by Peter Corris
"Come on, Suze, we can't do any good here. Not now."
The supervisor stepped aside to allow Lou and Susannah to leave the room. Susannah could smell the whisky on his breath as she passed him. "You'll be hearing from me," she said.
"She's doped up," Lou said as they drove away from the clinic. "Probably addicted. There's not much chance for her, Suze."
"She's got no chance there. I'm going to see Laura, then a lawyer, then the police if I have to."
When she got back to Hollywood, Susannah found that Laura had gone on vacation to the east coast. The lawyer she approached through David Jacobsen was unhelpful. The private investigator she hired learned that Mary had been moved from the Santa Barbara clinic but he wasn't able to find her whereabouts. Susannah raged and two days' shooting on the film was lost. O'Connor told her she was in danger of being sued unless she calmed down. Lou told her she had to think of the baby. Susannah cursed them both but she finished the film and got on with being pregnant.
Lou probed for more details of Susannah's life—London, the boat, life with the Welcomes. He asked about her relationship with Mary but Susannah found the subject confusing and painful. Otherwise, she contributed happily.
"I feel I'm having twins," she said one night when Lou had finished a chapter.
"What!"
"I mean the baby and your novel."
Lou picked up the pencil and made a note. "Hey, that's not bad. Maybe I can use that."
29
Many Happy Returns was a flop. Even the sensational announcement that Suzie Welcome had been married to Lou Faraday for a year and was now expecting their child failed to stimulate interest in the picture.
"I'm sorry, Dan," Susannah told O'Connor when he gave her the news that the major studios in Hollywood were no longer interested in her. "For you, not for me."
"It's okay, kid. We had a nice ride. It's sort of good to be associated with someone normal after all the freaks you meet in this business. So you 'n' Lou're settling down, eh? Where you going to live?" They say Malibu's the place now."
Susannah looked around the living room of the Alessandro Street bungalow where she'd invited O'Connor to lunch. It was plainly furnished; she'd never acquired the taste for high living. "After the baby's born we're going to Paris. We'll stay there for a while. Lou'll write his book, and I'll look after the baby and do . . . other things."
"Wish I could go to Paris myself. A man can get a drink legit there."
"You get enough as it is. If it was legal you'd kill yourself."
"Uh huh. Well, you'll know where to find me if you want to get back in the business."
"Don't hold your breath."
"Where's Lou?"
Susannah cocked her head. "Hear that typing? He'd rather write than eat."
Jacobsen told her about her investment portfolio, which had made her a wealthy woman. "Triangle could sue you for breach of contract, marrying on the quiet like that. But they ain't. I talked them outa it."
"Thanks, David," Susannah said. "Are there papers for me to sign or anything?"
"Not much. You should make a new will. I suppose you want to leave everything to Lou and the kid?"
Susannah nodded. "Maybe something for Mary."
"I'll work on it. You know where she is?"
"No. I haven't seen Laura for weeks. I suppose she knows but I doubt she'd tell anyone. I'm worried about Mary, David."
"I'll keep on it. When's the baby due?"
"A month. Look." Susannah proudly showed her stomach. Jacobsen, the father of six, patted it absently, thinking of stock options.
Margot Catherine Faraday was born at Los Angeles General Hospital on 4 April 1924. She weighed eight pounds and, apart from a slight case of jaundice that gave her skin a golden sheen, she was strong and healthy. Susannah had had a trouble-free pregnancy and there were no complications to the birth. The Faradays had rented a house in Culver City on a short lease. Their plans to travel to Europe when the baby was old enough were well advanced. Lou completed the tenth chapter of his novel before going to the hospital to fetch his wife and daughter home.
"Today's the day Mr Welcome," the ward sister said.
"That's Faraday, sister," Lou said. "The name is Faraday."
"I never saw a more beautiful mother and baby. You take good care of them both."
"I plan to."
Lou had brought a baby carriage with him but Susannah wanted to carry the child in her arms. Lou loaded the carriage into the new Buick station wagon and opened the door for his wife.
"We're sort of on our way to Paris right now, aren't we, Lou?" Susannah said.
"That's right, honey. You 'n' me 'n' Margot."
"I hope the grammar's better in your book. When can I read it?"
"When it's finished."
Margot was christened at home by a Congregationalist minister. Lou was an atheist but he said he didn't mind playing it safe. David Jacobsen and Dan O'Connor were godfathers.
"That's really playing it safe," Susannah said. "A Catholic, a Jew, a Congregationalist, an atheist and an I-don't-know."
"Kid's got bets all covered," Dan O'Connor said. "I'd like to drink her health."
"Sssh," Susannah cautioned him. She thanked the minister, to whom Lou had already given a generous cheque, and went into conversation with Leo, Lou's brother and only relative. At twenty-four, Leo was five years Lou's junior. He lived in San Francisco and admired his older brother. He was a policeman and Susannah thought it only fair to sound out his views on prohibition. Leo Faraday said he thought the Volstead Act was "the dumbest thing this country's ever done". The party following Margot's christening lasted eight hours. Clara Bow dropped in, along with William Fox, Lillian Gish, Tom Mix and others.
The baby thrived. Lou and Susannah were happy. Families were 'in' and the Faradays received a lot of publicity from the Hollywood newshounds. In June Dan O'Connor paid a visit to the house and found Susannah taking in the winter sunshine in the courtyard. Margot gurgled in a bassinet in the shade.
"Kid," O'Connor said, "you're hot again. We've got a hell of an offer from Paramount."
"I'm not interested, Dan. We're going to Paris in August."
"Very hot there in August, so they tell me."
Susannah laughed. "We're leaving here next month, getting the train to Chicago and the 20th Century Limited to New York. Then the boat to London and Paris after that. It won't be hot in London. It never is. I know!"
"Yeah? How d'you know?"
Susannah had never told O'Connor her life story, "Never mind. I'll tell you one day. Anyway, that's what's happening. I hope you haven't made . . ."
O'Connor held up his hand. "Would I? I mean, would I do the wrong thing by you? I'm hurt."
Susannah kissed him. "Let me give you a drink for the pain."
"That'd help."
She brought out a tall Scotch and water and O'Connor took off his hat and sat in the shade near the bassinet. "Bottoms up, kid. Cute little thing you got here. I could get her some baby spots if you wanted."
"I don't want. Can't you get it through your head, Dan? I've quit."
O'Connor shrugged. "I guess I have to. Thing is, all this baby business and going to Europe is great publicity. They're licking their lips."
"Sorry."
O'Connor drank. "I never had this problem before. A client with things happening in her life that're real interesting and she won't let me do anything with them. I'm usually making crap up, excuse me, Margot, about noble blood and titles and stuff. Here you are, with a husband writing a novel . . . say, could I do Lou some good by giving the press a bit about the book?"
"No. He'd kill you. It's all a secret. Even I haven't read it."
"Can I say you are catching the Century? I give that to a guy at the Star and I can lean on him for something else. You were in the business, you know how it works."
Susannah looked at her daughter, checking that the sun wasn't in the child's eyes and that she was properly covered. "Sure, Dan
," she said. "I know. You can tell them we're leaving on July the tenth at eight p.m. I can hardly wait. You can tell them that too."
30
Susannah placed the baby in a carry basket on the seat in the Pullman car, checked that it couldn't easily be dislodged, and collapsed onto the plush leather. She lit a cigarette. "God, I thought we were going to travel light?"
"We are," Lou said. "By the standards of this town we're gypsies."
They had loaded four suitcases and two crates, mostly containing baby equipment—crib, bassinet, toys, foldaway play pen—onto the Chicago train. The black porter showed them to their compartment, jotted down their requirements for food and drinks, accepted Lou's generous tip and left.
"This is really it," Susanah said. "I wonder if we'll ever come back here."
"Who knows?" Lou said. "Via Europe and Australia? It seems unlikely."
"My whole life seems unlikely to me sometimes."
Lou laughed. "Don't say that, honey. You're talking about my novel."
"Where is it?"
Lou patted the briefcase beside him on the seat. "Right here. All two hundred and eighty pages. First draft, of course."
"You're not telling me I have to wait for a fourth draft before I can see it?"
"No. You'll see it when I finish the first draft. I want you to tell me how to make it better."
Susannah blew smoke carefully away from the sleeping Margot, butted the cigarette and stretched. "Nice compartments, these. You should have seen the train we travelled to Tilbury Docks on."
Lou got out a notebook. "Yes I should have. What was it like?"
"Not now sweetheart. Sometimes I think you're writing as we talk."
"Bad habit. Tired?"
"Mmm. We're moving! No, false alarm. What time is it?"
"Eight. Fifteen minutes to go."
"I thought those reporters'd never go away. I thought they were going to make us miss the train. Was I too rude to them?"
Lou grinned. "No, you weren't rude. Think what they put up with from de Mille and Zukor."
"I think that's one of the things I don't like about Hollywood—being compared with people like that."
"Who would you like to be compared with?"
Susannah thought about it. She had very few female friends; Mary had provided her with most of her adolescent companionship. And Laura had been there. "My mother," she said.
The woman who showed the platform ticket at the barrier was wearing a fur coat, although the night was mild. She wore high-heeled shoes that made her totter a little and her blonde hair was disarrayed. But she was carefully made up and the guard couldn't smell any liquor on her breath.
"Is that the Chicago train?"
"Yes, miss. Leaving in ten minutes."
"I want to say goodbye to someone."
"You can do it if you hurry. There'll be two calls for people not travelling to leave." As he spoke a voice could be heard shouting something above the hubbub on the platform. "There's the first call. Do you know what carriage your friends are in?"
"Yes, yes." The woman hurried past the guard and began to move quickly along, peering at the carriage numbers. She almost lost balance and a man had to steady her as she rushed past. She flashed him a glowing smile. Her eyes glittered in the bright platform light and the man stepped back in surprise. "Are you all right, miss?"
"Oh, yes, thank you. I'm fine." Her voice suddenly swung off key into a high-pitched screech. "Now let go of me, you bastard!"
"Take it easy."
"Eat shit!" The woman pulled her too-long, too-big, too-warm coat around her and hurried on.
"Nuts," the man said. He turned to his companion, a fat woman who was fanning herself with her newspaper. "Did you see that?"
"Yes, Clarence," the woman said. "I saw your gallant act. You got what you deserved. I'll be glad to get back to Chicago. This town is full of loose women."
"Crazy women, you mean."
"I mean loose and worse," the fat woman said. "She had nothing on under that coat. Not a stitch."
Clarence peered along the platform. He saw the skirt of the fur coat flap as the wearer boarded the train two carriages further on.
"Five minutes," Lou said. "How's Margot?"
Susannah looked. "Perfect."
Lou surveyed the brass fittings, the mirrors and the silk window curtains. As he reached to draw the curtain he caught a flash of a face outside—a woman's face, upturned and searching. He thought he recognized it but it was gone too quickly for him to be sure. He smiled at his dark, handsome wife. "Pretty fancy." He looked at the diagram that indicated how the seats were rearranged to form bunks. "You reckon we could do it here?"
Susannah kissed him. "I plan to try, and on every other train and boat we catch. How about we agree on it? We make love at least once on every kind of transportation."
"Won't there be bark canoes in Australia? And what d'they call them—bullock drays?"
"You're crazy. They have Buicks and Fords. I can see some of that book's going to need rewriting. Oh, why can't we go!"
Mary Welcome pulled the fur coat tightly around her and fumbled to fasten it up at the neck. She was confused about almost everything—about how she'd escaped from the house in Santa Monica while the party was going on; about how much money had been in the pocket of the coat; about where she'd spent the previous day and night. How long ago had she read the newspaper report about Suzie Welcome, twelve hours or twenty-four? Only two things were clear in her mind—that Susannah was on this train with her husband and child and that there were six bullets in the .38 pistol she'd found in the coat along with the money.
She'd stood outside the room in which Susannah and Lou Faraday had met the press. She'd seen Suzie hold up the baby and the look on her face. The photographers, crowding forward for their shots—they should have been taking pictures of her! The baby should be hers and the compact, amused-looking man standing by Suzie's side should have been hers too. And now she'd seen his face again in the train window.
She moved along the corridor, pushed past the stragglers heading back to the platform. Her hand clutched the gun. She'd examined it carefully in the taxi and worked out where the safety catch was. She slipped the catch to the off position and took the gun from the coat pocket. When she calculated she was at the right place she slid open the compartment door. An old man and woman looked at her with tired, myopic eyes. She rammed the door shut and pulled at the next.
The compartment was brightly lit and everything in it seemed twice normal size to Mary. She raised the pistol and fired twice at Susannah, and twice more at the wrapped bundle on the seat beside her. The shots were huge, crashing booms, like a cannon going off inches from her ear. Lou Faraday rose from his seat and moved towards her, but time had slowed for Mary; she seemed to have aeons to level the pistol and shoot him between the eyes. Faraday fell away from her, still slowly, still huge. Mary put the pistol in her mouth and fired the last bullet up through her brain.
31
Palo Alto, California, September 1986
Lou Faraday had been named for his uncle who had been shot to death, along with his wife and baby daughter, in a compartment of the Chicago train at Los Angeles railroad station in 1924. Leo Faraday, the brother of the murdered man, had a long and distinguished career in the San Francisco police force. He rose to the rank of assistant commissioner. He married happily and late; the son he named after his brother was born in 1955.
When his father died in 1975, Lou Faraday was an English major at San Francisco State. The police fund saw him through college and supported his mother until she married again a few years later. Lou graduated in 1977, missed Vietnam the way he'd missed Flower Power, and drifted into journalism. He wrote on sports for magazines around the country, although he'd never had any sporting ability himself.
"Jocks're easy to interview," he told one of his numerous girlfriends. "They've got nothing to say so you can make it all up. They can't read so they never find out what you've don
e."
Among his father's effects, handed over to him by his mother when she went off to Florida to live with her new husband, were several boxes of books and papers and a briefcase that had belonged to Lou Faraday I. Lou Faraday II stored these things in the basement of his apartment in Berkeley unopened. He wrote his articles and began to dabble in short stories—mostly ironical pieces about sports and journalism and girls who preferred their men taller than five foot seven.
"You're not five foot seven, are you?" one of the girls asked after reading a story in the Atlantic Monthly.
"Just," Lou said. "On a good day."
The stories received critical acclaim in the right quarters. In 1985 Lou won a place in the Stanford Creative Writing Program.
"Two years," he told another girl, "and enough money to starve on."
Lou took various things with him to Stanford, including his uncle's books and briefcase, for no better reason than the university was paying for their packing and removal. He settled into the routine of writing stories, reading other people's stories, criticising them and defending his own. After six months and eight stories he got a panicky feeling that he might run dry. He was living in East Palo Alto on the edge of the black ghetto, but the neighbourhood did not inspire him. One night, on a whim, he pulled out the briefcase and set it on the rug in the middle of his tiny living room, which was also his sleeping quarters and study.
The briefcase was made of soft cowhide and the first thing Lou noticed was the dark brown stain that ran from the handle down one side. He remembered reading the account of the shooting in the Hollywood Star and realized with a shock that the stain was his uncle's blood.
"Son of a bitch," Lou said. He took a swig from his can of Coors.
Inside the case was an old-fashioned binder, the kind that held the leaves by snap rings. The rings were tarnished and dull and the paper had yellowed. The covers of the binder were brittle and the edges of some of the pages that were slightly out of alignment were dry and crumbly. When Lou opened the binder these unprotected edges flaked off, but the manuscript was intact. The type was big, rounded and antique-looking, but every page looked readable, maybe.