The Glamorous Dead
Page 20
“Yeah, I have to stay off the lot. I have a contract,” I said. “Mr. Zukor gave me two years at one fifty a week. Is that good, one fifty?” We walked down Avenue L, past the studio theater, past Preston’s office to the admin building. Everywhere, all the streets had backed-up drains with mud and trash. Workers rode bikes and left little splashes and mud trails.
“A contract? What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. He offered me two years to keep my mouth shut. Stop a minute. I’ve got to pick up my check. One fifty a week, imagine. I could buy clothes. I could buy shoes. Joe, I could buy shoes.” I pulled the admin door. I stood in line at payroll and got handed my check from yesterday. The people in line were all extras, paid by the day. All in costume: señoritas and Air Corps flyboys and Chinamen wiping their drawn-on eyes. I’d stood in this line. I’d watched the costumes and people change. With a contract I’d get my check mailed, I’d get paid in costume or not.
Joe walked me toward the gate. “He must think you know something important. Mr. Zukor’s a very smart man.”
“He’s wrong. It’s easy to keep my mouth shut when I don’t know anything. I’ve never seen anything to talk about. I’ve got a contract. Can you believe it? A Paramount contract. I wonder why I have to stay off the lot.”
“We have too many people here every day. We don’t want a bunch of people running around the back lot, it’s not safe. If you don’t need to be here, we lock you out.”
“That doesn’t sound right. Not if I have a contract.”
On the lawn outside admin a couple guys in fedoras practiced their quick draw. A girl sat Indian style and read a book. None of them were locked out. Joe yelled to a security guard at the corner, “Open the gate. This one’s leaving.” To me: “What do you mean, that’s not right?”
The gate squeaked and swung. On the other side, some girls waited with autograph books. “Did you see Nelson Eddy? Is he here?”
Tourists. “He’s at MGM.”
“Ladies, you have to move back. Don’t crowd the gate.”
“Joe,” I said. “You don’t have to look after me. You hardly know me. Two days ago you thought I was a murderess.”
“And last night I discovered how nosy you are.”
“I’ll stay off the lot,” I said. “But I still wonder. What does Zukor think I know? And what is he cleaning up before I come back?”
CHAPTER 34
Many of those who menace the stars’ well-being unquestionably suffer from delusions.
—Photoplay, November 1940
Nothing is like getting a contract. Nothing. Madge’s car ran out of gas on Olympic and I was nearly hit by Carole Lombard’s DeSoto, and still I was happy. I rode two buses to see Will, and the ride took so long only ten visiting minutes remained. Then more time pulling off all my hairpins, my wristwatch, earrings, ankle strap buckles from my Wallflower shoes. I had five minutes to visit. I was happy, and then I saw Will.
“Jail or army,” Will told me. Will talked to me by telephone, and we watched each other through the glass wall between. Next to me on both sides sat another visitor, and another, in a row across the dirty visitors’ room. My voice echoed in the telephone and bounced back at me. Other sounds—visitors, guards laughing, a water fountain down the hall—bounced off the subway tile walls and stained linoleum.
“Jail or army, I get to choose. Mom sent my draft notice.”
“Nice of her,” I said.
“Yeah, but she held on to it for two weeks. Two weeks! That’s way before Rosie died, Pen. She saw it in the mail two weeks ago and never told me.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Who the hell knows? I’m supposed to report for duty in two days. I already missed my physical.”
“Does it matter? You’re not going. Jail or army isn’t a choice.”
“It’s not?”
“You know it’s not.”
He tapped fingers on the linoleum desk. He looked side to side. He scooted his chair. “I get a free lawyer. So I give the draft notice to my lawyer, right? He shows it to the deputy DA. And my lawyer says to me—get this—he says the DA phoned some publicity girl. Helen something. On account of it’s Barbara Stanwyck’s house, right? The next thing I know, the DA offers to release me to the army. All charges dropped.”
“What publicity girl? From Paramount?”
“Voice down, Pen.”
“He called Paramount? Who’d he talk to at Paramount?”
“Who the goddamn cares? It happened fast, I just got the draft notice today. I get the physical later tonight, and I’m gone. Day after tomorrow I’m gone.”
“You’re—wait. I don’t follow. Your physical’s today?”
A guard shouted from the door, “One minute. One minute left.”
“Look,” Will said. “You’ll need to help out at home. Mom can’t do it all. She can’t do anything. There’s not much money, and you’ll have to organize pickers and all the crops. And for God’s sake, don’t let the oranges freeze. I’ve got new smudge pots in the barn. Listen to the news, will you? Listen to the weather. And Daisy’s behind in school.”
“She’s in kindergarten. How do you fall behind in kindergarten?”
“She doesn’t talk, Pen. You fall behind if you don’t talk.”
“I’ll come see you tomorrow. Don’t decide yet, Will. Don’t go.”
“And what, sit around? Go back home and watch the oranges grow? Nail more boards on Walt Knott’s goddamn ghost town?”
“That’s not what I meant. You won’t pass your physical anyway. Don’t go, Will. It’s not our war.”
“The thing about you,” he said. “The goddamn thing about you is it’s never enough. I confess my guts, but no, that’s not enough. I have to sit in here while you’re running around Hollywood pretending you’re something. Everything I did was for family.”
There it was. He’d said it. He was right, I’d run around Hollywood pretending. I’d left what was ugly in Buena Park, and that meant leaving our family, too, and now I looked through the glass at Will and felt my heart rip and scatter.
“Time,” the guard said. Down the row people pressed palms to the glass between them: moms and sweethearts and sad fathers, and on the other side men in jail shirts with hands on the glass. A row of palm sandwiches.
Will leaned close to the glass, as if I could hear him better. He still talked on the phone. “As soon as that whosis—that Dr. Ostrich gives me the okay, I’m gone. I’m through with you and Mom and goddamn everything. I’m army and every kraut I kill is gonna have your face.”
“Dr. Ostrander? Dr. Ostrander?”
The guard hung up Will’s phone.
* * *
That night I asked Joe for a ride and he agreed, but I could tell he didn’t want to. He drove me in his squad car to the Hollywood Division after my second Hail the Indians show.
“You promised a drink,” he said. “I want beer.” He was on police duty, in his uniform.
“We will. As soon as I see Conejos.” I scooted to the edge of the seat, against the passenger door. I’d stopped wheezing around Joe, but that didn’t mean I’d sit close.
“I’ll get in trouble for driving you.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Why do you think he’ll listen? He still thinks you’re a murderess.”
“I don’t think he does,” I said. “When Madge died, he patted my head. Remember? He knelt down and let me kiss Madge’s arm, even though I was a suspect.”
“I don’t like that he touched you.”
“You’ll stay outside in your car. I’ll go in, talk to him real fast, and come back.”
Except that I went into Hollywood Division, pushed through smoking cops, asked for Conejos, and found out he’d gone. He’d been sent to some murder scene. Someone had died, Conejos went. I hadn’t thought about that, Conejos investigating one death after another. Conejos in the interview room grabbing another girl’s scabby hand as proof she’d done it, a murderess
.
I’d planned to tell him that Will couldn’t go to the army. I’d ask for his help, and in my plan he’d say, I was wrong about you. The studio has gone too far this time. Let’s get Will out of jail. Conejos wasn’t under studio contract, was he? Paramount could get Will out of jail, but couldn’t Conejos stop a phony medical exam? I’d liked my plan, but Conejos was gone.
Back to Joe’s squad car, my hand on the door latch, my fingers squeezed, the door clicked. I glanced at the receiving hospital next door. My hand lifted. In the car Joe leaned to the side and looked at me through the passenger window. I shook my head at him. Not yet. Conejos was gone, but I knew someone else who worked night shift.
Through the grass to the emergency room, Joe said behind me, “Where are you going? Where’s Conejos?”
“He’s gone. Joe, I’ll just be a minute. I know someone here. He can help.”
“Who? Who do you know? Where are you going?”
“A doctor.”
“What doctor? Stop, Pen. Stop right now.”
“He did Will’s physical. I’ll tell him about Will. He’s a nice guy, he—” I’d reached the emergency room door and turned the knob to pull it open. Joe grabbed my arm. He twisted, and the pain shot through me both ways. He twisted the skin on my upper arm, and everything underneath the skin twisted, too, up my shoulder and down through my wrist. My hand dropped from the doorknob. I leaned against him. He whispered in my ear.
“I’m sorry, Pen. When I say stop, don’t keep walking. What if I think you’re in danger? What if you’re headed for an accident and I see it but you don’t? When I say stop, it’s for you. I’m taking care of you, so listen.”
“Okay,” I said, and he let go of me. He rubbed his hand on my hurt arm.
“Let’s get that beer. I’m really sorry. We’ll put some ice on your arm, no one will know it’s swelling.” He took a couple steps back and then held out his hand to guide me.
“Sure,” I said, and pulled open the emergency room door. I ran in. I’d felt that kind of pain once, just once, last spring, and if I went with Joe, I knew what would happen after the beer. I’d been stupid to sit with him in a car. I’d been more stupid than that, letting my asthma tell me to trust him. My twisted skin burned and reminded me that when a man like Teddy, like Joe, is angry, it doesn’t matter if I’m wheezing or not.
The nurse at the front desk didn’t look up when I ran to her. The room was crowded and loud. A drunk guy slid against her desk, rolled his head side to side, and burped.
“Dr. Ostrander. Can I see him?”
“No,” the nurse said. The pin curls by her white cap dripped sweat. “He’s not here.”
“Now. I need to see him now.” The outside door began to open. I could see Joe’s black shoe.
The nurse laughed. “He didn’t show for his shift.” Then the nurse tried to ignore me. She pretended to sign forms on her desk. She wiped her neck with her hand.
“Who’s the doctor, then? Who’s in charge?”
“He’s a little slow, that’s all. You want to sign in?” She pushed a clipboard at me, and I backed into a kid scratching red bumps on his face. The kid cried. Joe stood behind him, his face calm, shoulders relaxed. He patted the kid on his back.
“Tell me where Dr. Ostrander lives,” I said.
She ignored me. She saw Joe patting the kid. She saw him watch me, calm cop face. “Thank God you’re here,” she said. She watched Joe watch me. “I called next door almost ten minutes ago. What took you so long? Get rid of this drunk, will you? The whole place stinks.”
Joe kicked the drunk in his side—not hard, but enough so the drunk groaned and heaved. Joe tugged on his arm and waved to me. I shook my head. My arm still hurt where he’d twisted it.
“Help me with this guy, and I’ll take you home,” Joe said. “The doctor’s not here, right? I’ll take you home, Pen. How else will you get home? It’s midnight.”
“I’ll wait for Conejos.”
“You’ll wait all night.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I’m not mad, Pen. Is that why you’re worried? Help with his arm. At least help me drag him outside.”
“You twisted my arm.”
“Do I look mad?”
“No. Why should I help you?”
“I can’t drag him myself. He’s going to throw up, and all these folks will get sick from the smell.”
“Can’t one of them help you?”
“Which one? The kid with measles? Please, Pen. Grab his arm.”
We each took one arm and dragged the guy to the door. Behind me the nurse said, “Doctor, patient waiting in bed three.” Then an old man’s voice: “Line them up, Agnes.”
“Push him onto the sidewalk,” Joe said. He meant the drunk. We tugged the guy out the hospital door, across the few feet to the sidewalk.
“I’m really okay, Pen. I’m not mad. Roll this guy on his side so he throws up in the street.”
“Joe, this drunk looks just like Spencer Tracy. Look at his nose.”
“I’m dancing,” said the drunk. Joe kicked him again.
“You’re hurting him.”
“Drunks don’t feel pain. He’s all right. He’s dancing. Are you going to tell me why you wanted to see that doctor?”
“He gave Will a physical. Maybe he’s still at the jail. I have to talk to him, Joe. I don’t think my brother will tell him the truth.”
“Hey, this guy’s got a twenty,” Joe said. He kicked him again.
My arm ached. Calm Joe, kicking the drunk. Empty Joe, kicking hard, again and again. I was watching Joe, arms in front if he tried to grab me, and I was thinking of Dr. Ostrander. If I could find Dr. Ostrander, if I could tell him about Will; I knew Will couldn’t go in the army. Somewhere in his left ear bells rang all day, and birds whirred or flapped wings—tinnitus. Will might pass the physical, but his left ear would fail. Rose had given him that present one summer night with a firecracker. She didn’t mean to, but she gave him 4-F.
Say Will’s lawyer gave the DA Will’s draft order, and the DA called Stany’s publicity girl, like Will said. And at Paramount, say that Abbott had just met with Adolph Zukor, they smoked cigars in Zukor’s big office and talked about me, how I knew something. I was a problem. The snotty secretary buzzed, Helen Ferguson for you, sir. Something about the Los Angeles County DA, and Zukor picked up the phone. More cigar smoke, the room thick with it now; Zukor thought about Stany and Preston Sturges and the money he’d sunk into The Lady Eve. He thought about me and my problem, how a convict brother would kill a girl’s two-year contract. How Hedda Hopper would write it: Stanwyck Accuses Paramount Extra’s Burglar Brother, Chaos on Set of Upcoming Picture. And my problem, what to do about my problem.
Time for another cigar. Give the convict brother a choice, and he’ll take it. Send a doctor who ignores tin ears. Now we’ve got a solution: a contract girl with a soldier brother sells movie tickets, and she’ll keep her mouth shut about the problem because she’s signed her shut-your-mouth clause, and we’re all happy, puff puff, spreading around cigar smoke.
Yes, we’re all happy. Will was happy, and I could be, if I knew what the problem was—a big enough problem to send a thief with a tin ear to the army. The war wasn’t ours, but it would be, we all knew it, and the new draft was proof. Will was happy, but he wouldn’t stay happy. He’d be dead, because with tinnitus, he’d never see the krauts that looked like me. He’d never hear them coming. He’d be shot first.
When Zukor offered me the contract, I didn’t care why. I saw the contract and nothing else. A hundred fifty a week and star lessons! How many come-and-gos get a real chance? How many times can Joe kick a drunk before the guy spits blood?
“Joe, stop it. Don’t hit him. Stop.” I held Joe’s arm, and he shook me off. He pushed me, and I fell to the sidewalk beside the drunk’s face. I had a close-up view when Joe kicked the drunk’s nose. The drunk stopped moaning and blood squirted from his nose onto the sidewalk, and I screamed.
“Christ, it’s Spencer Tracy,” someone said, and footsteps, voices, Dr. Ostrander running from an office door next to the emergency room. A stretcher appeared, and cops rolled Spencer Tracy onto the stretcher, and they all disappeared through Dr. Ostrander’s office door. Then it was just empty Joe, and me, and Spencer Tracy’s blood sprayed and pooled on the sidewalk, and the cops holding Joe, and then Detective Conejos was kneeling beside me, his soft hand on my hair, his soft voice saying, “Let’s get you home.”
* * *
“Don’t think about it,” Granny said. “Keep drinking that tea. At least your color’s come back. Let me see those eyes. Yes, you’ll be fine. Detective, help her sit down.”
“Why would Joe beat up Spencer Tracy? Why did Joe hate him that much? He was mad at me. Why would he hit Spencer Tracy?”
The Florentine Gardens after closing is an ugly place. Chairs stack on bare tables, the lights are turned up, and you can see every crack on the bandstand. Conejos lifted a chair from on top of a table. He set it on the floor, pointed to it, and I sat next to the bandstand.
Granny chatted. “Why don’t we talk about something nice? I hear you had good news today. Is it too soon to look for a new name? You could be Sheryl with an S. I’ve always loved the name Sheryl. With an S. You’ll have to change both first and last, of course. No star can be named Harp.”
“If Dr. Ostrander was at work, why didn’t he check in at the emergency room?”
“Drink the tea,” said Conejos, beside me.
“If we find a last name with a Y,” Granny said, “you could balance first and last names. Sheryl Mayfair. Something like that. The Y has to be inside the name, not on the end. Sheryl Layne. How does it sound?”
“Drink the tea,” Conejos said.