Later
Whether it was the nap in the park, the letter from AL, or the movie and popcorn, something revived E for the afternoon’s drive. With our long stop, we only got as far as St. Charles, but the camp was clean and cheerfully crowded. The next campsite had five young women sleeping like canned sardines in a wall tent. They had a great pot of mutton stew that they were happy to share. E made a batch of pan biscuits and a quick pot of custard to add to the spread.
It was nice to have a tableful of conversation. E was livelier than I’d seen her in a while. When one woman said that she was headed back home a new divorcée, they all cheered. E bit her lip, and I wondered if she was going to say something about Carl, about Nevada, but she didn’t. They all started singing “Wild Women Don’t Have the Blues.” When they got to When my man starts kicking I let him find another home, they practically shouted the line. Though I’m sure E had never heard it before, she joined in for the second round.
FRANCIE
There it is.
Both step close to the edge of the Grand Canyon and look down.
BERYL
I didn’t know anything could be so big. Makes my problems seem rather small, doesn’t it?
FRANCIE
You’re not a canyon.
BERYL
Some days I think my worries could fill one.
FRANCIE
And your happiness?
BERYL
Some days.
(still gazing down into the canyon)
I could wake up to this every morning.
(impulsively)
We should move here.
FRANCIE
We?
BERYL
Why are you blushing?
FRANCIE
Because Arizona’s too hot.
—Excerpt from the unproduced screenplay When She Was King
Chapter Eight
1952
Louise drives too fast. She doesn’t know what the speed limit is out here. She doesn’t care. Desert whips past. She wants to get out of Nevada. She wants to get away from what she’s heard.
She’s left the top down, and the wind lifts her hair. Curls defiantly uncurl. She hasn’t put her hat back on. She hasn’t tied on a scarf. She doesn’t know if she cares.
She knows about divorce ranches. Who doesn’t? She’s seen The Women. She’s seen The Road to Reno. She’s seen all of the news items about this celebrity or that waiting out her six weeks amid cowboys and endless Manhattans. Hollywood makes it seem almost glamorous. Easy. Lord knows, Hollywood is all about easy. Girdles and pancake makeup can hide a multitude of regrets. So, in Nevada, can a divorce.
She turns up the radio. It’s Doris Day, singing like a breeze. She pushes her foot down on the pedal. Mountains whir past.
Divorce is for bored housewives. For cheating husbands. For young girls, for rich ones, for ones so impulsive they can’t settle down. It wasn’t for her dad, so quiet and steady. It wasn’t for her mom, dead before she’d gotten far in life. And—not that anyone asked—it wasn’t for her.
Louise finds a diner in Needles with a pay phone. She places the number with the long-distance operator and perches on the stool in the booth. While the call is being routed, she straightens her stockings and brushes dust from the toes of her shoes. Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the diner’s windows, she begins to regret not having worn a scarf in the convertible.
Operator rings operator rings operator. She imagines them lined up across the country like beads on a necklace. She runs her index finger over her lips and can’t remember when she last reapplied her lipstick.
In the restaurant, a man sitting at the counter watches her. She pats down her hair. She wonders if he can recognize her through the glass of the phone booth, with her dusty dress, her wild hair, her determined face. He pushes back his fedora and continues staring over spoonfuls of chili. The Newark operator announces, “It’s ringing,” and the line connects with a click.
She hears, “Hello?” The word sounds small all the way from New Jersey, and she pivots away from the diners.
“Phone call from Needles, California,” the long-distance operator says.
“Needles?” the man asks on the other end of the line. “Well,” he says, “I guess so.”
“Daddy?” she asks, her voice suddenly just as small. She forgets her bare lips and matted hair. She hunches her shoulders down, closing herself in on this one phone call. “It’s me.” As though anyone else would be phoning and calling him “Daddy.” She says, “It’s Anna Louisa.”
The line crackles. She’s not sure if it’s the connection or if Dad’s dropped the phone. But it clears. “Al,” he says, more loudly than before. “What are you doing calling today? It’s not Sunday.”
“Oh, Dad, yes it is. You’re just playing hooky from church again today, I bet.”
He gives a dry laugh. “I’ve had pneumonia. If that doesn’t get a free pass from the Almighty, I don’t know what will.”
“You still run-down?”
“Oh, I’ll get by.” He coughs, but he sounds better.
“You know where no one gets pneumonia?” she asks. “The desert. If you came out this way, like I keep saying…”
“Oh, hush. You know I need to be where it snows and rains and turns orange every autumn.”
She crosses her legs. “I just worry about you, Daddy.”
“And I worry about you, Al. You didn’t call last week.”
“You know how things get when we’re finishing a picture. It’s been an absolute hive.” She slips her heel out of her right shoe and rubs it with a thumb. “And we’re already getting ready to start the next.” She hesitates. “It shoots in Vegas.”
“Like that Jane Russell picture?”
“The Las Vegas Story? Less drama, more tap dancing.”
“Hmph.”
She doesn’t mention that this is the second time she’s found herself driving away from Las Vegas instead of toward it. That she has to be on set tomorrow morning and hasn’t even checked into her hotel. That, more than the film, more than the script, more than the ultimatum, it’s Nevada itself she dreads.
If she checks in to the Flamingo, walks in and out of its doors for six weeks, what happens at the end of it? When all she has to do is walk into the courthouse and, minutes later, walk out with a divorce in hand. She doesn’t want to stay long enough to let herself think of that. She doesn’t want to allow that to be a possibility.
“Is that why you’re calling from Needles? It’s been a while since you’ve shot on location. On your way there?”
Out the window, cars stream past. People heading off to adventure. People looking to see how far the country stretches. She thinks of her mother’s ledger and Florence Daniels’ diary, both tucked in the brown envelope back in the apartment. “I don’t know.”
The line crackles again. “I’m sorry. What was that?”
She knows this phone call is costing a fortune. But these weekly phone calls with her dad are worth all the gold in the Yukon. “No,” she amends. “Well, not right now.” She tugs on the phone cord with her pinkie. “I thought I’d come home for Christmas.”
As she says it, she can almost smell snow and pine trees and hot gingerbread. A lump works its way down her throat.
“Home?”
Though she hasn’t been back in years, though the word has been redefined a half-dozen times—from apartments and hotels to the little bungalow on Rodeo Drive—right now, all she can think about is a black-shuttered house with a crooked elm in back. “To New Jersey.”
Christmas had always been her favorite time of year. Carols and snowmen and too much to eat. Popcorn over the fireplace. She can almost taste it. Until this moment, she hasn’t realized how much she wanted to be there.
Her dad is quiet for a moment. He muffles another cough. “You’re not going to fly, are you?”
After three crashes in the past year, Newark Airport had been closed. Every Sunday night call with Da
d had been full of news. The third plane had narrowly missed an orphanage.
“Is the airport still closed?”
“It’s open now, but Al, you shouldn’t…”
“I won’t.” She fingers the car key sitting on the ledge by her purse. “I’m driving. I have a big red Studebaker, Dad, as bright as a maraschino cherry.”
“That’s a long way to drive.”
“I have a map of sorts.”
Dad coughs again, and she hears a voice murmuring in the background. She wonders if Hank still comes over for Sunday dinners. She wonders if he still brings meringue-topped cream pies.
“Al, this is probably costing you a mint.”
“Okay, Dad.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. “I’ll see you in a few days.”
He says, “I love you…”
“…as big as the prairies,” she finishes.
It’s their usual sign-off. The way they’ve always said goodbye, good night, be right back. It’s theirs and theirs alone.
She stands, ready to hang up the phone, but she stops. “Dad? You still here.”
She hears scrabbling on the other end. “Al? Everything okay?”
“Did…” She hesitates. “Did Mom love me too?”
There’s no hesitation in his voice. “Every moment of every day.”
Though she thinks she knows the answer, she asks, “Then why didn’t she take me with her? When she went on that road trip to California, why didn’t she bring me along?”
She wonders if he’ll tell her. About the trip in search of a divorce, about Mom’s trip in search of them. He’s quiet. Maybe he will.
But when he speaks, it’s to say, “Sometimes we have to leave behind those we love, Al. Sometimes we have to do what we think is right for ourselves and hope they understand.”
She doesn’t know if he’s talking about Mom or if he’s talking about himself. Or maybe he’s really talking about her, driving off and leaving Arnie alone in Beverly Hills. She hangs up, without repeating the sign-off. She doesn’t know how to respond.
She leaves the booth and orders a cup of coffee. It’s burning hot, but she drinks half of it quickly. It’s easier than thinking.
She knows what she has to do. She thinks she’s known it since leaving the house yesterday, maybe even since leaving the studio meeting where they gave her the new script and the ultimatum.
She goes back into the booth and places a call to the studio. She really should’ve called Charlie, her agent, but she knows he spends Sundays napping on the hammock in his backyard. Charlie’s a friend. She won’t make him put down his beer to come to the phone.
While she waits for the call to be routed, she sips her coffee. Through the glass of the booth, the waitress glares. She should’ve left her mug on the counter. The long-distance operator connects to Los Angeles and the studio switchboard begins ringing. The studio should be empty, with everyone home ready to tuck into Sunday dinners. She can leave a message. She can be well on her way to New Jersey before they get the message that she’s not going to Las Vegas after all.
Of course she’s not as lucky as that. Of course the head of production is working through the weekend, and is happy to take her call. She really should’ve called Charlie.
He’s irate. She could’ve guessed that he would be. She wishes there were whiskey in her coffee. “What are we going to do now?” she hears, and, “Who do you think you are?” She’s past caring about the answer to the first question, and starting to get an inkling about the second. She puts the receiver down on the ledge, the yelling reverberating through the little booth, and reapplies her lipstick. She drinks more of her coffee, leaving a red mark on the rim. When the phone calms down, she picks it back up. “Suspend me if you want. When you’re ready to talk about a new contract, call Charlie.” She drops her lipstick in her purse and snaps it shut. “I have to do what I think is right for myself.”
She places one more call to L.A. Though it rings and rings on the other end, Arnie doesn’t pick up.
Leaving the empty mug on the counter along with a nickel, she heads out.
—
She drives as far as Williams, Arizona, before realizing she needs to look at something other than endless black pavement. The sun is low and as orange as a pumpkin. She checks into a motel, which gleefully boasts steam heat and knotty pine interiors. Steam heat? She’s spent the day shut into a car. She sheds her cardigan. With the window open, she turns on the radio and stretches flat on her back.
It’s that new song “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” Every ten minutes, it seems, it’s on, Jimmy Boyd whining his way through the song. She contemplates changing the channel, but doesn’t. That would involve getting up from the bed.
Cool and still beneath the music, she dozes off.
When she wakes, Gene Autry is singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” She rubs at her eyes with her thumbs. How long has she been asleep? Through the window, the sky is indigo. She washes her face and heads to the motel’s cocktail lounge, where, feeling adventurous, she orders fried rice with chicken. It comes sprinkled with almonds and is delicious.
There’s a phone at the bar, nestled next to an overzealous poinsettia. The bartender slides over an old-fashioned on a paper napkin while she dials the operator. She tries calling Arnie, again, but there’s no answer, again. She leaves some change on the bar next to the phone and takes the drink back to her table.
When the waitress comes by with a second old-fashioned, she asks, “Heading there tomorrow, or have you already been?”
Louise drinks the last swallow from her first glass. “Pardon?”
“The Grand Canyon.”
The new drink has two cherries in it instead of one. “Is that around here?”
As soon as she asks, she knows it’s a mistake. The waitress snaps her fingers and disappears. Louise hurriedly gulps, knowing she’ll return with some of those damned brochures.
Indeed she does, handfuls of brochures printed in red and blue, showing canyons, rivers, mule tours. “Most people think two days is enough, but there’s really so much to see.” She moves Louise’s empty plate to make room for the brochures, which she spreads open. “What you’ve seen in the movies is hardly anything.”
Louise pulls a brochure closer. The photo is striking, more so than the monotonous landscape she’s been driving through. “There have been movies filmed there?”
“Oh, sure.” The waitress stacks fork and knife on the empty plate. “Grand Canyon, of course. Family Honeymoon, with Fred MacMurray. Oh, Thief of Bagdad. I’ll never know for sure, but I swear Sabu came in here for a drink while they were filming.”
Louise is certain a star like Sabu never ventured to Williams, Arizona, just for a cocktail. But, then again, she never would’ve thought she’d be sitting here having one herself. “Can I take the drink up to my room?”
The waitress looks almost relieved. Louise is the only woman alone in the lounge, and the only one with a drink. “Please do.” She takes the bill from her apron pocket. “But you really should think about stopping at the Grand Canyon.” She shrugs. “If for no other reason than to say you’ve seen it.”
—
It’s as good a reason as any. The next morning, after she checks out of the motel, she drives to the center of town, and then turns north. The map she has says it’s only sixty or so miles to the Grand Canyon National Park.
The day is blue and warm with wispy clouds high above the desert. She wears her white dress again, this time with her gray pumps, matching gloves, and a dove-gray hat with a spray of arrow-tipped feathers in front. As she drives, they brush the roof of the car. She fiddles with the radio, but way out here, she can’t find a station she likes. Anyway, she’s too keyed up for music.
Before she left the motel this morning, she called Arnie. It rang for a full minute and a half before she gave up. Maybe he’d been asleep. Maybe he’d been in the bathtub. Maybe he’d been sitting at his dusty desk, watching the curved black phone rin
g and not caring.
She also made another phone call, to her agent. It’s Monday now. He’s always at his desk by six-thirty Monday mornings, just in case. It was early enough in the morning that the call went through quickly. Charlie answered on the first ring.
“Charlie,” she began, “I know what you’re going to say.”
“Do you have any idea the messages I had on my desk this morning, LuLu?” His voice was graveled from decades of chain-smoking. “You’d think you’d assassinated Truman.”
“Not showing up on set? No, that’s treason.”
He coughed. She could hear the snick of a lighter. “So you deposit this mess in my lap and head off to…Where are you going?”
“The Grand Canyon.”
“Why the hell are you doing that? You do know that’s outside, right?”
Only Charlie could get away with that, both the “hell” and the teasing. “Which of the two of us knows how to ride a horse?”
“If I climbed on a horse, that sucker would fold beneath me like an accordion.” There was a muffled “damn” and the clatter of the phone hitting the desk. When Charlie came back on the line, he said, “Spilled my coffee.”
“Tell me what else is new.”
“So why are you calling?” She could picture him frantically mopping at his tie with a handkerchief. There was a reason all of Charlie’s ties were brown. “This is costing a fortune.”
“Well, Charlie, who else would I call?”
“You mean, who else would deal with your messes.”
She tried to put a wheedle into her voice. “No one can fix them as good as you.”
“That’s because you pay me buckets.” He saw straight through her little-girl voice. He always did. “LuLu, what do you want?”
“You know what I want. A better contract. Better scripts. Better roles, that don’t involve tap shoes.”
“We can work on the studio,” he said. “But not if you’re suspended.”
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