“Hon,” Rex calls from the hallway. “Are we going to want the ceiling repainted?”
Charlotte Dunn … West Eagle Street… Ann Dunn… The names check out.
“Hon?”
Hadn’t Flo said…?
“Richard!”
“Huh?” He turns around in his chair. Rex is in the doorway, hands on hips. “What is it, Nooker?”
“Now don’t get snappy with me, mister.” Rex folds his arms across his chest. “I asked if we wanted them to repaint the ceiling after they’re done.”
“How much extra will that cost?”
“Richard, it looks awful! It’s all rusty and scarred and I really want that textured look we saw in Architectural Digest.”
“Okay, okay. Have them repaint it.” He’ll figure out how to pay for it later. He reaches down and picks up his tape recorder from the floor. “Hey, Nooker, come here.”
Rex approaches. Richard hits PLAY on his tape recorder. “Listen to this.”
Flo’s voice:
“My mother was an actress, you see, and we were on the road a great deal. She was one of the best of her time.”
Richard’s voice:
“What was her name?”
Flo’s voice:
“Charlotte … Dunn.”
Richard’s voice:
“Was that her stage name?”
Flo’s voice:
“No, that was her real—you know, back in those days.”
He hits STOP. He looks up at Rex. “Dunn. How would you imagine that’s spelled?”
“D-U-N-N,” Rex says. “Or D-U-N-N-E, as in Irene.”
Richard holds up some photocopies from the 1900 City Directory for Buffalo. “Look at these. I checked both Bridgewood and Dunn. In 1900, a Charlotte Bridgewood lived at 115 West Eagle Street. Flo said her mother’s name was Charlotte.”
“Yeah, and that poster above her bed. Charlotte Lawrence.”
“Wait, there’s more.” Richard holds up another photocopy. “That same year, I looked up Dunn. There’s a Mrs. Ann Dunn also living at 115 West Eagle Street.”
“Flo’s grandmother, you think?”
“Quite likely. Because”—he produces the pièce de résistance, handing it up to Rex—“much later, looking through the phone books, look what I found. From 1968.”
“Florence Bridgewood,” Rex reads. “At 115 West Eagle Street.”
“She must have come back and lived in the family house,” Richard surmises.
Rex’s eyes dance. “So that proves it. That proves Flo Bridgewood and Florence Lawrence are the same person.”
Richard shakes his head. “Not completely. I need to establish the familial relationships. You know, that Charlotte was indeed Flo’s mother, that Ann Dunn was the grandmother. I’m going up to Buffalo to check the property deeds. There must be some record of the relationship when the house was deeded over to Flo. I’m going to check the census records, too.”
“Well, I think it’s all pretty convincing even without that.”
“I do, too, Nooker, but I want to do it right.” He studies the paragraph on his computer screen again. “I suppose I could write a speculative story, emphasizing the mystery, but I want to cover all my bases here. I want to state conclusively that the two Flos are one and the same.”
“So no one else will beat you to it, right?” Rex stoops down so that his face is even with Richard’s. “I can see it in your eyes, sweetheart. The drive. You’re going full throttle on this one.”
Richard grins. “Once this gets out, there will be a rush of stories on Flo. But I’ll be the only one who’s spoken with her. I can’t imagine Sister Jean allowing any more interviews.”
Rex nods. “Because of the girl,” he says significantly.
Richard sighs. “The biggest unanswered question is who’s buried in Hollywood Memorial Cemetery.” He stands up, rifling through a stack of papers on his desk. “And you know what’s so ironic? There had been nothing to mark her grave until a few years ago. But then an anonymous donor felt it wasn’t right that the world’s first movie star lay in an unmarked grave, so he paid to have a little plaque placed for her.”
“Who could it have been?” Rex asks.
“Rumor says Roddy McDowall.”
“I love Roddy McDowall,” Rex says.
“And he’s known for his love of old movies and movie stars.”
Richard produces a photocopy of an article with a photograph of the grave. He hands it over to Rex. The inscription reads:
FLORENCE LAWRENCE
“THE BIOGRAPH GIRL”
THE FIRST MOVIE STAR
1890–1938
The phone rings shrilly, causing them both to jump.
“Hello?” Rex answers, picking up the cordless from the floor. “Yes, just a minute,” he says, handing the phone to Richard. “The Beverly Hills Hospital.”
“Oh, good,” Richard says, snatching his notepad and pen. “I called them earlier.” He takes the phone. “Hi, yes, this is Richard Sheehan.”
“Hello, Mr. Sheehan,” a woman’s efficient, slightly nasal voice crackles over the phone. “I did check our records as you requested. But I’m afraid I find no mention of a Florence Lawrence, a Florence Bridgewood, or a Florence Bolton.”
“None?”
“None. I’m not really surprised. You said she died in 1938. Our records don’t really go back that far. And especially not for emergency room cases, as this appears to have been.”
“I see. But is the scenario I suggested possible?”
The woman pauses. “I spoke with a doctor here. Of course, this was so long ago, we can’t possibly begin to speculate. But he did say that it was at least theoretically possible that someone could be misidentified, even after an autopsy—if, of course, the body had already been identified before the procedure. If the autopsy was simply a routine matter, then there’d be no questioning of the doctor’s identification.”
Richard’s nodding. “And the doctor? Is there anything on the doctor?”
“Not much. Certainly nothing uncomplimentary. Let me see here. Dr. Lester Slocum. Yes, he practiced here at the hospital from 1933 to 1940. After that we have no record.”
“All right. Well, thank you.”
“Good luck with your story.”
There’d be no questioning of the doctor’s identification.
It’s the doctor. He’s who’s key here.
Rex has gone back downstairs to check on the work crew. The banging has stopped; Richard can hear a buzz saw now screech into life and whine through a sheet of wood. The sweet fragrance of sawdust reaches his nostrils.
Dr. Lester Slocum. Richard writes the name on his list of things to do. Check L.A. city directories. Census. AMA records.
If only he could get back in to see Flo.
He hears the doorbell. Rex’s voice. Anita.
“Hey, honey,” Rex calls, coming back up the stairs. “Our favorite soap opera star is here.”
Anita’s gotten a small, two-week part on a new soap being shot here in New York for cable television. She plays the illegitimate daughter of the new husband of the show’s wealthy society matriarch. She’s hoping it’ll turn into a regular gig. Richard’s optimistic for her; even if Ben has little confidence in her abilities, Richard thinks Anita’s a terrific actress.
“Hey, Neet,” Richard says as she comes into the room. She bends down and gives him a kiss.
“Looks good down there,” she tells him. “I love the glass tiles.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Richard says. “I haven’t been down all day. Buried in this story.” He smiles. “How’s the job?”
She tosses her hair in that way he loves. She’s glowing. Her eyes shine; her skin looks fresh and scrubbed. It’s wonderful to see her so happy.
“Oh, it’s amazing,” she tells him. “I can’t tell you how invigorating it is to have lines to memorize. I mean, real lines. Like more than just, ‘Thank you, sir’ or ‘May I help you, sir.’ I have r
eal dialogue.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” Rex says, leaning against Richard’s desk.
She beams. “The premiere airs in a few weeks. I’ll keep you posted.”
“How’s Ben treating you?” Richard asks. “Like a star, I hope?”
Her glow fades, just a little. “Oh, he’s very happy for me.”
“Yeah? Has he done anything special? Like taken you out to celebrate?”
She shrugs. “We’ll do that. He’s just busy right now.”
“Marge What’s-Her-Name?” Rex asks.
Anita looks at him, then back at Richard. “No. He’s given up that idea.”
“And there’s surprise in that?” Richard laughs, shaking his head. “Well, give my dear brother a few weeks. He’ll come up with yet another fruity idea only to discard it yet again—”
“He’s already come up with a new project.”
Something about Anita’s voice. Richard looks at her. She’s biting her bottom lip.
“Dare I ask what it is?” he ventures.
“Oh.” Anita sighs, walks across the room, puts her head against a bookcase and closes her eyes. “That’s why I came over. I had to talk to you guys. I felt it was only fair.”
“What? What’s only fair?”
She opens her eyes. “He’s gone up to see Flo.”
Richard blinks. “He’s gone up to see …”
“Flo,” Anita repeats.
Richard just sits there. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word.
“Honey?” Rex tries.
“Goddamn Ben,” Richard finally says, looking from Anita to Rex to his computer screen. “Goddamn Ben. And Sister Jean will be only too glad to let him in.”
Anita’s nodding. “After meeting Flo, he finally agreed that it was a good idea. He spoke with Sister Jean yesterday. He assured her that he’d respect Flo’s privacy, that she should just be videotaped for posterity—and that any future deals would only come with Sister Jean’s approval. So he and Xerxes went up this morning—”
“Xerxes?” Richard barks. “He took his agent? Oh, right—like Flo’s privacy is something Xerxes will care about!”
“Oh, Richard, I told Ben that it was your idea—that he couldn’t just shut you out, that you should write the screenplay—and he may in fact agree to that.”
“He may agree?” Richard snaps. “What? I have to ask my brother for permission to write about a story I found? I discovered? I don’t think so.”
“Easy there, sweetheart,” Rex whispers, his hand on Richard’s shoulder.
“No fucking way. I’m writing this story. It’s going to appear next week under my byline. Ben can go ahead and make his goddamn movie, but I’m going to be there first. You just watch. I can get an agent, too.”
“But sweetheart,” Rex says, squatting down next to him now. “I thought you wanted to wait until you had all the facts.”
“There could be a book deal in this, Nooker,” he tells him plainly.
Anita’s near tears. “Oh, God, I hope this doesn’t turn nasty,” she says.
But Richard knows it’s been nasty for a very long time.
Not forever, but for a long time.
When they were very little, the twins had been inseparable. Catching pollywogs, sledding down the snowy banks of Chicopee, eating bags and bags of popcorn at each successive Planet of the Apes movie. But there came a point when all that changed. Richard’s always felt it somehow coincided with Dad sleeping in the den instead of with Mom. When Mom and Dad stopped being close, so had Richard and Ben.
There was never any evidence of problems between his parents, except for Dad sleeping in the den. They never fought, at least not so that their children heard, and Mom’s never once intimated there was any disconnection in all the years since Dad’s death. But Richard can’t remember any intimacy between them either: no kiss hello, no laughter, barely any conversation at all. Mom kept as far away from Dad’s deathbed as she could, and at his funeral she stood stoically between her two boys.
Except—and Richard has to admit this—it was his own hand she clung to, not Ben’s. He knew he was his mother’s favorite, just as Ben had been his dad’s.
We were pawns, he thinks. Or maybe simply substitutes, partners by proxy in the face of whatever estrangement existed between husband and wife.
Yet the origin of the brothers’ hostility does little to temper it, so deep and lasting are the memories of their embattled youth.
“Fuck you, Richard!”
“No, fuck you, Ben!”
They’re pushing each other back and forth in their room. It’s 1979, and they’re each sixteen. The famous poster of Farrah Fawcett in the red bathing suit hangs over Ben’s bed. Over Richard’s is a lobby poster of Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta in Grease.
“She’s not interested in you,” Richard spits. “She likes me.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ben levels his eyes at his brother, ready for the kill. “Well, you don’t even like girls.”
Richard jumps him. They each land a few punches before Mom is between them, pulling them apart.
“Benjamin! Richard!” Mom shouts. “Holy Mother of Jesus, you boys are like wildcats.” She’s huffing from her run down the hall, even though she’s only about a hundred and eighty pounds at this point. “What is going on here?”
“Ben is a fucking asshole,” Richard sneers.
“What did you say to him, Benjamin?”
“Nothing that isn’t true.” He stands, retreats to his side of the room.
Richard sits on his bed, nursing his upper arm, where Ben had landed a good one. “He’s just pissed off because Mary Kay Silenski is going to the prom with me.”
“You’re just using her,” Ben yells.
“You’re just jealous.”
Mom sniffs. “Benjamin, Mary Kay is Richard’s girlfriend. Everyone knows that. You’re just going to have to ask someone else.”
“She’s not his girlfriend. They never even kiss.” He smirks. “She’s told me. I bet he’s a homo!”
“Fuck you, Ben.”
“Fuck you, Richard.”
“Boys! Now, Benjamin, you just think of someone else to ask. And no more fighting. I’m trying to watch Phil Donahue.”
Mom leaves. They sit and stare at each other for several minutes. “Well,” Ben says finally. “Then I get to use the car that night.”
“No way!”
Ben stands up, ready to go again. “You don’t get to take Mary Kay and the car. You guys can walk.”
“You’re crazy. You don’t even have a date.”
“What? Do you think I can’t get one?”
“I think it’ll be mighty hard.”
Ben grimaces. “You shouldn’t even be drivin’ Dad’s car. He told me I could have it.”
“I never heard him say that.”
“That’s because you were never around!” Ben leaps across the room at him. Richard pulls back on his bed. “You weren’t there! You never were! I took care of him all by myself with no help from you! So how could you hear anything he said?”
Richard maneuvers off his bed past his snarling brother. “I’m sick of your crap,” he cries. “I’m sick of you going on about how I wasn’t there to take care of Dad. You think just because you used to go off and play hoops together every night after dinner that you were his special little boy or something. Well, Dad’s dead, Ben. That car belongs to Mom, and she said I could take it to the prom.”
Richard leaves the room. Ben just sits there for a long time.
Richard always got what he wanted.
Ben’s staring down at his knuckles.
Even Mary Kay Silenski.
Mary Kay was chubby and pimply, the kind of girl Ben might’ve at least had a chance with back in those horrible high school days. She liked him. They’d go for long walks together while she waited for Richard to get home from play practice or his goddamn National Honor Society meetings. They’d talk about life and acne creams and Ben’s father’s d
eath and the soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever—lots of stuff, and then Richard would be home and Mary Kay would scamper back to him. She could’ve been Ben’s girlfriend if his fucking homo brother hadn’t already claimed her as his fag hag.
Ben never did go to the prom that year. He asked two other girls but they turned him down. Ben was an outsider, not in the clique. He knew it was mostly his own choice: It was better to go off, by himself, delivering newspapers or working in the garage, than to risk being compared to Richard.
It didn’t matter, in the end, about the prom. Richard got to drive Mary Kay in Dad’s old green Buick, and they sat real close together as if they really were dating. Richard wore a bright blue tux with a ton of ruffles and Mary Kay wore a low-cut red silk gown that showed all the pimples on her tits. Mom kept their goddamn picture up on the television set for years.
“Hey,” Xerxes whispers, “do you think I ought to tell this nun I’m Catholic?”
“What?”
Ben blinks back to the present. Mary Kay’s pimply tits dissipate as he looks over at his agent.
“Well, Greek Orthodox isn’t that much different,” Xerxes is saying. “I could pull it off—if you think it’d get us in better with her.”
They’ve been waiting so long he’d forgotten where he was, allowing him to get lost in his memories. As usual, when he did that, they weren’t pleasant.
They’re waiting for Sister Jean in her office, seated in two chairs in front of her desk. The clock on the mantel clicks the seconds. Its echo fills the room.
“No,” Ben says finally. “Don’t try anything with her. She’s sharp.”
They hear the door open behind them and Sister Jean comes in. They stand to greet her. She shakes their hands with little enthusiasm.
She says, “Ben, you know I’m talking with you against my better judgment.” She takes her seat behind the desk. The men sit back down as well.
“I know that, Sister, and I’ll be frank.” Ben levels his eyes with her. “I don’t trust reporters either. Not even Richard.” He makes a tight smile. “But the good news is, we’re not reporters. We’re filmmakers.”
The Biograph Girl Page 24