The Girls in the Picture

by Melanie Benjamin

  That I had already decided there was, at least for now, a greater purpose for me than writing movies gave our fragile new relationship more ballast. While already I knew—and accepted—that Fred’s would always remain the more upright, morally sound point of view, I also understood my own strengths. Left on his own, a man like Fred Thomson would never survive a place like Hollywood.

  “We make a good pair,” I said, and Fred nodded.

  “A perfect pair.”

  “And you really don’t mind?”

  “I’m crazy about you, Frances Marion—no, make that Marion Benson Owens de Lappe Pike—did I get that right?”

  Happy—so happy it didn’t seem fair to everyone else—I nodded.

  “You see, I love every syllable of that ridiculously long name of yours, I love everything about you, and even though I know there will be obstacles—wait until you meet my mother!—I don’t care. Because this—” Fred grabbed my hand again. “This is right. It’s worth the wait until the war is over, and then we’ll be together and figure it out. You’ll keep writing because that’s who you are, and if the church doesn’t want me to preach anymore because of my divorced wife, I’ll do something else. Preaching isn’t who I am; it’s what I do. But there are other ways to inspire. You’ve found one way; I’ll find another.”

  “Fred!” My heart was racing, as were my hands; I reached for a pencil that wasn’t there. “You—that was magnificent! I want to write it down! It’s perfect, really, and I’m sure I could use it somewhere—”

  “In a movie?” Fred laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in the most disarming way, a way that I hadn’t noticed until now. Oh, to think of all the disarming, endearing things I’d yet to discover about him!

  “Yes! That was a perfect speech.”

  “It wasn’t a speech, darling, it was my heart. And one thing you will have to learn, because I don’t think you’ve learned it yet, is that real life isn’t always as magical as the movies—yet sometimes, it’s even more so.” And Fred put a strong arm about my waist and pulled me to him; holding my breath, I took in his eyes, his mouth, and then I exhaled, closing my eyes, anticipating the kiss that I more than met halfway. A kiss that made my knees weak, deliciously so, because I knew this man, this man who was as tall and sure as an oak tree and just as strong, would hold me up. For as long as I needed him to.

  There were no cameras, no lights burning down on us, no costumer creeping in out of camera range to arrange my dress exactly right, no fan trained on us so that my hair flowed fetchingly behind my back. No director to yell “cut.”

  But even so, I was the heroine of my own movie and for the first time in my life, I didn’t mind being the star. Because only as the star of my own life would I deserve Fred Thomson as my leading man.

  He was worth it; he was worth everything. Even then, I knew how much I could lose.

  Would she ever get tired of hearing “Over There! Over There!” The jubilant chorus, the crashing trumpets of the military bands, the roaring crowds shouting, not singing, as Mary raised her arms to conduct them all, stood on tiptoe so they could see her better, even letting Douglas and Charlie hold her up by her legs so the crowd could get a better look at her. She was so tiny and the crowds so enormous, she had taken to wearing the brightest colors, the biggest hats, so they could see her from afar.

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Mary,” Charlie remarked sourly. “You’re the only one here in a dress.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about it either because you’re the only one with a bowler and cane and big floppy shoes,” Mary retorted. Even though Charlie wasn’t usually dressed as his Little Tramp character. But he walked like him anyway, and his distinctive waddle was so recognizable people knew him from hundreds of yards away.

  The two of them stepped back to let Douglas go next; grabbing a megaphone and raising his arms as he exhorted the crowd to “Kill the Huns! Buy war bonds for Uncle Sam,” he resembled nothing more than a college cheerleader, even though he was wearing a custom-made suit. He leaped into the air, over and over; he was a jumping jack come to life.

  As they watched Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford and Charlie Chaplin smiled indulgently; he was the child of the trio, the one for whom the other two could find a shared affection. For the truth of the matter was, Mary heartily disliked Charlie, and suspected he felt the same way about her, and it was a matter of them being both very much alike—driven perfectionists—and very different. Charlie cared only for the film and nothing for box office. Mary couldn’t understand how he was unable to immediately recall the final numbers for each of his films. She knew Charlie thought she was less of an artist because of her business sense.

  And they both wanted more of Douglas’s time and attention.

  “I greatly admire Mr. Chaplin’s artistry,” Mary told the hordes of reporters following them on this wildly successful, unprecedented bond tour. It was universally acknowledged that the three of them were single-handedly responsible for funding the war; thousands upon thousands of people came out to each stop to gawk at their favorite movie stars, to hear their voices—such a unique experience!—to shower them with love and affection, and then to buy war bonds almost as fast as they could be printed. The war was incidental; it was the opportunity to see movie stars in the flesh that brought the masses out. Nothing like this had ever been done before, because until recently, movie stars hadn’t even existed.

  “Miss Pickford is that rarest of creatures, a genuine artist as well as a lovely person,” Chaplin repeated, over and over. They posed, together with Douglas, clowning about; Mary and Chaplin each perched on one of Douglas’s strong shoulders; Douglas and Chaplin holding Mary aloft, like a beautifully dressed doll; Douglas and Chaplin pretending to fight, with Mary as the referee. They signed autographs, seated three to a table, until their wrists ached; they shouted at the crowds until their voices were hoarse.

  Douglas was done making his speech; Mary and Chaplin placed themselves on either side of him; he held their arms, raising them up in victory; the crowd roared so that Mary’s ears ached; her face was split in two by a huge grin as she acknowledged the shouts of “Mary! Our Mary!” “Charlie! Old Charlie!” “Doug! Do a handstand, Doug!” And Doug obliged, as Charlie pretended to conduct the military band playing “Over There!” and Mary beamed and waved an American flag.

  Tea with the president followed; Wilson was a dour-looking man who managed, nonetheless, to pinch Mary’s behind as he held out her chair, while Douglas glowered and Charlie juggled the teacups. Finally they were able to go to their rooms at the Willard Hotel.

  “Dinner, Doug?” Charlie asked as they were ushered up to their private floor, bags already having been taken up and unpacked, even though they were leaving for New York the next day.

  “Sorry, old man,” Douglas replied. Mary looked straight ahead of her, at her hotel room door; she walked steadily toward it, unwavering, ignoring the other two.

  “But I have plans,” Douglas explained gently. Mary didn’t see Charlie’s expression. She only felt a warm tickle at the back of her neck that flowed down her spine as she unlocked the door, and Douglas followed her inside.

  —

  She was the other woman. She was Little Mary. Our Mary. The Avenging War Angel. Mrs. Owen Moore.

  So many people laid claims upon her! She had so many different roles, it was hard to keep them straight: head of her production company, little father to her brother and sister, devoted daughter to Mama. But the only one that mattered, right then, was Woman. Woman, to Douglas’s Man—she was luxuriating in a physical affair the likes of which she’d never known. Her skin hummed under Douglas’s frank, desirous gaze. She couldn’t keep her hands off him in private; she had to feel the muscles beneath the starched shirts, the flat, iron abdomen, trace the surprisingly soft mustache. When they were together in public, the desire to touch him was so strong she’d taken to carrying a muff, even though it was April. But that way, no one could see her
hands clench; no one could see her wedding ring.

  On the train from California to Washington, they’d managed only an occasional intimate meeting; once she’d had to hide in the bathroom of his private compartment when a porter made an unexpected visit to turn down his berth. On another occasion, Mary managed to sneak him into her compartment without Mama seeing. But they were able to sit quietly together without attracting attention in public; after all, they were colleagues, soldiers in arms. The reporters got used to seeing them together, usually with Charlie in tow, so no one took notice of the times it was only the two of them.

  “I don’t know if you’re good for Doug,” Charlie told her, on one of the few occasions Douglas was absent, writing a letter to his wife, Mary suspected. “I like Beth.”

  “So do I.” Mary narrowed her eyes, as Charlie did the same. They were almost the same height; Mary had never known a man as slight as Charlie, with hands as delicate and expressive as a woman’s, narrow shoulders and hips. Douglas towered over the two of them, and he wasn’t very tall.

  “You have an interesting way of showing it.” Charlie’s cockney accent clipped the words, even if his tone remained one of mild curiosity.

  “Beth is a lovely person. But she’s not right for Douglas.”

  “And you are?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “How?”

  “I’m his intellectual equal. I’m an artist, like he is.”

  Charlie laughed. “Doug’s no artist! He’s a great athlete and has a magnetic personality but he’s no artist like we are!”

  Even as Mary felt a glow of belonging—because Chaplin had, in his few years in Hollywood, laid sole claim to the word “artist,” the one true, recognized genius besides Griffith, and to be acknowledged as his equal was, to her surprise, quite a thrill—she rushed to defend her lover. “Douglas is too an artist! A great artist!”

  “Look, I love Doug like my own brother—maybe even more. I don’t know why, but there’s something about the man I can’t resist, and I’d do anything for him. But I know he’s a lucky son of a bitch, in a way; he didn’t work half as hard as we did to get here. He’d be the first to admit it, so no use defending him.”

  “I can still think I’m good for him,” Mary insisted quietly. “I know I am. And he’s good for me.”

  “Better than your husband?”

  “Yes.” Mary was surprised by how immediately she supplied the answer; perhaps it was the first time she allowed that Douglas might one day supplant Owen. The first time she admitted to herself that she wanted to marry Douglas. Even though, for now, she couldn’t imagine how she’d begin to untangle the path that could lead to it.

  Charlie, too, was surprised; he arched one black eyebrow. “Oh! I didn’t—so this isn’t merely a fling?”

  “Charlie, you don’t know me very well. I’ve never had a fling in my life, and I don’t mean to start now.”

  Charlie didn’t respond at the time. But as he hung back, watching Douglas enter Mary’s hotel room at the Willard, he called out, “No flinging allowed!”

  And Douglas, turning to look back, was speechless. Until Mary pulled him into the room and shut the door behind him.

  —

  The train was about to pull into Pennsylvania Station; they only had a few more moments together. Then Douglas and Charlie were going to do an appearance on Wall Street before heading off to tour the Midwest, while Mary would remain in New York for a few days before heading to Chicago. It would be several months before she saw him again, back in Hollywood.

  And Beth was waiting for him here, in New York. Beth, and little Douglas Fairbanks Jr.

  “I’ll miss you,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. She’d grown so used to seeing him every day, for more than a week now. Even if they weren’t able to sleep together every night, to be able to bask in the spotlight of his dazzling smile, the frank admiration always gleaming in those brown eyes; to be the beneficiary of his solicitousness, as he was always anxious to shield her from harm or nosy reporters or rabid fans—simply to sit across a dining table from him every day, to talk about the weather or the war or the latest grosses from their pictures—it had felt so right, so real. So earned. And now, the illusion was shattered; she could no longer pretend that it had been anything other than a fleeting, forced intimacy. When they saw each other again, it would be almost as strangers and she couldn’t bear it.

  She also couldn’t bear thinking of him going back to Beth and their little boy.

  “I don’t know how I’ll be able to stand it,” she whispered, resting her head on his white shirt, not caring that it would soon be streaked with her tears.

  “I don’t, either.” His voice was husky with emotion; his arms tightened about her. “You’re my reason, Mary. My world.”

  “What do we do now?” She really didn’t know, and for once, she didn’t want to be the one to decide. All those years of being in charge, first of Lottie and Jack, then of her career, having to make decisions that no one should have to make—she was made helpless by love. At this moment, she wanted Douglas to do all the thinking for her, because she was so very weary of being practical and pragmatic. She wanted only to function on pure emotion and longing.

  “We get through this tour, and then, when we’re back together in Hollywood, we’ll talk about it.”

  “I’m tired of talking about it!” The train was beginning to slow; even though the window shades in her private compartment were pulled shut, she knew they must be in the city by now. The press would be clustered together on the platform to greet the triumvirate; she had to pull herself together to face them. And she would.

  First, she clung to Douglas, and he to her, and she remembered the night before, the luxury of sleeping all night long beside him—the first time they’d ever done so; how she’d watched him sleep, as restless in slumber as he was in real life, tossing and turning and thrashing about. She hadn’t slept much, herself, because she’d wanted only to watch him, memorize him.

  What was it about him? His respect, his gallantry—of course. His handsomeness, his athleticism—definitely. But it was that feeling, as she’d described to Fran, of being more with him than she was without him. She’d never felt that way with Owen; always, with her husband, the overwhelming feeling was shame and guilt, and that was nothing to base a marriage on, it never had been. But with Douglas, who loved and respected her despite her flaws—the ones she’d shared with him, anyway—

  It was intoxicating, to think of them as a couple! A true couple out in the world, in the industry; what they could do together was so much more than they could do individually, which was quite a lot, of course! But the thought of them together—DougandMary! MaryandDoug!—nearly stopped her heart for its breadth of scope.

  At night, behind closed doors, it would be just the two of them, as it was last night; her heart nearly crumbled with tenderness at the thought of coming home, every night, to this man. And so she wept a little, and he said, “Here, here, Tupper, dear,” and he patted her hair, and her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head over and over until she stopped crying, and accepted the handkerchief he gave her.

  “Promise me—” But she couldn’t say what she wanted, more than anything, at that moment. It seemed wicked, wrong—and she didn’t want to acknowledge that he had ever done such a thing.

  “Promise you what? Anything, Mary! Anything you want!” Doug straightened his tie, and looked over the top of her head into a mirror, and she had to smile; he was a man who enjoyed his own handsomeness, and there was something endearing about that.

  “Promise me you won’t—you won’t sleep with her. Beth. Your wife.”

  Douglas froze, for only a fraction of a moment. Then he put his arms on her shoulders and leaned down to gaze fully into her eyes. “I promise. Mary, how could you—you don’t even have to ask. It’s abhorrent to me. I’m a decent man, in spite of it all—you know how it pains me!” And the anguish in his eyes was real. She did know that the tossin
g and turning of the night before wasn’t simply the result of too much energy even for sleep. It was guilt, equal to hers. And that made this whole thing, perversely, even more holy—that they both were suffering agonies; they were both miserable sinners.

  “I know it’s absurd, to ask that—when we can’t—”

  “Yes, we can!” Now Douglas bounced up on the tip of his toes, as if he was about to turn a somersault in the air. His eyes took on that feverish look she was beginning to recognize whenever he was seized with an idea—which was approximately a hundred times a day. Mary knew some women might be worn out from living with such a man; Beth certainly was. But she wouldn’t be, she’d never be. In the past, she had sometimes given in to dark moods and too much self-pity. But with Douglas, how could she ever wallow in such thoughts? With Douglas, there would only be sunlight, never shadow.

  “We can what?”

  “We can do this! Mary, I can go to Beth right now and say I’m filing for divorce. You can do the same thing with Owen. People do, all the time. Why can’t we?”

  “Because we are who we are—I’m America’s Sweetheart! Darling, I want this so much, but I also want my career. You know that about me—I’ve never had to hide my ambition from you, like I’ve had to with Owen. Surely you know how terrifying this is to me!”

  “I do know, my dearest. I do. But right now, you’re riding high—we both are—with this bond tour. America loves you more than ever. When will there be a better time? Mary, I’m mad without you and I can’t live this way anymore!” There was real anguish in his dark eyes.

  “Douglas, I—I have to think. Perhaps it will do us good, this time apart. We’ll have a chance to catch our breaths. You go home to Beth, and see your son, and…and…” She tried—oh, she tried!—to be pragmatic, but the thought of him going home to his wife was too much, and she couldn’t hold back her tears. To go back to her old life with Owen—unthinkable now! Unbearable. She never wanted to see him again.