The Girls in the Picture

by Melanie Benjamin

  I wondered if these survivors of war needed the sun, after so much darkness; Mary and Doug, together, had enough energy and light to power any number of stars. Even I could see that as impressive as they were individually, together the two of them glowed and shimmered and seemed to expand; two small people that flourished in the spotlight, took root and grew tall and proud and seemed to feed and nourish even the most starved for affection, for fun, for entertainment, for something good in lives that had too recently been wrecked with pain and loss.

  But how to survive so close to that fiery sun? That was my own personal dilemma as I clung to the hem of Mary’s now-torn gown—had it been only a few minutes ago that we were admiring our finery in front of the mirror? Doug lurched about with her on his shoulders, finally stumbling into a tent full of glass jars of jams and jellies for sale; there was a crash and a crunch and suddenly my hands, my face were sticky with goo.

  At last, Fred found an empty tent where a panting, huffing Doug could unceremoniously deposit his tiny, terrified wife. More policemen had arrived and formed a perimeter around the tent; despite the frenzied cries, no one broke through. And we were finally able to take a breath, Doug mopping his streaming forehead, his tails no more—only ragged ends where they once had been. Both men had lost their top hats. George Grossmith Jr. was huddled in a corner, utterly befuddled, saying over and over, “I declare I’ve never seen such a thing in my life!”

  Mary was sticky and grimy, her hair a frizzy golden halo, her dress torn and splattered with jam. Somewhere, I’d lost my gloves, and my new satin shoes were covered in strawberry juice, utterly ruined.

  “Anyone have some toast? I believe I’ve found the jam,” Doug quipped as he mournfully surveyed his jacket, and I had to laugh, as Mary and Fred did the same, and soon we were all four in hysterics while Grossmith watched us, his monocle raised to his eye in alarm.

  “Now what?” I asked when we’d finally laughed ourselves out, but still were trapped in this tent, our enchanting day completely ruined. My voice was ragged and I realized I was parched; what I wouldn’t have given for a tall glass of cool lemonade.

  Fred sank down in an empty folding chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

  Mary and Doug glanced at each other.

  “I think,” Mary said, hesitantly, looking at Doug for confirmation with every word. “I think we ought to go somewhere else for a while. Germany, maybe? The Netherlands? Where it might be quieter?”

  “Whatever you say, Tupper,” Doug replied after a moment during which he and Mary stared at each other, as if trying to read each other’s minds. “You’re the one who was nearly torn in two back there. I’ll do whatever you say.”

  But I thought I detected a flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

  —

  Holland was lovely, but Germany was even better, and finally I was content; this was the honeymoon I’d envisioned. Leisurely drives and sunny picnics, just the four of us, no crowds. Germany had forbidden the showing of Allied films during the war, so very few people even knew who Mary and Doug were. With no real audience other than us, Doug was different—quieter, moodier, but at least there were no flashes of anger or impatience—and he and Fred spent a lot of time together talking about the physics of some of Doug’s stunts, comparing them to Fred’s athletic feats. They discovered they both shared a passion for the Old West and an admiration for the few genuine cowboys who still poked around Los Angeles. Many afternoons we all went riding, and Fred and Doug competed to see whose horse could jump the highest.

  I managed to keep biting my tongue until it nearly fell off whenever Doug decided to play tour guide, despite his many inaccuracies. Even when we stopped in Koblenz, which of course I remembered from my earlier—fantastic—visit there at the end of the war, I didn’t point out familiar sights. I also didn’t talk about my war experience; Fred and I had decided privately not to do so now that we were in Germany. For even that might stoke Doug’s jealousy and wound his pride, and neither of us wanted to break this fragile peace. I’d gone out of my way to assure both Doug and Mary, many times, that what they had done on their bond tours had been as important as anything Fred and I had done. Probably more so.

  Although I didn’t really feel that way, if I were being truthful.

  Once we arrived at our small inn in Koblenz, Mary received a message from the commander of the occupying American forces inviting us to a ball in our honor. Naturally, Mary accepted, and we decided to pass the morning relaxing with a picnic.

  Sprawling on a blanket gazing at the Rhine, somehow smaller than I remembered it from that harrowing night, I was the happiest I’d been in days. When I looked at Mary I saw my friend again, not the reigning queen of the world; she was relaxed, her face youthful without makeup, unlined and open and fresh, her skin radiant. I recognized that being in Doug’s presence did something to Mary; it turned her into a desirable woman, which was most definitely at odds with the image she usually projected.

  I leaned back against Fred’s knees and closed my eyes, utterly peaceful in the bucolic quiet, blissful in the knowledge that we had many more days of this ahead of us. Years ago, Mary and I had talked of traveling through Europe together and this, finally, was like we’d dreamed; meandering days spent with guidebooks in our hands, picnics with baskets full of strange foods—today, the hotel cook had made Braunschweiger sandwiches, which tasted a little bit like liverwurst, and I didn’t really care much for either. But still, I’d tried it. Sighing loudly, it was as if I’d exhaled for all of us; how could the day be any more perfect?

  Suddenly Mary made a little noise of disgust and leapt up, knocking over a bottle of lemonade.

  “I can’t stand this! Douglas, can you?”

  “What?” Doug, who was sprawled on his back, his darkly tanned face turned to the sun like an acolyte, opened one eye.

  “This! This—quiet! Nobody recognizes us here! And I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked too hard to toil away in anonymity!”

  “I agree!” And in a flash, Doug was on his feet beside her. “You’re right, Tupper! I can’t stand all this quiet, either. Nobody even looks at me twice over here. So let’s go somewhere where they do know us!”

  “Are you serious?” I pushed myself away from Fred, who raised an eyebrow but otherwise remained neutral. “Mary, are you?”

  “As serious as a priest. Let’s go to this dance tonight and then after that, Douglas, why don’t we go to Italy? They showed our pictures there during the war.”

  “I’ll make the arrangements.” And Doug looked as if he was going to bound off to do it right then and there, before seeming to remember that Fred and I were still on the blanket, gaping up at him.

  I exchanged a glance with Fred. Clearing my throat, I caught Mary’s attention.

  “I don’t think we’ll be joining you, then,” I began, not knowing how Mary would react—not sure how I wanted her to react. If Mary didn’t care whether we left, I’d be devastated. If Mary did care, I’d feel guilty.

  “That’s fine, Fran,” Mary said without hesitation. “I understand. You’ve been here longer than we have, anyway—we did have to join you late. And, of course, you two aren’t used to all this attention, like we are.”

  As the full weight of Mary’s words fell upon me, the sun seemed to dim in the sky.

  “No, of course we aren’t,” Fred agreed in his wry way. And as Doug and Mary began to chatter about their plans, only I could tell, by the way Fred’s muscles hardened into rocks against my spine, that he was angry.

  “Well, we’ll miss you, you old beans,” Doug chirped, incredibly—ecstatically—joyful. He clapped Fred on the shoulder. “But we’ll see you back in Hollywood! I want you to teach me how you won the high jump.”

  “And, of course, Fran, we’ll be back at work too soon.” Mary beamed at me. “I love that idea you told me, about the Italian girl—I think that should be our first film when we get back.”

  Of course, I was happy that Ma
ry had liked the idea I’d pitched; it was bold for me to do so, and the film would be a big departure for her. Perhaps there would be something in it for Fred. Mary had suggested that I direct it, too, and I was stunned by the opportunity. Directing a two-reeler for Hearst was one thing; directing Mary Pickford was quite another. “I can’t think of anything I’d like better than being directed by a woman, especially one who also happens to be my best friend,” Mary had declared, and I’d been thrilled.

  But still. I couldn’t help it. Right now I was hurt. Even if Fred and I had been the ones to suggest parting ways, Mary and Doug should have protested. Just a little. The old Mary would have; the Mary I thought I knew, and loved.

  I opened my book, because I didn’t want to see Mary’s face right then; I didn’t want to be reminded that Squeebee had already forgotten about me. So I concentrated fiercely on turning the pages.

  But the words were only a blur.

  —

  That afternoon, Fred and I decided to remain at the hotel while Mary and Doug went shopping; we spent the time blissfully in bed, and I thrilled at the now-familiar, but still intoxicating, mounds and planes of Fred’s body. His muscles were hard and sinewy, his bones long, his stomach a flat, hardened washboard. He, too, delighted in tracing my softer, more pliant body, over and over, as if trying to memorize it.

  And at night, even though we both went to sleep on our own pillows, somehow Fred always ended up with his head sharing mine, as if he couldn’t bear to be apart from me even in his dreams.

  “Don’t try to outshine Doug tonight,” I warned as, reluctantly, we began to dress for the dance. “I know you don’t mean to, but you’re so—so—”

  “Tall?” Fred laughed as he splashed water on his face from a basin. He dried himself vigorously with a hand towel, and his hair flopped into his eyes—that boyish look that made my heart flutter.

  “Well, yes. But you know what I mean.” I began to brush my hair, knowing full well that Fred loved to watch me do it; he could sit for hours at the edge of the bed watching me pull the brush through my long black tresses—seductively looking at him through the reflection of the mirror, of course.

  He groaned when I picked up the brush but—with his athletic and religious discipline—he turned away and resolutely began to look through the wardrobe for his dinner jacket and pants.

  “Well, I’m glad they’re leaving,” he said, finally acknowledging the black fog that had hung in the air ever since this morning. “I’m glad we don’t have to keep it up any longer. I don’t know how you’ve done it all these years.”

  “What do you mean?” I stopped brushing and swiveled around to look at him.

  “I mean coddling their egos, standing a few feet back, never taking the spotlight. I know Mary’s your best friend, but it’s not an equal relationship. And it should be—you’re more intelligent, you’re incredibly gifted, you’re respected in your own right. But I’m not sure that Mary sees that, to tell the truth.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” I snapped—too quickly, before any of my own long-repressed suspicions could bubble up to the surface, released by his words. “Mary respects me. More than any other scenarist around. I’m her equal. She wants me to direct her next film, Fred. She’s never had a woman direct her before.”

  “Did you read this?” Fred reached into a valise and took out a British newspaper. “I bought this in London before we left. Here.” He handed it to me, pointing to the article on the front page, beneath a huge headline trumpeting DOUG AND MARY ECSTATIC ABOUT WELCOME!

  I scanned the article, written about a week after we arrived in London, the usual purple prose. Then I came across one sentence that seemed to have been printed in blacker, thicker ink than the rest: “Yes,” Miss Pickford said, “we’re traveling with my scenarist, so we’ve brought a little bit of Hollywood with us.”

  “She didn’t even mention you,” I said, handing the newspaper back to Fred. I didn’t want to read any more.

  “She didn’t mention you, Frances! Not by name, anyway. My scenarist. As if she owns you. As if she alone created you.”

  “You know she did, in a way.” I turned back to the mirror, resolutely brushing, as if I could untangle my feelings as well as my hair. I wondered if I could ever make Fred understand how it was in those first years. He’d only known me once I was already the most successful scenarist in Hollywood. He had no idea how unsure of myself I’d been when I first met Mary, how much I needed someone to tell me what to do. “Without Mary I’d have no career. She gave me my first break—she let me in. She helped me find my way.”

  “I don’t buy it. Frances, you’re so intelligent, so talented. You would have done it on your own anyway.”

  “Maybe. But women like Mary—and Lois Weber, and Adela and Elsie—they made it easier for me. I do owe her everything, Fred. And I know I mean more to her than this article says. I know I’m more than simply her scenarist. You have to understand—she’s only recently married. She’s now the head of her own studio. She’s not yet used to this—this level of fame, if that’s what it is. Heavens, nobody is! Nobody’s ever experienced anything like this before, you know. Not even Teddy Roosevelt.” I continued to brush vigorously, then I dropped my brush and bent my waist until my hair fell over my head, my thick black hair, blocking everything out—including Fred, with his doubtful eyes.

  I flung my head back and stared at myself in the mirror; my hair was a wild dark nimbus, my blue eyes wide and sparkling, and I looked as exotic, as alluring, as Theda Bara or Nita Naldi, and I wondered, for the first time, why I’d been so afraid to appear in front of the camera back then. If I had done so, I might be Mary’s equal right now. I might have had the kind of deity status Mary enjoyed.

  But I’d also be Mary’s rival; I saw how Mary held herself back from other actresses, even the Gish sisters, her oldest friends. But had I allowed my desire for Mary’s friendship and approval to keep me back behind the camera, where Mary was most comfortable seeing me?

  My hair settled down, sedately falling about my shoulders. I shook my head.

  No, this was the career I wanted; a writer could be employed for as long as she could hold a pencil; for as long as her mind still held out. But an actress—even an actress like Mary—had a fleeting shelf life. Already in Hollywood, I’d seen actresses flash like a comet only to fall to earth with a thud. Gypsy Abbott. Maude Fealy. And perhaps the most tragic, Florence Lawrence, the original Biograph Girl, whose title Mary had usurped. Nobody knew where Florence was now; I heard rumors of her death every year or so, but really, nobody cared. Yet at one time she, not Mary Pickford, had been the most famous movie actress in the world.

  I patted some cream on my cheeks, rouged my lips a little, not much—Fred didn’t like too much makeup, but I wasn’t about to give up my cosmetics. I liked rouge on both my lips and cheeks, and powder, and a little mascara; it was practically a job requirement in Hollywood.

  “What Mary and I have is incredible, Fred. You don’t know what we’ve been through at the studios: the sneers, the put-downs, men praying for us to fail. Especially Mary. I’ve been lucky. Most scenarists are women, and so they need us. But an actress who dares to try to tell the men what to do? That’s entirely different, and that’s what Mary’s had to put up with. You know, we’ve always vowed we wouldn’t let men get between us or drive us apart. They tried, once. But they couldn’t.”

  “And now?”

  “I suppose it’s bound to be different now that we’re both married. I just wish—I wish she wasn’t married to Doug. Is that awful of me?” I grimaced at Fred, who was wrestling with his tie.

  “No. But you know, I like Doug. I really do. Oh, sure, he’s got a fragile ego. But I’ve known a lot of men like that—men who have to be the biggest person in the room. They’re all compensating for something, although a man like Doug—he has everything now. Fame, fortune, Mary. Still, I like what he does with his movies. I like how wholesome they are, how there’s so much action, fre
sh air. I’ve been thinking…I’ve been thinking maybe I could do something like that, too.” Fred sat back down at the foot of the bed and looked at me uncertainly—for approval, I realized, unable to prevent a surprised, but triumphant, little smile from tickling my lips.

  I nodded, appearing to give his proposal grave consideration even though I’d been wracking my brain trying to find a way to get Fred into the business almost as soon as I’d met him. He was so handsome. Such a natural for the camera—I’d learned to recognize the bone structure that photographed best, and he had it in spades. He’d complained about the little bit he did for me in the Hearst film, but there was a hollowness to it, as if he felt he should complain as a man. A former minister. A world-class athlete.

  I also had to admit, as my heart surged with another—wholly unexpected—little thrill, that the idea of being a Hollywood couple, like Doug and Mary, was intensely appealing. Especially right now.

  “I’ve been dying to find a way to get you back in front of a camera. This film idea I have, the one Mary talked about—there’s a role. Not the leading man, but still a very good role.”

  “You’ve been scheming behind my back!” Fred grinned, and I could just picture that handsome, beaming face projected large on a screen, lit just right, and I clapped my hands.

  “You have, too!”

  “I have. I think I can do something, maybe something with the Old West, like William S. Hart, but more for boys. A way to promote good old-fashioned values. I can’t preach anymore—thanks to my dear little twice-divorced wife—but I see now that I could reach so many more youths this way. Your way.”