“Well, actually,” Xerxes says, smiling, “I’m an agent who represents filmmakers.” He winks. “But I don’t trust reporters either.”
Sister Jean looks at him for a second, then moves her eyes back to Ben. She clasps her hands together as if in prayer on her desk. Its surface is covered with a piece of shiny clear glass. Ben can see her face—and his—reflected there as he stands.
“We’ll keep this very quiet,” he says, presenting his case. “We’ll get Flo’s story on video the way she wants to tell it. We won’t pursue any avenue she doesn’t want to take.”
“If Flo wants to do this at all,” Sister Jean reminds him.
“Of course. This is completely contingent on her willingness. I’ll certainly respect whatever she decides.”
Ben tries to look as sincere as possible. Not that he isn’t being sincere, he tells himself. He just wants to make sure Sister Jean believes his sincerity. “Maybe if I could talk with her,” he says.
“No.” Sister Jean holds his gaze. For the first time, Ben notices her eyes. Really notices them. How green they are. Pretty, like a girl’s—not a nun’s. “I’ll talk with Flo,” she tells him. “And I’ll let you know if she’s interested.”
“Fine.” Ben sits back down. He’d wanted a chance to try to persuade Flo himself. He had a feeling Sister Jean would be urging her against it. He thinks up another game plan quick. “But, Sister, I’ll tell you something,” he says. “Richard’s going to go ahead with his article. That means you’ll get some inquiries. You know, film historians and people like that. All coming around here asking questions. We could keep them at bay by saying Flo was giving an oral history and all their questions would be answered by that.”
She seems to appreciate the point. “Well, I’m not giving anyone else permission to speak to Flo. If anyone approaches us, they’ll be turned down.”
“I think that’s a very wise decision,” Xerxes says. Sister Jean looks over at him. It’s not a pleasant look. Xerxes smiles awkwardly. Ben wonders if it was a mistake to bring him. Xerxes can be grating at times. But he could also be charming. Especially if the person he was trying to charm was narcissistic, self-absorbed, ambitious, and greedy—like most of the Hollywood producers he dealt with. People who could be coddled, flattered, aggrandized.
People, in other words, exactly the opposite of Sister Jean Levesque.
She doesn’t like this agent. She doesn’t trust him. Not in the least. Why did Ben bring him?
“I think that’s a very wise decision,” Xerxes says.
Jean looks at him. Of course, you do, she thinks. Because then you’ll have exclusive rights to Flo’s story.
She looks over at Ben. Still, if it’s Ben doing the interviewing, making the film …
She’d found the video of One Chance, One World last night, stashed among her papers in some cardboard boxes she’d brought from St. Vincent’s. She watched it again, remembering how moved she’d been the first time. It took her right back to that day, when the fears of Armageddon were so palpable, with Reagan in the Oval Office and all the tough talk about the “evil empire.” Anne Drew was sitting at her side in a little college theater in Hartford. They’d cried together when the film was done. “Whoever made this picture,” Jean had said, “surely practices peace as a way of life.”
Did he? She looks over at Ben now, sitting on the edge of his chair in front of her. How eager he was to talk with Flo. Why?
“What’s in this for you, Ben?” she asks. “Why this interest?”
He smiles. “Sister, I can’t begin to tell you how affected I was by Flo’s story the other day. Hearing about her long life—how she figured in the history of motion pictures. But more than that, really—indeed, much more than that. What really inspired me was her story of starting over. Beginning a new life. About how we can be so much more than just what we seem. Personally, unlike my brother, I find Flo Bridgewood far more fascinating than Florence Lawrence.”
He couldn’t have given a better answer if Jean had scripted his response herself. She settles back in her chair and smiles. “You truly believe that, Ben? Those are your true feelings?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely, Sister.”
“Well, I’ll talk with Flo. See how she feels about it.” She unclasps her hands, runs them over her face. “It’s no secret she got tired pretty quickly the other day. That some of the questions Richard was asking made her a little unsettled.”
“That’s not the part I’m interested in,” Ben assured her.
Sister Jean turns suddenly to Xerxes. “Then why are you here? What’s in this for you?”
He clears his throat, sits up straight in his chair. “Well, Sister, to be honest, I’m not sure. Except that I represent all of Ben’s films. He’s a brilliant filmmaker. I handled One Chance, One World.” He looks at her significantly. Jean imagines Ben’s told him she’s a fan. When she doesn’t respond, Xerxes continues. “I imagine that perhaps, at some point, when you and Flo deem it appropriate, we might consider releasing an edited version of Flo’s story commercially. I mean, it does have the power to inspire.”
“Flo’s legacy is larger than just film history,” Ben says.
Jean sighs. A week ago, she’d have been far more receptive to the idea. Flo would make an inspiring film. A hundred and six and still sharp, still teaching the world lessons. But now …
She was just a girl.
Her name was Molly.
What had happened on that day in December back in 1938? What Pandora’s Box were they opening up? Even if it was nothing—Jean hated to even think the word—illegal, it still caused considerable distress for Flo to remember it. She had to protect her. Jean wouldn’t let any harm come to Flo.
She’s all I have left.
“I’ll talk with her.” Jean looks up at both men. “That’s all I can promise.”
“Of course, Sister,” Ben says.
“Ben.” She leans toward him ever so slightly. “Other than making the film, were you involved in the peace movement at all?”
“Oh, Ben’s an old diehard liberal, a real peacenik,” Xerxes answers for him.
Jean doesn’t even turn her eyes to him. She keeps looking at Ben.
He looks surprised. “Well,” he says, “I—well, Sister, you know, I felt my contribution could best be made by making the film. We all have our talents, you know.”
“Of course.” That disappoints her, but he has a point. How many were inspired by his film to get involved? Surely that was enough.
She stands. “All right, gentlemen. I’ll get back to you.”
They stand as well. “Sister,” Xerxes says, grinning widely. “You know, I was at the Lincoln Memorial when Dr. King gave his ‘I Have a Dream’ speech.”
She looks at him. “Oh? Were you there looking for the rights to market it?”
He laughs awkwardly.
No, she really does not trust this man. She manages a small smile. They shake hands. They all bid each other good-bye. The men leave.
Jean sits back at her desk and covers her face with her hands.
“Well, what do you think?” Richard asks.
Mady Crenshaw, his editor, is sitting with her back to her computer. Her hair is pulled back severely in a gray knot. Tiny octagonal wire-rimmed glasses perch at the end of her nose. She’s just read Richard’s story, which is up on her screen behind her. He can’t tell what she thinks. One never could tell simply from looking at Mady’s face: an unlined, inexpressive countenance that masks one of the sharpest minds Richard knows.
She swivels around on her chair and looks back at the story. “It’s good, Richard. Quite good.”
He can feel his face flush with relief. “I know it’s not what I was originally assigned, but—”
“You’ve done some good research,” she says. “I wish we had a little more concrete proof, however.”
“I didn’t write it as a conclusive story. I wrote about some old woman’s claim, and how the evidence seem
s—I repeat, seems—to support her.”
“An acceptable angle.” Mady gives him a rare dry smile. “Now that Anna Anderson has been proven a hoax, maybe we need a new Anastasia.”
“Speaking of which, I’m hunting around for a biological relative of Florence Lawrence,” Richard tells her. “For DNA testing.”
“As if this Big Nun would ever allow it.”
Richard admits, “Sister Jean could well prove an obstacle to any further attempts to solve the mystery.”
“We don’t need her.” Mady taps the computer screen with her fingernail, making a little clicking sound. “We can do it without her. The only problem with the piece is how little we know about the woman who was apparently misidentified as Lawrence and buried in her place.”
“Well, if we could identify her, then we’d know Flo was telling the truth.” Richard sits down on a chair opposite his editor. “I’ve talked with the L.A.P.D. They told me, if they suspect foul play, there may be a request for a court order to exhume the body.”
“Why didn’t you put that in the story? That’s important, Richard.” She swivels around again on her chair to stare up at him. “That’s what’s missing. The sense of ongoing investigation. That this sweet old lady might, in fact, be a—”
“No.” Richard shifts uncomfortably. “I mean, I understand your point. I just thought it made the piece too dark. This is more romantic mystery than unsolved crime.”
She’s shaking her head. “Richard, you need to include your conversation with the L.A.P.D. It sets the stage for a follow-up article if they do dig up the grave. This story could take all sorts of interesting twists over the next several weeks.”
He sighs. He knew, even as he wrote the piece, that it was missing something. He knew Mady was right. But it made him feel like a real shit to include that part, to even make the vague implication that Flo could be … involved in something. Guilty of something. He thought of Sister Jean, how angry she’d be.
But he was a reporter, damn it. He had to tell the story.
All of it.
It just made him feel pretty lousy.
This morning Rex had pleaded with him. “Just think about it one more time,” he said, “before you E-mail Mady the story.”
Richard had frowned. “Nooker, this could be big. I could write a book about this. A book that maybe gets turned into a miniseries for TNT.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Rex had folded his arms across his chest, the way Mady was doing now. “But think about it, okay? Just one more time before you go ahead and send it. Think about that old lady up in Buffalo and the life she has there. How her biggest worry right now is selling enough Girl Scout cookies.”
He had thought about it. For nearly an hour. Just sitting there in front of his computer, staring at what he had written.
Then he took his mouse and clicked the SEND NOW button on his screen.
“All right,” he tells Mady. “I’ll add a graph or two about the L.A.P.D.”
“Good.” She drops her arms from her chest, pulls a clipboard from her desk, and makes a notation on it. “Let’s run it in Monday’s Arts.” Then, to herself more than Richard, she says, “This is going to get a lot of attention.”
Monday’s Arts.
It was Friday.
Richard doesn’t like the feeling in his gut. It’s the feeling he got when Dad came home from the doctor that first time and said they wanted to do some more tests. He’d felt then as if all of their worlds were about to change, and he’d been right.
He has that feeling again now.
He gets busy writing the new graphs.
“On World News Tonight, we look at the amazing story of Florence Lawrence—or at least, of the woman who claims she’s the very first movie star of them all.”
The camera moves closer in on Peter Jennings. A photo of The Biograph Girl, circa 1909, materializes behind him.
“Not sure who this mellifluously named lady is? Well, you’re not alone.
“Few remember her today, but Florence Lawrence was the world’s first movie star, internationally famous as The Biograph Girl eighty years ago. She’s long been believed to be dead, but according to news reports, she’s been discovered alive and well—living in a rest home in Buffalo, New York, at the age of one hundred and six.
“In an article in today’s New York Times, a spry, witty lady named Florence Bridgewood—the original name of Miss Lawrence—makes the claim that she actually is the pioneer movie actress. She explains that in 1938, the Beverly Hills Hospital misidentified a suicide victim as her. Disillusioned and weary with the movie industry, Miss Bridgewood—or Miss Lawrence—says she saw an opportunity to head out and start a new life for herself.
“A fantastic story. But possible. Hospital officials concede it could have happened, and there are no records to authoritatively dispute her claim.
“If what Miss Bridgewood says is true, this is a significant find for film historians, and around the world today, they have been reacting with barely contained excitement. Florence Lawrence was perhaps the most popular actress of her generation and the first to be named as a moving picture star back in 1910. She was one of the first actresses to work with a then-inexperienced director, D.W. Griffith—who, of course, went on to be recognized as the father of motion picture art. One historian has likened discovering Miss Lawrence to finding an assistant to Mozart still alive or a student of Manet.
“For more on this astounding story, we go to Catherine Colby in Buffalo.”
“Thank you, Peter. This is indeed an astounding story, if true, and journalists and television crews from around the world have descended on the quiet, tree-shaded grounds of St. Mary’s Roman Catholic rest home here. No one has been allowed in to talk with Miss Lawrence, but Sister Jean Levesque, administrator of St. Mary’s Home, has confirmed that The Biograph Girl does indeed live here, and that she’s been going by her original name, Florence Bridgewood. Sister Jean has adamantly refused to comment beyond that or to allow any access inside the rest home.”
“Catherine, has Miss Lawrence herself issued any statement beyond what we’ve read in the newspaper?”
“Not yet, Peter. I have the sense from talking with some of the nuns here at St. Mary’s that they’re simply as stunned as we are and a little unprepared for the media assault that continues to descend on this tranquil estate.”
“All right. Thank you, Catherine Colby, coming to us from Buffalo. Well, we’ve put together what we know about the life of Florence Lawrence, who up until today has been a rather obscure figure in the history of film. With me is Jameson Collins, a noted film historian and author of D.W. Griffith and the Rise of Film as Art. Tell us, Dr. Collins, who is Florence Lawrence, what do we know about her, and why is this potentially so important?”
“Well, I cannot stress enough that, if what Miss Bridgewood alleges is true, this is a major historical find—akin to discovering someone who’d worked with the masters in other art forms, like music, painting, literature—like discovering Mark Twain’s copyeditor still alive. Of course, film—being a collaborative medium—means that not only was Miss Lawrence a student of Griffith’s, but that her contributions are important as well. She brought a certain vibrancy of her own to motion pictures, creating the entire star system as we know it by the sheer force of her personality—communicated, we must remember, without the sound of her voice or the use of color. Everyone from Mary Pickford to Meryl Streep owes a debt to her.”
“And quite a debt that is. What do you think, Dr. Collins? Do you think this is really The Biograph Girl?”
“I can’t yet say, Peter. I’d like to have the chance to meet with her, ask her several questions that only the real Florence Lawrence would know. But so far, she’s not granting any interviews.”
“All right. Thank you, Dr. Collins.
“Efforts to determine the veracity of the story are ongoing. According to the Los Angeles Police Department, Florence Lawrence’s remains in Hollywood Memorial Cemetery may be exhum
ed. DNA tests could be conducted on the remains to see if an identification can refute Miss Bridgewood’s claim. Born in Canada in 1890, the same year as Miss Lawrence, she has no known living relatives.
“Florence Lawrence had a brother, but he is believed to be dead with no survivors.
“A fascinating and compelling story—and one we’re sure isn’t over yet. We’ll keep you up-to-date on all the latest developments concerning The Biograph Girl.”
March 1910
“Dear God, look at all of them!”
I peered from the window of the train as it pulled into Union Station in St. Louis. Hundreds of people lined the platform, jostling each other, angling for a better view. Photographers perched on stepladders, balancing their cameras on tripods. Most were well-dressed folk—men in waistcoats and women in wide-brimmed hats. Some held small children by the hand. All were eagerly trying to catch a glimpse of the train as it pulled into the station.
But their faces were frenzied. They appeared angry and overwrought. Their children were crying. Young men scrambled up the ladders, only to be kicked back by the photographers. I saw one woman slap a man across his face for daring to move in front of her.
“It’s worked better than I ever imagined,” Mr. Cochrane was saying to Harry.
I turned back to watch them shake each other’s hands, faces beaming. Harry clapped Mr. Cochrane on the back. Mother was behind them, her smile as big as her hat.
But I wasn’t smiling.
“I don’t want to go out there,” I told them simply as the train puffed to its final stop. We lurched a bit; I grabbed hold of a seat to steady myself.
“But you have to, Florrie,” Harry said, gripping me by my shoulders. “They’ve all come to see you.”
“They love you, Florence,” Mother assured me.
I looked back out the window. There were hundreds of them standing there. Hundreds. I could hear their excited voices, their anticipatory shouts.
“Florence,” Mr. Cochrane said, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Don’t you see? This is what we’ve been planning for. This is the fruit of all our labors. It’s worked even better than we planned.” He put his face very close to mine. “Now’s the time to tell the world that you aren’t dead—and in so doing, make you the biggest star the world’s ever known.”
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