Sometimes, he thinks, Babe speaks like a poet.
When I’m there, Babe continues, in that moment, I forget everything. I forget Myrtle. I forget Viola. I even forget myself. I become weightless.
He understands. They are not so different, after all.
Well, there you have it, he says.
—But when I win, I win money. When you win, you win a fish.
—On the other hand, he replies, I can’t really lose anything at all.
—Only time.
Yes, he says, only time.
130
At the Oceana Apartments, he again summons to mind Vera, his third wife: a rare moment of connection, even tenderness, amid the misery of that marriage, for Vera continues to haunt him.
They are lying in bed together. Vera turns to him. Vera asks:
—What will you do when Babe is gone?
He takes a drag on his cigarette.
—I try not to think about that. Who knows, Babe may outlive me.
Vera reaches for him. Vera touches his cheek with her hand.
No, Vera says, and there is an unfamiliar compassion to her voice. These big men, they do not live long.
Her hand withdraws. She takes the cigarette from his mouth and draws deeply upon it.
I know what will happen when Babe goes, Vera says.
—What will happen?
—Life will stop, but time will go on.
Vera is wrong.
The clock ticks, and life goes on.
That is what makes it all so unbearable.
131
Babe is forgetful.
Birthdays pass unacknowledged. Christmas gifts are accepted with surprise, as though the season has somehow crept up unexpectedly, like February 29th in a leap year, forcing Babe to search hurriedly for some token to offer in return.
He does not mind. This is Babe’s way.
Babe does not like to write, and so avoids long missives. Babe’s spelling, grammar, and punctuation are poor. It is a source of embarrassment to Babe. Babe writes at length only to Myrtle. This may be why Babe finds it so hard to leave her. Babe has seen Myrtle at her lowest, and so only before her can Babe present himself in all his flawed glory.
No—before her, and before him.
And perhaps only with him is there no judgment.
He and Babe can sit together for hours in silence, side by side, Babe with a newspaper or book, he with a script or notepad, as sets are replaced, as clouds alter light, as rain falls, as sun shines, until all is ready for them once again, and then Babe will turn to him, and Babe will smile.
What will you do when Babe is gone?
He will keep Babe with him. He will cleave tightly to his memory. He will speak to Babe in the darkness, and from the darkness Babe’s silence will answer him, just as it did as the end approached, when speech failed and words were anyway rendered inadequate.
Shall we get started? Babe asks.
He sets aside his notepad. He closes his script.
—Yes, I should like that very much.
And they walk on in unison.
132
He believes it might have been Mark Twain who said that history does not repeat itself, but it does rhyme. This is how he and Babe are. They rhyme. They form couplets from their experiences. They make discordant verse from the women in their lives.
His is the old dance, with new steps. He marries Ruth—no Mexican wedding this time, but proper nuptials. He marries Ruth because it is still better than being alone. It pains him to see Lois, and it pains him not to see Lois, but he does not know if what he is experiencing is truly love or simply regret, or to what extent his acumen is clouded by his desire to see more of his daughter. To be separated from the wife is to be separated from the child; he cannot have one without the other.
He has stopped trying to convince Lois to take him back. Lois tells him that he has hurt her too much, and she fears any reconciliation would only be temporary.
You have not changed, Lois says. I don’t believe that you can.
—I don’t know what you mean.
Lois laughs.
—Go back to Mexico. Have someone translate the drivel that passes for your marriage license.
So he marries Ruth for the second time—he hears Jimmy Finlayson joke that just because you repeat something doesn’t make it true; he is annoyed at first, but less at Jimmy Finlayson than at the bite of truth—and names his boat after her.
Yet if he cannot fathom the true nature of his feelings for Lois, he can identify his feelings for Ruth. He recognizes that he does not love her as he loved—or continues to love—Lois, and Ruth is too clever not to perceive this. Even his own essence appears to be rebelling against the relationship; he has been ill since the wedding.
Babe also sees it. He has always struggled to hide his unhappiness from Babe.
But Babe keeps his distance. Babe is too sensitive to intrude.
Babe, meanwhile, performs the old dance, with the old partners and the old steps.
Myrtle in, Myrtle out.
Viola Morse out, Viola Morse in.
Babe tries to stay away from Rosemead while Myrtle is receiving treatment. Babe’s visits do Myrtle no good, because in her pain, Myrtle rages. Myrtle rails at Babe about the other women in his life, and so Babe’s guilt increases. Viola Morse offers Babe companionship and affection, and does not ask Babe to leave Myrtle. If the strain becomes too much for either Babe or Viola Morse, they separate for a period, and Babe looks elsewhere for affection or does without until providence bring them together again.
He, too, is careful with Babe’s feelings. They are public figures, but private men. Only rarely does Babe speak aloud of his problems.
Sometimes, Babe says, I can’t decide which is worse: to have Myrtle drinking, or not to have her drinking. When she’s drinking, it’s bad, but when she’s not drinking, well, it’s like living with a bomb in the house. The bomb is ticking, and you know it’s going to explode, so you just spend your days waiting for the bang. And when it happens, you’re almost relieved.
Babe knows when Myrtle is about to start drinking again from the variance in her voice and gestures. This is how closely Babe is attuned to his wife’s distorted rhythms.
As the years go on, he watches the toll that Myrtle takes on Babe, these two people trapped in the decaying patterns of their waltz. Babe believes that Myrtle cannot survive without Babe’s presence in her life as her husband, but it is their marriage that permits her to behave as she does. Myrtle will keep falling, because Babe is always waiting to pick her up. In the end, though, Myrtle will destroy Babe just as she is destroying herself. The process has already begun. He bears witness to it. So it is that he dances with Ruth and Lois, and Babe dances with Myrtle and Viola Morse, and he and Babe dance around each other.
He decides to take Babe for dinner to Musso & Frank so that they may clear the air and be honest with each other. They will eat and drink, and he will speak to Babe of his concerns about Myrtle, and if Babe so wishes, Babe may ask him about Ruth and Lois.
And then Thelma Todd dies.
133
At the Oceana Apartments, he pauses in his reminiscences.
Of Hal Roach.
Of Henry Ginsberg.
Of Thelma Todd.
These are just cinders of recollection. They hold no true heat.
Only the memories of Babe retain warmth.
134
Thelma Todd attends the preview of The Bohemian Girl on December 11th, 1935. She seems to him distracted, but no more than that. He cannot understand how, five days later, Thelma Todd ends up choking to death on carbon monoxide fumes in her own car, locked in the garage of her lover, Roland West.
Suicide, says Jimmy Finlayson, but Jimmy Finlayson offers this with the mien of one who is testing the word for the taste of a lie.
No, he replies, not Thelma.
—She had blood on her face. A reporter told me.
—How could she have blood on her fac
e if she died of poisoning?
—Maybe she hit her head when she lost consciousness. Except—
—Except what?
—The reporter said there was a lot of blood, and more than one wound. But the reporter could be mistaken.
—What do you think?
—I think it’s hard to make that kind of mistake.
—Oh Lord.
Thelma, concludes Jimmy Finlayson, always did have terrible taste in men.
Hal Roach calls a meeting. Henry Ginsberg is present, and James Horne and Charlie Rogers, the directors of The Bohemian Girl. Babe attends, also. They sit in Hal Roach’s office, surrounded by dead animals.
Hal Roach liked Thelma Todd, but Hal Roach plans to release The Bohemian Girl on Valentine’s Day. Hal Roach fears that rumors of suicide—or God forbid, murder—may damage the picture’s prospects, but neither does Hal Roach wish to appear to be capitalizing on Thelma Todd’s passing should the opposite occur.
They’re saying it was DiCicco, says Henry Ginsberg.
Who’s saying? Babe asks.
—People. People I know.
Babe is skeptical. Babe doesn’t believe Henry Ginsberg knows any people, or none worth knowing.
That fucking crook, says Hal Roach. I warned her about him.
Pressure is already being placed on the county attorney’s office. A verdict of suicide would cast a pall over Thelma Todd’s life and career, which would be undesirable, but the chances of murder charges being brought are as likely as the reappearance of dinosaurs. Rumors will remain rumors, disseminated by reporters and Henry Ginsberg’s mythical people.
We can’t show the picture as it is, says Hal Roach. It’ll become a freak show.
In this, he knows, Hal Roach is correct. No one in the room wishes for The Bohemian Girl to become a magnet for ghouls. But Thelma Todd, as the Gypsy Queen, is the love interest in the picture. Cutting her scenes is not an option.
We’ll have to reshoot, he says.
We could hire another actress, says Henry Ginsberg.
Hal Roach nixes this. Replacing Thelma Todd will seem callous.
Let’s just give Mae more lines, he says. We’ll make her the love interest, cut most of the Gypsy Queen’s lines, and just recast that as a minor role.
How long will it take? asks Hal Roach.
—Two weeks. Perhaps even ten days, if we’re fast.
Hal Roach looks to Henry Ginsberg. Henry Ginsberg scribbles some figures on a pad. Babe sighs.
We can afford one week, says Henry Ginsberg.
What about flowers for the funeral? says Charlie Rogers. Can we afford those, or should we just pick some from the side of the road?
We’ll send a wreath, says Henry Ginsberg.
That’s the thing about Henry Ginsberg: Henry Ginsberg is impervious to sarcasm.
It’s settled then, says Hal Roach. We break, and we’ll reshoot in the first week of January. Keep me posted on the script, and with suggestions for a new Gypsy Queen.
Gentlemen, happy holidays, and I’ll see you at the cemetery.
135
At the Oceana Apartments, he realizes that Lois, his daughter, has now lived longer than Thelma Todd.
He feels remorse at his failings as a father to Lois, although he rarely speaks of them. He found holidays difficult in the aftermath of the divorce, and Christmas in particular. It pained him not to be part of his family, to be separated from his daughter in the days before and the days after. To ease his own pain, he would lie to her. He would tell her that he was going out of town for the season, although this was not the case. Only later in life did he confess to her the truth, and even then he struggled to articulate the reasons for his deception.
Such foolishness.
All those lost days.
136
Thelma Todd’s death hangs hooks in the water. They snag on flesh long after The Bohemian Girl has been forgotten.
Ted Healy, who was fucking Thelma Todd under Pat DiCicco’s nose, is not bright enough to leave Los Angeles. Ted Healy still goes to clubs, and still gets drunk, but somehow Ted Healy also contrives to marry and have a child. Ted Healy is celebrating this child’s birth when Pat DiCicco, who does not forgive and does not forget, spies him at the Trocadero on Sunset Strip. Pat DiCicco is drinking with Wallace Beery, the same Wallace Beery who was once tapped by Hal Roach to be Babe’s replacement during the first of the contract spats.
Ted Healy does not like Wallace Beery. In this, at least, Ted Healy shows some discernment. Given Wallace Beery’s present company, Ted Healy should just move on, but Ted Healy has somehow convinced himself that Thelma Todd’s death has brought to an end any lingering animosity Pat DiCicco may have toward him, or maybe Ted Healy is just dumb enough to believe that Pat DiCicco never knew about him and Thelma Todd to begin with.
Ted Healy argues with Wallace Beery. The argument grows heated. It moves outside, and Pat DiCicco moves with it, as a shadow follows the sun.
Together, Wallace Beery and Pat DiCicco beat Ted Healy so badly that Ted Healy dies two days later.
Which, he considers, at least proves conclusively that there is nothing funny about Wallace Beery.
He hears the rest of the story years later, when he moves to Fox, where there is no great love for MGM or Louis B. Mayer.
Wallace Beery has sobered up by the time Ted Healy dies in hospital, and realizes the depth of his troubles. Because Wallace Beery does not generally move in the kind of circles familiar with murder, it’s left to Louis B. Mayer to clean up the mess created by one of his biggest stars. Wallace Beery takes an unscheduled vacation to Europe. Louis B. Mayer dispatches Eddie Mannix and Howard Strickling, his bagmen, to make some calls and spend some money. Ted Healy’s wife Betty, a player on the MGM lot, is fired for talking to the press about the lack of progress in the investigation into her husband’s killing. Anyone else who complains gets a visit from Pat DiCicco, although these dissenting voices are rare. It’s fortunate that few people were fond of Ted Healy, apart from his wife, and who in this town cares what she, a nobody, thinks about anything anyway?
He cares.
He knows Betty Healy. Betty Healy plays his wife in Our Relations. In the years that follow, he is always available when Betty Healy calls, and listens as she speaks fondly of a man largely despised by others.
They got away with it, Betty Healy tells him. They killed Ted, and they got away with it.
And he can only reply, Yes, they got away with it.
That is what such men do.
137
At the Oceana Apartments, he is inclined to switch off the television when the Three Stooges appear. In part this is because they remind him of Ted Healy, who reminds him in turn of Thelma Todd. Mostly it’s because he does not find the Stooges funny. He sees no beauty in the Stooges. He sees no gentleness. He sees only hatefulness and violence.
He does, though, feel pity for them. Hal Roach might have been careful with a buck, but Hal Roach was no ogre. The Stooges suffered at Columbia under Harry Cohn, who was an ogre, and ran with the kind of men who made Pat DiCicco look like a priest. Harry Cohn would sign the Stooges only to cheap one-year contracts, and kept them in the dark about the level of their success. Harry Cohn also drank with the Stooges’ manager, Harry Romm, and together they fucked the Stooges three ways to Sunday.
Maybe Harry Cohn was not so different from Hal Roach after all.
He meets one of the Stooges, Jerome Horwitz—Curly Howard to the Audience—at a fundraiser for the troops. Jerome Horwitz has a reputation as a womanizer and a drinker, but all this is behind him now. His brother, Moses Horwitz, has hit Jerome Horwitz so often on the head in the course of their routines that Jerome Horwitz’s brain is bleeding into his skull. Jerome Horwitz shuffles as a consequence, and speaks with a slur.
But Jerome Horwitz keeps working, because Harry Cohn orders him to work, and Moses Horwitz continues to hit Jerome Horwitz on the head, because Moses Horwitz is afraid that the Stooges will otherwise be th
rown off the lot. Eventually, Jerome Horwitz suffers a massive stroke and—
And returns to work, because Harry Cohn decrees it, and Moses Horwitz resumes hitting Jerome Horwitz on the head, except not so hard now, and Moses Horwitz tries to hit Larry Fine more often instead, just to take some of the pressure off his brother. So Jerome Horwitz shuffles and slurs for another year until a final stroke paralyzes him on the set of Half-Wits Holiday, leaving Jerome Horwitz to spend the rest of his days in a chair.
All because Moses Horwitz couldn’t pull a punch.
In his years with Babe, the only serious injury he suffers comes when he misjudges a step on set and tears a tendon.
Babe would rather have quit than strike him hard.
138
Babe takes the view that 1936 can only be better than 1935.
Babe is an idealist, and the gods laugh at idealists.
But 1936 does begin well, because Henry Ginsberg resigns.
Hal Roach is throwing money at features, and Henry Ginsberg’s sole purpose is to stop Hal Roach throwing money at anything. But features require investment, and Hal Roach’s creditors understand this even if Henry Ginsberg does not.
Jimmy Finlayson has been collecting for a going-away gift for Henry Ginsberg. Jimmy Finlayson has been collecting for a going-away gift ever since Henry Ginsberg joined the studio in the hope that, if Henry Ginsberg were given a going-away gift, Henry Ginsberg might go away. Now that Henry Ginsberg is actually going away, Jimmy Finlayson suspends the fund and spends the money on liquor instead.
The Bohemian Girl has been salvaged. It now contains so little of Thelma Todd that she might as well not be present at all, but the Audience flocks to it, and even Hal Roach has to admit that it hangs together well. But Hal Roach will not admit this to him, or recognize his contribution to saving the picture. Together, he and Hal Roach are storing up slights.
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