View Finder

by Greg Jolley

“All I saw were extras standing around in a tent.”

  She scowled at me, an expression I had learned to accept during our first week since leaving Greenland.

  I looked around our little apartment. I smelled the baby’s—Pierce’s—dirty diaper.

  “Going to go get us dinner?” she called from behind a door.

  “Yes, in a bit.” I carried Pierce to the bathroom, planning on bathing both of us before going down to the deli.

  The bathroom door was both closed and locked. I knocked on the door.

  “Scram. I need to bathe,” Mother called.

  Pierce and I sat in our dirty clothes by the only window in the front room. It looked down on the slow traffic and tired, moving people in the evening light and heat.

  When Mother came out into the front room, she wore new shoes and a new dress, and I saw her wearing makeup for the first time.

  “What are you looking at?” she said.

  I was, if anything, hungrier and even more tired. All I could think to say was, “You look nice. Bought yourself some new clothes?”

  “Nope. You bought me new clothes.”

  That explained the thinning packet of cash in the satchel.

  “Clean him up and get some sleep. I’ll eat at a restaurant.” With that, she left.

  “You and me, Pierce.” I tasted his name and liked its edge.

  And so began our daily pattern. I would come home, and she would be gone. I learned to knock on our neighbors’ doors in search of Pierce and whoever she had left him with.

  On my first day off, I carried Pierce down the street to a phone booth inside a drug store. I called Mumm’s message service and was told it had been canceled. I tried Ezra’s number, but it had been disconnected. Holding Pierce across my chest, we walked the three blocks to a newsstand I had spotted the day before. There was nothing on Mumm in Variety or the Los Angeles Times.

  “I’m not giving up,” I told baby Pierce. “Just don’t yet know how to find her.”

  OVER THE next month, I advanced slowly up the ranks of responsibilities in Johnny John’s crew, not by skill as much as attrition among the Mexicans. I saw Mother rarely. More often, I looked at her bedroom door never knowing if she was behind it or if she was out, unless she called for a meal.

  I learned that America’s Pictures was a B-picture studio which explained why I never saw a famous face. It was of no matter as Mother was no longer asking. The packet of cash continued to dwindle even as I replenished it with my pay.

  On a Thursday six weeks after our arrival in Inglewood, I was carrying two bags of groceries to our building when I saw Mother out in daylight. It was the first time I had seen her outside during the day. She looked to be waiting for a ride because she stood curbside, but she was also berating one of the neighbor women who held Pierce. Mother looked pale save her red lipstick and was commanding the conversation with three of the neighbors, women she raised her nose at when around, except when they would do chores for her.

  “He’ll pay you.” She spotted me.

  I walked closer along the sidewalk as a taxicab pulled to the curb, and Mother climbed in and drove away. I joined the three women and climbed the stairs with the swirl of their foreign voices. I got the gist of their conversation—a blend of admiration for Pierce and hostility for the bella mulher. I relieved them of Pierce on the third-floor landing. He and I bathed, and then I made my dinner and opened baby food jars.

  Ten days later, I returned home to three new suitcases sitting just inside the door and the news that we were moving. I asked, “Where to?” and received one of Mother’s rare smiles—her pleased smile.

  “Hollywood.”

  I took Pierce from the neighbor holding him when heavy footsteps came up along the landing. A big guy—one of the husbands from our floor—gathered up two of the suitcases and departed. Mother waited in her bedroom. The husband returned for the remaining suitcase which was the largest. I saw the three paper bags holding Pierce’s and my belongings.

  “Get your things.” Mother appeared with her arms out to me. She took Pierce and handed him to a woman waiting out in the hall. I gathered up the bags, and we followed Mother down to the street.

  In those days, there were many flavors of living in Hollywood. Under the royal blue skies, there were mansions and even a few castles, all under palm trees with manicured and sculptured yards and gardens and pools that no one swam in. In the backdrop, in the shadows of all the luster, there were the small enclaves where working people lived within a bus ride distance to the wealth. Our first Hollywood home was an L-shaped converted garage set back along a service alley, past the dumpsters, beside the bicycle rack for the employees of Chef David.

  Mother hired workers and painters—no matter that I had these same skills. Hiring help was important to her. The alley house was painted an avocado green as was the front room, which she had furnished in pink, ornate elegance. The shorter part of the L was where the two small bedrooms were just past the kitchen and bathroom. Mother was pleased and, for a while, proud of our Hollywood postal code.

  Our lives continued much as before—Mother worked at night at what she called “studio services,” taking taxicabs. I became Johnny John’s second, leaving Pierce each morning in the care of Esmeralda, our alley neighbor. In addition to caring for Pierce, she also kept the house immaculate except for Mother’s green bedroom. That door was always locked.

  The times that I saw Mother, which were seldom, I adored her distant beauty and graceful, studied movements and her ability to charm people to do her bidding. She would depart each night, dressed fashionably, leaving a flavor of perfume in her wake. From their porches, our neighbors would watch on as she slid into a waiting taxi, their expressions a mix of disapproval and sadness.

  She continued working magic on me as well. There were occasions when we would talk briefly, in passing.

  “See any stars today?” This was her frequent question.

  I mentioned a couple of names, none of which were familiar to her.

  “Tell your Johnny John to hitch up with an A studio,” she whispered, leaning close. Her tender hand cupped and lifted my crotch.

  I froze and stared.

  In 3D, I adored her beautiful face and her sensual and busty figure. And her smart, alert, and lovely eyes. Within the goggles, she was the only young woman I ever saw who could alight the boundaries of the three dimensions and reach inside me. She melted my heart. Filled me with lust. Made a mess of my wits.

  When her hand lowered to my groin, I was frozen in place, my breathing taxed.

  “We need to find some private time,” she would promise. Always promise.

  “If Johnny John can’t get you an A-studio job, find someone who will.”

  Then she left for the night.

  I recalled Mumm’s similar effect on my heart and mind. While I never regretted the gift of the goggles from Ezra, I wished at times that I had received them earlier on and worn them, just once, in Mumm’s presence.

  EVERY TEN days or so I would get a day off, and Pierce and I would go on bus rides. Most often to the coast. Pierce liked to stand on the window seat and watch the passing people and streets all the way from our east Hollywood home to the Santa Monica Pier. He delighted in throwing handfuls of popcorn up into the air where seagulls floated.

  After his first gaze through a coin-op telescope, he filled with laughter and bobbed with delight. I learned to bring along lots of nickels on future trips to the shore. The fishermen on the pier informally adopted him as he panned the telescope and laughed, taking in the large and small boats heading out to sea.

  A YEAR passed and then a second.

  Little changed. Pierce, of course, grew in size and curiosity. I stayed on with Johnny John, and Mother kept to her nighttime employment.

  By the end of that second year, I had paid cash for a questionable but notarized birth certificate that introduced Pierce A. Danser to the world of the registered. It was decided that he was three years old, and
that seemed about right to me.

  One winter morning just after sunrise, Pierce was still asleep in his and my bed when Mother came home from the night.

  “When we get married, I’m not taking your name,” she told me. “I don’t want to be a Danser. Your family, including your Mumm, is a bunch of nutcakes.”

  I stood there in my work clothes, boots in hand.

  “Pierce is fortunate. He doesn’t have your blood. Just your name.”

  She offered her right cheek, and I kissed it.

  “Get to work and don’t be late.” She carried her purse off to her room.

  That night, she went out with friends and was gone for five days.

  ON MY next day off, I left Pierce in Esmeralda’s care and took the bus to within seven blocks of Mumm’s mansion.

  Standing at the locked, wrought-iron gates, I looked up the driveway past the manicured lawn and hedges to what little could be seen of the home I had once lived in. The day was hot, and sweat dampened my dirty work clothes. After twenty minutes, I was approached by the gardener who brushed his hands at me.

  “Vamos o llamare a la policia,” he said, warning me off.

  “Mumm?” I tried.

  His eyes burrowed into me, no change, no recognition.

  “Elizabeth Stark, the actress?” I tired.

  “Voy a llamar a la policia,.” His voice cut the air.

  He turned away, hedge cutters in his hand.

  “Policia was clear to me.”

  I RETURNED a week later. The gardener appeared, this time with a limb saw.

  “Vete, vago,” he growled, raising the saw.

  I didn’t know what the words were, but the tone was clear and familiar.

  “I’ll leave if you’ll tell me who lives here,” I said, hoping he might understand.

  He surprised me by answering in English.

  “This is the Harris residence. Do not come back.”

  After the bus ride home, Pierce and I spent the evening on the front steps of the avocado green house. Esmeralda brought out a pitcher of ice water, and while Pierce played with my goggles, I watched the staff of Chef David go in and out the service door.

  Esmeralda joined us, taking the lowest step. She rested her wide frame and turned her beagle’s face and very round eyes to me. I saw a kind sadness.

  “Tú y Pierce son escaparates,” she said.

  I had heard these words before. Later, I learned that escaparates could be used for window dressing.

  “You and Pierce deserve…” She stopped, struggling for the right word in English.

  Esmeralda was trying again to entice me, I think, into criticism of my wife and her ways. Like other times, I refused to be drawn into her views on my little family.

  Her hand reached for mine. She offered those sad, round eyes and a tender smile.

  I took to avoiding her whenever Pierce wasn’t at my side.

  IN THE fall of our second year in Hollywood, Mother purchased a bungalow on Vermont Avenue.

  “We’re now within sniffing distance of the movers in the business,” she said, sharing a rare delight—a half smile and sparkling eyes.

  I attended the meeting at the title company where Mother paid cash for the new home. For her own unspoken reasons, she had the documents drawn up so that the house was in my name only. I didn’t understand and feared asking, not wanting to provoke her.

  I packed up Pierce’s and my belongings. Except for Mother’s clothing trunks, everything else inside the green house was left behind. Including Esmeralda.

  On my next day off, I took a bus to Mumm’s mansion. The day was cold and rainy.

  I had rescued Pierce. I had also rescued Mother. But Mumm’s safety was a repeated haunting. I had no more clues to follow. She had vanished from all newspapers and the movie business trades. I had to know. I had to do whatever I could to see that she was safe, find out if she was alive, take her hand, and…well, I couldn’t see beyond that.

  I stood at the gate looking up at the mansion where she and I had once lived, now owned by a Mr. Harris, according to the gardener.

  A long, black town car came down the driveway. I stepped aside as the gates opened electronically and the car rolled through. I turned to watch it leave. It came to a stop, and the rear window lowered.

  “I’ve heard about you,” a deep voice said from inside.

  I walked over and looked in through the open window. I recognized Mr. David Harris, Mumm and IM’s butler from years ago.

  His eyes were steady on me, one brow arched.

  “Please remove those,” he asked, gesturing to my goggles.

  I did so, rushing the normal view of the world into my brain as Mr. David Harris’s eyes dissolved into smooth, dark skin. I saw a frown widen under his round nose.

  “BB?” he asked.

  I nodded. That was all I could do as my vision tried to orientate.

  “I would invite you inside my car, but I don’t want to. You’re both wet and dirty. Why are you here?”

  I answered with the single word, “Mumm.”

  “Oh, yes. Your pet name for Elizabeth Stark.”

  “Is she home?”

  “Could be. She no longer lives here, so God only knows.”

  I looked up through the rain to the large home showing above the trimmed hedges. I could see lights in the second-story windows.

  “This is your last visit to my home. No more,” he said.

  “Your home?”

  Mr. Harris laughed, a deep gurgling. “Imagine that. The butler winning in the end. Might make a good movie.”

  “Do you know where she is?” I asked.

  “You answer me this, first. Where’s IM?”

  I raised my goggles from around my neck and put them on.

  “He’s near Ann Arbor.”

  “Laying low? Good.”

  There was movement in the corner of my vision. The gardener was walking down the driveway with a baseball bat in both hands. When he reached the car, he stood beside me. Mr. Harris’s hand reached out into the rain and waved him back.

  “Some say your Mumm returned to England. Some say she’s scattered to the four winds.”

  “So, she’s not here?”

  “You’re repeating yourself. This conversation is over.”

  The gardener took ahold of my coat and turned me to the street as the car window went up. I was walked a couple of steps and then shoved. I watched the long, black car back up the driveway as the gates closed. The gardener stayed in position until I turned and walked away.

  JOHNNY JOHN was concerned. Our work schedules were becoming sporadic. His concern changed to alarm on a Friday when the last check from America’s Pictures didn’t clear.

  The following Sunday, we built and furnished another two-piece set—a seedy office adjoining the main room of a luxurious home. The conversation between Johnny John and our crew was about the rumored bankruptcy of the studio.

  “We’ll finish this job, but if the next check bounces, we’re done,” he told us.

  “Explain done, compadre?” one of the framers asked.

  “Done? As in you return to the fruit fields, and BB and I find another kind of work…maybe that crap house subdivision going up in east Inglewood.”

  I didn’t say anything, just continued standing where I had been nailing joists, but I was worried. Christmas was coming, and my cash packet was thin. You could tell by the furniture and art in our bungalow that Mother was flush with cash, but I was left carrying all the household expenses, including Mother’s maid, the landscaper, and her personal shopper bills, as well as the utilities and groceries and toys and clothing for Pierce.

  That Wednesday, a group of men in business suits entered Soundstage Six. Johnny John told us they were there to look over the assets as part of a purchase. I watched the men from the lighting ironwork. They didn’t seem at all impressed by being in the center of the magical movie machine. I continued working as they followed the loudest talking man in through the office
set and inside the adjoining front room set. They were nodding, and two men were trailing and writing on clipboards.

  I recognized the loud man. It was Mr. Nash of the Mumm days, the wearer of many filmmaking hats as he wove up the studio ranks. I climbed down through the scaffolding and walked to the back door of the front room set so I would be in their way as they exited.

  Mr. Nash studied me and kept talking. I lowered my goggles to my neck, and his lips frowned to one side. The men behind him were talking of escrow and capital versus expense, and Mr. Nash nodded to their voices and continued to look me over.

  “Can I talk to you?” I asked.

  He looked at the set door, and I opened it and stepped aside. He moved back into the luxurious front room, making way for his associates. They departed. Mr. Nash stayed back.

  “I’m closing the studio down until the purchase is complete,” he told me. “You want work?”

  “I want to ask about Mumm.”

  “Who? Oh. Don’t know anything about all that.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “No, I don’t. Your father is insane—that’s a given. All I know is that something happened, and he was almost certainly behind her disappearance.”

  One of the businessmen called to Mr. Nash from the edge of the set. I watched him take out a gold box and carefully select one of many business cards.

  “I often need deliveries made. You interested in being a delivery boy? If so, call that number.”

  With that, he stepped down from the set and joined his associates on the soundstage floor. I watched them leave through the main door, stepping out into a brilliantly lit winter day. I put my goggles back on and returned to work.

  WHEN THE next check bounced, Johnny John took us all out to breakfast and paid each of us what he could, about half of what we were owed, from his own wallet.

  That evening, I called the number on Mr. Nash’s card. He didn’t answer. A bored but sugary female assistant took my call.

  “Where do you live?” she asked.