We took the streetcar down to Culver City. The guard at the gate recognized us, waved us in. We waited in line at wardrobe to be handed our costumes. We were both extras on San Francisco, starring Clark Gable and Jeannette MacDonald. The first day on the set I’d nearly cried, so faithful was the studio’s replication of my beloved old streets, of the grand old opera house, where I’d made my debut so many years before. Even the clothes brought back memories. The long, high-collared dresses we used to wear, the lace-up shoes, the ruffled bonnets. One wardrobe assistant, who I’m sure was really a pansy, quipped to Molly, “Sure is a shame you’ve gotta cover up those gams.”
She winked at him.
“Molly, if you’d only been able to see the real thing,” I gushed to her as we strode out onto the set. “San Francisco before the earthquake was a wonder to see. A shining city on the hill, as people like to say.”
But Molly only had eyes for Gable’s dressing room. It was quite the elaborate structure, a bungalow decorated by the studio’s art director Cedric Gibbons. The extras would gather around every morning, waiting to catch a glimpse of the King as he came outside to take in his breakfast tray.
“Look, Flo,” Molly pointed suddenly. “There he is.”
There he was at that. Standing on the steps, barking some order at some sniveling prop boy, was Gable, the biggest star at MGM, the biggest star in the world. And he was standing in nothing more than a sleeveless T-shirt and his checkered skivvies, his strong hairy legs bared for all the world to see.
“Gable in his BVDs!” I cried out.
Molly dissolved into laughter. He heard us and looked over, realizing he’d been spied. He gave us a hale and hearty salute. “Ladies,” he called, bowing.
“Oh, dear!” Molly laughed, covering her face.
Gable was now sauntering toward us. Molly’s pale skin blushed a bright pink. I couldn’t help but smile.
I never really could understand the fuss the ladies made over him. Now John Compson, who played Mr. Jones to my Mrs., or the Great God Kerrigan, or my dear Matt Moore—now, they were my idea of matinee idols. But Gable? With those ungainly appendages flapping at the side of his head? I couldn’t help but think of Harry. Later, I used to laugh that Gable had “the best ears of our lives.”
But he was all chivalry and gallantry as he bowed before us. “I see from your costumes you two lovely ladies are playing in our film,” he said.
Molly could barely nod.
“That we are, Mr. Gable,” I said. “We play ladies in the saloon.”
But he wasn’t looking at me. He cupped Molly’s embarrassed cheeks in his hands. “And what is your name, O mirthful one?”
“Molly,” she said. “Molly Butz.”
He raised those famous eyebrows. “My dear, you’ll have to do something about that or you’ll never get your name up on a marquee.” He turned his gaze on me. “And you, madam? What’s your name?”
There was my usual pause. “Florence Lawrence,” I told him.
That crooked smile of his. It crept across his face, his brow creasing. “Do I know you? The name seems—”
“Oh, Flo was a gigantic star,” Molly offered helpfully. “I’m sure you remember her.”
Did he? Did the name mean anything to him? He would’ve been a boy in those days, a boy who ran to the nickelodeon every week to see the new selection of one-reel pictures. John Bunny. William S. Hart. Broncho Billy Anderson. I watched his face closely to see if I could spot anything there, any flicker at all—but Molly’s voice distracted him, bringing him back to his real interest.
He dropped his big arm around her slight shoulders. “Have you ever seen the inside of a star’s dressing room, my dear?” he asked roguishly. “They’re pretty fancy. May I give you a tour?”
She giggled, covering her face again. He turned back to me and gave me that jaunty salute. “Wonderful to have met you, madam,” he said as they headed back toward the bungalow.
I smiled dryly. “And you, Mr. Gable.”
I watched them until they’d climbed the steps and Gable had shut the door with a kick of his foot. I assumed Carole Lombard wasn’t coming around anytime soon.
He certainly did have nice legs.
Even despite the ears.
“Bob, leave her alone,” I commanded.
He was trying to get Molly to sit on his lap. It was some party at my little cottage on Westbourne Drive. I can’t remember the occasion. Sometimes there weren’t any occasions. Sometimes we just threw a party to throw a party. Bob and his friends. Marian, the slightly dotty old lady from next door. Molly and me.
Bob was one of those Hollywood gadabouts who knew just about everyone well enough to say hello, from Thalberg down to the janitors. He’d been in the navy and had the tattoos to prove it, and he liked nothing better than to break into a rendition of “What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor?” with his buddies. He’d grown up in L.A., his parents having been in the industry, and might’ve become an actor himself—even a star—if he’d ever been able to keep his mind on one thing longer than it took to mow the lawn. A good man, just one who prized good times over anything else. Drinking, singing, making love to pretty women—these were his goals. I imagine he ended his life a satisfied man.
Marian was an L.A. native, too, but from a family who had been appalled by the movies’ invasion. They’d been staunch old Baptist stock, fairly affluent orange growers at the turn of the century. But I got the impression that Marian’s father had been something of a gambler. We always suspected she had a stash of money hidden under her mattress—she said she never would trust a bank again after the crash of ’29—but she lived quite frugally, even meagerly. Now, approaching seventy, she was an eccentric old maid who loved to sit and listen to the scandalous stories we brought home from the studio. “Oh, Papa must be turning over in his grave to see such goings-on in his beloved Hollywood,” Marian would lament, but she found nothing but vicarious excitement in our stories. She was slightly daft, easily drunk, and quite nearsighted. A dear woman—but really, a three-way lightbulb set permanently on dim.
I always invited Marian to my parties—better to have her here than complaining we were too loud. You see, we sometimes got a bit boisterous in that little cottage on Westbourne Drive. I tended to enjoy my Scotch at our parties—especially since Bolton, since the divorce, and the recurrence of my pain. Headaches, dizzy spells, arthritis. I had them all. It seemed lately that my pain was only getting worse. Sometimes they’d call from the studio with a walk-on part and I’d have to tell them I was just too sick. I hadn’t yet seen a doctor, despite Molly’s—and Bob’s and Marian’s—urgings. I’d seen doctors. What could they do that Scotch couldn’t?
At this particular party, Bob’s friends had brought their guitars, and they were strumming discordantly. Bob himself was busy pursuing Molly all night. They’d been sleeping together on and off for the last few months—as if I hadn’t been able to predict that. This night, she’d finally consented to sit on his lap, and he promptly began nuzzling her ear with his nose.
“No,” she said, dissolving into those damn giggles. “Never heard of it. Oh, Bob! Stop that! It tickles!”
“Have a drink, Molly,” I told her. “Bob, give her some of your beer.”
“You know I don’t drink, Flo,” she said to me.
“Hmmph.” I put my own whiskey to my lips. I didn’t trust women who didn’t drink. Mother didn’t drink. “Women who don’t drink,” I said, “are afraid of revealing themselves.”
Someone was banging on the door. I opened it and let in the dark night. Standing there was the sour-faced old man who lived across the street. His feet were bare and he wore his flannel robe. “If you don’t lower this racket,” he threatened, “I’ll call the police!”
“Oh, come on, fella,” I said. “Lighten up.” I thrust my whiskey at him. “Have a pop?”
He just blew himself up with hot air and stormed off. We all laughed.
“All right, everyone,” Molly said
as I shut the door, standing up from Bob’s lap. “I have an announcement to make.”
“Well, you’ve got me standing at attention,” Bob said, elbowing his buddy next to him, pointing down at his crotch. They laughed. Men can be such boors.
“Listen.” Molly stood there, arms akimbo. Everyone but she was a little tipsy, even Marian. The music stopped—just as well, too, or else the cops probably would have shown up.
“Listen, everyone. I have good news.” Molly beamed. “I was offered a real part today.”
“A real part?” Marian asked. “Not extra work?”
“Nope.” Molly grinned. “A real part. I actually have two lines. I say, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and ‘Somebody get a doctor!’”
I knocked back the last of my whiskey. She was looking over at me. Nobody else. Such big doe eyes. The little fool.
“Well,” I said to her, “the Academy better get busy engraving your name on their goddamn statuette.”
Molly’s eyes flickered away. The boys laughed, but Bob just looked at me sternly. I poured myself another drink.
“What’s the picture, honey?” Marian asked.
“Cain and Mabel with Marion Davies and Clark Gable.” Molly paused a moment, then burst out into those ludicrous giggles again. “Hey, that rhymes.”
“You’re a poet, an’ you don’ even know it,” said one of the boys.
Bob stood up and planted a kiss full on her lips. “Good for you, sweet cakes,” he said. “Ain’t she a star?” Everyone applauded.
Molly blushed. “Well, it’s the first step,” she said. Bob extended his kiss down to her neck. “One of these days,” she said, oblivious to him, “I’ll be Mr. Gable’s leading lady. Everybody’s gonna know my name then!”
There was merriment all around.
But I didn’t feel so merry.
“Well.” There was something about my voice—the whiskey, maybe, something—that made everyone turn to look at me.
I smiled tightly. “I’m glad that roll in the hay with him got you something, Molly.”
She just flushed a deeper shade of red.
“’Cuz rumor has it Lombard says he’s a lousy lay.” I laughed derisively.
Bob looked up from Molly’s neck and glared at me. The boys on the couch just nudged each other, snickering. I heard Marian say softly, “Oh, Flo.”
Molly’s eyes instantly welled with tears, as if I’d slapped her. What a ridiculous child she was being.
“Well, it’s true,” I said. I felt something twist and snap inside me. I suddenly tossed my whiskey across the room. The glass shattered against the wall, leaving a wet trail all the way down to the floor. The boys on the couch yelped and ducked.
“Well, it’s true,” I shouted. “Isn’t it?”
She just kept staring at me, looking as if she might cry, but no tears actually came.
“Oh, cut the sweetheart routine, Molly,” I spit, walking over to the window and throwing it open. I breathed in the cool night air. “Just give it a rest. You’re not gonna be anybody’s leading lady, except maybe some Friday night at Gable’s bachelor party.” I was on a roll now. “All of you girls who come out here thinking you’re gonna make it big—I could puke. I could puke over every last one of you.”
And I felt like it, too—felt like heaving my guts out the window. But I turned back to face them and went on. My voice was calmer now, but just as hard. “Did you ever hear of Peg Entwistle, Molly?” I asked.
“Flo, don’t,” Bob said, taking a few steps toward me.
“Well, did you, Molly?”
“No,” she said finally.
I smiled. “She came out here thinking she was gonna be a big star, too. She had high dreams and hopes, just like you. Just like all of you silly foolish little girls. And do you know what happened to Peg Entwistle, Molly? Do you know what she did? After she played a couple of bits and nobody cared?”
Marian was crying. Bob turned to Molly. “It’s the whiskey talking,” he told her.
“I’ll tell you what she did, Molly,” I continued. “Peg Entwistle climbed up on top of the thirteenth letter in the Hollywoodland sign and she jumped off.” I looked around at everyone in the room. “That’s what she did. Took a swan dive right down into the Hollywood Hills.”
Nobody said a word. I walked up to Molly, whose eyes were now cast down to the floor. “Everyone knows her name, Molly,” I told her sweetly. “Nobody will ever forget her.”
I walked out of the house and into the quiet indigo night. The orange blossoms were ripe in the air. I walked all the way down Westbourne to Santa Monica Boulevard, then up the steep hill to the Sunset Strip, where even then there were prostitutes, some as old as I was. I walked all along Sunset to Crescent Heights, then back down to Santa Monica. When I finally got back to the house, the sun was turning the horizon pink. The house was a wreck. Whiskey bottles and cigarette stubs everywhere. Everyone was gone, including Molly. She had taken all her clothes. Her closet was empty, the bare wire hangers tinkling softly together in the early morning breeze from the open window.
Ah, what did I care?
After all, she was just a girl.
“How long have you had these headaches, Miss Lawrence?”
The doctor sitting across from me, his hands folded on his high-polished, clutter-free desk, was young. Oh, not really young, not like Molly and Bob and their friends. But young for a doctor. I was used to doctors being older than I was, gray-haired and craggy with whiskers growing out of their ears. But this doctor had freckles and red hair. A cowlick even. He’d seemed terribly anxious when he’d shaken my hand.
“Oh, the headaches have been around for years,” I told him. “They come and they go. Sometimes I feel so weak I can’t get out of bed.”
He looked down at my chart. He seemed so slight sitting there behind that big mahogany desk. His credentials hung in frames on the wall. All very impressive looking—but he looked like a child sitting there in his tweed sport coat and blue tie. The papers fluttered in his hands as he read.
“Have you had a blood test?” he asked, looking up at me. “You might be anemic.”
“Oh, dozens, I’m sure. I’ve been back and forth to doctors for years. You know, I was never sick as a girl. But ever since—”
“The fire, Miss Lawrence?”
I looked at him. How did he know about the fire?
He gave me a little smile. “I’m wondering if all your health problems date back to that studio fire—the one where you saved Matt Moore by carrying him down the stairs.”
He knew me. He—he knew who I was.
“I’m surprised you know that,” I said finally. “I don’t think it’s in my charts.”
He blushed—and when redheads blush, their whole body turns pink. It was quite the sight to see.
“I must confess, Miss Lawrence,” he said, laughing, “when you walked in today, I was somewhat startled. You see, I was—you were—”
I couldn’t help but smile back at his embarrassment. “Yes, Doctor?”
He took a deep breath. “You were my heroine when I was a boy.”
He remembered me. He remembered The Biograph Girl.
“I saw all your pictures,” he said. “Every single one. My parents began to despair of me, said all I could talk about was The Biograph Girl. I even wrote you fan letters. You were so kind to send me back your photograph a number of times.” He smiled almost guiltily. “I still have them,” he admitted.
I felt terribly wistful in that moment. For Harry. For Mother. For the girl I once was. I couldn’t respond for several seconds. “It’s nice to know not everyone has forgotten,” I said finally.
“Oh, but of course not, Miss Lawrence. I’m sure there are thousands who remember. You were the biggest star in the world.”
“A long, long time ago.”
“Not so long.” He leaned across his enormous desk. He seemed quite serious about this. “Not so very long at all.”
“Twenty years,” I said. “A genera
tion. A lifetime in cinema years. So much has changed.”
He sighed. “Oh, how I remember when the news was reported that you were retiring from the screen because of that fire. I was devastated. Simply devastated.”
“Well,” I said, “it’s true I’ve never been the same. I’ve tended toward being—well, rather high-strung ever since.”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat, trying to shift back into his professional role. “Yes. High-strung. It says here you were hospitalized a few times for nervous collapse?”
I nodded.
“We should do a blood test,” he said. “And maybe I can prescribe something for the headaches.”
I stood. “Anything you can do will be a great help.” I smiled weakly. “There are times—times when I’m just not myself. I do things, say things—the pain, you know.”
He stood as well. “I’ll write something up and give it to the nurse. In the meantime, you should probably take a rest from—what is it that you do now?”
I hesitated. “I’ve been doing some work at Metro,” I told him.
His face brightened. “Oh, how marvelous! What’s the picture?”
I couldn’t bear to disappoint him. “A small part—a featured part—in the new Gable picture.” I paused. “With Marion Davies.”
“Grand! I’ll look for it! Oh, Miss Lawrence, I can’t tell you how thrilling it’s been to meet you.”
I shook his hand. “Thank you very much, Dr. Slocum.”
“Please,” he said, clasping my hand with both of his. “Call me Lester.”
The Present
Richard sits at his laptop, staring at the screen. From downstairs the bang, bang, bang of the decorators in the kitchen can be heard. They’re ripping out a wall. They don’t disturb him. Normally they would, but not today. Today, he’s too far gone to pay much attention to them.
He’s reading—and then rereading, over and over—the last paragraph he’s written. It’s based on the research he did yesterday at the library, looking at microfilm of the Buffalo city directories and telephone books.
The Biograph Girl Page 23