The Biograph Girl

by William J. Mann

  They look up into each other’s face.

  Then the phone shrieks from across the room.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” Jean gasps, clutching her chest, standing up straight.

  Ben lunges for the phone. “Yeah? Hello?” He listens. “Oh, Christ. Yeah, fine. Send her up.”

  He hangs up the phone. He looks over at Jean. “It’s just Anita,” he tells her.

  “Oh.”

  Jean hurriedly replaces the tank top in the box. Her heart is thudding loudly in her ears. The phone just startled you—that’s all, she tells herself. There’s nothing more to it. Nothing.

  But she peers around at Ben, now taking down his tripod.

  He does remind her of Victor. No one else would probably see the resemblance, but she can. The shoulders, maybe. The way he stands. And the eyes. Definitely the eyes—despite the fact that Ben’s eyes are blue, and Victor’s eyes were chocolate brown.

  She resolves then and there to return the tank top tomorrow. What was she ever thinking when she bought it?

  Jean notices Ben and Anita don’t kiss when she enters.

  “Hi, Anita,” Jean says. She feels crazily guilty, as if she’d done something wrong by her. But how ridiculous is that? “I haven’t seen you in a while,” she says awkwardly, offering the young woman her hand.

  Anita shakes it and gives her a small smile. “Hi, Sister.”

  “Finished taping for today?” Ben asks.

  Anita nods. “I came to see Flo. Is she here?”

  “She’s sleeping,” Jean tells her.

  “Well, I just wondered if she heard.”

  Ben creases his brow. “Heard what?”

  “I just talked with Richard out in L.A.” Anita looks up at him and then over at Jean. “The coroner’s issued his report on the body.”

  “And …?” Ben asks.

  Anita shakes her head. “It’s not Florence Lawrence,” she says.

  Jean makes the Sign of the Cross.

  “Well, we could’ve told you that,” Ben exclaims. “Florence Lawrence is in the other room sleeping. So who is it?”

  “That they don’t know,” Anita tells him. “How could they? They just know it’s not a middle-aged woman. They’ve determined the body buried in that grave was female, white, and aged between sixteen and twenty-five.”

  “Poor young thing,” Jean says softly.

  “Yeah,” Ben says, looking off in the direction of the room where Flo slumbers peacefully. “That’s what Flo said, isn’t it? She was just a girl.”

  Anita looks at him. “There was one other part of the report I thought you’d find interesting,” she says.

  Ben and Jean both raise their eyebrows in anticipation.

  “The coroner determined that, whoever she was, she died—from arsenic poisoning.”

  “Well, it looks as if Florence Bridgewood may well be telling the truth,” Regis tells Kathie Lee. “The coroner’s finding is that the woman they buried is actually a teenager.”

  Kathie Lee shivers dramatically. “I find the whole story just a little creepy, don’t you?”

  “Creepy? You think everything that’s not sunshine and daffodils is creepy. This is a mystery—exciting—romantic.”

  “You just want to get her on the show.”

  “Well, you know, she’s very particular about her appearances, but we’ve been talking with her agent, and it looks as if she might be sitting right here very soon.”

  “Gosh, Reej, how old is she?”

  “One hundred and six.”

  “Right in your ballpark, huh?”

  The audience guffaws. Regis shoots her a look. Kathie Lee moves out of profile to give a rare full-face wink at the camera. The audience laughs some more.

  “They always laugh whenever my age is mentioned,” Flo observes.

  “Who does?” Ben asks.

  “Audiences.”

  Xerxes is on the phone, motioning for them to turn the volume on the television down. Ben mutes it with the remote control, cutting Regis off in midcomeback.

  “Yeah, yeah, all right,” Xerxes is saying into the phone. He slams the receiver down.

  “We’ve got to get Flo an Equity card,” he says to no one in particular.

  “Why?” Jean queries.

  “Flo, were you ever in SAG?”

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “What’s going on?” Ben insists, standing up now and approaching his agent.

  “Flo baby,” Xerxes says, “how’d you like to act again?”

  “Act?” Jean asks.

  “Yeah. Act.” He looks at Ben, his eyes big and his grin shit eating wide. “Do you know who that was on the phone? John Waters.”

  “John Waters?” Ben repeats.

  “Yessiree. Himself. Pink Flamingos and Hairspray and all the rest.” He lets out a loony laugh. “Do you know who he is, Flo?”

  She shakes her head.

  “A very important director,” Xerxes tells her. “Like Griffith.”

  Flo smiles. “Oh, I doubt he’s like Griffith.”

  “Your doubts are on target,” Jean tells her, clearly troubled. She stands from where she’d been sitting with Flo in front of the TV and approaches Ben and Xerxes.

  “Waters wants Flo for a film?” Ben is gushing.

  Xerxes nods. “He’s doing another one of his pictures loaded with cameos. Wants Flo to play—what else—a screen legend.” The agent’s eyes are wide and his hands are wringing. “What do you say, Flo? Can you imagine your name back up there on the screen?”

  “Oh, dear,” is all she says.

  “Excuse me,” Jean interrupts, “but last I remember, Flo had her own agent. Why hasn’t Carla been informed of this?”

  “Oh, we’ll call her, of course.” Xerxes grins. “But come on, Sister. John Waters is a personal friend of mine. Trust me here.”

  “Who else is in the picture?” Ben asks.

  “Edward Furlong, Christina Ricci, Patty Hearst, of course, and—get this—Jeff Stryker!”

  “Jeff Stryker—the porn star?” Ben says.

  “The very same.” Xerxes seems as if he might pop his shirt buttons with excitement.

  “I’m not sure I like the idea of Flo becoming camp,” Jean says. “And I think the Board would go apoplectic at the idea of her appearing in a John Waters film.”

  “Sister, Sister,” Xerxes reassures her. “Don’t worry. Waters is past the dog-turd stage. He’s gone mainstream.”

  “As far mainstream as Waters can go,” Ben adds.

  “Besides,” Xerxes says, arching a bushy black eyebrow, “if we do this, there’s a good chance we can get her in the new Altman film.”

  “Altman?” Ben chokes. “As in Robert Altman?”

  “Look what he did for Gish in A Wedding. Reignited her whole career.”

  “Robert Altman,” Ben just breathes to himself.

  “And this is just the start,” Xerxes is saying, pacing the room. “I understand Cameron’s kicking himself because he would’ve loved to have had Flo for Titanic. Gloria Stuart’s only eighty-something playing a hundred plus. Can you imagine the publicity Flo would’ve gotten him? I mean, she was actually on the damn ship.”

  “No,” Ben says, pacing now with sudden excitement himself. “She just saw it go down.”

  “No, no, that’s not true either,” Flo tells them, but neither one of them are listening to her. They’ve begun chattering between themselves about what Flo’s “going rate” for acting should be.

  “Waters is offering a quarter of a million for two days’ work,” Xerxes says.

  “We can get more,” Ben urges.

  “Easy now,” Xerxes says. “Remember this is just a start.”

  “I really think this is more appropriate for Carla to handle,” Jean protests. She sighs, going back to sit next to Flo on the couch.

  “It would be rather exciting to act again,” Flo whispers to her. “I never would have imagined that I’d make another picture.” She grins. “Do you think th
ey’d put my name above the title?”

  Jean just gives Flo a small, tired smile and reaches over to take both of the older woman’s hands in her own.

  Rex is in their hotel room in West Hollywood, sitting shirtless in front of the mirror, applying theatrical glue to his left eyebrow. His right eyebrow is already done, covered over by long antennae-like white hairs. It’s his Lionel Barrymore guise, and he’s making himself up to show the artistic director at Highways. The show starts in a couple of days.

  Richard watches him. The sunlight casts a warm golden glow across Rex’s body as a ceiling fan drones in rhythmic circling overhead. Richard feels somewhat mesmerized by the sound, by the sun, by the lush greenery that surrounds their guest house. It’s wonderful to be out of New York in December, even if they will miss having a white Christmas.

  Rex stands. The sunlight hits his face, and Richard is jogged out of his trance. On Rex’s back, he spies a lump—distended skin and muscle between his shoulder blades, like the beginnings of a small hunchback. How had he not noticed it before? He had observed that Rex was getting a little fleshier, but not this.

  Rex has sat back down in front of the mirror to fix an eyebrow. Richard stands and goes over to his chair, beginning to gently massage Rex’s shoulders.

  Rex smiles up at him through the mirror. “What do you think, sweetheart? Do I look like grouchy old Mr. Potter from It’s a Wonderful Life?”

  Richard smiles. “I still think your Ethel’s the best.” He pauses, running his hands across the lump on Rex’s back. “Nooker, what’s this? Have you noticed?”

  “Oh, that. Don’t worry about it. It’s just a side effect of the new drugs. The doctor said it’ll probably go away.”

  Richard tries to catch his eyes in the mirror but Rex evades him. “Side effect? No one told us about side effects.”

  “They didn’t know.” Rex holds the left eyebrow up in front of him. It looks like a mangy caterpillar. As if it has a life all its own.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? How long …?”

  “Just a couple weeks. It’s gotten larger, but the doctor said not to worry. And I didn’t tell you right away because I know how worried you get, and then I get worried, and the whole thing becomes too much.”

  “This isn’t supposed to happen. Not anymore.”

  “Everything’s still so new, sweetheart. It’s still trial and error.”

  “Yeah, but the virus is eradicated, so how can—”

  Rex pastes the eyebrow in place. “Richard, I’ve told you. Don’t use words like ‘eradicated.’ It only charges us up. The drugs have simply brought the amount of virus in my body down to undetectable levels.” He frowns into the mirror. He does look like Mr. Potter, Lionel Barrymore’s most famous role. “And if it means living with a bit of a lump and some love handles, I can deal with it. My porno days are over, after all.”

  Richard runs his hand over the distended skin on Rex’s back. “That’s right,” he says, more to himself than Rex. “We can live with lumps if we need to.”

  But there’s another thought that he can’t quite suppress, try as hard as he might: They were wrong. The drugs won’t last. You’re going to get sick again and then you’re going to die, and I can’t go through it again. I won’t.

  The sudden fear is too much for him. He drops his hands from Rex’s back and turns away. He looks up at the ceiling fan. I love hint, and I’ll be here for him. No matter what, no matter how sick, even if he…

  Oh, yeah? Maybe the time to split is now, before he gets sick.

  Richard runs his hand down in front of his face. It’s almost like a cartoon, with the Good Richard in a halo and the Bad Richard in horns sitting on his shoulders, trying to persuade him to their side. This is crazy. I can’t think about it.

  “Get me my shirt, will you?” Rex asks suddenly, breaking through.

  “Yeah, yeah. Sure.”

  Richard moves off to fetch the shirt from the closet. I just won’t think about it. I just won’t … not now …

  There’s a knock on the door, and Richard’s grateful for whoever it is. He welcomes a distraction, any distraction, from the lump on Rex’s back. He opens the door, revealing a bellboy holding a large manila envelope.

  “This just arrived for you, Mr. Sheehan,” the bellboy says.

  “Oh, thank you.” Richard takes it, closes the door. “Look, Nooker,” he says. “From the AMA.” He’d been anxious to get this, but he is even happier that it came just when it did. Think about Flo. I need to concentrate on Flo.

  Rex eyes him suspiciously. “What are you getting from the American Medical Association?”

  “It’s about Dr. Slocum,” Richard tells him. “I had them send the documents here.”

  They sit down together on the edge of the bed as Richard rips open the envelope. He’d requested any information they had on Dr. Lester Slocum of Los Angeles, California. He’d learned the AMA keeps files on all licensed U.S. physicians this century.

  There are two documents, both of which are photocopies of information cards. “Let’s see,” Richard says, scanning across the first one. “Lester Horace Slocum. Graduated Grand Rapids, Michigan, Medical College, 1928. Practiced Mount Clemens Hospital, Michigan, and Beverly Hills Hospital, Los Angeles.”

  “What does the note at the bottom say?” Rex asks.

  Richard peers down at it. The handwriting is small and crowded and badly faded. But he makes it out slowly. “‘The license of Dr. Lester Slocum was … suspended … for a period of two years … at the June 1939 meeting of the Board.’” He looks up at Rex, then back down at the paper. He continues reading. “‘This suspension will be automatically lifted June 1941.’”

  “I wonder why,” Rex says.

  “It doesn’t say.” Richard turns to the next page. Another information card, containing information from Dr. Slocum’s obituary in the Journal of the American Medical Association. “‘Lester Horace Slocum,’” he reads. “‘Beverly Hills, California. Grand Rapids Medical College, 1928. Died January 2, 1941, aged 39.’” Richard pauses. “A suicide.”

  “A suicide,” Rex whispers. “Maybe because of the suspension?” Richard shrugs. “He killed himself six months before his reinstatement.”

  “Well, those are tantalizing clues,” Rex says, grinning. “Just enough information to keep us guessing. But do you think it has anything to do with Flo?”

  “I can’t imagine what, but still …” Richard sighs. “I’ve got to get in to talk with her again.”

  Rex smirks. “You’ll have to go through Ben.”

  Richard stands. “Fine. I’ll go through Ben if I have to. I’m going to assemble this goddamn puzzle one way or another.”

  “Sweetheart?”

  Richard doesn’t respond. He’s still studying the documents on Dr. Slocum.

  “Richard?” Rex asks, louder this time.

  Richard finally looks over at him.

  Rex gives him a wry smile. “I know there’s a book in this,” he says, “and that you’ve had some terrific offers and that you fall asleep at night dreaming of Pulitzer Prizes and movie deals and whatever. But I have to ask you, even with all that: Why are you doing this?”

  Richard laughs. “You just answered that question.”

  “Is there any chance you’re just pissed that Ben is making the film on Flo’s life?”

  Richard makes a face. “Sure, that pisses me off, but come on, Nooker. This is big stuff. Flo’s all over the television. Biography did her life. Mysteries and Scandals is doing something. I even saw an item yesterday in Liz Smith—or Army Archerd—one of them—that said John Waters wants her for a cameo in his new film.” He paces back and forth, the papers in his hand fluttering. “A dozen other guys are now onto the story. Any one of them could do a book—and I’m the one who discovered her.”

  “I just worry about you—that’s all.”

  Richard stops. “You worry about me?” He hurries over to the bed to sit back down next to Rex. “Oh, baby. I don’t wa
nt you worrying about me. I’m the worrier in the family, remember?”

  “You mean, this here li’l ol’ lump on my back?” Rex grins. “Just call me Quasi, for short.”

  Richard puts his arms around him. He pulls him in close, embracing Rex’s slight body. He can feel the swollen muscle on his back. He can feel Rex’s heart, too, chirping between them like a bird. He presses his lips against Rex’s neck. His skin tastes warm and salty.

  “Hey, Romeo,” Rex says. “Watch the eyebrows.”

  “Promise me it’s all going to be okay,” Richard says suddenly to him.

  Rex smiles gently. “I can’t promise you that.”

  Richard makes a face. “Just always know I love you, Nooker,” he says, suddenly awash with emotion. He can’t say anything else.

  “I will always know that, Richard.” He strokes his lover’s hair. “No matter what.”

  They hold each other until Rex has to go—Rex in an old man’s whiskers and Richard near tears, Lester Slocum’s suicide report forgotten for the moment on the floor beside them.

  “Why can’t I go to L.A.? I can go if I want. It’s a fucking free country, in case you’ve forgotten, Ben Sheehan!”

  Anita’s in a fit. Her face is red, blotchy. She stands in front of Ben with her fists clenched and her lips drawn back to reveal her teeth. It’s not a pretty sight.

  “Anita, I didn’t mean I didn’t want you to go,” Ben says. “I said you can’t go because you’re working on the soap.”

  She doesn’t move out of her fighting stance. She doesn’t say anything either.

  “Anita?”

  “I’m going to L.A.,” she seethes. “As soon as we have a break in the shooting. I’m flying out. Even for just a couple days.”

  “Okay, okay.” He swallows. “That’ll be great.”

  She sidles up close in front of him. It’s a slinky move, but not at all sexy, not at all seductive. Instead, it’s threatening. Ben stiffens.

  “For years now,” she says, in a short, brittle voice, “I’ve been wanting to go to L.A. Even just temporarily. Get my resumé out there again, talk to some agents. But I didn’t. And do you know why I didn’t go?”