by Denise Dietz
Due to her declining eyesight, Marylander, their only child, had problems in school. The Scotts had decided a private tutor was the solution. “We want someone who can live on the ranch, perhaps a young woman,” Sally had hinted. “Someone with infinite patience. A sense of humor wouldn’t hurt, either.”
Flo had eagerly volunteered. Living with the Scott family was the perfect solution to her own problems.
After Jack had abandoned his circles and squares, his success had grown phenomenally. There were many “fat old men” willing to invest in “Jaygee’s” work, many galleries willing to service the profitable artist. Sandy pleaded with Jack to move to New York City, Chicago, even Denver, where large studios and art materials were more readily available. Jack compromised by buying a house and connecting studio in Colorado Springs. He admired its architecture, derived from England, featuring Tudor-inspired towers, cupolas, and gables with exposed beams.
“There’s indoor plumbing,” he told Flo, “so you can spend hours every morning soaking in a nice hot tub.”
Soaking in a tub was one of her problems. She felt useless. She had been content to keep their small cabin clean, wash and mend clothes, cook meals, pose for Jack, and ride Dumas. Once again, Dumas was confined to a livery. Furthermore, the mare shied away from those horrible automobiles. Jack had even bought a bright red Buick Bearcat.
Flo knew she’d never wed. The thought of a man touching her in any way except friendship made her ill. Although she understood her revulsion was the end result of Samuel Peiffer’s attack and Minta’s murder, all mixed together, she couldn’t help how she felt.
That was her second problem. Approaching spinsterhood, she lived with a handsome widower. Jack had offered to marry her and continue their abstemious relationship, but she couldn’t say yes. Someday he might find another woman to love, another Leah.
Sally’s offer was the answer to a prayer.
Flo had lived at Turkey Creek for nine months. In the beginning it had been difficult. Marylander was a spoiled, rebellious child, accustomed to getting her own way. She used her handicap without shame to manipulate her parents and the servants. It had taken every ounce of Flo’s patience and resolve to keep from giving in to Marylander’s demands.
Just like Flo, the child loved horses more than anything else in her darkening world. For once her parents stood firm. Marylander could ride the pony they’d bought her, but she must keep away from Sally’s “equine ruffians.”
“A pony’s just a big dog,” Marylander complained.
Flo knew how the child felt. Her big dog had been the burro, Clementine.
Dumas shared the barn with Sally’s wild horses. Dumas was tame enough to be ridden by Marylander, yet active enough to please the little girl’s sense of control. Flo used her dappled mare as a bribe, a reward, a punishment.
It worked. In fact, it worked too well. Sally and Lorenzo had enrolled Marylander in the Colorado Springs School for the Blind and Deaf. Classes would begin next September.
“But she’s not blind, Sally,” Flo had protested.
“The doctors say we can’t stop the loss of her sight. You’ve done wonders, Flo dear, but you’re not trained to teach our little girl how to read and write once her vision’s gone. She won’t live at the school, so Lorenzo and I want you to stay on as her companion.”
I always end up taking charity, Flo had thought. But it didn’t pay to fret over what couldn’t be changed, and, for now, Marylander could still see through the thick lenses that covered her lovely eyes.
A small hand tapped Flo’s shoulder. “I finished the whole page,” Marylander said. “We don’t have time to ride before dinner, so would you read me a story from your movie magazine?”
“All right. There’s one about Mary Pickford. She just completed a movie called Romance of the Redwoods.”
“No, not Mary Pickford. Would you read me that new story ’bout John Chinook?”
* * * * *
“Open them, Flo.” Jack gestured toward a pile of gaily wrapped boxes on top of his parlor table. “The Scotts will be returning soon from St. Mary’s Church. If you were Catholic, we wouldn’t even have these Sunday mornings together. Aren’t the Scotts planning an outing? Monument Park?”
“Yes, but I don’t have to walk through Monument Park, Jack. I need only gaze at your latest painting. Redheaded finches, clownish chats, gaudy yellow orioles—oh, my! If I touched your birds, they’d fly away.”
Just like you, he thought. One touch and you shy away. I never wanted to lose you but I suppose it was inevitable. Don’t all birds leave the nest?
Jack had meant his marriage offer sincerely, yet could hardly contain his relief when Flo refused. With full maturity, she had developed an elusive, fey quality—eager, impulsive, and pure. She looked like a flower on the verge of blooming. Jack envied the man who’d unfold those lovely petals.
“Open your boxes,” he urged.
“I don’t understand. It’s not my birthday.”
“But August twelfth is Julie Penrose’s birthday.”
“Now I really don’t understand.”
“Do you know who Julie Penrose is?”
“Everybody knows about Julie. How she was widowed and decided to marry Spencer Penrose. How he packed his trunks and tried to escape her attention by sailing to Europe on the steamer Kaiser Wilhelm der Gross. How Julie trailed him from Pikes Peak and caught the Kaiser Wilhelm.” Flo smiled. “Spencer married her in London and they’ve lived happily ever after. My goodness, Jack, I sound like I’m telling a bedtime story to Marylander.”
“Speck has bought some of my paintings and we’ve become friends.”
“Speck?”
“Childhood nickname. Speck, or Spencer, plans to throw Julie a birthday ball at the Antlers Hotel, and I’ve been invited. A handful of film stars will be there. Producers and directors, too. Teddy Roosevelt was invited. He attended the grand opening of the hotel, you know. President Wilson was sent an invitation, but he might be too busy with affairs of state.” Jack paused when he saw Flo’s eyes spark like a blue match against black flint.
“What actors plan to attend?”
“Speck might have mentioned Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks. Oh, and Lillian Gish and D.W. Griff—”
“John Chinook?”
“I’m not sure about your Cat McDonald, though I did try to find out. Socially, Chinook’s not the same as Fairbanks, or even Hart and Mix. He keeps making those two-reel oaters produced by Triangle. Didn’t you say that he’s angered Triangle by his impossible demands?”
“Yes, but he’s contracted to them and his ‘oaters’ are very successful. It doesn’t really matter to me whether he’s at the Penrose ball.”
“Does it matter if you’re there?”
“I wasn’t invited.”
“I’m inviting you now.”
“Are you saying that I’ll be in the same room with Mary Pickford, Lillian Gish and D.W. Griffith?”
“Don’t forget Teddy Roosevelt.”
“Who?” She blushed. “Minta would say ‘Presidents is Presidents.’ ”
* * * * *
Flo stepped carefully from Jack’s Bearcat and stared up at the twin-towered structure. Jack had once told her that the Antlers, originally named for the deer and elk trophies on its walls, had been built Italian Renaissance style, with silver-gray bricks and a red tile roof. The August moon shone down upon decorative iron balconies, projecting from the third floor. Two years ago she and Jack had stayed there as guests, but tonight it looked different.
I look different, too, she thought, walking through the Cascade Avenue entrance into a huge gold, ivory and red lobby. Green velvet draperies hung at the tall windows, and the floors were covered with Oriental rugs. A central staircase of Italian marble seemed suspended against a wall of stained and leaded glass. At one end of the lobby was a balcony for the hotel’s permanent orchestra.
Jack’s gifts included white pumps, sheer stockings, and a violet gown wh
ose neckline dipped to Flo’s bosom, then gathered underneath in a Napoleonic empire style. On each side of the bodice, circling her breasts, were clusters of seed pearls in a flower petal design. Girded layers of more seed pearls cinched her hips, ending in another intricate flower on her left side.
The gown opened to her waist in back. Embarrassed by all that bare skin, Flo had ignored fashion’s dictates and worn her long hair loose. Jack said it crackled like ebony flames.
Her only makeup was lip rouge and a puff of powder, her only ornament Blueberry’s nugget ring, adjusted to fit her finger by a local jeweler when she finally stopped biting her nails.
Clothed in a black tuxedo, Jack led her toward the Grand Ballroom on the second level, below the lobby. “This room can handle over six hundred people,” he said. “There aren’t any columns, just space. There’s a completely equipped stage, so the ballroom can double as a concert hall, and a gallery can be projected from the north end. By the way, this floor also has bicycle rooms and a bowling alley. If you like, you can change into your bloomers and—”
“Hush. I must be dreaming.”
“Let’s find our host and wish his wife a happy birthday. Then you can meet your actors.”
As if moving through a dream, Flo found herself being introduced to Mary Pickford. Two years older than Flo, tiny Mary’s curls barely reached Flo’s chin.
“We once had the same last name,” Mary said. “Until nineteen-oh-seven my billing read Baby Gladys Smith.”
“Yes, I know.”
“What else do you know about me?”
“When you first met D.W. Griffith, he said you were too little and too—” Flo pressed her hands against her mouth, her cheeks burning.
“Fat?” Mary laughed. “Would you like to meet the famous, albeit tactless, Mr. Griffith?”
“Thank you, but I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“Let him do the talking. He loves to talk.” Mary led Flo toward the tall director with his heavy-lidded eyes and high-beaked nose.
After being introduced, he kissed Flo’s right hand and said, “What a unique ring, Miss Smith. The twisted nugget is small but succinct.”
“My ring is a souvenir from the Cripple Creek gold rush. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I recently attended a showing of your early film, The Massacre. I liked the way you were able to display the whole face on the screen.”
“Ah, the famous close-up. If you want to meet the individual responsible for my departure from convention, Miss Smith, say hello to Billy Blitzer.” The director threw his arm around the shoulders of a shorter, stockier man.
Billy’s face had grooves between his nose and mouth. “I told David that some of the things he wanted me to do were impossible, Miss Smith. The high angles, the switchback, which David insists we need for suspense, and—”
“They’re calling it crosscutting now,” Griffith said. “Right, Claude?”
A short, wiry man, with slicked-back hair and a thin mustache was the only person not clothed in formal attire. Instead, he wore a white shirt, fawn jodhpurs and polished boots. He shrugged at Griffith’s question about crosscutting.
“I must apologize,” Griffith said to Flo. “A young woman like yourself wouldn’t be interested in a technical discussion of my films.”
“You’re wrong, sir. I’ve been reading about movies my whole life. A switchback means going back and forth between the action, doesn’t it? Your massacre movie had Indians fighting, and a closer picture of the settlers fighting back.” She extended her arms then brought her hands together in a four-fingered square. “We see a close-up of a child cowering. You cut to a troop of cavalry miles away. Back to the Indians and settlers, the cavalry, the Indians. It’s very exciting and gives one a sense of being part of the action.”
“Afterwards, we must initiate the fade-out,” said Blitzer. “David wants miracles.”
“Naturally, Billy. That’s why you have to do what I say. I don’t care what anybody else thinks about it. What do you think, Miss Smith?”
“I think you’re very nice to talk about movies when you could be enjoying the party.”
“I’m never bored talking about my movies, and I enjoy hearing your opinion. What do you say to that?”
Flo twisted her ring.
“Do you have an opinion I won’t appreciate, Miss Smith?”
“No, sir. Yes, sir. I . . .” She took a deep breath. “I saw Birth of a Nation and didn’t care for the Ku Klux Klan part. I had colored friends when I was a little girl and they were not at all the way your movie depicts Negroes. I’m sorry, sir, but that’s how I feel. On the other hand, the scene where Mrs. Cameron visits a Federal hospital and finds her wounded son made me cry.”
“Do you cry easily?”
“Only at your movies. I can’t wait to see Intolerance.”
“Could you cry on demand?”
“I doubt it. Anyway, I believe false weeping went out of style at the turn of the century, along with swooning.”
“Excuse me a moment.” Once again, Griffith turned toward the man in boots and jodhpurs. “Did you obtain your financial backing, Claude?”
“Yes. Edward Lytton, a businessman from Denver, agreed to finance a western serial if I film it here in Colorado. He wants to call his company Dollyscope, after his dead wife.”
“Dollyscope? Sounds like Colonel Selig’s Polyscope.”
“I know, but Lytton’s the one with money to invest. He’s always admired Selig’s Adventures of Kathlyn and Pearl White’s The Perils of Pauline. He wants his son Ned to work with me and learn the motion picture business.”
Flo felt the color drain from her face.
“Are you ill?” Mary whispered.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“You don’t look fine. Claude, fetch Miss Smith a glass of wine.”
“That won’t be necessary. Here comes my protégé, Miss Adams, and from the way she’s carrying her wine, it hasn’t been touched.” Snatching the girl’s goblet, Claude extended it toward Flo.
I’m going to spill this on my beautiful dress, she thought, her fingers digging into the stem of the goblet. First the mention of Ned Lytton. Now, Ruthie Adams, the girl inside Cat’s hotel room. Why is she here without “John Chinook”?
Ruthie wore a lemon-yellow gown whose décolletage plunged to the very tips of her small breasts, and she had rouged her nipples. Loss of weight made her appear younger. So did the foolish expression on her face when she stared at Mary Pickford. Obviously aware that Mary would be in attendance, Ruthie had avoided competition by arranging her curls into a pompadour. She leaned suggestively against Claude while shifting her stare to Flo. There was not the slightest flicker of recognition.
“Darling Mary,” said Claude, “would you play the lead in my new serial? I’d make it worth your while.”
Ruthie’s face expressed instant dismay. “But Claudie, you promised—”
“Hush!” Placing his arm around Ruthie’s waist, he squeezed and she giggled.
“No, thanks,” said Mary. “A serial is not my cup of tea. Why don’t you ask Miss Smith?”
The small man swiveled toward Flo. “We haven’t been formerly introduced. I’m Claude DuBois. Until recently I worked for William Selig. I helped shoot his Tom Mix movies. Can you ride a horse, Miss Smith?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Edward Lytton wants his serial to be a western. After outlaws take over the ranch, my heroine must gallop through the countryside, searching for her missing father, finding herself in peril at the end of every reel.”
“That’s nice,” said Flo. “Please excuse me, Miss Pickford. Miss Adams. Gentlemen. My nose needs powdering.”
“Mine needs powdering, too.” Mary handed their wine glasses to Blitzer and crooked her arm through Flo’s.
Flo saw Ruthie reach for Mary’s other arm, drop her hand, and follow a couple of paces behind.
* * * * *
When the three women were out of sight, Griffith looked at Clau
de DuBois. “You asked Miss Smith if she could ride. Were you considering her for your serial?”
“Not really. I responded to Pickford’s prodding. I prefer somebody trained in the art of acting.”
“Miss Smith would photograph beautifully. What do you think, Billy?”
Blitzer squinted, as though visualizing a movie scene. “I wouldn’t even waste film testing her.”
“Are you serious?” DuBois fingered his mustache. “How do you know she wants to be in movies?”
Griffith grinned. “Did you see her face light up when she talked about my pictures? ‘I’ve been reading about movies my whole life,’ she said.”
“But she could be employed. Or married.”
“Employed, perhaps, but not married. She wore no wedding band, only that nugget ring on her right hand.”
“Do you think I should offer her an acting role?”
“If you don’t, I will. It might be fun developing a new motion picture star.”
Griffith began expounding on his other discoveries. With relish, he described the various aspects of Princess Beloved’s anatomy, coming to an abrupt halt when he spied the three women strolling toward them—Pickford, Smith and Adams.
* * * * *
DuBois drummed his fingernails against his jodhpurs. “We were discussing Mr. Lytton’s new serial,” he said. “Would you consider playing the role of my heroine, Miss Smith?”
“No, thank you. I’m not an actress.”
“But Claudie,” Ruthie whined, “you promised—”
“Shut up!”
Griffith winked at Blitzer. “Would you recite something for us, Miss Smith?”
“Here? Now?”
“Right here. Right now.”
“There’s no sound in pictures,” said DuBois.
“I want to see her mouth move and read the expression in her eyes. Isn’t that correct, Mary?”
“ ‘They always say you don’t have any lines to remember, but you do have lines to remember in your head. You don’t speak them, but they are in your mind. Think of your lines first, and have them register the same way they do when you’re speaking.’ Is that correct, David?”