Blacklist

by Jerry Ludwig

  “Sh-h-h,” I say—she’s still trembling—“it’ll be okay, we’ll make it be okay.…”

  * * *

  We stroll back to where Jana’s car is across from the darkened theater. She unlocks the driver’s door, but doesn’t open it yet.

  “Just because I let Markie take me to some industry events he acts like we’re going together. Comes and sits down at my table in the commissary. We’re just friends. But at the studio everybody thinks we’re an item.”

  “Fuckin’ gossips,” I say, “what do they know?”

  “Yeah, what do they know?” she repeats. Then, tentatively: “On our next date, let’s not talk about Leo or Teddy or any of that bad stuff. Okay? Let’s see if we can do that? Just for one day?”

  “Yeah. Okay. I’ll try. But—” I trail off.

  “But what?”

  “This wasn’t a date. A date is when someone brings you flowers and picks you up at your place and all that.”

  “So what do you call this?”

  “A dream come true,” I say.

  “I missed you so much, David.” Jana touches my cheek, then she gets into her car, turns on the engine, and pulls out.

  I walk back to Dolores thinking this day sure ended a lot better than it started. I’m feeling great. Until the hackles on my neck rise; the survival instinct that kept me alive in Korea. I whirl around and scope out the deserted boulevard. A wino fast asleep in a doorway on the far side of the street. No one else in sight. So I continue on to my car, but all the way I have the distinct sensation that there’s someone out there watching me. My guess is McKenna.

  CHAPTER

  17

  JANA

  A little before nine the next morning the brisk desk clerk at the Chateau Marmont stops sorting the incoming mail as I walk up. I ask about David and he offers to ring his room and announce me. I tell him it’s a surprise. He smiles knowingly and gives me the room number.

  I go down the hall and knock on his door. There’s no response. Could he have gone out for a run or something this early? No, anyone who works as hard as Leo works him during the week doesn’t bound out of bed on Saturday morning. I thump on the blue door.

  “Hey, you in there! Wake up time!”

  I hear him tumble out of bed and stagger across the room. Throw open the door. Looking startled. He’s in his pajama bottoms. Nice bod. Flat tummy. Good pecs. Even better than in my imaginings. The army builds men.

  “Hey, Jana,” he says. Knuckling sleep out of his eyes like when he was a kid. “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re having a real date. How’s this?” I tick off the requirements. “Pick you up at your place—with flowers.” I thrust a bouquet at him.

  Grinning, he accepts it—and gives the flowers an exaggerated comic sniff. “Lilacs, my favorite.”

  “C’mon, get dressed,” I laugh, “I’m taking you to lunch.”

  I follow him into the room, and as he dresses in the bathroom I’m left wondering what it would be like for us to jump back into that warm bed? Hey, hold the good thought. Don’t want to rush things, or do I?

  I drive out Sunset to the ocean and turn the Jaguar north on Pacific Coast Highway. “Yeah,” I acknowledge, “the car was a twenty-first birthday present from Leo.” Just above Big Rock on a straight stretch of PCH we hold hands for a while. Such a small thing, but electrifying. It’s not a jolt. More of a tingling. I’m very aware of his hand’s size, much larger than mine, the hard texture of his skin, no longer a boy’s hand, the way his fingers wrap around mine, the slight sweatiness. All these years apart I thought I would never touch him again. Never share that closeness that made me feel like we were one person.

  He notices the charm bracelet I’m wearing. It’s gold with all kinds of doodads dangling. “Hey, that’s cute. Something new?”

  “It was a gift. Part of a bequest. From Wendy Travers.” I show him that each of the charms represents one of the movies she wrote.

  “You guys stayed pretty close.”

  “Like sisters. At first when she was killed, it was headlines, everyone was talking about it. Now there’s nothing. Like she’s already forgotten.” His hand has tensed. “What?” I ask.

  He takes a deep breath. Then he ventures onto thin ice. “Why did she come to Teddy’s funeral?”

  I hear his puzzlement and know I’m the only one who can answer his question. “Penitence,” I say. “She hated herself for being part of what happened to Teddy.”

  He squeezes my hand. He understands. Maybe he forgives.

  We’re way past Malibu when I turn into Paradise Cove. It’s a beach area worthy of its name. During summer vacations from school, when our dads were working, David’s mom occasionally brought us out here. Far from the Hollywood scene, often we had the beach to ourselves.

  I take a blanket out of the trunk, David hoists my goodie-laden picnic basket, and we trek along the ocean’s edge until we find the right spot to spread out the feast. I turn on my portable radio. He uncorks the wine and proposes a toast to the future. I love the sound of that.

  We’ve been talking nonstop. We both want to tell each other everything we’ve thought and felt since we were separated. Now he asks why I’m wearing a USC sweatshirt when last he heard I was bound for Northwestern?

  “I had to come back when Leo got sick—so I finished up at USC. What you’re really asking is, why am I still living at home?”

  “You still read minds,” he teases.

  “Only certain minds,” I say. “Leo’s okay now, but … well, you know him. He comes on as this I-don’t-need-anyone curmudgeon, but he’s lonely and depressed a lot of the time. He’s dated some women, but nothing lasted. So I keep him company, play hostess when he entertains people, which isn’t very often. It’s temporary.”

  I feel David’s gaze, questioning how long “temporary” is.

  “Don’t give me that look,” I say. “Tell me about Teddy in Europe. He got married again?”

  David tells me about Helga Erikssen, the Danish actress Teddy met on one of his uncredited French pictures. “That happened while I was in Korea. Came back and I had a stepmother, but a keeper, a lovely, bright woman who made Teddy very happy. Except—”

  He pauses. There’s something in his voice. “Except what?”

  “Teddy didn’t have a passport, so he couldn’t go with Helga when she worked outside of France. Otherwise he would have been on the plane with her when it crashed outside of Belgrade. No survivors.”

  I’m shocked. I squeeze his hand, but what I really want is to hug away another nightmare I wasn’t even aware of. “That—that must have been—”

  “Yeah, not a good time,” he says.

  * * *

  After we finish brunch, we stroll barefooted in the surf, then the wind comes up. We retreat to the shelter of an embankment and wrap ourselves in the blanket like a sleeping bag for two. Laughing as we try to tuck in all the corners to keep the sand out—our faces close together, chattering happily, then kissing. As adults for the first time. I’m happier now than I’ve been in so long. Lost in the smell of his hair, the feel of his skin, the taste of him. Our hands groping excitedly under our clothing, rubbing and caressing; his fingers slip inside me, I tremble.

  “Know what I want to do now?” he says in a husky voice.

  We look deeply into each other’s eyes.

  “Me, too.”

  There’s a small inn at Paradise Cove and we’re in a room with the shutters closed but we can hear the crashing surf. Blending our bodies, knowing exactly the right moves as though we’ve been doing this for years. Forget about anyone else. I now know the meaning of the words “making love.” We fall asleep entwined in each other.

  In the middle of the night, after a breathtaking encore, I feel so at peace. We’re laying there exploring each other with wandering fingers.

  “I love your body,” he says. “Even better than I imagined.”

  “Shoulda been around a few years back, there was a lot mor
e to love. I was as big as the Goodyear blimp. They called it a chronic eating disorder.”

  “That’s tough stuff. How’d you get over it?”

  “Guess I knew I had to—because someone exactly like you might drop by.”

  My fingers pause on his back. There is a coarse knot of skin below his left shoulder blade.

  “What’s that scar?” I ask.

  “Nothing. It’s old.”

  “But from what?”

  “Korea.”

  “You were—shot?”

  “Shrapnel. From a mortar shell.”

  He doesn’t say any more. But I have to know more. I prop myself up on my elbow, gaze at him in the shaft of light coming from the opening of the bathroom door, and ask:

  “Did you kill anyone over there?”

  “I was a medic. I didn’t carry a weapon.”

  “Doctor David? How’d that happen?”

  “Well, I volunteered for the Rangers and went through training with them. Then they wanted to throw me out because they discovered I was ‘political.’”

  “Because of Teddy.”

  “Yeah, but my company commander was a stand-up guy. Instead of giving me the boot, he gave me a Red Cross armband. So that’s how I went to Korea. Carrying pressure bandages and sulfur packs instead of a machine gun. At least I could stay with the guys—they’d become my friends.”

  I touch his scar again. “Was this from the time you won the big medal?” He draws back.

  “Nah, the medal thing—that was before.” He shrugs it off. “Pulled a few of our wounded guys to safety under fire. This was from—later. Hey, you don’t want to hear all that. It’s all healed now.”

  “Is it?” I sense there’s much more. I see a tic in his cheek that was not there before.

  “I want to tell you everything,” he says slowly. “Whenever I thought about us somehow getting together again, I promised myself—no secrets.”

  I nod. Agreeing. Encouraging. But scared of what he’s about to say.

  “We,” he coughs a little, “me and my squad, we’d been through a lot, but we’d been lucky, only lost three guys. On this icy morning we were climbing a steep hill. In the snow. Near the Chinese border. Suddenly from the distance we heard the sound of bugles. That’s how the Chinese announced themselves. We were strung out, one in front of the other. I was last as usual. That was part of my job. Bring up the rear. Patch up the wounded. When the mortar round came, it hit us an instant before the sound. Then I was all alone on that hillside.”

  I choke up. Fearing the answer, I ask, “Where were the others?”

  “Gone.” He coughs again. “Dead. Just bits and pieces. All around. Blood on the snow. Body parts.” I’m staring at him. Reliving his horror. “I felt so—glad to be alive, and then—guilty. See, my job was to help them. But there was nothing, no one left.” The tic in his cheek fires again. “All gone. Except for me—The Lone Ranger.” His ironic smile comes out a wince. “I didn’t even know I was hit until the other squad reached us.”

  “Oh God…” I feel a jab of pain in my chest. He reaches out to reassure me!

  “Jana, that was a lifetime ago. End of my tour of duty. Only, the thing is…” I’m fighting back tears as he forces himself to continue “… I still don’t know why I was the only one spared.”

  I put my face down on his chest, his heart is pounding in my ear. God, I’m so glad he came back. “I love you, David,” I say.

  CHAPTER

  18

  DAVID

  Early morning, and it’s misty on the Panorama outdoor back lot. The cast and crew are gathered in front of a four-story-high block-wide blue sky back drop. A ridge has been built in the foreground. Not papier-mâché, because horses with riders are going to gallop up and down. We’re about ready to shoot, but Leo is in his aluminum trailer loudly hassling with Barney Ott and Jack Heritage.

  I assume it’s the usual. Leo has been falling further and further behind schedule, so the suits are applying pressure. Keeler Barnes sets me straight, that’s not it. He holds up Film Bulletin. Folded open to Joe Shannon’s column, The Rumor Mill.

  The lead item reads: “Don’t let it get around, folks, but the Panorama poobahs may be fed up enough with the fiscal foolishness on Against the Wind to fire Leo Vardian.”

  “Is it true?” I ask.

  Keeler shrugs. “Can never tell with that cocksucker Shannon, he loves to play with people’s lives.”

  I know why I’m pissed at Shannon—I’ve told Keeler about the run-in at the commisary—but I’m surprised at Keeler’s vehemence. Is it because his job may be in danger?

  “Just scratches open an old wound,” he tells me. “Film editors usually don’t rate Shannon’s columns, but years ago he made an exception for me. Juicy items like, ‘There’s an uncooperative HUAC witness named Keeler Barnes in the cutting room over at Panorama who ought to be fired to make room for a loyal American.’ Garbage like that, until they canned me.”

  The door to Leo’s trailer is thrown open. Ott and Heritage emerge, followed by Leo, his chest puffed out, sure sign he’s on the warpath. Ott is clutching a rolled-up copy of Film Bulletin and waving it in the air. They’ve found a common enemy.

  “Filthy Fifth Columnist! Scandal-mongering son of a bitch! Wait’ll I get ahold of Shannon, I’ll rip out his intestines and play jump rope with ’em!” Heritage vows.

  “Leo, you focus on making your movie,” Ott pats his shoulder. “We’ll handle this.”

  They stride away, Ott barking marching orders to Heritage: “Call Shannon’s publisher, tell him we demand a retraction! Or we’re gonna stop advertising in that rag!”

  Leo wanders over to Keeler and me.

  “Think Shannon will print a retraction?” Keeler asks.

  “Does he ever?” Leo spits on the ground. “What I think is, those two bastards”—looking after Ott and Heritage just leaving the soundstage—“I think they planted that lousy item themselves. Screw it. Gotta go to work.”

  Leo goes toward the camera where Heston and Poitier, in makeup and costume, are waiting for him.

  “Why would the studio put something in the paper that hurts their own picture?” I ask Keeler. “Just to amp up pressure on Leo to go faster?”

  “Plus, rule number one in Hollywood: cover your ass. If this picture turns into a full-blown disaster, they already publicly identified the fall guy.”

  I look over at Leo, who seems totally absorbed in rehearsing the scene with his actors. How can he simply shut it all out? Then a vehicle zooms to a stop behind us. Keeler glances over his shoulder.

  “Lookie-lookie, a visitor from Olympus.”

  The Rolls-Royce parks in a red No Parking Zone in front of a fire hydrant. Harry Rains springs out, hurries past us with cursory nods, mumbling, “Hey, Keeler—David, howyadoin’?” His arms wrap Leo in a bear hug. Announcing so everyone can hear:

  “Came as soon as I read that trash, Leo, I’m outraged.”

  Harry Rains’s presence on our set is an event. He hasn’t been here since our first day of shooting.

  “I’m going to call Shannon myself and read him the riot act. We’ll get this all straightened out.”

  “I’m doing the best I can here, Harry. You know that.”

  “Of course you are.” He massages Leo’s shoulder reassuringly and they step off to the side and whisper together for a moment. Then Harry goes back on the public record, giving Leo a full-voiced endorsement: “Keep up the good work!” He turns to face the entire troupe. “That goes for all of you—thanks for your fine efforts, Panorama really appreciates it!”

  “Come back and see us anytime, Harry,” Leo calls as Harry waves and strides back to his Rolls.

  Keeler looks after him. “If I parked my car there for thirty seconds, the studio bulls would tow me off to Inglewood.”

  I shrug. “Harry’s been doing that since he started to drive. Parking in the red, white, and yellow zones. Told me he used to get a mountain of tickets, but here’s his
motto.” I mimic Harry, “‘Gray spaces are for gray people.’”

  Keeler laughs. “Well, what the hell, it’s Harry’s world.”

  While the AD positions the extras and the makeup and hair people do final touches on our stars, Leo strolls over to me. “C’mere a second,” he says, guiding me off by ourselves. What have I done now?

  He grips my shoulder and growls in my ear. “I know about it. You and Jana.”

  * * *

  I stiffen. Paradise Cove was nearly two weeks ago. Since then Jana and I have been spending every possible moment together. During workdays that means casual contacts at the studio—and many glorious evenings in my bed at the Chateau, noshing on corned beef sandwiches from Greenblatt’s Deli and each other. On weekends we take off, driving to La Jolla or Ojai, seeking out-of-the-way places. A week after we were together, I asked, “Would you be interested in marrying me sometime?”

  She wrinkled her brow and said, “Yeah, I could work that into my schedule.”

  But nobody else in town knew about us. Until now.

  The other night I brought up the subject. “Are we in hiding?”

  She laughed at the idea and said we were just being private. Did we want to become fodder for Louella’s column: NEWSOME TWOSOME, SECOND-GENERATION FILMLAND SWEETHEARTS? I sensed there was more to it than that. Finally, she admitted it was Leo.

  “But it’s not what you think. He’ll like the idea, he likes you, since you’ve been working for him he respects you, he’s told me so.”

  I pushed it. “But—?”

  “He’s so enmeshed in his movie, under so much pressure right now, I just don’t want to do anything to, y’know, add to his load. We’ll tell him when the time’s right.”

  * * *

  “Jana told me at breakfast,” Leo says; his grip on my shoulder tightens. Is he going to swing at me? “I couldn’t be happier.” He actually smiles. “It’s what I always dreamed of. Congratulations, David.”

  He shakes my hand formally, as if closing an important deal. Then he stalks back to his camera and rolls the scene. Leaving me stunned. Mostly pleased that Jana had decided now was the time. And despite my garbled feelings about Leo, I’m pleased, too, at his warm reaction.