The Pictures

by Guy Bolton

  He scanned through the news pages. An article lost in the margin of the center pages caught his eye, where an entertainment reporter noted that Cary Grant had a lucky escape while filming a stunt scene for his latest picture, The Miser, costarring Gale Goodwin in her first role since the death of her husband five weeks ago. His thoughts stuttered as they always did when he saw a mention of Gale in the press. An image of Gale formed in his mind: dark hair spilling over her shoulders; her skin delicate and even; green eyes you could drown in. He hadn’t seen her since that night at Loew House, hadn’t dared. For weeks he’d picked up the phone to call her only to put it down almost immediately after. Not that he’d heard from her either. No, that wasn’t true—he received some anonymous flowers the day after Herbert Stanley’s funeral that he secretly knew were from her. She’d seen him there. But no phone call, no letter. But then, could he really blame her? How was she to know he wouldn’t sell his story at the first opportunity? That he hadn’t already bragged to other police officers and studio workers about what had happened at Loew House? He was a man unaffected by society’s double standards. Public opinion favored him. Men who slept with women were champions, whereas women who slept with men were simply harlots. Idle talk could ruin her career.

  But was he really thinking of her reputation, or his ego? He could tell himself that he didn’t want to embarrass her, or that it was too soon for either of them to embark on any kind of relationship, but if he was truthful to himself, he was simply afraid of rejection. He was worried that she’d be embarrassed, that she’d regretted what happened and wouldn’t want to see him again.

  Chapter 25

  June 14th

  “Cameras rolling at nine, Miss Goodwin,” squeaked an adolescent production assistant.

  “Thank you, Daniel. Oh, and tell Mr. Baldwin the miser’s loving daughter is almost ready to be pried from the hair and makeup chair.”

  Mary, the makeup assistant, laughed. The morning shoot required Gale for her close-ups and she’d been sitting in the makeup chair since 6 A.M.

  For the past two weeks, Gale had been shooting The Miser, a period comedy of manners loosely based on Molière’s play. Since her husband’s funeral a month ago, Gale had thrown herself into her work. The long hours of rehearsals and filming were the ideal antidote to the feelings of guilt and loss that had troubled her in those first few weeks.

  And then there was Jonathan.

  She hadn’t heard a word from him since the M.G.M. party. No visit, no letter, no phone call. Jonathan hadn’t seemed to her your typical philanderer, if there was such a thing. He was pensive, thoughtful, kind. But then why hadn’t he called? It was infuriating. Then and there she promised herself that if she saw him again she’d slap him across the face. He deserved grievous injury.

  For weeks after she had thought about that night at Loew House constantly. Once the shoot had begun, however, she had too much to occupy and distract her. Her mind was focused on the issues of the day: her mark, her cue, her timing; the pacing of her words; the gestures of her actions. But then acting had in turn sharpened her imagination, and late at night when she practiced her lines she heard Jonathan’s voice in her ears reading the male lead. And when she rehearsed in her dressing room, she would sit there idly dreaming, imagining the scenes beyond the page, replaying that night as she pictured Jonathan whisking her away, his arms lifting her up as he—

  “Ooh, it looks like we’re getting an extra day’s paid leave for Independence Day,” cooed Mary.

  Abashed, Gale felt her cheeks burning and made a show of normality. “Oh good, what a relief.”

  “You not enjoying the picture then, Miss Goodwin?” More idle conversation from Mary as she applied Gale’s rouge.

  “Oh no, I am,” she said falsely. “It’s exactly what I was after. Just a little challenging at times.”

  Despite years on Broadway, Gale had never starred in an outright comedy before and had to be trained in gags and timing. The director was an impatient man with a booming voice and Gale found herself in tears some days as he shouted at her in front of the cast and crew for trying too hard to be funny. He also brought his cat on set because he was obsessed with pets and couldn’t bear to leave his beloved tomcat, Cecil, at home. Gale was severely allergic, and even being in the same room as that spiteful cat would blotch her skin and make her eyes itch. Cecil, seemingly aware that he caused her stress, enjoyed nothing more than following Gale around. Now, as she was almost ready to be called on set, Gale found herself staring at that mangy little alley cat as he sat regally in the doorway, preening himself.

  “Mary, why is that cat so keen to get in here?”

  Seemingly offended, they heard an animal growl from the doorway.

  “I think he knows you’re allergic.”

  “Even the sight of him makes my skin crawl. I’m watching you, Cecil,” she added, when a tentative paw found its way onto the carpet. “Don’t think I can’t see you. He’s the spawn of Satan, Mary, I swear it.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a second.”

  The same breaking voice from the corridor. “Ten minutes, Miss Goodwin.”

  “Thank you, Daniel.”

  “Mary, you couldn’t do me a favor, could you? I’ve left my fan in Costume.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “Sorry, I’ll never get back down the corridor with this dress.”

  Another growl from the doorway as Mary left.

  “Cecil, what do you think you’re doing? You know I can’t go near you. Shoo. Go. Get away. Honestly.”

  She heard the door creak open.

  “I said, go away!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  In the dressing room mirror, Gale saw Jonathan Craine standing in the doorway with a neatly wrapped bunch of orchids in one hand. The sight of him rendered her momentarily speechless. He turned to leave.

  “Jonathan!” she called out to his reflection before standing up to greet him. “Oh God, not you. I’m sorry, it’s the cat.” She had to stop herself from laughing. “He’s the devil himself, I promise you. I’m allergic, and he’s determined to get in here.”

  Jonathan bent down and fondled the cat’s ears. Cecil purred like a broken locomotive and gave Gale a self-lauding scowl to remind her that he was the director’s prize pet and she was merely a lowly bottom feeder.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Cecil.”

  “Hullo, Cecil.”

  The cat sniffed at his fingers, and deciding Jonathan wasn’t edible, focused his attention back on Gale. Jonathan wrapped his hands under his fluffy belly and gently tossed the cat out of the room.

  “He likes you. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. That’s right, good riddance, Cecil.”

  Jonathan stood there uncomfortably.

  “What brings you this way?” Gale said.

  “I thought I might come by, see how you are.”

  He’d waited over a month to come here, and that’s all he has to say? Hit the smug bastard, said a quiet little voice inside her head that sounded a lot like Joan’s. “Where are my manners?” she said, speaking instead as if they were strangers. “Please, come in.”

  He offered the orchids and she took them, touching his fingers as she did so. There was a long, pregnant silence as they stood there dumbly, neither one of them saying anything. A better actress could hide the expectation in her face, she thought.

  “You really didn’t have to bring me anything.”

  “I saw them. I don’t know what you like.”

  “They’re lovely, thank you. How did you know I was here?”

  “I’m a detective.”

  “Oh.”

  “No, I’m joking. That was meant to be—this isn’t work-related. I mean, I was passing by. I thought I might say hello. I asked someone at the studio. They told me you were here.”

  “I hadn’t heard from you.”

  “I wasn’t—I wasn’t sure where you were staying.”

  “The Beverly
Hills Hotel. I’m moving home shortly.” She waited, but he didn’t say anything else. He took off his hat and corrected his misaligned parting.

  “Anyway, I’ll go, I was only—”

  Gale moved closer. “Stay,” she whispered. “Please. How are you? I’ve been reading all about you in the papers. They’re calling you a hero.”

  “It isn’t a big deal.”

  “Well, I’m sure your son is very proud. Sorry, I’m being rude. Can I get you something? Coffee?”

  “No, don’t worry. I won’t stay long.”

  A tap at the door. “Five minutes, Miss Goodwin.” Daniel again. Why couldn’t Jonathan have come earlier? Or maybe this was for the best. Short and sweet, not a dragged-out episode where the two of them fumbled over their words for hours on end.

  “You’re busy. I’m intruding.”

  “There’s no rush. I’m about to do this scene where I have to burst into fits of laughter as Cary Grant falls off his horse and into a pond. I’ve been rehearsing all morning but I can barely breathe in this dress and my ribs are so sore I’m not even sure I’ll be able to do it. He might have to settle for a chuckle. A knowing smile by take six. Oh dear, I’m doing that thing where I harp on again.”

  “I—”

  “It’s only that—”

  “You go first.”

  “I never heard from you. After—”

  “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  “Then why didn’t you? And don’t say you didn’t know where I was. It’s all over the papers.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d want me to. I thought I might have overstepped the mark, taken advantage . . .”

  “You didn’t. Us women, we are capable of saying no, you know.”

  “Well, I’m here.”

  “Yes. I’m glad. I’ve wanted to see you. Very much.” He smiled ever so slightly so she went on, “And I must find somewhere for these beautiful orchids. I’m sure I saw a vase somewhere. Ah, yes, here we are, why don’t I—”

  As she reached up to a vase on the shelf above her dressing mirror, Cecil ran into the room and launched himself at the orchids. Instinctively, Gale screamed and pulled the flowers away, the cat careering into the mirror and knocking over a table lamp.

  “Oh Jesus, that godforsaken cat!”

  His pride wounded, Cecil hissed at Gale, his tail swishing from side to side. Jonathan laughed, scooped the cat up and shut him outside the door. Feeling another rush of embarrassment, Gale sighed and shook her head, pushing the heel of her hand against her forehead. “What am I doing? I’m such an idiot—”

  And then Jonathan did something unexpected. Lifting her chin delicately with his fingers, he touched her lips with his. Stunned, Gale dropped the flowers to the floor. Her body pressed in against his and she kissed him back.

  Maybe she wouldn’t hit him after all.

  Chapter 26

  June 26th

  The school church opened to local parishioners on Sundays for Mass but today was unusually quiet. The summer break had begun a few days earlier, and most of the other pupils at Michael’s school had gone away for family vacations or the upcoming Independence Day weekend. In previous years, Michael had gone home for the summer but his father didn’t seem to want him around. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go back anyway. He and a handful of other boys would remain at the school over the vacation period and, if he was honest, Michael preferred it that way.

  As he entered the nave, Michael went to dip his fingers in the font water. He stopped short as he approached. He could see his mother’s face beneath the surface of the water, staring up at him. He quickly placed his fingers inside and her image dissolved in the ripples. He made the sign of the cross.

  Michael had been dreaming about his mother a lot lately. More so now than ever. They weren’t like most dreams; more like memories. It was her final night that came to him most often, usually as a collection of images that appeared out of sequence, like leafing through a stack of shuffled photographs. An image of his mother’s foot protruding through the water might be followed by one of his father on the living room divan. His father had his head in his hands but he must have been talking because there was a man standing above him making notes with pen and pad. Then he might see his mother’s pale cream body under the water. In the dream he would picture his mother’s hair rising through the water, loose strands floating on the surface. The images sometimes came with voices in his head. His own subconscious asking him, “Why won’t she wake up? Why can’t I pull her out? Why aren’t I strong enough to save her?”

  And then he would wake up.

  Michael took a seat on a pew near the front. Father Calloway entered, followed by two altar boys, one carrying a cross, the other candles and incense. Calloway arrived at his chair and made the sign of the cross, saying, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” The assembly followed suit, answering “Amen.”

  After Father Calloway had recited the blessing of the Eucharist, he approached the congregation, placing a wafer into their hands one by one and holding the consecrated wine to their lips. “Amen,” each mumbled in turn after they had taken Communion.

  Father Calloway was in front of Michael now. He tilted back his head and opened his mouth. He could feel the wafer as it was placed on his tongue. He bowed his head.

  At Easter, Calloway had explained to his class that once the bread and wine had been consecrated, they were no longer bread and wine. You were swallowing the body and blood of Christ. Michael had never really known what this meant or how it was possible but Father Calloway said that the Eucharist brought you closer to God.

  Michael thought about this now. If he could get closer to God, could he do the same with his mother?

  Mamma Rosa’s was somewhere between a restaurant and a diner. They served cocktails and Italian food, which O’Neill thought ticked both boxes for a first date. Besides, he’d had lunch here at least a dozen times before so he knew the food was good.

  The girl he was meeting was Irish but all of the Irish places in the area were essentially drinking holes. Some he suspected were actually brothels. And besides, Italian food was more romantic, right? Or was that French food? He thought about that. It was definitely French food. Dammit, Patrick.

  He ordered another cocktail and told himself to relax.

  After the Loew House shootings, O’Neill’s life had quickly returned to its dull routine. He worked steadily as a homicide investigator, working on four cases and solving all of them in the six weeks that had passed. He spent the evenings alone in his small house in Cypress Park. At weekends he’d go running in the mornings, drive toward the coast for lunch or an early dinner and then drive himself home. Twice a week he’d go and catch a picture somewhere, a musical or a comedy, whichever took his fancy. He’d taken up smoking, mostly because the other detectives at the Bureau did, but that could hardly be considered a hobby and it hadn’t improved his social life.

  The days merged together. He might as well be forty, or fifty.

  And then his mother had called him up yesterday to tell him that a friend of hers had a niece that had moved to Los Angeles a few years ago and that he should take her out.

  O’Neill hadn’t exactly been over the moon about the idea. After all, who knew what she looked like or what kind of person she was? She could be a psychopathic killer for all he knew. Or outright hideous. Or worse, she could be taller than him. “Count yourself lucky she even agreed to go,” his mother had said on the phone. “Girl like that could do a lot better than you, if you ask me.”

  Better than her own son. Perfect.

  O’Neill had got there almost an hour early but waiting only made him more anxious so he’d sunk two cocktails and was working on his third when a tidily dressed girl came in and stood waiting by the doorway, trying to catch the waitress’ attention. O’Neill noticed immediately that she had a gentle face, a warm smile. She was smaller than him by some margin—thank God—and homely-looking without being pl
ump. Her hair was a light reddish-brown and she wore it pinned up like a neat schoolgirl. It made him feel like a schoolboy, giddy and knocked off true.

  The waitress pointed in the direction of his table and Patrick gave her a small wave as she approached. They looked at each other with an odd recognition, each knowing who the other was without really knowing each other at all.

  “Patrick.”

  “You must be Grace-Anne,” he said, standing.

  “Oh, call me Gracie, please.”

  “Great. Call me”—he realized he had no nickname—“well, call me Patrick.”

  “Sorry I’m a little late,” Gracie began, speaking quickly in a high-pitched but not unattractive voice. “My roommate got in a fight with her boyfriend. She’s all flustered but I know she’ll go crawling back to him. They’re both Italian. Very passionate people, if you know what I mean. They’re worse than us Irish. You know how it is.”

  “Yes. Completely.” Patrick had never had a roommate. And he’d never had a girlfriend, let alone a fight with one.

  He drained his cocktail and put it next to the two empty glasses next to him.

  Gracie looked at them and he saw her looking. “Have you been here long?”

  “No, hardly at all. Well . . . an hour, but I got here early. Waitress kept bringing them over,” he lied. “Actually, I didn’t even order this last one,” he lied again.

  Gracie looked back at the waitress and whispered, “She’s a little rude, isn’t she?”

  “The waitress? She’s okay. A little . . . curt.”

  Gracie picked up the menu for the first time. O’Neill knew it backward already, had decided what he was having forty-five minutes ago. Spaghetti meatballs for main, a tossed salad on the side to make it seem like he cared about what he ate.