The Cinema of Lost Dreams

by Alli Sinclair

  The elevator pinged and they got in, the stale air suffocating. They ascended to the top floor, then she stepped out with the men right behind her. Lena walked straight toward Stuart Cooper’s secretary, Lorraine, who pushed her glasses back on her face and buzzed her boss. “Mr. Cooper, Miss Lee is here with some men—”

  The intercom clicked off, and a moment later Stuart Cooper’s door flung open. “In here. Now.”

  Lena walked through the door and saw two of the studio’s lawyers sitting at a small table near Stuart’s desk. A small wave of relief swept through her. Whatever the issue was, Stuart could help her sort it out. Though, if he’d known they were looking for her, why hadn’t he warned her?

  Stuart took a seat on the other side of the desk. He motioned for the men to sit, but they shook their heads.

  Stuart addressed them. “Miss Lee has many, many things to get done before we start filming tomorrow, so let’s make this short and sweet.”

  “We are aware of this,” said Ned Ramsay, his tone relaying that he couldn’t care less about Lena or the studio’s tight schedule.

  “Well then?” asked Stuart.

  “We’d prefer to talk to Miss Lee alone.”

  “That won’t be possible.” Stuart crossed his arms.

  Ramsay exchanged looks with his companion, who gave a short nod. “All right. We have questions for you, anyway.”

  Stuart nonchalantly lit a cigarette. How could he be so calm when she felt like she’d explode from panic?

  “Miss Lee.” Ramsay turned to her. “I believe Mr. George Barrett is an acquaintance of yours?”

  “George?” she rasped.

  “Is he an acquaintance of yours?” Ramsay repeated, his tone one of annoyance.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Is he now, or has he ever been, a member of the Communist Party of the United States?”

  “What?” She looked at Stuart, who appeared as surprised as her.

  “We need an answer, Miss Lee.”

  “That’s none of your—”

  “It absolutely is our business. Now please, answer the question.”

  “No, he’s not.” Not that she was aware of. How could you ever know someone fully if they chose to keep aspects of their life secret? It really wasn’t that hard, if you were determined enough.

  “Are you aware he is a homosexual?” Ramsay’s face contorted as he said the last word.

  “What does this have to do with being a communist?”

  Ramsay powered on. “You are aware that homosexuality is a psychiatric disorder?”

  “I don’t believe it is, and I object to this line of questioning. I will not talk behind my friend’s back.”

  “We don’t care whether you’re comfortable with this or not, Miss Lee. The fact of the matter is that we have reason to believe George Barrett is a communist.”

  “Because you think he’s a homosexual?”

  “It is a well-proven fact that homosexuals are susceptible to blackmail, and therefore targeted by communists to carry out their work.”

  “So says Senator McCarthy,” she said. Ever since McCarthy had made his 1950 speech saying that homosexuals working for the foreign policy bureau were prime candidates for blackmail by the Soviets, people had hit the panic button and the fear had spread far and wide. Now anyone who was homosexual was considered a communist.

  “We have a copy of the script he has been writing, and there are many aspects that are of great concern to HUAC.”

  “He’s a writer. He makes things up. Just because I play the role of a murderess doesn’t mean I go around killing people. Life does not imitate art.” Stuart shot her a keep-your-mouth-shut look. She ignored it.

  “And what about his…” Ramsay twisted his lips. “lover, Oscar Connor?”

  “Oscar?” Lena nearly choked on the name. He and George had kept their relationship under wraps. Aside from Lena and Yvonne, the only other person who knew about Oscar was Jeanne.

  Jeanne. Could she be at the bottom of this? Why would she target George?

  Oh no.

  Jeanne knew very well that George and Lena were best friends. Jeanne had already caused trouble for George by getting Oscar fired. Though how could Jeanne stir the pot when she was in rehab, supposedly sheltered from the outside world? What if she’d gotten hold of the news about Lena taking on the role meant for Jeanne? What if—

  “Miss Lee, answer the question.” Ramsay’s tone caused a ripple of fear through her.

  “I can’t answer that, as I was not privy to the inner workings of their relationship, if there was one.”

  “We have evidence there was.”

  “Why are you asking me then?” No wonder George had looked so concerned the other day. Had he known the witch-hunt was about to target him?

  “We do not appreciate your blasé approach to our questions.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just don’t understand why you’re involving me.”

  Ramsay and his companion exchanged looks once again.

  “Miss Lee, are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party of the United States?”

  “What? No!”

  “All right, we’re done here.” Stuart strode to the door and opened it. He glared at Ramsay. “This was only supposed to be about George Barrett. I do not appreciate you changing tack like this.”

  “We will question how we see fit,” Ramsay said. “And as Miss Lee is so closely linked to George Barrett—”

  “Out,” said Stuart. “Until you have some hard evidence on Miss Lee, do not return. I suspect we will not see you again.”

  Ramsay walked toward the door, stopped and looked over his shoulder. “We’ll see. We’re very good at finding the truth under layers of lies.”

  * * * *

  The remainder of the day had dragged for Lena as she navigated her emotions, which ranged from angry to alarmed. After the meeting with the men from HUAC, Lena had taken a detour to George’s office but hadn’t found him there. She’d discovered he’d been sent home the moment word got out that HUAC had him on their radar. As soon as her day had wrapped up, she drove to his apartment and knocked on the door.

  No answer.

  “George!” she yelled, her knocks echoing in the hallway behind his door. “Please, let me in.”

  She stopped knocking for a minute then resumed, her intuition telling her he was home.

  “I’m not leaving until we talk. Don’t make me start singing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’ because I will.” Everyone had a weak spot, and George’s was the childhood song, which drove him crazy.

  “Not impressed.” The voice came from behind the door.

  “You forced my hand.” The door clicked open and she slipped through the gap and entered his apartment, which was blanketed in darkness. Her friend hid in the shadows, and even though she couldn’t see his face clearly, she noted his disheveled hair and untucked shirt. She went to the windows and opened the blinds, the setting sun casting an orange glow throughout the space that served as kitchen, bedroom and living room.

  “I guess you’ve heard.” George collapsed on the sofa and Lena sat next to him and held his hand.

  She squeezed his fingers. “How are you doing?”

  He let go and bent forward, hiding his face in his hands. “I feel ill. I can’t sleep.”

  “Is it bringing back memories of what happened to Oscar?”

  George gave a sad nod. “It’s history repeating itself.”

  “It doesn’t need to be,” she said gently.

  “Of course it will. This scenario has played out dozens of times over the years. I’m tarred by the communist brush even though my love life has nothing to do with politics.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. “I might as well leave H
ollywood now. There’s nothing left for me here.”

  “What are you talking about? You have plenty. Your best friend, for starters.” She nudged him gently, trying to lift his mood.

  “I’ll miss you, truly, but my career is as good as dead.”

  “What about the…oh.” The script that had so much potential had possibly been what landed him in hot water. “Was there something in the script that could have set them off?”

  “Not that I could see. Who knows, maybe they’re using it as an excuse.” His sigh was long. “There’s no fighting it. Look at what happened to the producers and screenwriters who refused to answer HUAC questions. They ended up in jail, then got blacklisted from Hollywood.”

  “The Hollywood Ten? That was years ago.”

  “Yeah, well, it can still happen today. Even if HUAC can’t prove I’m a communist—and they can’t—I’m guilty in their eyes anyway. They’ll hound me for information on people I work with, then when I tell them no one I know is a communist, I’ll be accused of refusing to assist in their investigations.”

  Lena closed her eyes for a moment. “I wish there was a way around this.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “It’s not like you to give up so easily.”

  “What do you want me to do?” He stood and threw his arms wide. “It’s me against an organization that has been on a witch-hunt for years. They won’t be happy until every person who disagrees with their belief system is out of this business. The Hollywood Blacklist might not be official, but it sure as hell exists.”

  “And the list is getting longer.”

  “Exactly.” George looked at the ceiling before resting his gaze on her. “How are you?”

  “I’m all right.” She wasn’t keen on telling him her news, but it was better he was forewarned. “They tried questioning me, but Stuart shut it down quickly.”

  “Who?”

  “A guy called Ramsay, and some other man.”

  “From HUAC?” George kicked the sofa. “Goddamn it! Why are they dragging you into it?”

  “Because it’s common knowledge you and I are good friends.”

  “We need to break up,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “That’s rather melodramatic, and not necessary.”

  “You can’t mess with these people, Lena.”

  “I’m not messing with them, I’m just not giving them anything they ask for,” she said.

  “You don’t want them adding you to the witch-hunt.”

  “They have no reason to.” That part was true, though the last thing she wanted—or needed—was for her history to be dragged into the present.

  “That’s it then.” George went to his wardrobe and pulled out his suitcase. He grabbed shirts and jackets off the hangers and packed like a madman.

  Lena got up and grabbed his hands. “Running will make you look guilty.”

  “Staying will only cause more problems. I don’t need to remind you what happened to Oscar.”

  “Okay, okay.” She let go and stood back. Surely there was something she could do. What, though? “George.”

  He stopped packing and looked up. The circles under his eyes were as dark as his hair.

  “Can you give me some time?”

  “For what?”

  “For me to sort this mess out.”

  “How?” The agitation in his voice was out of character.

  “I…” She had absolutely no idea but wasn’t willing to admit that. “I have contacts. Good lawyers. Let me talk to them and see what can be done.”

  “I can’t afford a lawyer.”

  “I can.”

  “Hiring a lawyer makes me look guilty,” he said.

  “Hiring a lawyer means you have a fighting chance of getting HUAC to back off and leave you alone.”

  George sat on a chair. “I don’t know.”

  “Please?”

  “Okay.” He stood and closed the suitcase. “But I’m not unpacking just yet.”

  Lena forced a smile, even though her mind screamed that all this could be too little, too late.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  1952 – Hollywood

  By the time Lena got home she was exhausted. She collapsed on one of the three sofas in her living room and looked around. The pale green walls brought freshness into the expanse, and the earthy tones of the large rug reminded her of the land she grew up on, which felt like a lifetime away.

  A knock echoed through the foyer and into the living room. Lena got up, wrapping her cashmere cardigan firmly around her. As she walked toward the door she glanced at the clock. Eight thirty-seven. Only one person she knew would turn up at this hour.

  Yanking open the door, she said, “George, what’s…oh.”

  “Miss Lee.” Reeves tipped his hat and offered a large bunch of irises.

  She took them but didn’t invite him in. “What are you doing here?”

  “I noticed you weren’t your usual self today, and I got talking with Stuart—”

  “He told you what happened?” So much for keeping everything quiet. If Reeves knew, who else did?

  “Actually, they spoke to me as well.”

  Lena motioned for him to come in and they walked to the kitchen, where she opened and closed cupboards trying to find a vase. Her maid, Rita, had retired to her quarters at the far end of the house a couple of hours ago.

  Reeves opened a cupboard door next to the sink and pulled out a crystal vase she didn’t recognize. “Will this do?”

  “How did you know it was there?”

  He shrugged. “My mother keeps her vases next to the sink.”

  “Does everyone do that?” Lena tried to think if her mother did the same. The house was always full of roses from the garden, but they were never in vases, always empty milk bottles. Did her mother even own a vase?

  Reeves ran the tap and she filled the vase with water, then unwrapped the flowers and arranged them inside it.

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” He sat on the stool next to the island bench. “I’m sorry for turning up so late.”

  “You could have called.” Why was she being so…unemotional?

  “I could have, but some things are better discussed in person.”

  For a fleeting moment she wondered if he was referring to her telephone being bugged, but she dismissed it as a wild idea.

  “Thank you for your concern, but I’m okay.”

  Reeves raised an eyebrow, and she instantly felt guilty for lying through her teeth.

  Her legs gave way and she sat on the stool next to him. “All right, I’m far from okay. All this is out of the blue, and now poor George is being accused of all kinds of crazy things.”

  “And you’re being dragged into it.”

  “Yes,” she said, “but it’s not about me.”

  “Lena?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What can I do?” The sincerity in his eyes made her feel terrible. For the first time in years, she felt compelled to blurt out everything, but she couldn’t. She was accustomed to holding it all in. How could she possibly let it out now?

  “Thank you for the offer, but there’s not much any of us can do right now. I’ve got my legal team helping George, but aside from that, we just have to sit tight. We’ve seen it before. HUAC starts spreading fear and doubt through the industry in the hope that we’ll turn in our own. When we don’t, they start scrounging for anything that will fit their agenda and justify their existence.”

  “You’re not a fan, I take it.”

  Lena laughed, then stopped. She had to be more careful. “I am not a fan of witch-hunts.”

  “And there have been many in the past. I get it.” He cocked his head in the direction of the stove. “Would you like me to make you some tea?”

 
“Sure. Thank you.”

  Reeves got up and worked his way around the kitchen while the kettle came to a boil. He was dressed casually, in trousers and a sports jacket. She liked the fluidity of his movements, his strong hands holding the delicate cups and saucers with care. She liked the way he poured the boiling water into the teapot, ensuring the tea-to-water ratio was perfect. She liked his enjoyment of the tea ritual, like it was a precious moment that needed to be savored.

  Reeves brought over a tray laden with tea cups, a pot of brewing tea, milk, sugar and spoons. “How do you like it?”

  “One sugar and a dash of milk. Thank you.”

  He handed her the cup and saucer and she took a tentative sip. “This is wonderful.”

  “My grandma is English.”

  “Ah.” She reveled in the sweet, hot liquid. “Thank you for checking in on me.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” He put down his cup. “And I made sure the coast was clear upon my arrival.”

  “Thank you. So…the first scene went well today.”

  “It did.” Reeves slowly pushed the cup and saucer away. “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “I thought…” Her words fell away when her eyes connected with his. “Why are you here?”

  “Because I’m concerned. I want to know how you’re coping with the fallout about Montreaux.”

  “It’s been a circus, as expected.” She sighed. “Then again, when is it ever any different? We live in a fishbowl.”

  “True.”

  “Which is why it’s impressive you made it here without being detected,” she said.

  “I borrowed my agent’s car.”

  “He knows you’re here?” Normally a male visitor at this hour wouldn’t be a problem, though given the events with Pierre, she needed to be cautious.

  “He knows better than to ask questions.”

  “Smart man,” she said.

  “Have you seen Montreaux?”

  “Since he defected? No. And I’m not interested, either. I have no time for someone who finds betrayal as natural as crossing the road.”