"I've got a container of coffee and a sandwich here if you want it."
I reached for the coffee. The black stuff was hot and I could feel it reach down inside me. I turned and looked out the window. My back began to throb and ache again.
I wondered if I could wait until we got to the hospital before I went to the bathroom.
* * *
The Colton Sanitarium is more like a hotel than a hospital. It's set back high in the Pacific Palisades, overlooking the ocean. In order to reach it, you come off the Coast Highway onto a narrow winding road and there's a guard standing at the iron gate. You get past him only after showing the proper credentials.
Dr. Colton is no California quack. He's just a shrewd man who's recognized the need for a truly private hospital. Movie stars go there for everything from having a baby to taking the cure, plastic surgery to nervous breakdowns. And once inside the iron gate, they can breathe safely and relax, for no reporter has ever been known to get inside. They can feel certain that no matter what they've gone there for, the only word that will ever reach the outside world will be theirs.
The gateman was expecting us, for he began to open the gate the minute he spotted the motorcycle cop. Reporters shouted at us and photographers tried to take pictures. One of them even clung to the running board until we got inside the gate. Then a second guard suddenly appeared and lifted the man off bodily.
I turned to Buzz. "They never give up, do they?"
Buzz's face was serious. "From now on, you'd better get used to it, Jonas. Everything you do will be news."
I stared at him. "Nuts," I said. "That's only for today. Tomorrow it'll be somebody else."
Buzz shook his head. "You haven't seen the papers or listened to the radio today. You're a national figure. Something about what you were doing caught the public imagination. Radio stations gave your flight progress every half hour. Tomorrow the Examiner begins running your life story. Nothing like you has swept the country since Lindbergh."
"What makes you say that?"
He smiled. "Today's Examiner trucks. They've got billboards with your picture. 'Read the life story of Hollywood's man of mystery — Jonas Cord. By Adela Rogers St. Johns.' "
I stared at him. I guess I would have to get used to it. St. Johns was Hearst's top syndicated sob sister. That meant the old man up at San Simeon had put the finger of approval on me. From now on, I would be living in a fish bowl.
The car stopped and a doorman appeared. "If you'll kindly step this way, Mr. Cord," he said respectfully.
I followed him up the steps into the hospital. The white-uniformed nurse behind the desk smiled at me. She indicated a black, leather-bound register. "If you please, Mr. Cord," she said. "It's a rule of the hospital that all visitors have to sign in."
I signed the register quickly as she pressed a button underneath the counter. A moment later, another nurse appeared at the desk. "If you'll come with me, Mr. Cord," she said politely, "I’ll take you to Miss Marlowe's suite."
I followed her to a small bank of elevators at the rear of the lobby. She pressed the button and looked up at the indicator. A frown of annoyance crossed her face. "I'm sorry to inconvenience you, Mr. Cord, but we'll have to wait a few minutes. Both elevators are up at the operating room."
A hospital was a hospital no matter how hard you tried to make it look like a hotel. I looked around the lobby until I located what I was looking for. It was a door marked discreetly GENTLEMEN.
* * *
I pulled a cigarette from my pocket as the elevator doors closed behind us. Inside, it smelled like every other hospital. Alcohol, disinfectant, formaldehyde. Sickness and death. I struck a match and held it to my cigarette, hoping the nurse wouldn't notice my suddenly trembling fingers.
The elevator stopped and the door rolled open. We stepped out into a clean hospital corridor. I dragged deeply on the cigarette as I followed the nurse. She stopped in front of a door. "I'm afraid you'll have to put out that cigarette, Mr. Cord."
I looked up at a small orange sign:
NO SMOKING ALLOWED
OXYGEN IN USE INSIDE!
I took another drag and put it out in a receptacle next to the door. I stood there, suddenly afraid to go inside. The nurse reached around me and opened the door. "You may go in now, Mr. Cord."
The door swung open, revealing a small anteroom. Another nurse was seated in an armchair, reading a magazine. She looked up at me. "Come in, Mr. Cord," she said in a falsely cheerful tone. "We've been expecting you."
I crossed the threshold slowly. I heard the door close behind me and the footsteps of my escort disappearing. There was another door opposite the entrance. The nurse crossed to it. "Miss Marlowe's in here," she said.
I stood in the doorway. At first, I couldn't see her. Ilene Gaillard, a doctor and another nurse were standing next to the bed, their backs toward me. Then, as if activated by some signal, they all turned at once. I walked toward the bed. The nurse moved away and Ilene and the doctor separated slightly to make room for me. Then I saw her.
A clear plastic tent was suspended over her head and shoulders and she seemed to be sleeping. All but her face was completely covered with a heavy white bandage, which hid all her shining white-blond hair. Her eyes were closed and I could see a faint blue tinge under the flesh of the lids. The skin was drawn tightly across her high cheekbones, leaving a hollow around her sunken cheeks, so that you had the feeling that the flesh beneath had disappeared. Her wide mouth, usually so warm and vivid, was pale and drawn back slightly from her even white teeth.
I stood there silently for a moment. I couldn't see her breathe. I looked at the doctor. He shook his head. "She's alive, Mr. Cord," he whispered, "but just barely."
"May I speak to her?"
"You can try, Mr. Cord. But don't be disappointed if she doesn't answer. She's been like this for the last ten hours. And if she should answer, Mr. Cord, she may not recognize you."
I turned back to her. "Rina," I said quietly. "It's me, Jonas."
She lay there quietly, not moving. I put my hand under the plastic tent and found hers. I pressed it. It felt cool and soft. Suddenly everything came to a wild stop inside me. Her hand was cool. She was already dead. She was dead.
I sank to my knees beside the bed. I pushed the plastic aside and leaned over her. "Please, Rina!" I begged wildly. "It's me, Jonas. Please, don't die!"
I felt a slight pressure from her hand. I looked down at her, the tears streaming down my cheeks. The movement of her hand grew a little stronger. Then her eyes opened slowly and she was looking up into my face.
At first, her eyes were vague and far away. Then they cleared and her lips curved into a semblance of a smile. "Jonas," she whispered. "I knew you'd come."
"All you ever had to do was whistle."
Her lips pursed but no sound came out. "I never could learn to whistle," she whispered.
The doctor's voice came from behind me. "You'd better get some rest now, Miss Marlowe."
Rina's eyes went past my shoulder to him. "No," she whispered. "Please. I haven't much time left. Let me speak to Jonas."
I turned to look at the doctor. "All right," he said. "But just for a moment."
I heard the door click behind me, then I looked down at Rina. Her hand lifted slightly and stroked my cheek. I caught her fingers and pressed them to my lips.
"I had to see you, Jonas."
"Why did you wait so long, Rina?"
"That's why I had to see you," she whispered. "To explain."
"What good are explanations now?"
"Please try to understand, Jonas. I loved you from the moment I first saw you. But I was afraid. I've been a jinx to everyone who ever loved me. My mother and my brother died because they loved me. My father died of a broken heart in prison."
"That wasn't your fault."
"I pushed Margaret down the stairs and killed her. I killed my baby even before it was born, stole Nevada's career from him, and Claude committed suicide because of
what I was doing to him."
"Those things just happened. You weren't to blame."
"I was!" she insisted hoarsely. "Look what I did to you, to your marriage. I should never have come to your hotel that night."
"That was my fault. I made you."
"Nobody made me," she whispered. "I came because I wanted to. When she came, I knew how wrong I was."
"Why?" I asked bitterly. "Just because she had a belly way out to here? It wasn't even my child."
"What difference does that make? What if she did sleep with someone else before she met you? You must have known it when you married her. If it didn't matter then, why should it have mattered just because she was going to have his child?"
"It did matter," I insisted. "All she was interested in was my money. What about the half-million-dollar settlement she got when the marriage was annulled?"
"That's not true," she whispered. "She loved you. I could tell from the hurt I saw in her eyes. And if the money was so important to her, why did she give it all to her father?"
"I didn't know that."
"There's a lot you don't know," Rina whispered. "But I haven't time to tell you. Only this. I ruined your marriage. It's my fault that poor child is growing up without your name. And I want to make it up to her somehow."
She closed her eyes for a moment. "There may not be much left in my estate," she whispered. "I've never been much good with money, but I've left it all to her and appointed you my executor. Promise me you'll see that she gets it."
I looked down at her. "I promise."
She smiled slowly. "Thank you, Jonas. I always could count on you."
"Now try to rest a little."
"What for?" she whispered. "So I can live another few days in the mad, crazy world that's running around in my head? No, Jonas. It hurts too much. I want to die. But don't let me die here, locked up in this plastic tent. Take me out on the terrace. Let me look at the sky once more."
I stared at her. The doctor— "
"Please, Jonas."
I looked down at her and she smiled. I smiled back and pushed the oxygen tent aside. I scooped her up in my arms and she was as light as a feather.
"It feels good to be in your arms again, Jonas," she whispered.
I kissed her on the forehead and stepped out into the sunlight. "I'd almost forgotten how green a tree can be," she whispered. "Back in Boston, there's the greenest oak tree you ever saw in your life. Please take me back there, Jonas."
"I will."
"And don't let them make a circus out of it," she whispered. "They can do that in this business."
"I know," I said.
"There's room for me, Jonas," she whispered. "Next to my father."
Her hand fell from my chest and a new kind of weight came into her body. I looked down at her. Her face was hidden against my shoulder. I turned and looked out at the tree that had reminded her of home. But I couldn't see it for my tears.
When I turned around, Ilene and the doctor were in the room. Silently I carried Rina back to the bed and gently laid her down on it. I straightened up and looked at them.
I tried to speak but for a moment, I couldn't. And when I could, my voice was hoarse with my grief. "She wanted to die in the sunlight," I said.
7
I looked at the minister, whose lips were moving silently as he read from the tiny black-bound Bible in his hands. He looked up for a moment, then closed the Bible and started slowly down the walk. A moment later, the others began to follow him and soon Ilene and I were the only ones left at the grave.
She stood there opposite me, skinny and silent, in her black dress and hat, the tiny veil hiding her eyes. "It's over," she said in a tired voice.
I nodded and looked down at the grave marker. Rina Marlowe. Now it was nothing but a name. "I hope everything was the way she wanted it."
"I’m sure it was."
We fell silent then with the awkwardness of two people at a cemetery whose only link now lay in a grave. I took a deep breath. It was time to go. "Can I give you a lift back to the hotel?"
She shook her head. "I'd like to stay here a little while longer, Mr. Cord."
"Will you be all right?"
I caught a glimpse of her eyes beneath the veil. "I’ll be all right, Mr. Cord," she said. "Nothing more can happen to me."
"I'll see that a car waits for you. Good-by, Miss Gaillard."
"Good-by, Mr. Cord," she answered formally. "And — and thank you."
I turned and walked down the path to the cemetery road. The morbid and curious were still there behind the police lines, on the far side of the street. A faint sound rose up from them as I came out the cemetery gate. I'd done the best I could but somehow there are always crowds of people.
The chauffeur opened the door of the limousine and I got in. He closed it and ran around to the driver's seat. The car began to move. "Where to, Mr. Cord?" he asked cheerfully. "Back to the hotel?"
I turned and looked out the rear window. We were atop a small rise and I could see Ilene inside the cemetery. She sat beside the grave, a pitiful, shrunken figure in black, with her face hidden by her two hands. Then we went around a bend and she was gone from my sight.
"Back to the hotel, Mr. Cord?" the chauffeur repeated.
I straightened up and reached for a cigarette. "No," I said, lighting it. "To the airport."
I drew the smoke deep inside my lungs and let it burn there. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was get away. Boston and death, Rina and dreams. I had too many memories as it was.
* * *
The roaring filled my ears and I began to climb up the long black ladder out of the darkness over my head. The higher I climbed, the louder the noise got. I opened my eyes.
Outside the window, the Third Avenue El rattled by. I could see the people pressed together inside and on the narrow open platforms. Then the train had passed and a strange silence came into the room. I let my eyes wander.
It was a small, dark room, its white paper already beginning to turn brown on its walls. Near the window was a small table, on the wall over it a crucifix. I was in an old brass bed. Slowly I swung my feet to the floor and sat up. My head felt as if it were going to fall off.
"So, you're awake now, are you?"
I started to turn my head but the woman came around in front of me. There was something vaguely familiar about her face but I couldn't remember where I’d seen her before. I put my hand up and rubbed my cheek. My beard was as rough as sandpaper.
"How long have I been here?" I asked.
She laughed shortly. "Almost a week," she answered. "I was beginnin' to think there was no end to your thirst."
"I was drinking?"
"That you were," she said.
I followed her eyes to the floor. There were three cartons filled with empty whisky bottles. I rubbed the back of my neck. No wonder my head hurt. "How did I happen to get here?" I asked.
"You don't remember?"
I shook my head.
"You came up to me in front of the store on Sixth Avenue and took me by the arm, sayin' you was ready for the lesson now. You were already loaded then. Then we went into the White Rose Bar for a couple of drinks and it was there you got into a fight with the barkeep. So I brought you home for safekeepin'."
I rubbed my eyes. I was beginning to remember now. I had come from the airport and was walking up Sixth Avenue toward the Norman offices when I felt I needed a drink. After that, it was fuzzy. I remembered vaguely searching in front of a radio store for some whore who had promised to teach me some things I had never learned in school.
"Were you the one?" I asked.
She laughed. "No, I wasn't. But in the condition you were in, I didn't think it would make any difference. It wasn't a woman you were looking for, it was a sorrow you were drownin'."
I got to my feet. I was in my shorts. I looked up at her questioningly. "I took your clothes downstairs to the cleaner when you quit drinkin' yesterday. I’ll go down now and get them while you're cl
eanin' up."
"The bathroom?"
She pointed to a door. "There isn't a shower but there's enough hot water for a tub. And there's a razor on the shelf over the sink."
The clothes were waiting for me when I came out of the bathroom. "Your money is on the dresser," she said, as I finished buttoning my shirt and put on my jacket. I walked over to the dresser and picked it up.
"You'll find it all there except what I took for the whisky."
Holding the bills in my hand, I looked at her. "Why did you bring me here?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "The Irish make lousy whores," she said. "We get sentimental over drunkards."
I looked down at the roll of bills in my hand. There was about two hundred dollars there. I took a five-dollar bill and stuck it in my pocket; the rest I put back on the bureau.
She took the money silently and followed me to the door.
"She's dead, you know," she said. "And all the whisky in the world won't be bringin' her back to life."
We stared at each other for a moment, then she closed the door and I went down the dark staircase and out into the street. I walked into a drugstore on the corner of Third Avenue and Eighty-second Street and called McAllister.
"Where in hell have you been?" he asked.
"Drunk," I said. "Did you get the copy of Rina's will?"
"Yes, I got it. We've been searching the whole town for you. Do you realize what's happening over at the picture company? They're running around there like chickens with their heads cut off."
"Where is the will?"
"On the foyer table of your apartment, where you told me to leave it. If we don't have a meeting about the picture company pretty soon, you won't have to worry about your investment. There won't be any."
"O.K., set one up," I said, hanging up before he had a chance to answer.
* * *
I got out, paid the cabby and began to walk along the sidewalk in front of the houses. Children were playing on the grass and curious eyes followed me. Most of the doors were open, so I couldn't read the house numbers.
JC1 The Carpetbaggers Page 41