by Nina Revoyr
“It’s okay to cry. Miss Greer always tells me it’s okay for boys to cry.”
“Yes, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I said, as if it were he who needed comfort.
We gazed off toward the kittens again; two of them were wrestling and yowling.
“Tell me, Charlie,” I asked when I’d regained my composure, “do you ever get lonely out here?”
He looked at me directly now, and I got my first real glimpse of his eyes. They were warm but not entirely occupied; he was like a rough sketch that had never been completed. All those years he had lived so close to me, just a car ride away. All this time I’d had a family and did not even know it. “Oh, no, sir,” he said, “I’m very happy. I have Miss Greer, and Dr. Stevens, and all of my friends. I’m always very busy, you know.”
I leaned closer to him, until we were almost knee to knee. “Do you ever wish you had a family?”
“I have a family. They all live here.”
“No, Charlie,” I said, and my intensity was scaring him, so I leaned away again. “Do you ever wish you had a mother and father?”
“I have a mother and father. They were movie stars.”
“Do you know who they were?”
He stared at me as if I were the one who was perhaps a little slow. “My mother and father,” he insisted, as if that clarified the issue. Then he turned toward the cats again and said to me sadly, “I never met them, you know. They were always so busy. They were always too busy for Charlie.”
EPILOGUE
May 5, 1966
On the occasion of Charlie’s forty-fourth birthday, the staff at Seven Acres threw him a party. They do this for all their residents—I have visited several times when someone else was having a birthday—but in Charlie’s case, the celebration was bigger. It was a measure of how well-liked he is that all the people who worked at the facility appeared to be present, even those who were supposed to be off that day. I had not assisted much with the planning—Miss Greer had taken care of that—but I did bring paper hats for everyone to wear, as well as a sheet cake baked by Mrs. Bradford.
She and I arrived early enough to help set up the tables and chairs. Gradually, starting at 2 o’clock, the residents began to gather. Some of them understood the purpose of the party, and smiled and clapped with glee. Others seemed unaware—they were unaware of everything—but still happy to be a part of something festive. Charlie came out at 2:15, and looked truly surprised by the people, the balloons, the pile of gifts on the table. “I’m forty-four! I’m forty-four!” he shouted, clapping his hands, and then he ran about hugging everyone.
Miss Greer had placed the candles in the cake, and it took Charlie three breaths to blow them out. Then he opened the presents—a T-shirt from Miss Greer from her recent trip to the Grand Canyon, a Dodgers cap from the receptionist, and a picture book of cats from one of the social workers. Mrs. Bradford had bought him a puzzle, a 500-piece picture of the California coastline that would keep him occupied for days. When he opened my gift—a camera—he laughed out loud, and then proceeded to take pictures of everyone present until the entire roll of film had been used. Anticipating his enthusiasm, I had brought an extra roll, and after I changed the film he pointed the camera at me.
“Put on the party hat! Put on the party hat!” he demanded. I declined at first, but after more goading from Charlie, who was joined by Miss Greer and the rest of the staff, I placed the cardboard cone hat on top of my head and slid the elastic band beneath my chin. Charlie jumped up and down, laughing—I gathered that I looked quite silly—and Mrs. Bradford reached up and straightened the hat. Then, smiling at me, she placed a hand on my shoulder and pulled a loose thread from my coat.
Almost a year and a half has passed since I first met Charlie, a period full of unexpected pleasures. After the first time I went to see him, I stayed away for several weeks, shaken by my knowledge of his condition as well as my shame that it had taken me so long to find him. But when I had time to grow accustomed to the idea of him— and time, as well, to recover from my experience with Josh Dreyfus—I wanted to see him again. I have had no real family for all of these years, and now I suddenly had a child, just a few miles away.
I went to see Charlie a second time, about a month after the first. And then I went again two weeks later, and a week after that, until I found myself visiting him regularly, two or three times a week, and arranging all my other activities around those visits. We settled into a comfortable routine—I would join him outside or in the common room, and we would work on a puzzle together or play a board game. He was uncertain of me during the first few visits—a discomfort only augmented, I suspect, by my own nervousness and sorrow—but gradually we grew more at ease with one another. I decided early on that it would be best not to reveal my connection to him, as this could only cause him pain and confusion. Better that he think of me as an interested friend. And he did. The first time his face lit up when I walked in to see him, I felt a joy deeper than I had ever thought possible.
I didn’t realize these visits were having an effect on my demeanor, but one morning, during our usual Saturday breakfast, Mrs. Bradford put her fork down and looked at me. “You’ve been so happy and preoccupied lately,” she said. “You’re always sneaking off to secret places, and you even walk like you’re twenty years younger. I catch you smiling when you don’t know anyone’s looking. What’s happening, Mr. Nakayama. Are you in love?”
I laughed. “No, Mrs. Bradford. But I cannot deny that my life has changed significantly.” I told her then, haltingly, that I had recently discovered the whereabouts of my long lost son. I did not explain the circumstances of his birth or the identity of his mother, nor did I outline how I had remained ignorant of his existence for so long. Mrs. Bradford listened to all of this with obvious interest, but she knew me well enough not to press for details. At the end of my story, I felt a rush of adrenaline, the result of having told someone of Charlie’s existence. “I go out to see him several times a week,” I said. Then: “Would you like to come with me sometime?”
In truth, I was as surprised by this invitation as Mrs. Bradford—yet once I issued it, I realized it was genuine. I wanted her to come to Seven Acres with me; I wanted to share my son. She agreed to accompany me, and I do not know whether this initial acquiescence was out of politeness or curiosity. I do know that when I took her to Seven Acres and introduced her to Charlie, I was as nervous and proud as any young father would be of a beautiful newborn child. I had not told her—I had not found a way to tell her—what kind of place he lived in. But perhaps she already knew what Seven Acres was, or perhaps she was simply exceedingly tactful, for when we parked on the grounds and she got her first glimpse of the residents, she did not seem particularly surprised. And when I introduced her to Charlie, who stood and hugged her as if he had known her for years, she smiled and said that she was very glad to meet him, and her words seemed completely sincere.
She now comes with me to Pasadena on a regular basis, in the new car I purchased—a Jaguar Mark II—after the police gave up looking for the Packard. Because we suddenly had something more to talk about, and an activity in common, we found that our Saturday breakfasts were not sufficient. We started having breakfast, and then dinner, two or three times a week, and then, almost without even noticing the transition, we were dining together every day. Since it was expensive to eat out so often, Mrs. Bradford began to have me to her house. Our conversations about Charlie led us to a more personal vein of discussion—she told me more, in those months, of the challenge of being a professional woman in the years she worked for the library; of her marriage to Mr. Bradford; of her complicated feelings of both pride and disappointment in their three adult children. I told her of my family and how I came to the U.S., and finally shared with her some of the details of my career. I never spoke about Nora or the Tyler murder, nor about the circumstances surrounding Charlie’s birth. It may be that she had figured it out, or at least discerned that he was not conceived in marriage
. She never pushed me for details, never asked about his mother. But our talk inevitably returned to him, his disposition and interests and needs. One evening I expressed my lingering regret that he had not gotten to live a normal life.
“He’s happy, Jun,” Mrs. Bradford said. “No, he’s not going to accomplish great things in the world—but he’s cared for, he has friends, and he has no real troubles. And now he’s got you, whether he knows what you are to him or not. He goes to sleep every night completely at peace. How many people can say that? I mean, honestly, Jun. Is it really such a terrible life?”
I have found that, as in this particular instance, Mrs. Bradford possesses genuine wisdom. This past year has been a happy one, and—why not admit it?—part of my gladness has to do with her steadying company. When we take dinner together, when we drive through the Arroyo Seco toward Pasadena and see the San Gabriel Mountains covered with snow, I am sometimes filled with a sense of contentment that I would previously have found unimaginable. And when we sit in the garden with Charlie, working on a puzzle or watching the cats with the fresh smell of eucalyptus around us, I can’t imagine how my life could be improved.
One afternoon about two months ago, as Mrs. Bradford and I were driving through Hollywood, we saw a large billboard on the side of the Boulevard. It was an ad for a film called Stranger in Paradise, and it wasn’t until I saw the glowering image of my old acquaintance Steve Hayashi that I realized it was Bellinger’s movie. I was so undone I almost drove off the road, and when we came to a stop at the next traffic light, Mrs. Bradford touched my arm. “What is it?” she asked, and I told her what I’d seen. The movie had been made after all.
In the following weeks, I heard more about Stranger in Paradise. The reviews were mixed, but thanks to an aggressive marketing campaign, the film did fairly well at the box office. Dreyfus had the hit he wanted, and while I did see one article that commented on the stereotypically evil figure of Takano, no one else seemed bothered by the characterization. I did not see the film, although I couldn’t help but read the articles, and then one day while I was going through the channels on television, I happened upon an interview with Nick Bellinger.
He looked totally different now than he had when I met him. His unruly hair was short and slicked back; his shabby clothes had been replaced by tailored slacks and a fresh, new button-down shirt. There remained a hint of awkwardness about him, but for the most part his manner was remarkably polished. The interviewer asked how he had conceived of the character of Takano, and Bellinger took a studied pause before answering. “Well, I’ve always been interested in the legacies of war,” he said. “It’s often such an intangible thing, and I wanted to see what would happen if an actual, tangible part of the war—a war criminal—was placed in the midst of this small American town.”
I shook my head. Bellinger had called me after my meeting with Dreyfus, trying to convince me to take the part. “I know it’s different from what we talked about,” he pleaded. “But this is our big chance. This is your big chance. Once this film is done, then you’ll have other opportunities, and the real power to affect what kinds of roles you play.”
“That is what they told me fifty years ago,” I said. I didn’t tell him the rest of what I knew—that once you gave up even a little of yourself, it wasn’t long before you gave up everything. But he’d learn that for himself soon enough.
It would be dishonest to claim that I did not have mixed feelings; that I didn’t experience certain pangs of envy. When I saw Steve Hayashi’s face on the billboard, and later, in the paper, I couldn’t help but imagine being in his place. I would have conducted interviews and appeared on television. I would have been recognized again on the street. An appearance in that film could have led to more parts, and I might—at long last—have resumed my career. Certainly I was always a stronger actor than Steve, and no matter how limited the role of Takano was, I could have brought to it a level of depth and complexity that was simply beyond his capabilities. On the other hand, I cannot imagine, now, doing a role that I found so distasteful, and there is a particular satisfaction in declining it. One of the luxuries of being obscure is that one no longer has a status to maintain. And perhaps I was not, despite what I believed, so eager to return to the screen. I did not wish to recreate the characters of my past, and I can’t say that I regret my decision. I had finally made a choice that Hanako would be proud of.
Several months before Mrs. Bradford and I saw the billboard, Bellinger’s article on the Silent Movie Theater appeared in the L.A. Observer. I read through the entire piece right there at the newspaper dispenser, resting the open pages on the top. To my surprise, I found that while Bellinger described the careers of Cecil DeMille, Harold Lloyd, Clara Bow, Gloria Swanson, and Mary Pickford, he made not one mention of me. He even wrote of some of the less well-known players, like Mae Marsh, Constance Bennett, and Lawrence Gray. But Nakayama wasn’t mentioned at all. I did not know whether this omission had been his choice, or whether a cut had been made at the behest of the editor. It occurred to me that Dreyfus might have had a hand in the matter, since he was very angry when I declined the part in his film. I cannot deny that I was disappointed by my absence from Bellinger’s history. But, along with so many other slights, major and minor, I absorbed it and simply moved on.
The article did have the intended effect of creating publicity for the theater, and, by all accounts from newspapers and from Mrs. Bradford—who once attended with her friend Mr. Weisman—the theater does very good business. One evening, about a month ago, they happened to show my picture The Patron. I know this not because I pay attention to their listings, but because I received a letter from a young film student at USC.
“I have heard of you before in my studies of early film,” wrote Heather Noguchi, “but I’d never seen one of your movies until last night. Your performance was brilliant, and I plan to find as many of your movies as I can. It makes me so proud that there was such an accomplished Japanese actor way back in the beginning of Hollywood. I know it could not have been easy. I can’t thank you enough for your work, which has reignited my love of film—imagine my happiness when I discovered that your address was listed! I don’t want to bother you, Mr. Nakayama. I just wanted to tell you how much I admire your work, and I look forward to seeing more of it.”
This letter was, I must admit, a great pleasure. While I used to get mail from fans on a regular basis, I don’t think I have ever received a letter that gave me more satisfaction than this one. I told Mrs. Bradford about it, and she seemed delighted as well.
“The funny thing is,” I said, “the owners didn’t know anything about me. How did they decide to run that picture?”
“I don’t know, Jun,” she replied, and then she smiled slyly, and I knew exactly where the picture had come from.
Despite my absence from Bellinger’s article, despite my misadventure with Dreyfus, I do not regret my encounters with those two young men, which occurred almost two years ago now. For something good has come out of it, something besides the obvious result of my learning about Charlie—the popularity of the O’Briens’ theater, and the fact that, after decades when they were totally ignored, people seem interested again in silent films. I do wish, of course, that my own contributions were recognized. But as a true lover of the medium in which I worked, it gives me an almost paternal delight to hear that day after day, night after night, people are lining up to see Gloria Swanson, and Rudolph Valentino, and Charlie Chaplin, and John Gilbert, and Clara Bow, and Harold Lloyd, and Mary Pickford. For silent films were more than just a prelude to talkies. They were also an accomplishment in their own right. What our films lacked in sound they made up for with other things— photography, direction, editing, lighting, storytelling, and, finally, acting. The best of the silents were works of subtlety and beauty; of fresh, sometimes exhilarating art. There was a purity to silent films that can never be recaptured in this clamorous age of sound effects and talking. We who made them knew that the most vital
parts of stories—as of life— can never be reduced to mere words. We understood that moving images are the catalysts of dreams—more eloquent when undisturbed by voices.
And even though my few years in the public eye were followed by decades of obscurity, I harbor no regrets about my career. I had a brief moment of unbelievable glory—but that is more than most people ever have. Certainly my time in movies could have lasted much longer. And of course I wish that—if only once—I could have portrayed a hero. Yet surely there was something of value in the roles I did play. Surely my very presence on the silver screen was itself some kind of victory. If I could never play adventurers like Fairbanks, or lovers like Valentino, at least I played characters of substance. For it is better—is it not?—to attempt to change things slowly than not to strive for progress at all.
It is true that my career and life might have played out very differently. But consider the fates of my closest contemporaries. Ashley Tyler was murdered, Elizabeth Banks killed herself with drink, William Moran died of a heart attack before he was forty, and Nora Minton Niles went mad. It is hard to claim, when one considers their lives, that what happened to me was so awful.
I remember Elizabeth telling me once that she could never go home to her little town in Missouri and resume the quiet life she had fied from. I remember her saying that such a fate seemed worse than death, for once her world had expanded to include so much, the thought of it shrinking again was unbearable. I do not recall what I thought of her feeling at the time, but I certainly don’t share her sentiments now. One thing this last year has taught me is the virtue of companionship, the quiet joy of ordinary pleasures. I grieve for the way my errors of judgment affected Nora and Elizabeth, and of course I regret the fate of Ashley Tyler. I also mourned for years, selfishly, the destruction of my career, all the pictures that I could have made, and didn’t. But it is too late for me to do anything about those past failures except to claim them, accept them as my own. And this I have done and must do in order to accept the recent blessings that life has unexpectedly provided me. For I have come onto something—not totally divorced from my past, but with a life and a value all its own. And I would not trade what I have today, the afternoons with my son, for any measure of fame or success.