by Jill Zeller
Millie didn’t move, just watched me solemnly. “I have to get a ship. I have to earn a living, Nola.”
“But—no, we’re going on together. I can get a job at one of the studios, and so could you, somewhere.” I dropped my bag to the floor, groped for her hand. “You can’t go back to sea.”
Eyebrows lowering, Millie pulled her hand from mine. “That’s all I can do. I don’t draw, I can’t sew. I could push a broom, I suppose, but I’m not going to do that.” She hiked her bag onto her shoulder, the startling, puckish Millie disappearing into the solemn young Milo. “You can’t afford me any longer, anyway. I’ve lived off the charity of you and everyone else for long enough.”
She pushed past me and into the hall. I followed her down the stairs, through rooms of sheet-draped furniture and drawn curtains. The house echoed with loss and loneliness. Duke had gone to the hotel kennel to wait for Dennis and we hadn’t seen Merlin all day.
“Millie,” I said, seizing her upper arm. “I need you now. If for nothing else, I can’t be alone, not if—not if you’re right about—”
Stopping at the front door, Millie sighed. Shutters covered the front door lights, making the hallway dark and silent.
“You should go home. To your parents. They can take care of you till the baby comes.”
I stepped back from her, my chest burning, throat icy. “No. I’m not going back. Not now. I would have to be tied and gagged and stuffed into the mail car.”
Millie gave me a sideways glance. “Nola, all trips come to an end. The ship makes port. You grow old and die. It’s over. I’m sorry.”
She laid her hand on the doorknob and sunlight stabbed my eyes as the door opened. Behind me I heard a noise, like a sniff, and turned to see Merlin approaching, Cecil under his arm.
Bowing, he said, “Miss Lynch, please take the little dog. This is a good luck dog, of the mandarins of China. He will bring you good luck and long life.”
He pushed the dog at me, and Cecil jumped from his arms into mine. His smell and warmth spilled tears from my eyes.
Merlin bowed again. “This is a lady’s dog. He only likes ladies.”
I couldn’t speak to thank him. Nothing came into my mind or throat but big waves of sorrow. I turned away to show Millie, but she was gone, vanished into a blasting furnace of sunlight, as if she had been burned up in seconds.
Merlin drove me downtown. We looked for Millie along the way, to pick her up, offer to take her to San Pedro. But she was nowhere to be seen.
The hotel was near China City, and run by Chinese. Merlin recommended it, and the staff acted as if I were royalty. Except of course, they happily took my money, too. Sitting on the small, hard bed in a small, square room, bathroom down the hall, lacy curtains on the one window and a view—and cacophony—of Broadway, I felt sick and lost. All my companions had vanished into a past rapidly flowing away, leaving me with a week in a hotel that smelled of sesame oil, leaving me more nauseated than ever, and just enough money for a week of meals, if I stinted.
That first day I lay on the bed, trying to sleep and failing. In the evening I forced down a rice and egg dish in the hotel restaurant, helped by a quantity of delicious tea. I missed Millie more than anything, and after supper I took Cecil for a walk in the cool evening, looking at bright electric lights amid the new and sparkling neon signs; for a time I even felt at peace, anonymous in the stream of people on the sidewalks, the clanging of streetcars and the smells of a city, motor oil, dung and Mexican spices.
I passed a crowd lining up outside a motion picture house and wished I could join them, but it was beyond my budget. But when I saw whose face was on the playbill I threw caution to the wind and bought a ticket.
Loretta Carré’s luminous pale eyes, gray in black and white. but it seemed I could see their jade-green, stretched across the screen. Around me, people wept, but I couldn’t. I just stared, Cecil on my lap, trying to decide if she were an angel or a ghost inhabiting this dark room—a sprite or succubus.
Her acting was adequate in this story of a young woman seduced and left homeless by a brutal man and rescued, of course, by a handsome teacher. But in the lights and darks of film—the director a German who used shadow to good advantage—Loretta was a goddess, and the audience sighed as they watched.
The images of the moving picture stayed with me as I walked back to the hotel. Getting out my sketch pad I tried to recreate some of the scenes, but my pencils didn’t give me the effect I wanted, of borders appearing well-defined but really not, vaguely evasive but firmer than believed.
I stayed awake late into the night, and by the time I woke the next afternoon it was too late to seek my fortune. Instead I ate at the hotel and went to another moving picture, this one of cowboys and horses and locomotives racing in the old West.
Finally on the third day, I left Cecil in the care of the Chinese proprietors who also ran a laundry, and in my clean shirtwaist and skirt I took the trolley to Majestic Studios. The studio occupied a large lot on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood, the same studio where Loretta had been working.
I carried my portfolio under my arm, of carefully chosen work to show managers of the art department. Artists, Loretta had told me time and time again, drew pictures called storyboards for the directors, designed sets, and created posters adorning the movie theaters.
Behind the screen door of the front office was a reception area of wooden chairs along the wall and a desk occupied by a young woman with two telephones at her disposal. The place smelled of tobacco and furniture polish. A breeze flowed through an open window, ruffling the papers on the woman’s desk.
A handful of men and women occupied the chairs and watched me as I crossed the room to the desk. I wondered if they were all actors, or writers—they could be carpenters for all I knew. All of us, I figured, were here seeking work.
The girl at the desk didn’t even look me in the eye as I explained why I was there. But she took my portfolio and told me to take a chair.
After an hour and a half, the girl called my name and pointed over her shoulder to the door behind her, through which everyone in the room and entered and departed, some smiling, others frowning.
Inside the office was a man with two telephones on his desk and even more paperwork than the girl had. Without looking up—perhaps all these people took the same training in how to interact with the public—he motioned me to a chair.
My portfolio lay open before him.
“Nice work, Miss—where did you say you worked?”
I hadn’t said, but I did now, telling him about the Splash and Windy Hill and how much Silas had admired my work.
He shrugged, and said he hadn’t heard of them. “I’m from Chicago, came out here to find gold. Well, here’s my gold mine.” He waved his arms, squinting over the cigar in his mouth. “A mountain of paper all of people who came out here to make money in the motion picture business because they couldn’t get in the door in New York.”
Slamming my portfolio shut, he shoved it across the desk to me. My heart fell to somewhere below my stomach.
“You know, I like what you can do, but I don’t have anything. Come back next month, though. I might be able to get you into advertising.”
Next Month. It might as well be next year. The next four studios, newspapers, publishers, all had the same answer. Next month, three months, have dinner with me and I’ll see what I can do.
After three days of this, I was left with just enough money to wire my parents for that ticket home. As I walked the long blocks back to my hotel in the falling, hot dusk, I felt like throwing my portfolio into the pool of one of the big parks I passed. Or keep walking, Ondine, until you reach the sea.
Maybe then I could catch a piece of driftwood and leave my sorry self behind. I missed Millicent desperately, imagining she had no better luck than me in finding employment. She would show up at the hotel, miraculously finding me here, and we could figure something out together. Her role in my crazy dream was clear to me. I wo
uld earn so much money that we could send her to medical school. I knew it would be possible.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about poor Dennis, alone in the hospital. I didn’t know if he had any family out here in the Wild West, except for Loretta.
The next morning after a short, fitful sleep and the end of my paid week at the hotel, I packed my valise, tucked Cecil under my arm and slipped out early. I didn’t want to face my hosts, who had been so kind to me and likely expected me to book another week. The morning was jewel-like, dark blue sky fading to gold toward the east, calls of oriels and robins, clean cool air scented with damp grass.
I’d had nothing to eat, saving a scrap of money for some chicken for Cecil, and nausea coated my stomach. I headed north along Broadway, aiming for Echo Park to sit and wait for the Western Union Office to open.
A cold stone sat in my stomach. My grand plan had come to a screeching, braking halt. What a fool I had been, that cocky, sure girl who boarded a ship bound for Panama and the golden horizons beyond. Nothing bad could ever happen to her. She was golden herself, untouchable and lucky. Beautiful and smart.
And now here she sits, broken and pregnant—that thought hit me hard in my chest—and dragging herself home to apologies and humiliation.
I knew my parents would be angry but Papa would cope in his quiet, weary way. My brother would smirk, and my friends, if I saw them, would whisper. But what would Silas say, Silas who had watched me leave with envy in his eyes?
Tears burned behind my eyes, but I shook them off. No time for weeping, or continued self-despair. It was time to embark on the last leg of my journey.
A handful of people waited in front of the Western Union office and I joined them. The mouthwatering odor of fresh coffee from the restaurant next door filled my nose. I had hours yet to wait for the money once I sent the wire and nothing left for food. Holding my valise in front of me, I leaned against an ornate column near the door and waited, eyes closed.
“Nola? Nola, is that you?”
The voice came loping into my brain, following visions of fresh bread and butter. Opening my eyes, I looked at the people around me, wondering if I had been recognized by someone who’d seen my story in the paper, or had dreamed someone spoke my name.
“I’ve been looking for you for three days. I can’t believe it!”
Raspy voice, quick speech. So familiar. A hand took my arm.
“You look—very tired.” Not terrible. He could have said, ‘terrible.’ “Let’s get some coffee into you.”
We were moving. I shook the fog from my eyes and looked up into the ruddy face and pale blue gaze of Edison Lowe.
6
A bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee tasted like a feast of the gods. Workers, men and women, crowded into the restaurant tables around us, reading papers and exchanging hellos. Edison had found us a place near the window, and with only a coffee in front of him, watched me, smiling with satisfaction, I thought.
At first I could say nothing. Looking away, I fed a slice of bacon to Cecil. My throat cramped around the words, and I didn’t trust it. Finally, my oatmeal finished and my coffee cup warming my hand, I reached for his.
“It felt like the sun had burst into my day when I saw you, Edison.” I squeezed his hand. “How are you? Have you been home at all?”
Grinning, with even deeper wrinkles and more of them than I remembered, Edison shook his head. “Those doctors in Houston were a bunch of quacks. They sent me to Dallas to get me sewn up again and I swear I heard the angels joking and laughing at the gates, expecting me any minute. But they didn’t get me.”
He patted his side, and I knew he would have, had I asked, shown me his scar.
It warmed me, seeing him, almost the same feeling as if my own father sat before me after all these months. I realized that I hadn’t felt this comfortable and happy in at least that long.
“Tell me, Nola. What’s been happening to you? Tell me everything.”
And I did, from the time we left Houston, Milo and I.
Edison had, of course, heard about Loretta’s death. He had already been to visit Dennis Purfoy, his old friend. He’d come to Los Angeles to find us, but we had vanished, the house closed up and everyone gone. Dennis didn’t know where we were.
“Where’s Milo? How is he? Sounds like you two were quite a pair.” Eyebrows raised, he almost smirked.
I shook my head. “It wasn’t like that, between Milo and me. More like brother and sister.” Putting down my coffee cup, I smoothed my hair. It was long enough now to pull back into a tiny ponytail at my neck.
Edison’s face fell as I told him Millie—Milo to him—had left to find another ship.
“Do you think he’s already left? We have to find him.”
“I don’t know.” My body felt heavy, and a wave of fatigue hit me. “It’s the end of the journey for me, too. I’ve got to step next door and send a wire to my parents. They’ll send me enough for a ticket back to New York.”
Surprise brought Edison’s eyebrows up again, and his cheeks went even redder.
“No—you can’t.” He began to slip his hand into his suit jacket—pale linen, just as he had worn on the cruise. “I have something for you. And more besides. We have to find Milo, too.”
He shuffled through his pockets until he found his notebook, pencil stuck in the binding. I wondered if he was going to interview me, and a sick unhappiness filled me.
But instead he opened the notebook, took out a piece of paper, and thrust it at me.
It was folded in half. Opening it, I saw a check made out to me in the amount of $500.00. Staring, I watched the zeros go blurry on the page. My heart leap-frogged into my throat.
Edison’s voice broke through my thoughts. “That is for your sketches in Mexico.” He sounded unsure, but gentle. “I managed to save them, although I think there might be a little blood on some of them.”
Tears flooded my eyes and a big sob leapt into my throat. I clapped my hand on my mouth. People turned to look. Edison pressed his handkerchief into my hand.
“There’s more, Nola. A moving picture. Dennis wired me. I’ve been working on our story, getting it out, as I promised Colonel Robles.” He flipped through his notebook. “I got us money for your sketches. The studio head wants to meet with you and Milo to talk about the sketches. They want to use them as a sort of inspiration.”
The tears would not stop. They dampened my cheeks as I clamped the handkerchief to my mouth, trying to breathe. My nose filled and watered. I must have looked a complete fool.
“Darling, let’s go. I’ll take you back to my hotel—hire a car.”
Darling. But not that way, like he was speaking to a little girl who was having a slow, delightful moment of hysteria.
The next few moments got past me without much order. A cab took us to a hotel in Hollywood. Edison kindly poured me a very small brandy from his flask as I sat on a chair, taking it all in, my mind spinning.
My Mexico sketches, in a leather folder, did show a few specks of brown blood stains. As I looked through them, while Edison telephoned the studio and arranged for a car, a heavy warmth filled my gut, deep. Beyond the portraits of the rebel families, and Jesus, and Paloma, Nicanor and Uncle Amado, I saw the proud, angry face of Francisco Robles as he faced his brother’s firing squad.
7
Like my finger on charcoal, the food and the brandy blurred and softened the dread that had filled me an hour ago before Edison found me. An intense desire to find Millie replaced it, and impatience that the car wasn’t here yet bit at me.
When it arrived, I wanted to go straight to the port, but Edison wisely steered me into a bank to deposit my money. He wouldn’t let me pay for the car, either.
As long as we’re not too late. As long as we can find Millie.
So many secrets to keep from Edison. Millie’s was her own to choose to reveal, but mine would one day be obvious to everyone. I still hoped Millie was wrong, but as time went on I began to accept what my
symptoms meant.
Fog shrouded San Pedro; ships-horns mournfully blared from the mists. Edison found his way to the seaman’s hall. He wanted me to wait in the car but I came anyway, leading him through the doorway.
It was a large place; the ceiling vanished into clouds of tobacco smoke. Tall windows lined one wall, letting in a murky light.
A man slouched at a desk looked up at us as we entered. A handful of other crew-members lounged at tables, drinking coffee, playing cards. Their talk and laughter faded as they looked me up and down.
I approached the man behind the desk. A large ledger-book lay before him; wooden paper-trays were stacked alongside stubby pencils and carbon for copies. He wore a barely-clean striped shirt without a collar, and a rimless cap. Gray stubble coated his chin and cheeks.
“I’m looking for a ship’s surgeon’s assistant by the name of Milo Dudek, lately of Leopardo.”
Looking straight into the man’s eyes, I saw surprise come and go swiftly. “Leopardo, you say? She’s in dry dock over here.”
“Yes, but Mr. Dudek would have been looking for another ship, another job as surgeon’s assistant.” Impatience niggled at me. Open your ledger. Look up her name. You know where she is.
I knew it was unlikely this guild captain had ever heard of Milo, but I couldn’t help myself. I reached for the ledger book but the man placed his hands over it protectively.
“Just a moment, miss.” He seemed to smirk at me, enjoying, I thought, his little kingdom of power at this lowly desk. “What do you want him for? Are you a relative?”
“Yes.” The lie came quickly. What does it matter? “I’m his sister, and this is his uncle, and we must find him.”
From the look on his face, I could see the marine steward didn’t believe me for a minute, but in an agonizingly slow way opened his ledger book and ran his finger down a list.
Moistening a finger, he turned the page.
“Milo Dudek, registered as ship's assistant surgeon on China Star.” He frowned, closed the book.
Leaning forward, my hands on his desk, I said evenly, “And would this ship still be in port?”