Stars Over Sunset Boulevard

by Susan Meissner

  Violet awoke before her husband, pulled from sleep by a troubling dream that faded from her memory even as she opened her eyes. She didn’t want to remember what had been chasing her while she slept, so she sat up in the bed and leaned back against the headboard so that sleep could not return to her. The pale light of a mid-December daybreak seeped through the blinds of the one narrow window in their bedroom, and she glanced at Bert lying beside her. Violet reached out a hand to gently touch his shoulder, not to awaken him but rather to reassure herself as she had done every morning since he’d married her that he was indeed lying next to her.

  She turned her head to look at the clock on the bedside table. Just a few minutes after six. She switched off the alarm so that Bert could sleep a little while longer. It would be quiet at the studio that day; they didn’t need to rush. Selznick and his entourage were all in Atlanta for the premiere of Gone With the Wind. She rose from bed, slipped on her robe and slippers, and tiptoed out to the main room of their half of the tiny duplex they were renting. The open space tripled as living area, dining room, and kitchen. It was a sweet little place. Not far from the studio but away from the busiest streets. They didn’t have much for furnishings or other conveniences but they had managed to come by the necessities at a used furniture store. Her parents had sent a wedding gift of china in an elegant pattern Violet might have liked a year or so ago, but that seemed out of place in their humble quarters. But since it was all they had for dishes, they ate everything off it. Bert’s mother, Delores, had put together a box of hand-me-downs from her own kitchen for Violet and Bert to set up housekeeping with, which she seemed happy enough to do after she recovered from the surprise and shock of her son’s elopement. When they drove up to Santa Barbara the weekend after they married, Violet had overheard Delores ask Bert in a hushed tone if she was in the family way. After a quick prick of anxiety, Violet had taken comfort in Bert’s quick defense of her high morals. Delores seemed to relax after that, at least somewhat. She said more than once how astonished she was, though it did not seem that she was unhappy about Violet being her new daughter-in-law. Just surprised. Delores had now had six weeks to get used to the idea of Bert and Violet being married. Everyone had. It was not so astonishing anymore, surely.

  After getting the coffee going, Violet sat down with the morning paper and the unopened mail from yesterday, which included a gas bill and a letter from her mother. She noted with satisfaction that the headline story in the newspaper was the success of last night’s premiere in Atlanta. Violet glanced at all the news stories on the front page, even the ones that didn’t interest her, until at last she set down the paper. She couldn’t put off reading her mother’s letter forever. It was the second one since Violet had eloped; the first had arrived ten days after she and Bert had married. Mama had closed that note with how much she and Daddy and everyone else were looking forward to meeting Bert at Christmas, and a PS that read, You did tell him, didn’t you?

  Violet hadn’t answered that letter. She had been too busy. Too distracted with the details of setting up a house. She reached for the newest one, tore open the flap, and pulled out the single sheet of paper.

  Dear Violet,

  I’ve been anxious to hear back from you, and while I’ve been waiting it has occurred to me that perhaps you think I stuck my nose in where it doesn’t belong. Perhaps you think I shouldn’t have asked what I did in my last letter. Maybe I shouldn’t have.

  Since you have not written me, which is not like you, I cannot help but think I have my answer—you did not tell Bert that you cannot give him children. I so very much hope that I am mistaken. If you love this man as you say you do, surely you agree that he is worthy of knowing the truth.

  I will say nothing more of it after this, Violet.

  Until we see you at Christmas,

  Love, Mama

  Violet stared at the letter for several long minutes after she’d read the last word. It wasn’t until she heard footfalls behind her that she folded the letter into thirds and slipped it back in its envelope.

  A second later Bert’s arms were around her and he was kissing the back of her head. “Good morning. Letter from your mother?”

  “Yes.” She put the letter in her robe pocket with one hand and reached up to touch his face with the other. “She and Daddy can’t wait to meet you when we go home next week.”

  He nuzzled her neck before standing straight and heading for the coffeepot on the stove. “She and all your friends must be pretty angry with me for denying everyone a fancy wedding to attend.”

  “The minute they meet you they won’t care about any of that. They’re going to love you. Just like I do.”

  Bert poured coffee into two bone china cups and handed her one. “If you say so,” he said, grinning.

  She took the offered cup. “I know so.”

  He sipped his coffee and grimaced at its heat. “It will be strange not being with my mother and sisters this Christmas, especially with my mother’s health the way it is,” he said, almost as if musing aloud to himself.

  “We can take turns where we spend our Christmases, darling. Next year we can stay in California, and then maybe the following Christmas we can go back to Alabama.”

  “Unless we’ve a little one to make us want to stay close to home.” He brought the cup back to his lips as he winked at her.

  She laughed despite a slight lurching sensation inside her stomach. “Look,” she said a second later. “The premiere went well.” She handed him the newspaper as she stood. A corner of the envelope in her pocket was poking her thigh.

  Violet moved toward the fridge to get out the carton of eggs and a bottle of milk. Taped to the door was an invitation from Audrey to her Christmas party that evening. Bert wanted to go. Of course he wanted to go. He had already told Audrey they were coming. Violet had spent little time with Audrey in the past few weeks. It was awkward to be in Audrey’s presence now that she and Bert were married. Audrey looked at her differently. Looked at Bert differently. When Violet had started to box up her few kitchen things at Audrey’s, she noticed the little nightingale was on the sill above the sink, where Audrey would see it every time she stood and looked out at the world beyond the glass.

  Violet closed the fridge door now and turned away from Audrey’s invitation. She and Bert were quiet as she whisked eggs and he sat at the table, reading the article about the premiere.

  “So the masses weren’t horrified after all that Rhett Butler said ‘damn,’” Bert said a moment later. “I still can’t believe the Hays Office let him say it.”

  Violet poured a splash of milk into the eggs. “Me, either.”

  “Well, Selznick ought to be happy.” Bert set down the paper on the table. “Hope the rest of the world likes the movie as much as Atlanta apparently did.”

  “Of course they will,” Violet said as she reached for their only frying pan.

  Several minutes later they sat down to their meal, and there was no conversation between them at first. Violet was too distracted to notice. Her mother’s letter crinkled in her pocket when she leaned forward in her chair to take a bite of breakfast.

  “I need to ask you something, Violet,” Bert finally said when his plate was empty.

  She nearly dropped her fork. “Yes?”

  “I’ve . . . I’ve been thinking.”

  She waited.

  “I’ve been thinking maybe you and I should maybe move home to Santa Barbara. I’d like for us to be closer to my mother. She hasn’t said anything, but I can tell the house is getting to be too much for her. I think eventually that house will be ours. So I was thinking, why don’t we start helping her with it now?”

  Violet’s first thought was one of astonished elation. “Move to Santa Barbara?”

  Bert mistook her tone for hesitation. “Think about it, Vi. Mr. Selznick wants the studio to take a major break after Rebecca is finished.
I am likely to be laid off then, anyway. You probably will be, too, since you’re one of the last hires in the secretary pool. And with your office skills you could work anywhere. I don’t want to be pushing around costumes the rest of my life. I’d like to see if maybe I could go back to school, learn what I need to have the career in ornithology that I want. There’s a university right there. And I don’t want to raise a family here in Hollywood.”

  “Raise a family,” Violet echoed, toneless.

  “Yes. Can you see us trying to raise kids in a place like this?”

  She shook her head. No, she could not.

  “So you’ll think about it?”

  But Violet didn’t need to think about it.

  “I will go anywhere with you, Bert,” she said, and the smile that broke wide across her husband’s face made her eyes water.

  He grabbed her hand across the table and squeezed it. “I love you, Vi. And you won’t regret this. I promise you.”

  Bert started to explain when and how they should make the move, but Violet was not listening. She was pondering.

  What Violet had wanted from her new life she had—for the most part. There was really nothing left in Hollywood but reminders of what she’d done to get it.

  A few minutes later, after Bert had left the table to shave, Violet pulled Bert’s handkerchief from the zippered pocket in her purse, where it had been nestled since the day before Valentine’s Day. She brought it to her face, brushed it across her cheek, and kissed it. Then she tossed it atop the rest of Bert’s laundry that needed washing.

  She would write her mother at lunch and tell her that she need not worry so. All was perfectly well between her and Bert.

  Bert adored her and she adored him.

  They couldn’t have been happier.

  1942

  TWENTY-TWO

  August 1942

  Violet sat on the porch step with Bert’s letter in her hands. She had already read it twice, but she flattened the paper against her bent knees and read it again just to imagine his voice saying these words to her:

  August 4, 1942

  Dear Violet,

  I am nearly finished with basic training here at Camp Wheeler and am happy to assure you I will be getting a week’s leave before I am to report to my duty station. I can’t wait to get home and hear the birds singing in the morning again. I never hear birds here, and the heat has been ruthless. I know you warned me what Southern summers are like, but I still cannot understand how air can feel like water.

  I also found out that I won’t be heading out to any place faraway—at least not soon. I am being assigned to the Fourth Infantry Division, which is posted here in Georgia at Fort Gordon. They are doing training maneuvers in the States. I don’t think Fort Gordon is a place where you would want to come, though, and it’s definitely not a place to bring Mother. I think the best place for you to be is with her, and she with you. Hopefully this war will be over soon, perhaps even before I go to any place outside of the States. And I can come home to you and we can pick up our lives again as if this war never happened.

  I only wish God had seen fit to bless us with a baby by now, so that in my absence you would have a son or a daughter to keep you company and fill these dark days with sunshine. I still pray that someday God will grant us a child. You would be a wonderful mother, Violet.

  Time for lights-out, so better sign off. I will be home before the month ends.

  Love to Mother, but especially to you.

  Bert

  Violet traced his handwriting on the paper, missing his touch, the sound of his voice, his warm presence in her bed. Bert had been gone for more than a month already—after having been called up earlier that summer—and was learning how to do what kind souls like Bert should never have to do. In his letters he made it seem like learning to be a soldier wasn’t so bad, but Violet could tell he missed her and his little photography business and his classes at the university and even taking care of his ailing mother. She hoped that wherever he was ultimately assigned, it would be somewhere safe. There were still safe places in the world, weren’t there?

  She had tried to convince Bert to find a way out of enlisting. But since Pearl Harbor, every able-bodied young man in Santa Barbara was looked upon as someone who should’ve been gone already. He had felt compelled to sign up.

  With Bert away it fell to Violet to take care of her mother-in-law, Delores. Bert’s two sisters were both married now and living elsewhere, Evelyn in Seattle and Charlene in San Francisco. Delores hadn’t been in the best of health when Bert and Violet relocated to Santa Barbara two years ago, and she’d only been getting worse. Violet got along fairly well with Delores, but she knew she wasn’t Delores’s first choice for a caregiver. She adored Bert, but he was gone. And while both of Delores’s daughters had offered her a room at their respective houses, she wouldn’t leave the home her husband had built for her and that contained all her memories of him. Charlene was expecting, which Delores was very happy about, and Violet was hopeful that when she finally had a grandchild to cuddle, Delores would rethink the idea of moving to San Francisco. If she moved in with Charlene and her husband, that would leave the house for Bert and Violet, and she wouldn’t have minded that at all.

  In the meantime, Violet saved her tin cans for the war effort, she prayed for peace, and she tried to make the house as cozy as she could for an ailing woman. She took Delores to the movies sometimes, like Mrs. Miniver, which Delores didn’t like, and Walt Disney’s Bambi, which made her cry. Right after Bert left, Violet saw To Be or Not to Be with Carole Lombard, which she enjoyed even though she went alone.

  Violet often found it hard to believe she had been gone from the studio for two years. Had she and Bert stayed in Hollywood, she didn’t know what she would have been doing for work. David Selznick was dissolving his company and she didn’t think he even owned Gone With the Wind anymore. She’d read in Variety that a good friend of his, Jock Whitney, bought the film from him as part of the studio’s liquidation.

  Sometimes, that year she’d spent in Hollywood seemed like a dream, as if her new life had begun when she and Bert eloped. It had all happened so fast. She hadn’t purposely not told Bert that she couldn’t get pregnant; a good time to tell him had just never presented itself, and now she didn’t know how to bring up the matter.

  She and Bert heard from Audrey now and then. She’d been in a few plays, and in April had sent a review of her most recent one, as the critic liked her performance very much. Violet missed Audrey in ways that surprised her, even when Bert had still been home. She had made a few friends in Santa Barbara, but no one like Audrey. And despite what she had done to Audrey to win over Bert, she found herself feeling lonely for her companionship. She often wondered whether Audrey felt the same way.

  The screen door behind her squeaked on rusty hinges.

  “Is that a letter from Bert?”

  Violet turned to nod at her mother-in-law.

  “What does he say? How is he?” Delores looked longingly at the letter in Violet’s hand.

  Violet smiled up at her. “He says he can’t wait to get home to see you. He has a week of leave coming to him when he finishes and will be here by the end of August.”

  “Just a week?”

  Violet was only momentarily annoyed at Delores’s hunger to see her son, when he was first and foremost Violet’s husband. Delores loved Bert as much as she loved Bert. She worried for his safety like Violet did. He wasn’t an hour away in glamorous Hollywood anymore. He was three thousand miles away, in a world that suddenly seemed to have turned hostile in every direction. Delores looked pale and her hand trembled as she held open the screen door. The hot afternoon sun slanting across the porch made her forehead glisten.

  Violet slipped the letter into her pants pocket and rose to her feet. She took Delores’s arm and guided her back inside the house. “Then we will make
it a wonderful week, won’t we? And guess what he told me? He’s not going anywhere far away. He gets to stay in Georgia.”

  “Really? Is he certain?”

  “At least for now. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Delores leaned into Violet as they stepped over the threshold. “I don’t want him going to where the war is. He can’t go there. War killed his father. You know that, don’t you? He was never the same after the trenches.”

  Violet ushered Delores to her favorite armchair and settled her into it. “Let’s not think about that right now. Ready for some tea?”

  Delores sighed audibly, picked up a wooden fan stamped with stenciled palm trees and a flamenco dancer, and began to wave it back and forth. “It’s too hot for tea, Violet.”

  “How about some lemonade, then?”

  Delores closed her eyes. “I don’t want anything from the kitchen. You get something if you want it.”

  “Well, I’ll just go see what I can make for us for dinner tonight, then.” Violet started to walk away.

  “So, Bert said he’s all right?” Delores called after her.

  Violet turned back around and for a moment she considered her answer. She wanted Bert to hear that she took good care of his mother while he was away. She wanted Delores to say to him how wonderful Violet was, so thoughtful and caring. She pulled the letter out of her pants pocket and extended it toward her. “Do you want to read his letter, Delores?” she said kindly. “I don’t mind.”

  Delores’s eyes widened. “Oh, surely you don’t mean that!”

  Violet took a step closer and smiled benevolently. “But I do. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t. Truly.”

  “But he wrote it to you. It’s personal. You’re . . . you’re his wife.”

  “He wrote nothing in this one that will embarrass either one of us, I promise.” Violet laughed.

  Delores’s anxiety seemed to soften and she smiled at Violet. “Maybe you can read it to me?”

  “Sure.” Violet began to read aloud. She faltered when she got to Bert’s longing for them to have a child and she mentally kicked herself for not skipping ahead when she got to that part. She quickened her pace to get to the line where Bert spoke of his love to his mother.