City of Flickering Light

by Juliette Fay

  The next morning Millie didn’t get up. “I ache all over,” she said.

  “Are you sick?”

  Millie didn’t answer for a moment. “No, Irene,” she said slowly, as if Irene were from another country and might have trouble translating the words. “I’m sore.”

  That punched-in-the-stomach feeling hit Irene again, and she didn’t know whether to lie back down on the bed and put her arms around Millie or pick up the wash basin and throw it against the wall. That bastard.

  The other girls in the room buzzed around like gnats, sidling between the three beds that left only knee-width aisles to get to the door. She wanted to scream at them all to go—scram, for chrissake—so she could talk to Millie.

  “I’m going to the studio and I’m getting a job,” she said. “No, two jobs, one for each of us. And then we’re getting out of here.”

  Millie gazed up at her, and tears formed in her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “For what?”

  “For letting this happen. For making you mad.”

  Irene sat back down on the bed and took Millie’s hand. “I’m not mad.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I’m mad at him for doing this to you!”

  “I’m sorry you have to be mad about anything. Or upset. Or, you know, kind of sick-feeling.”

  How does she always know? thought Irene.

  “This was not your fault, Millie.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I know it for a fact. He had no right—no right at all.” She could feel her fury coming to a boil again and had to will herself to stay calm. “And there’s something else I know: we’re in this together.” She squeezed Millie’s hand. “You get hurt; I feel sick. That’s how it is with friends.”

  Millie began to cry in earnest now. “You won’t leave me?” she whispered.

  Irene cupped Millie’s cheek and gently brushed at the hot tears with her thumb. “I won’t leave you.”

  As Irene strode down Sunset Boulevard, she told herself she had a task to complete, with no room for weakness. She tried not to think—about anything—but certainly not about Millie, so beaten down she couldn’t get out of bed. Or about her own sister, in another bed, unable to rise for a very different reason. It had been three years now, but Ivy’s face, even paler than Millie’s, was carved into Irene’s memory like a scar. And it had been all her fault.

  At the studio gate, Irene squared herself to face the tasks at hand. She found Carter relatively quickly.

  “She okay?” he asked.

  “No,” Irene said. “But she will be. And we both need jobs.”

  He took her to a two-story building with a plain wooden sign that said SCENARIO DEPARTMENT, up the stairs, down the hall, to a room tightly packed with eight tiny desks the size of sewing machine tables. In fact, they were actual sewing machine tables, which Irene realized when she looked down and saw the foot treadles. On top were stacks of paper and identical Corona No. 3 typewriters in various states of wear.

  “Why isn’t anyone here?” asked Irene.

  “It’s only seven-forty-five,” said Carter.

  “I’m used to getting here early to claim a seat on the benches.”

  “It’s a little more civilized up here. But not much. Miss Clemente runs the place, and she . . . well, she should be in anytime now.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to work—I can’t stand around here all day.”

  “What happened to you getting me a job! Should I tell her you sent me, at least?”

  “Aw, she probably doesn’t even know who I am.” Carter frowned. “Tell her . . . tell her Eva Crown sent you. She makes more work in here than anyone.” He began to inch away, then turned and walked quickly for the door.

  “Carter!” But he was already halfway down the stairs. Irene looked around. The walls were bare, the plaster chipped, and there was only one window. I’ll bet they fight to sit by it.

  It occurred to her that there might be some sort of speed test, and she hadn’t put her fingers anywhere near a typewriter in years. She sat down at the sewing table by the window, rolled some paper in, and closed her eyes. She typed a song she and her sister used to sing, about a little girl praying for her father in the Great War.

  O kindly tell my daddy that he must take care.

  That’s a baby’s prayer at twilight for her daddy, “over there.”

  Suddenly Irene could hear her sister singing the harmony, high and sweet, and her fingers froze on the keys. It had been a long time since she’d heard that voice so clearly. She clenched her eyes shut, wanting it to go on, but then a door opened and the fragile memory disappeared into the air like a breath.

  “May I help you?”

  Irene opened her eyes. Standing before her was an older woman in a brown dress that hung off her thin frame like it was meant for someone two sizes larger. She had short brown hair, small brown eyes, and skin that appeared to have suffered a ravaging case of chicken pox. Irene hopped up quickly. The strap of her little pochette bag curled around the roller bar of the typewriter and flipped it forward so it collapsed onto the keyboard.

  “Oh! Oh, no! I’m terribly sorry!”

  The older woman reached over and simply flipped the mechanism back, revealing the keys once more. The machine was foldable. Irene felt utterly foolish, but she pasted on a smile. “You must be Miss Clemente.”

  The woman made no such effort. “I am. And you are—?”

  “Irene Van Beck. I’m to tell you that . . . that . . . Eva Crown sent me.”

  “You don’t seem certain.”

  “I am. Very.”

  “I see. And you’re a typist.”

  “I am, yes. I’m quite accurate.” This was distinctly inaccurate. Her rusty skills likely couldn’t get her through one line of text without a mistake.

  “We’re less concerned with accuracy than with speed. Scenarios aren’t published, after all. They’re read by actors, directors, and crew members, many of whom couldn’t spell their way to a free drink through a wide open speakeasy door.”

  “Then I’ll be able to type even faster,” Irene said weakly.

  Miss Clemente scrutinized her momentarily, as if searching for some readily visible character flaw or evidence of leprosy. “As it happens, I have a girl out sick. You can take her spot for now, and we’ll see where things stand when she resumes. If she resumes.”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “Girls don’t come to Hollywood to work as typists. They can do that anywhere. They take a job like this to get inside a studio. Am I right, Miss Van Beck?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The wage is nineteen dollars a week. You work from eight-thirty to five-thirty with two powder room breaks and twenty minutes for lunch.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Irene, holding her back straight so as not to crumple with relief. She looked around the room, her new place of business. Thank goodness.

  A foot treadle caught her eye. “Do you mind if I ask . . . why are the typewriters on sewing machine tables?”

  Miss Clemente gave a little half smile. “That was my idea. I like the girls to remember that they could be sewing union suits in some windowless factory, instead of doing their part to bring laughter and tears to a world that generally only gets the latter.”

  She’s like a character from Dickens, thought Irene.

  “Where should I sit?”

  “Anywhere you like. The early bird, and all.”

  16

  Benzedrine and marijuana are as accessible as gumdrops.

  Frances Marion, writer, actress, director, producer

  Millie tried not to think about it, but her thoughts seemed to fly back to the previous night no matter what she did. Eventually she gave up, and the images flooded her. Wally wrestling her onto her back, wrenching her arms above her head, the wooden spines of the wicker furniture digging into her hips and shoulders, every muscle in her body straining to resist him.

&n
bsp; Why? she kept wondering. Why would he force me? How could that possibly feel good to him?

  The loveliest part of wanting to touch someone was them wanting to be touched, the happiness you brought them. Wally hadn’t cared about her happiness. He hadn’t even cared about her terror and pain. Millie understood there was evil in the world, that people could be cruel. People had been cruel to her—Miss Twickenham and her switch, Chandler and his threats, and even her own parents. But she’d never known anyone who’d clearly and shamelessly enjoyed it.

  Things had sometimes gone badly for her—Oh, let’s face it, she thought, they’ve almost always gone badly. But until last night she’d never doubted that her luck would turn, that the world was a good place, and happy times awaited. Now, in the face of such evil, the worst not only seemed possible . . . it seemed probable.

  The hours passed, and she missed Irene so much. Irene would make her think about something else. Irene would be the brick wall around her when she went down to dinner at that long table Ringa had, with all the girls eyeing each other and trying to get more than their share.

  The light was fading, and Millie told herself to hang on. Hang on till Irene came. There was an ache in her stomach, and she couldn’t tell if it was hunger or just more of the pain that seemed to throb right through her bones. She had lain there all day waiting, hadn’t had a morsel.

  The doorknob turned, and Millie sat up. She didn’t want Irene to think she’d lain like a weakling in that same curled-up position all day long. Which she had. But she didn’t want Irene to know, because Irene wouldn’t have, and she wanted to be more like Irene. She promised herself she would be. She would flirt less and complain less and not be so . . . so . . . like herself.

  “Day off?” sneered Agnes.

  Not Irene.

  Disappointment dropped on Millie like a baby grand, and she suddenly had the wild thought that jumping out that window—Agnes’s window—might not be so bad. She shifted in the bed and winched at the pain in her hip.

  Agnes eyed her. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Irene’s sharp mind would have come up with a retort right quick, but Millie’s brain was exhausted from trying to fight off Wally over and over again all day long. “Nothing.”

  Agnes leaned against the dresser. “How was your date?” She hit the last word as if it were a childish notion, like a unicorn.

  What would Irene say?

  “None of your business.” Millie tried to sit up a little straighter, not to look so spineless and weak. She pressed her hands against the mattress and pushed herself up, and Agnes caught sight of the bruises on her wrists.

  She ambled over to the bedpost. “You all right?”

  “None of your—” Millie’s voice shook, and she turned away, staring straight ahead, biting down hard onto the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying.

  Agnes sat down slowly on the end of the bed and let her purse slide off her shoulder onto the ragged quilt. “You got roughed up.”

  “I just need something to eat,” said Millie.

  “Ringa won’t give you lunch.”

  “Lunch? What time is it?”

  “About ten-thirty.”

  “Then why’s it so damned dark out! And why’re you here in the middle of the morning!”

  “It’s about to rain, and this is when I always come in.”

  Agnes’s voice was soft, as if she were speaking to someone on her deathbed. Mean old Agnes. Even she was being nice. And Irene wouldn’t be back for hours and hours. Millie couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  Agnes watched her cry for a few minutes, then she said, “You need something?”

  Food! thought Millie, but she was crying too hard.

  Agnes sighed. “I don’t usually share. But I know what it’s like when they’re rough.” She pulled a little tin box from her purse and flipped open the cover. She fooled around with the contents—Millie couldn’t really see through her tears, and didn’t care anyway—then Agnes took her arm and ran her fingers over the inside of it. Her touch was so gentle, it soothed Millie and she quieted a little, diving into the silky feel of soft fingers on the tender skin inside her elbow.

  “Don’t move,” murmured Agnes, and Millie didn’t, because why would she? It was the best she’d felt all morning.

  Then there was sharp pinch, and Millie looked down to see Agnes push the plunger on a needle contraption. “Ow!” she said, but Agnes was already removing the needle.

  Millie saw the spot of blood, shiny like a tiny ruby on the marble-white of her arm.

  “It’s worth the pinprick,” said Agnes. “Trust me.”

  Before Agnes had finished saying the words, Millie suddenly felt a whoosh—could almost hear it—as if some great bird had flown beneath her and carried her out of the bed on its back, and she lay in its soft feathers, softer than anything she’d ever felt in her life, caressing her and brushing away any memory of why she might feel sore or sad or hungry . . . or anything.

  When she woke the sun was low, peering in the window at her, and Millie felt puzzled by its presence. Agnes was in another bed, face slack, staring into middle space.

  “What was that?” Millie asked. She wanted to sit up, but somehow every limb had been riveted with industrial bolts to the bed.

  “It’s just heroin.” Agnes rubbed her cheek slowly against her shoulder. “You can get it almost anywhere.”

  “In a drugstore?”

  “Nah, not anymore. Used to, though. Bayer sold it like they do aspirin till a couple of years ago. Your mother ever give you cough syrup when you were a kid?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Heroin.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. You can only get it from a doctor now. I think people were taking too much.”

  “Where did you get yours?”

  “Ringa’s brother. He’s got a doctor that prescribes it, then he sells it to us girls.”

  “Do you do it every day?”

  “Most days, unless I’m out of dough. You can pay later at double the price, but that’s a bad idea.”

  “Because it’s a waste of money?”

  “No, because if you can’t pay up, his boys beat you bloody.”

  “Are you worried . . . I mean, couldn’t you get . . . you know. Addicted?”

  “No, it’s not like morphine. I mean, it is like morphine, except you can’t get addicted, so it’s like good morphine.”

  “But you do it almost every day.”

  “Because I want to.”

  Agnes turned toward the setting sun as if her head weighed a hundred pounds and she needed all her strength to accomplish this one act. “I guess maybe you understand that a little better today than you did yesterday.”

  17

  There are five stages in the life of an actor:

  Who’s Mary Astor?

  Get me Mary Astor.

  Get me a Mary Astor Type.

  Get me a young Mary Astor.

  Who’s Mary Astor?

  Mary Astor, actress

  “Good morning, Henry. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, no, not at all! I was just getting a jump on repairs.”

  Edward Oberhouser stood in the doorway of Henry’s room at the Barstow Harvey House, catching Henry as he sat on his bed struggling to mend a hole in a pair of very sheer harem pants from one of the extras. His shirt was untucked and unbuttoned at the neck, revealing the top of his union suit underneath. His pants were yet to be belted, and he had no socks on. Strangely it was the latter that bothered him most. It made him feel like a five-year-old.

  And what to do now? Invite him to sit down? Did the great director intend to stay for more than a moment or two? The man had such a knack for putting Henry in a spin.

  Henry stood up. “How can I help?”

  “Do you have a moment?”

  “Of course!” Henry swiped his arm across the mountain of costumes on the only chair in the room, depositing them into a crumple
d heap on the floor beside the bed.

  “I was going to suggest we get a cup of coffee in the dining room. Why don’t I meet you down there?”

  “Oh, yes, that would be much . . . more . . . that would be better.”

  Because for one thing I could be properly attired, instead of looking like the morning after a hell of a night.

  As soon as Oberhouser closed the door behind him, Henry was exchanging his shirt for a fresh one, rooting around in his case for his nicest tie and cleanest socks, applying an extra dollop of pomade to his black hair, and generally fussing like a girl about to go on a blind date.

  Get ahold of yourself, man! He cinched his tie just a little tighter, squared his shoulders, and smiled into the mirror. It was all wrong. He looked like a phony, like some greased-up pretty boy with no substance. But then inspiration came to him: zayde. All-business.

  He stopped smiling, let his shoulders go loose. Whatever the director wanted, Henry vowed he would not say yes immediately. He would play just a little bit hard to get, which was as close an approximation to actually being hard to get as he could manage under the circumstances.

  In the smaller dining room, Oberhouser sat on the far side of the horseshoe-shaped counter, legs crossed casually, coffee cup in hand, deep in thought. As Henry crossed the room toward him, he had a moment to study the man. Slightly receding hairline, but no gray at the temples of his sandy brown hair. Likely in his mid-thirties, about a decade ahead of Henry. Intelligent hazel eyes, aquiline nose—the face of a man who was happy with himself, but without the air of conceit Henry was beginning to notice on so many at the studio. True, it was an accomplishment even to be employed by a reasonably respected company—Olympic was no Poverty Row operation, as so many of them were. Nor did it have the industry power of a Famous Players-Lasky. But Oberhouser had so far been given the freedom to do as he liked, and his films were both commercially successful and artistically admired. He had more right than most to be pleased with what he’d achieved.

  He broke from his ruminations as Henry approached, gave a smile and a nod to the chair next to him, and raised a finger to hail the Harvey girl. Henry wondered if he’d ever made an inelegant gesture in his life.