more to prevent this dreadful, if temporary, reversion to my original state.
“Darling, I didn’t mean it as an insult! Quite the contrary. In fact . . .” Letitia apologized at length as we drank the martinis the nurse brought us and watched Randolph break open a large pineapple and tear at its tallowy flesh.
After what seemed an age of small talk, Randolph finished the pineapple and, with many a puff and wheeze and groan, got to his feet and said good-by.
The moment the door shut behind him, Letitia flew across the room on her incline board, coming to a full stop beside my bed. “It was perfection!” She roared happily. “Total perfection! I have never in my life known such absolute and complete happiness. Such a . . . no, there are no words to describe what I went through. All I know is that I am now entirely fulfilled. I have lived and I have loved to the fullest! I can at last give up sex because anything more would be anticlimax.”
“Not to mention fatal.” I must say Letitia’s happiness depressed me mortally. “Just what did Rusty do to you this time?”
“What did he not do!” Her eyes became glazed with memory and gin. “It all happened the day he signed the contract at Fox. You know I got him the lead in that series with top money, special billing, participation, the works. Anyway, after the signing, we went back to Malibu to celebrate.” Her voice was dreamy. “It began upstairs when he tore my clothes off in the closet. Then he raped me standing up with a metal clothes hanger twisted around my neck, choking me. I could hardly breathe. It was exquisite! Then one thing led to another. Those small attentions a girl like me cherishes . . . a lighted cigarette stubbed out on my derriere, a complete beating with his great thick heavy leather belt, a series of ravenous bites up and down the inner thighs, drawing blood. All the usual fun things, except that this time he went beyond anything he had ever tried before. This time he dragged me to the head of the stairs and raped me from behind, all the while beating me with his boot. Then, just as I was about to reach the big O, shrieking with pleasure, he hurled me down the stairs, so that my orgasm and the final crash with the banister occurred simultaneously. I fainted with joy! Without a doubt, it was the completion of my life.”
“And here you are, half paralyzed.” I could not resist being sour.
“Only temporarily. But I agree, one more go and I’ll be dead, which is why we’ve agreed not to see each other again, except in a business way.”
“He no longer needs you, so he drops you.”
“You are a case, Myra!” Letitia tolled a great bronze laugh. “Actually the opposite is true. Since he’s going to be a star he’ll need me more than ever, in the business way. No, these things run their course. Frankly I don’t think I shall ever again need sex. Once you have known the kind of perfection that I obtained at the moment of collision with that banister, anything else is too secondrate to be endured. I am a fulfill
ed woman, perhaps the only one in the world.”
I must say I can only admire (and perhaps envy) Letitia. Not since the early Betty Hutton films has female masochism been so beautifully served. But I have my own problems. I come straight to the point. “Will Rusty go back to Mary-Ann?”
“Never. He’s playing the field now. He’s taking a bachelor pad with that young stud who was just let go by Universal—John Edward Jane.”
“So you think he’ll settle down to a life of promiscuity.” I was relieved.
“After me, where can he go? Don’t worry. He’s lost all interest in your girlfriend.”
This was said gaily. Even so, I felt shame, not so much for myself as for Mary-Ann.
“She’s not my girlfriend. She has a horror of Lesbianism.”
“That you don’t share. Oh, come off it, Myra. You can tell your pal Letitia. Why, we’ve all gone that route one time or another—it can be a lot of laughs, two girls and one dildo.”
Nevertheless, I continued to protest our innocence, while Letitia, getting more and more drunk on gin, described in some detail how, many years before, she had been seduced by Buck Loner’s wife Bobbie Dean who then, no doubt filled with remorse, got religion one day while buying Belgian endives at the Farmers Market and gave up diking on the spot to become a Jehovah’s Witness. The story is not without its inspirational side.
But I am more concerned with Mary-Ann’s reputation, and our relationship which means more to me than anything in this world.
I talked to Mary-Ann a few minutes ago, shortly after the dead-drunk Letitia was wheeled back to her room. Mary-Ann sounded happy. She can’t wait for me to come home. I told her what the doctor told me just now: the cast comes off tomorrow and I will be able to go home by the end of the week. Unfortunately he refuses to give me a hormonal injection and my face looks a fright, with strange patches of beard. I also dread the removal of the bandage since, according to the nurse, all my lovely hair has been cut off. I hope Mary-Ann can bear the gruesome sight. I hope I can.