by Thomas Tryon
“Before you knew it we’d had an audience with His Holiness, and in no time we were in the fold, so on so forth.” Willie set down his glass and gestured with both arms to the portrait of Beetrice Marsh. “And we embraced the Faith with all the ardor, all the passion of—well—school children. Simple Sunday-school children.”
He fell silent at last, dropping his head and staring into his empty glass.
“Uh—gee, that’s fantastic, Willie, it really is. Isn’t that fantastic, Arco? Arco?” Arco’s mind seemed elsewhere; Bill leaned and gave his knee a knock. “Hey, buddy—”
Arco came suddenly aware. “Yes.” He raised his glass to Willie. “That’s quite a story, Willie. You have my congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Willie’s mind was slightly befuddled; he peered over at Arco, trying to read his expression. Was he mocking him? He couldn’t tell.
“I envy you, Willie.”
“Nobody should envy anybody else.”
“No, no, I do. I freely admit it. You’ve got it all, haven’t you?”
“I have my share.”
“Ohh, I’d say you got a good deal more than your share. I admire a man like you.”
“Why is that?”
“You represent all the virtues. You are faith, hope, and charity.”
Willie ducked his head modestly. “Well, if one has it, I think it should be … shared, shouldn’t it?”
“Certainly.”
Arco suddenly snapped his fingers at Bill, a sharp, incisive sound, and pointed to Willie’s glass. “The gentleman needs a drink, Bill. Don’t make him tend bar in his own house.” Bill obediently took Willie’s glass to the bar; Arco jerked his head toward him as he went. “Used to be a bartender, Bill did.”
“That a fact?”
“He wants to be in the movies. You think he’s got a chance?”
“Why, I’m sure he does—”
“You ought to put him in one of your pictures, Willie.”
Willie was flattered that someone should still think of him as “in pictures.”
“It’s not like the old days, you know; one doesn’t just ‘put’ people in the movies. Today they have to know what they’re doing.”
“He’s taking classes.”
“Classes is not acting; classes is learning. And contrary to popular belief, Lana Turner was not discovered on a soda fountain stool at Schwab’s. It takes work and the breaks and the right part, and even then, who knows? Who knows what it takes to make it?”
“You like being a movie star?” Arco asked.
“Like it?” Willie considered the question. “Certainly. Why?”
“I think it must be a rotten life. A whore’s life.”
“Perhaps. I think only those who’ve been through it really know what it’s like. Yes, I’d say I enjoyed it. We had a good life; it brought us a lot.”
“You talk like it’s over.”
Willie shrugged, his eye wandering to the portrait of Bee. “What’s left? Done it all. Seen it all. Been it all. What’s left?”
“Was it worth it?”
“Pays well, even though the work’s not steady.”
Arco nodded appreciatively. “How’d you get to know the Pope?”
“He knighted me.”
“For what?”
“For aid and comfort to Holy Mother Church.”
“I see. And since you found … religion, do you forgive your enemies?”
“Ah, no, Arco.”
“Why not?”
“I’m far too busy forgiving my friends. Thank you,” he said to Bill, who brought his refilled glass, then remained standing until Arco indicated that he sit.
“Do you love God?” Arco asked Willie.
“Of course. He’s divine.” He giggled suddenly, and choked on his drink.
Arco moved to examine the pictures on the wall. “A lot of paintings you have, Willie. Been collecting long?”
“Quite a while.” Willie heaved himself from his chair, moving unsteadily as he crossed to Arco. “That’s a Tchelitchew.”
“I know.”
“Are you interested in art?”
“Arco’s an artist,” Judee piped up. Arco’s head turned and he glared. She subsided with a little pout, helping herself to more champagne.
“Are you indeed?” Willie asked Arco.
Arco puffed on his cigar. “Not really. I used to be, once.”
“Why’d you give it up?”
“Too hard. Couldn’t stick it. Frankly, I don’t like being alone that long—you’ve got to be alone to work.” His tone was confidential, easy, winning. “I showed some sculptures a couple of times, down on La Cienega.”
“Did you in fact? What sort?”
“Living sculptures. Me.” He explained that what he had tried to produce was a new kind of art, in which he himself had figured as principal subject. Once he had lain for ten days in an open coffin while people came to look at him, not moving, merely lying there, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. Another time he had been a living crucifixion; had stood nude with arms outspread before a cross. “The Living Martyr,” the piece had been called.
Humorously, Willie asked, “Did anybody buy you?”
“They were just attention-getters. Statements. What I call living metaphors. All of life’s a metaphor, really, if you can grasp and understand it.”
Though he seemed to be trying to say something, in Willie’s inebriated state the implication remained obscure to him.
“Don’t s’pose I can. Sounds interesting, however.”
Arco had moved again and was looking at the Saint Sebastian picture.
“Quattrocento,” Willie observed.
“Quattrocento?” Suppressing a chuckle, Arco examined the picture more closely, then shook his head. “I think you got taken on that one.”
“Why?”
“It’s a copy. Some art dealer hooked you.”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it? We like it.”
“Patron saint of pinmakers—did you know that?”
“’S that a fact?”
“If there’s any fact in religion. Doesn’t seem worth being made a human pincushion, though.”
“Are you against religion, Arco?”
“Certainly not. It’s the opiate of the people. Whatever turns you on is okay by me.”
“I think perhaps you are anti-establishment.”
“Not at all,” he returned mildly. “I like order, peace, and continuity. I am not a violent person.” Unnoticed, his cigar ash fell on the floor.
It was then that a strange look passed between the two men. Even in his slightly befuddled state Willie felt an instantaneous awareness; he thought of the look as that of strangers who recognize some unspoken but telltale sign, a sudden fine comprehension that identifies each for the other, as the lawman knows the felon. In some way Willie felt he had been discovered, that he had been caught out. Then the moment passed, and Arco resumed his easy, bantering tone.
“Violence is for those who can’t afford peaceability,” he continued, moving along the wall of pictures. “Plutarch says perseverance is more prevailing than violence. That’s why Avis tries harder—”
“Plutarch, eh? Most people don’t have Plutarch at their fingertips. You’ve been to school, obviously.”
“Most everybody’s been to school at one time or another.”
“Where’d you go—Harvard?” He giggled at his joke.
“Arco went t’ the seminary, di’n’t ya—”
“Goddamn you.” Arco whirled and confronted Bill angrily. “Why don’t you learn to keep your mouth shut?”
“I was just—” Bill broke off and heaved his shoulders. Judee leaned and whispered in his ear. The blood that had surged into Arco’s face receded as he turned to Willie.
“Yeah—I went to the seminary for a while.”
“Well well well. Did you take orders?”
Arco laughed. “They gave them but I didn’t take them. I took up ta
p-dancing instead.”
“You don’t strike me particularly as the religious type.”
“I’m not.”
“What is this word your friend Judee mentioned—izz—izzat?”
“Judee talks too much, too.” He threw a dark look over at the girl curled up on the sofa, but when he turned back to Willie his expression was bland, almost benign. “‘Izzat’ is a Hindi word. It means a man’s personal dignity and honor. I think that’s more important than any formal religion. I believe that a man’s izzat can bring him greater happiness and fulfillment than kneeling down and worshiping plaster saints. They might as well be calves of gold. And all that glitters … is bulla shitta. That’sa whatta my mama done tolda me—”
Judee jumped up from the couch. “Hey, that’s my song. ‘Blues in the Night.’”
Arco seemed uninterested in pursuing the topic, but went on looking at the paintings, apparently knowledgeable about each of the names—Berman, Bérard, Perlin, Bemelmans—arriving eventually at the mantel, and the portrait over it. He stepped back to scrutinize it, and Judee came up and put her arm through his.
“It’s a John,” Willie explained to Arco.
“So I see.”
“John who?” Judee asked.
“Augustus John,” Willie told her, then to Arco: “It’s rather famous, you know. They call it the ‘Smiling Bee.’”
Judee was standing on tiptoe, looking. “I don’t see a bee anywhere.”
Willie laughed. “No, no, my dear, her name is Bee. Beetrice Marsh.” He used his index finger to remove the dust along the bottom of the frame, then switched on a narrow light attached at the top which threw the portrait into full illumination. Against the turbulent background of mauves and bitter greens sat a woman, with softly marceled brown hair, chin in hand, one slender finger resting along a cheek as she leaned slightly toward the viewer, dressed in the fashion of the twenties, with a large rope of pearls around her neck.
“Beetrice Marsh herself,” Willie announced, stepping back and extending his arm dramatically. “We were having a bit of a holiday in Venice that summer, staying with the Porters—Cole and Linda, of course—I believe that Scotty Fitzgerald was along, too, and we caught John—Augustus—up one afternoon in the Piazza San Marco with the Baronness d’Erlanger and Princess Aspasia, and John said Bee absolutely must sit for him.” Willie did not deem it necessary to mention that it had not been the painter’s idea, but Bee’s, and that he had charged an exorbitant fee.
“You can get a better view of it from here,” he said, moving back to the sofa. Arco and Judee came and sat beside Bill and they all looked at the picture together. Willie rattled the ice cubes in his glass, then dropped his head. “It was all very sad.”
“How’s come?” Bill asked.
“She’s dead, you know. Very unexpected.” He pointed to the urn. “That contains her ashes.”
Judee looked closer. “Is it—?” She broke off uncertainly.
“Full? No, she was quite a small woman.”
“No, I meant is it real gold?”
“No, my dear, only gold-washed. We didn’t want anything ostentatious.”
Bill said, “She—uh—must’ve been a wonderful person.”
“That she was, William,” Willie nodded his head for emphasis. “A wonderful person.”
“And a kind person, too. You can see it in her face.”
“The kindest person I’ve ever known.”
“Something in the eyes, a—uh—”
“Depth?”
“Ri-i-ight. Depth’s what I meant. Really deep. Huh, Arco? Sort of a depth of—uh—”
“Character?” Willie suggested.
“Ri-i-ight. You can see she’s got character.”
“Had, m-boy.”
“Had. Sorry.”
Arco said nothing, but sat stroking his beard, listening to the conversation.
“I miss her dreadfully, you have no idea. Not a day passes but I don’t think of her, don’t pray to the Holy Virgin to keep her safe for me.”
“I guess most guys aren’t so lucky.”
“No, no, they’re not, I’m sure.” Willie hiccupped, dug for his handkerchief to wipe his eyes with. “I’m just glad she got to be here for our golden jubilee.”
“Golden what?” Judee asked.
“Our fiftieth anniversary.”
“Gee,” she said reverently, “that’s a long time.”
“That’s beautiful, Willie, honest,” Bill said. “Shit, fifty years.”
Judee pushed her fingers in her hair and massaged her scalp. “Most folks don’t stay married that long these days. My father and mother never even got married. I guess fifty years must be some kind of record, huh?”
“What’s the matter, Willie?” Arco had spoken up finally.
Looking as if he’d choked on something, Willie was staring open-mouthed at Judee, who was patting her hair into shape again. He closed his lips and touched them with his handkerchief. “What’s that you say?” he finally managed.
She dropped her head and gave her frizzed hair a good fluffing. “I was saying fifty years married must be some kind of record….”
Aghast, Willie looked from her to the portrait, then back again, and his words came out in a hoarse croak. “Beetrice Marsh was not my wife,” he pronounced indignantly.
“Not your wife?” Bill echoed stupidly.
“Certainly not. Beetrice Marsh was my mother.”
Judee’s head snapped up, her eyes roundly bulging. “Your mother?”
“Yes, of course. My mother.”
There was a moment during which nobody said anything. Only the gentle snoring of the dogs could be heard. Willie looked at the three of them, looking at him. “My mother,” he repeated, raising his eyes to the portrait. “God bless her.”
“Oh. Sure,” said Bill.
“Oh. Sure,” said Judee.
Arco said nothing.
Willie coughed, and shifted in his chair. “Beetrice Marsh was the most wonderful mother a boy could hope for. And I accept Judee’s error as the greatest compliment. The greatest in the world. ‘Every good boy loves his mother, loves her first before another.’ That’s what Bee always used to say.” He was forced to use his handkerchief again. “There was a rumor for years that she was my sister, but nothing could be further from the truth. Bee was mah l’il ol’ mama. Oh, sure, she talked ‘southren’ and I guess while you could take the girl out of the country, you couldn’t take the country out of the girl, but she was a grand person. The most famous mother in Hollywood. In all show business,” he added, wiping his eyes again.
“Your mother,” Bill echoed dumbly, shaking his head. “I’ll be jiggered.” Arco still made no comment. Judee clambered down to the end of the sofa and leaned to Willie, wriggling her fingers at him.
“Gee, sweetie, don’t cry….”
“I’m sorry.” He sniffed and blew his nose. He pocketed his handkerchief and raised his glass to the portrait once more. “Well, dearest Bee, here’s to crime.” He tilted his head back and drank, long and fully. The dogs stirred; Judee giggled; nobody said anything.
“Well,” Willie offered finally, mastering his emotions, “why don’t I just pop out to the kitchen and see what’s in the refrigerator that I could give you? Meanwhile, you all just make yourself at home.”
“Fine, Willie.” Arco pressed his hand on Willie’s shoulder; again there was that strange warmth emanating from it. Bill and Judee were on the sofa, talking. He waved to them as he pursued an erratic course through the room, heading for the kitchen. “His mother,” Bill echoed. “Ssh,” said Judee. She giggled again.
When he returned Willie was surprised to find the game room empty. Outside, darkness had fallen. He was more surprised, and a little shocked, to discover a trail of hastily doffed clothes, leading to the lanai. He went out to find everybody in the pool. Judee was nude astride a float, while Arco, also naked, lounged along the pool steps, half in, half out, and smoking a cigarette. The odor
of pot drifted across the water. Bill’s tanned bulk was stretched full length on a second float, midway between the two. He lay on his stomach, and there was a narrow white band where his bathing suit would have been, but he, too, was naked.
“Hey, Willie, ol’ pal, we’re ’bout outta champagne,” he called cheerfully. “How’s ’bout ’nother bottle?”
Willie maneuvered through the maze of wrought-iron furniture and went inside again. Heading toward the bar, he realized he was quite drunk. Hardly a new condition, and he knew well enough how to handle himself in the circumstances, but he had misgivings; already he was thinking perhaps he’d made a mistake asking them to stay. He should have let them leave, and watched The Player Queen by himself. Still, he was having a good time, wasn’t he? At least he wasn’t alone. He brought an unopened bottle from the refrigerator, then found some of Bee’s second-best glasses, stored in the back of a cupboard. He proceeded outside, and as he bent to set down the champagne bottle, his toe touched something. He heard the sound of glass shattering, and looked down to where someone had set one of the Baccarat goblets: it was snapped at the stem.
Bill circled on his float “Oh, heck, did it break?”
“Yes, it did,” Willie said curtly, bending to pick up the pieces. He started as a wet face suddenly emerged at the coping and Arco grinned up at him.
“Sorry, man. I guess I shouldn’t have left it there.” His eyes seemed brighter, his smile more of a leer.
“It’s all right,” he said, trying to appear friendly. “After all, it’s just one more worldly possession. We all have too many of those, anyway.”
“Some of us do, anyway.”
Willie brought the dustpan and brush from behind the barbecue, finding that Arco’s close scrutiny made him feel absurdly ill at ease. He dumped the broken pieces in the trash can. “People can get cut that way,” he said when he came back.