by Jill Zeller
A seaman behind us tipped his chair backward, hands behind his head. He said, “She was due to put off yesterday, first call in Frisco.”
A heavy weight pulled at my ribs and I straightened, feeling nearly physically ill. Edison took my elbow.
He said, “Where, which wharf?”
“Oh, China Star.” The wharf master smoked a pipe, sent a long stream of smoke from the corner of his lips. It fascinated me as I watched it flow upward, a slinky white snake. He squinted at us under bushy black eyebrows. Bizarrely, his head was shaved bald. “She pushed off yesterday.”
I stood witless, disappointment crushing my chest. Why is it so important to find Millie? What is wrong with me?
“Where’s the closest telegraph office?”
Edison took me by the arm as the man gave us directions to an address a few blocks away. We walked there, and it was as if Edison knew I needed the motion and air, to concentrate on where my feet were taking me. And he had the perfect solution, as my hopes climbed up from the dark cold.
“We can cable him on board. If he’s interested, he’ll come back by train. We’ll send money, tell him the studio wants to pay him, hire him.” Breathless and striding quickly, Edison kept up an impressive pace. I almost had to skip to keep up.
“That way, he’d be a fool to refuse. His pride won’t get in the way.” Edison smiled, and his cheeks were ruby red.
Edison’s enthusiasm caught me, gave me a second wind, and I stood at the telegraph desk and wrote out the telegram, adding there would be money paid for doing the picture. Money for medical school. I knew it was possible. Harriet Farragut had told me so.
Salt-laden wind washed through my hair as Edison drove us back to Los Angeles. Oil derricks stood like cautious sentries in the fog, feet buried in the tufted sands of Long Beach. By the time we arrived at his hotel, my body ached head to toe and weakness warmed my muscles. Edison gallantly got me a room—not that I really thought he had any ideas of trying to seduce me. But he had to take my arm as we went down the hallway, and I lay exhausted on the bed, Cecil curled up beside me, feeling his warmth and sinking into a fast, dead sleep.
Evening darkened my hotel room when I woke up, my mouth a dry canyon and weariness tucked around me like a shawl. A table stood in the middle of the room, on it a tray service, silver domes and salt shaker, a pitcher of clear water.
On it, a note: No reply from Milo yet. Rest tonight. I’ve called a doctor to see you in the morning. You look terrible, darling. E.L.
Under my ribs my heart contracted. I could just not be here, I thought, pouring the water and taking a long drink. Or I could send the doctor away, tell him there’s nothing wrong with me that a thousand calories and lots of sleep won’t cure.
There was a warm chicken soup, steamed asparagus and baked potato. Coffee. A slab of chocolate cake. After wolfing it all down, I slipped off my shirt and skirt, wrapped myself in the Chinese robe I had bought with my own money in China City, climbed onto the bed and laid my portfolio in my lap.
In here were months packed with enough events for an entire lifetime. Is this what soldiers feel when they come home from battles and look back?
Soldiers were already dying in the war in Europe. I couldn’t compare myself with them, or with the rebels who died fighting for the land that had been taken from them.
Thinking this, I sorted through my Mexico sketches: the best ones of camp life, and the best ones of Paloma and Jesus and the others. I wanted the world to see the best of the revolutionaries, how they cared for their cause and one another.
The rest of this land of sketch was mine alone.
Setting my sketches of Dennis and Loretta, Merlin and the big dog Duke aside, I laid the envelope of drawings from Leopardo on my lap. Cecil settled in beside me on the big chair.
I had not touched these, and the thought of opening the envelope swirled inside me, like a child with a bottle labeled Poison wondering what it would taste like. Sweet, or bitter? Or perhaps both.
Thoughts of Philip only came to me at night, as if out of respect for his nocturnal existence. With them came desire, and regret, in waves of warmth and cold. Outside my hotel window lights flickered and shone, whistles and rumbles from the street below, and the cold-tinged scent of the city. Nights on Leopardo were silky warm; so thick you could almost touch the air and hold it in your hand.
You’re still in love with him, Ondine, silly goose, in spite of what he was. That was why I tried not to think of him, for the memories twisted into my heart like a deadly thorn.
I set the envelope aside, sipped the coffee now cold, fondled Cecil on his silky little head, and waited for dawn and a visit from a doctor, who would map the rest of my journey for me.
8
“Well, Mrs. Dudek, it seems you are going to be a mother.”
It was the same young doctor who had come to treat Dennis and declare Loretta dead. I tried to read his smile. Did he really believe I was Milo Dudek’s wife? Did he know under whose name this room was rented? I didn’t remember if Edison had used his name or mine, which was not Dudek.
But there was no time to wonder about it. After telling me that I needed rest and moderate exercise and to gain some weight, he bustled away. There was no mention of the Purfoys between us, although I knew he recognized me and remembered Milo.
There was no time to wonder about anything except what I would do now.
And there was little time for that, for after the doctor left there was another knock on the door. Morning light spilled into my room, and the city was waking up below my window. I went to the door and let Edison in.
“That’s a relief,” he said, walking in wearing his crisp linen suit, his wild, graying hair neatly combed back on his head, his face red with scrubbing at the sink. “He says there’s nothing wrong with you that a little conditioning won’t fix. And food.”
Behind him a waiter rolled in a table, set it up near the window—a service for two. My worry fled at the thought of coffee and toast. I didn’t touch the eggs, but the bowl of oatmeal tasted delicious and I wished for more. I wished for more of the chicken soup.
Edison kept up a steady stream of conversation; I was relieved to just listen and not to think about the cold fist of worry jabbing into my stomach.
He’d made an appointment for the day after tomorrow for us to meet with the director who had convinced his money-men to produce the moving picture about my time in Mexico. Edison confided in me that Dennis Purfoy agreed to put in a large sum of money for the production, making it far easier for the director to make his sale to the producers in New York.
“His name is Pepin Fournier, he’s French. Came from the Gaumont studios, worked as an assistant director for D. W.”
This, I knew, was D.W. Griffith, who was even now in Hollywood making an elaborate motion picture about the Civil War.
French, I thought. Why does he have to be French?
Edison pushed a pile of eggs into his mouth, wiped with his napkin. “He’s eager to make a name of his own. He worked with Loretta. Dennis knows him.”
“Can we go there today?” I didn’t want to linger around the hotel with nothing to do but worry.
“Well . . . if you want to.” Edison thought a moment. “I thought you might want to rest, perhaps shop for new clothes?”
Smiling at him, I saw his cheeks redden even more. My present wardrobe of shirtwaist and skirt and scuffed shoes was in a sorry state.
“You have a point,” I said, thinking that in a few months I would have to replace my new clothes with a larger size.
“But perhaps we can go tomorrow. Let me make some calls.”
After Edison left I crawled into bed with Cecil and slept. Late in the afternoon Cecil’s barking woke me, and I heard a tap at my door.
Two women stood there, a young girl carrying a box and a stack of papers, and I recognized Madame Le Clare from the dress shop where Loretta had taken me my first full day in Los Angeles.
Swift and efficient, M
adame LeClare and her assistant measured me and called out the items of my new wardrobe, chemises and pantaloons, stockings and shoes, a day skirt and blouse, a suit, even evening wear. She frowned as I chose only a plain straw boater from her catalogue, and tried to urge a giant-brimmed wool-felt monstrosity on me. I convinced her, in the end, that I only needed a few items. And I could have them in a week.
“I need something for tomorrow. Something smart, but plain.” I stood in my underthings, my hands on my hips.
“Oh, yes, mademoiselle, there is one more thing.” Madame LeClare snapped at the young girl who produced the box and laid it on the bed. “Monsieur Edison requested these for you to wear tomorrow for your trip to the studio.”
Inside the box was a wheat-colored skirt of heavy cloth, an airy white blouse, the cutest straw boater I had ever seen, and heavy boots. Seemed odd for a business meeting, but it would have to do. The boots were a little large and the skirt needed some adjustment, but everything fit astonishingly well.
I tried to sleep, and was partly successful. I dreamt of Millie in the clothes I had just purchased, thinking she looked odd and imagining her in a man’s evening white-tie ensemble.
The next morning Edison called for me early. “This will be a treat,” he said, leading me to the elevator and down to the car.
An interview with a director did not seem like a treat to me. I felt vaguely nauseated, and not really rested, but I tried to summon some of the enthusiasm Edison obviously felt.
We followed Beverly Drive to Hollywood, following the same route Dennis Purfoy and Loretta had taken Milo and me after they met us at the train. The sun hovered low over the hills to the east, and the morning was still cool. I watched as Edison drove through the intersections of Hollywood and Sunset Boulevards, where I knew the Majestic Studios covered several city lots—one of the many places I had visited in my unsuccessful search for a job.
Instead the car took us up the long winding street known as Beachwood Drive, and soon we left the town behind, following a dirt road winding through a canyon of dry brush and oak. The barely-risen sun left the canyon in deep shadow, and the air was still comfortably cool.
After several minute’s slow and ponderous driving up the steep slopes, we came to a broad grassy space occupied by several autos and trucks with trailers. As we pulled up, I saw saddled horses being led away by men dressed in Civil War uniforms, and my heart did a quick leap as I realized where we were.
“I said this would be a treat.” Opening his door, Edison hopped out, and I could barely wait for him to open mine.
Dust filled the air. I heard shouting and saw running figures vanish down the side of the hill where we parked. A woman hurried past carrying an armload of costumes. To one side stood a tent where cooks sweated over fires, and I could see big urns of coffee. More soldiers lined up there, Union men slapping Rebs on the backs, laughing and joking.
“Fournier is here, directing one of the units for D.W. He said his camera is set up over there—” Edison waved in the direction of a ridge toward the north, and led me in that direction. We followed a young woman holding several notebooks, two burly men with heavy cords looped around their shoulders, and a very thin man carrying a crate filled with round flat metal containers.
“Perfect day for it,” Edison was telling me as we walked through stands of oaks. “Early, to catch the best shadows, and sunny for the good light. He’s filming an action scene for the Battle of Gettysburg this morning.”
A sharp “boom” echoed off the canyon walls.
“They’ve started. Hope we’re not too late.” Edison began a quick trot along the path, pulling me behind him.
We found the Second Unit camera perched on the edge of a little cliff, overlooking a broad swath of canyon. In a thunderous roar, a mass of horses avalanched down a low grade, kicking up clouds of dust. More booms and puffs of smoke dotted the plain below. I could see men carrying rifles dart and run as fake cannon shots bloomed around them.
Three cameras, stationed to form an arc to catch all the action from various angles, whirred and clattered, the cameramen’s arms rotating in level circles as they wound the film through the device. Every gaze was pinned on the action one hundred yards or so below us.
Chills ran up and down my back as I watched from our spot well away from the cameramen and their hovering assistants. Breezes blew the acrid smell of the fake shells, and the sweat of men and horses below. Shouts filled the air, and I saw the actors swing sabers and fire rifles and fall, the camera taking it all in with a snapping whirr.
Horses fell and got up again. Edison told me they were tripped for effect. I wondered how anyone could not come away with an injury in all this chaos, but Edison explained it was choreographed, like a dance, rehearsed over and over. And possibly this was not the first battle run of the day laid down to film.
And then it was over. Everyone and everything seemed to stop. The soldiers dusted themselves off and stood in their places. The group around our camera waited, tensely staring in the direction of the director’s station. After several moments, there was a wave of arms, and the entire frozen scene thawed. The actors began to trudge off the field, toward a row of wagons and tents hidden in the valley toward the south. The horses were led away, and other workers, in ordinary blue-striped shirts and dungarees, began to pick up debris and cables and discarded clothing.
The cameras had fallen silent. The camera men, each wearing a billed cap turned backwards, slung their cameras over their shoulders, muttering instructions to the assistants who gathered up folding stools and notebooks and followed.
Seeing Edison, one of the men who had operated the camera in the center, came toward us.
“Ah, Mr. Lowe, how did you like the fighting?” His face was tan and smooth; he was short and slim, but I could see thick muscles under the plain collarless shirt he wore. Slipping a black scarf from his neck with his free hand, he wiped his forehead. I wondered if this were Pepin Fournier, Assistant Director.
“We must go straight back to town, see what we have. Please, come with us. We can talk while we wait.”
He did have a vague French accent, but his English was very good. He glanced at me, his eyes pale hazel. “You must be Miss Lynch, the lady of the Mexican Revolution.”
I nodded, walking quickly, trying to keep up; the air was already hot, and the dust kicked up by the horses coated my throat.
“So you want to tell my story, is that it, Mr. Fournier?” I put myself between Edison and our new director.
“Every scene, every thought. All of the fear and even delight of your experiences.” He was talking quickly, not at all breathless. I could hear Edison wheezing beside me. “Mr. Lowe showed me your drawings. Excellent. Exquisite. They express the pathos, the yearning of the Mexican people as they struggle for what is theirs against the ruling landowners.”
I was beginning to like Mr. Fournier. This was exactly the story I had in mind. I gave Edison’s hand a squeeze. If only Milo were here, I couldn’t help thinking. Milo who saved Jesus’s and Edison’s lives.
And Dennis Purfoy’s life, too. Don’t forget that, Ondine.
At the studio we waited in a cool hallway with an overhead fan. A young woman brought us lemonade. Just beyond a door, Pepin Fournier and the other cameramen developed the strands of film exposed in the Hollywood Hills, stand-ins for the hills of Pennsylvania. After thirty minutes Mr. Fournier, smelling of chemicals, led us along the hallway to a little patio shaded by a grape arbor, to where a table was laid for lunch.
Mr. Fournier had read Edison’s articles, and seen the sketches. He wanted to use these as inspiration for his sets, the rebel camp in the mountains, Hacienda del Castro.
“And the little village on the hillside, where you were rescued by Colonel Robles.” Mr. Fournier leaned toward me, his gaze sharp and penetrating. I could not take my eyes away.
“You have no sketches of this village, but surely you recall. You could draw some from memory, correct?” His voice
softened, and he laid his hand near mine. “I know that was not a happy time. It was a horror beyond belief. But for the motion picture, we must show it.”
My heart twisted under my ribs, and I glanced at Edison. Ironically, I had not read his stories, even though the Los Angeles Times ran them. I didn’t want to relieve those days any other way than in my own memories.
Now I would have to, because I’d agreed to meet with Mr. Fournier of the Sunset Studio.
I nodded, wondering if I could draw what I remembered of the empty cantina, the tall walls, bodies lying bleeding in the plaza. But I was afraid to see it all again.
Edison did put his hand on mine. “You don’t have to decide now, Nola. They have enough to start. But you should meet with one of the writers, tell your side of things. The writers will take my stories and yours and do the rest.”
“I don’t feel right starting this project without Milo.” So much of the story was his, and between our long silences as we traveled together out of Mexico, I knew what terrifying memories Millie harbored, along with mine.
“There’s time for all that.” Edison turned to Mr. Fournier, who was working his way through a tomato aspic. “Now, what about the casting?”
Mr. Fournier lay down his fork, looked at me with his steady gaze. “I think the camera would adore Miss Lynch. Why not play yourself?”
“Oh no.” I sat straighter, swirling images of me trying to act warming my cheeks. “I’m not an actress. I’ve never acted in anything.”
“Have you ever thought about it?”
Certainly I had. Every little girl thought about it. “Mr. Fournier, I don’t think I could do it.” I stared back at him, forcing myself not to look away. “It’s not about acting, it’s about the girl that was me. I don’t want to be her again. Ever.”
Folding my napkin, I stood up. “I’ll let you tell our story, for the sake of Edison here, and even for the sake of Colonel Robles. But I’ll never watch the picture. Never.”
One of Mr. Fournier’s eyebrows rose up, then down. He smiled, and nodded. “Of course. I understand.” While Mr. Lowe had risen when I did, Mr. Fourier stayed in his seat, feet in dusty boots stretched out before him. “It will be a big hit, Miss Lynch. People will laugh, and cry, feel anger, and hope. This will be a fine thing.”