City of Flickering Light

by Juliette Fay

  “She left. Long time ago, I think.”

  Irene stared at Agnes. The girl only seemed to be breathing a couple of times a minute, as if her body had lost the ability to automatically inhale and she had to remind herself to do it. There was a little tin next to her, and as Irene eyed her, Agnes slid it under her thigh.

  Dope fiend, thought Irene. She’d seen it once or twice before in burlesque, though Chandler tended to throw out any girl he suspected of being on the stuff. Newspaper articles always made addicts sound sinister and dangerous. But Agnes just looked terribly broken.

  We have to get out of here.

  Just then Millie walked in, looking pale.

  “Where’ve you been!”

  “I went to the movies.”

  “The movies? How’d you get in? You don’t have any money.”

  Millie shrugged. “Snuck in.” Her gaze slid around the room, at all the girls looking at her, and came to rest on Agnes, and she smiled. As if she knew. As if she were jealous. Irene felt a chill hit her bones.

  “Bring your coat downstairs with you. After dinner, we’re going out.”

  The house at 6129 Carlos Avenue was imposing from the street, and Irene wondered if she had misheard Gert Turner about the ten-fifty a week. How could a room at this minor mansion cost so little? Wide marble steps led up to a deep front porch, with a similar-size balcony on the second floor. Four enormous carved pillars stood sentry across the house’s facade, and the roof overhangs were decorated with rows of delicately scrolled brackets.

  “It looks a little like my house,” murmured Millie. “Or, I mean, my parents’ house.”

  “It looks a little like my house, too,” said Irene. “If you take off the top two floors, the porch, the pillars, and all the doodads. Then make it about a quarter of the size and wait for the paint to start peeling.”

  They rang the doorbell and were soon greeted by a woman who introduced herself as Marion Hunter, the director of the Studio Club. She appeared to be somewhere in her early thirties, with brown hair twisted into a braided bun at the nape of her neck. Irene thought this was strangely unfashionable for a place that had been set up to serve girls in the film industry, but Miss Hunter’s face seemed kind, and this was far more important than her hairstyle.

  “How can I help?” she asked as she escorted them into the front parlor. It was simply decorated for such a large room in an otherwise ornate house: a scattering of settees and chairs, the occasional table or standing lamp. Two young women were practicing making dramatic faces at each other in the oval mirror at the far end of the room. They glanced over at Miss Hunter and quietly left.

  “We use this room for lessons, rehearsals, and little performances,” Miss Hunter explained, “so we keep it sparsely furnished. More space for big entrances.” She smiled, and Irene could imagine that young actresses might tend to err on the side of grand gestures. “Of course when we need a larger stage, our patronesses Miss Pickford or Mrs. DeMille can usually find something for us.”

  Mary Pickford, the world’s greatest movie star, and Mrs. Cecil B. DeMille, wife of one of the most celebrated (and well-paid) directors. Irene suspected they had no trouble at all “finding” whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it. With patronesses like that, the relatively low cost of Studio Club lodging suddenly made sense.

  After a few more moments of small talk, with Irene’s anxiety building all the while as to whether the club would save or reject them, she got down to brass tacks.

  Miss Hunter hesitated. “We do have a vacancy. Very recent, in fact. Just an hour ago.”

  “Oh, that’s such good news,” said Irene, trying not to sigh audibly.

  “Why did she leave?” asked Millie.

  “She, um . . . well, she had a medical condition and had to return home.”

  Pregnant, thought Irene.

  “I hope she gets better soon,” said Millie.

  Miss Hunter smiled. “That’s very kind of you. I’m sure she will.”

  In about nine months, thought Irene.

  “I wish I had better news,” Miss Hunter went on, “but unfortunately I can’t accommodate you both. There’s only one bed available.”

  “Oh, well,” said Millie, at the same time Irene said, “We’ll take it.”

  Miss Hunter glanced from one girl to the other.

  “We’ll take the spot,” Irene said with finality.

  “Oh.” Millie glanced away and laced her fingers tightly together. “Okay.”

  Irene opened her little pochette bag and took out eleven dollars from the money Henry had given her. “I don’t have exact change.”

  Miss Hunter blinked and forced a smile. “Well, we’d like to get to know a little bit about you first. We don’t accept anyone without an interview.”

  “Oh, I’m . . . I’m sorry,” said Irene. “I suppose I beat the pistol on that, didn’t I?”

  “Which of you . . .?”

  “Millie. Mildred Martin. Ask her anything you like.”

  “Me?” Millie’s head spun toward Irene, eyes glassy with unspilled tears.

  “Of course, you,” Irene murmured. “You didn’t think I’d move in here and leave you at Ringa’s, did you?”

  “But I don’t want you to have to stay in that awful place!”

  “I’m gone all day at the typing pool. I promise, I won’t even notice. Besides, I’ve stayed in plenty of worse places.”

  Millie reached out and gripped her hand. “I’d rather stay with you,” she whispered.

  “Absolutely not,” Irene murmured. “If you’re here, I can visit.” She turned to Miss Hunter, who’d politely averted her gaze but had certainly heard the whole interchange. “I can, can’t I?”

  “Of course you can. Anytime you like, up until curfew at nine o’clock.”

  When the interview was over and Irene had paid the first week’s rent, they walked back to the boardinghouse in the fading light. “I suppose I can move in on the weekend,” said Millie.

  “Nothing doing. I don’t want you hanging around Ringa’s all day. That place is a modern-day Greek tragedy. You’re going to the Studio Club first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I wouldn’t stay at Ringa’s all day. I could walk around like I did today and maybe sneak into the flickers again.”

  “And what if you get caught?”

  “I won’t.”

  “You think you won’t, because you always think things will turn out all right.”

  “And you always think they won’t.”

  “I have a lot of experience with things not turning out, Millie. And so do you, if you’d just stop and consider for a minute. Maybe it’d keep you from doing the next dumb thing.”

  Millie didn’t respond, only kept trudging along in step with Irene.

  Irene stopped. “I’m sorry. That was an awful thing to say.”

  “I deserve it,” murmured Millie, looking down at her shoes, ugly boots that were all she had to wear, after she’d dropped her t-strap pumps on the beach.

  “No, you don’t deserve it at all. I just . . .”

  “Worry.”

  She always knows, thought Irene. Worry had been Irene’s near-constant state, since . . . since she’d decided not to go home with her uncle? No, she hadn’t really worried at all then. Hadn’t cared enough to worry. When she became friends with Millie—that’s when the worry had begun. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

  Millie slid her hand into Irene’s. “You’re the best friend I ever had.”

  That night as they lay in bed together, Millie curled a little closer and whispered, “Would it make you feel better if I got up in the morning with you and went back to the benches?”

  “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

  Irene could hear Millie’s breath quicken. Finally she said, “Yes, I’m ready.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be there,” said Irene. “He’s already got a picture going; he won’t be looking for extras.”

  “How do you know?�
��

  “I saw him.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I’ll tell you what I didn’t do,” Irene muttered bitterly. “I didn’t punch him in his ugly face.”

  Millie let out a little sound, and at first Irene thought it might be a sob. But then it happened again, and it was clearly stifled laughter. “Oh, Irene, let’s pretend you did!”

  It was harder than Irene had thought to leave Millie sitting alone among the throngs of would-be extras. She looked smaller somehow, like a lost child waiting anxiously for her mother to find her. But Millie’s mother wasn’t coming. In fact, no one was coming for her, now that Irene had to hurry off to work.

  “Here’s fifteen cents.” Irene pressed the coins into her hand. “At lunchtime, go out and get us a sandwich at the drugstore up the street, and I’ll come down and eat it with you. I only get twenty minutes, but at least we can talk a little.”

  She was the last one in at the typing pool, though not more than three minutes late, and Miss Clemente raised an eyebrow. It was a small thing, but the woman knew how to give it impact, and Irene worried she might get sacked for even such a tiny infraction. She sat in the darkest, most airless corner, at the typewriter with the sticking n key and had to stop to pull the type hammer back down every time and (or any other word including the misbehaving letter) was called for. That eyebrow had been the least of her punishment for tardiness.

  Naturally, with all the stopping and starting, she didn’t get her work done nearly as efficiently as she usually did. But by the same token, now that she regularly had an extra second to absorb the meaning of the words, she found herself thinking about the stories themselves a little more deeply. The synopses were the easiest to read as she typed. They were usually only a couple of pages and were condensed versions of the stories. The continuity scripts, on the other hand, were much longer and laid out every scene in detail: location, props, costume, inter-titles of dialogue, camera angle, even the amount of film the cameraman could expect to use.

  Irene plodded along with her sticky n all morning until she came to a handwritten page that was nearly indecipherable, and this slowed her down even more.

  Behind Her Socks?

  If it had been a comedy, this might have been humorous somehow, but as Irene typed the synopsis, it was clear there was no humor intended. It was a love story.

  Theodora and her older sisters live in poverty on the coast of England, and their only hope of survival lies with Theodora marrying well. She’s out rowing her little boat when she capsizes. This is seen by Lord Bracondale, a dashing and wealthy young nobleman who dives in and carries her to shore. Attraction sparks between them before her sisters arrive to help her.

  Duty compels Theodora to marry Mr. Brown, a wealthy but older and boring man from their village. They honeymoon in the Alps and go hiking. Theodora loses her balance and is soon dangling over a cliff by her climbing rope. Lord Bracondale, coincidentally vacationing nearby, climbs down the rope to her. They are lowered to the ground below and, while they await the rest of the group, rekindle their interest. He reveals his feelings for her and she for him. But she says she could never leave her husband. Their love seems doomed.

  Theodora’s husband goes on a business trip. She writes him a wifely letter, as well as one to Lord Bracondale reaffirming that, though he is her one true love, she will not leave her husband. She accidentally puts the letters into the opposite envelopes, and when Lord Bracondale reads his, he realizes the letter meant for him must have gone to the husband. He rushes to the husband’s office, and they have a great fight. But Bracondale finally convinces the man his wife has done nothing to betray him.

  Realizing that Theodora has been true to him despite loving another, Mr. Brown decides to join a safari and is killed in a hunting accident. Bracondale and Theodora can now be together.

  It was signed “Eva Crown.” This was the third synopsis Irene had typed for Miss Crown, and she noticed that, messy handwriting aside, they tended to be a cut above other writers’ work. There were always added twists or details that made the story feel more gripping. This one, however, seemed a little . . . it was good, but maybe it hadn’t been thoroughly fleshed out yet.

  Irene rose and approached Miss Clemente. “I’m sorry, but I’ve done the best I can deciphering the synopsis—figuring out the surrounding words makes that a little easier,” she told her. “But I just can’t get the title.”

  After turning the paper this way and that, Miss Clemente finally admitted she couldn’t make head or tail of it, either, and huffed an annoyed sigh. Irene didn’t know if it was meant for her or for Miss Crown, but she certainly knew who would take the brunt of it.

  “Should I . . . make something up?”

  “No, you should not make something up,” Miss Clemente sneered. “You will go and find Miss Crown and get to the bottom of this. And if I find out you’ve been out running about the lot like a headless chicken, flirting with the crew, then you won’t be long for this job. Have I made myself clear?”

  Irene plunked down on the bench next to Millie and was surprised to find her wide-awake, not napping, as she often had when they sat there together.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” Millie said. “I thought noon would never come.”

  “Well, it’s not quite noon, yet, but I have an errand to do, so I thought I’d come by and remind you to go out for that sandwich.”

  Millie held up a paper sack on her opposite side. “I went hours ago. I saw Wally coming down the line, and hightailed it. Just the sight of him . . .”

  “Oh, Millie, I’m so sorry. I really thought—”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “We’re moving you into the Studio Club tonight, and you can stay in your room all day, if you want.”

  “It’s expensive though, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. Not much more than Ringa’s, which is pretty cheap.”

  “And we know why, don’t we.”

  “That’s not your concern anymore.”

  “But the money is my concern. You can’t take it all on your shoulders, Irene. I’ve been on my own for three years now. I’m not a child.”

  This was true, of course. But Irene couldn’t help but think that Millie’s survival may have been less about her good decision-making and more about her good looks, uncanny ability to inspire the help of strangers, and random luck. She glanced down and caught sight of Millie’s battered ankle boots. They looked utterly ridiculous with her flowered cotton dress.

  “We’ll be fine,” Irene lied. “And the first thing I’m doing with my paycheck is buying you a new pair of shoes.”

  It took Irene a solid half hour to track down Eva Crown. Apparently she moved around quite a bit, because wherever Irene went she was invariably told, “Oh, you just missed her.”

  What is she, a leprechaun?

  The only reason Irene found her at all was because she was sitting in a canvas chair with her name actually printed across the back, in front of an empty set that appeared to be some sort of ancient bedchamber made out of fake stone. She was hunched over a stack of slightly crumpled pages, scrawling what looked to be hieroglyphs in the margins with a leaky pen.

  No wonder, thought Irene with irritation.

  “Miss Crown?”

  She didn’t look up. “Yes.”

  “Miss Crown, I’ve been typing your latest synopsis.”

  “Thanks very much.” She flipped the current page to the bottom of the stack and went at the next page with a vengeance.

  “I’m having a bit of trouble . . .”

  “With?”

  “The title.”

  “What about it.”

  “I have no idea what it says.”

  Miss Crown chuckled and finally looked up. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

  Her eyes were pale blue, and her brown hair was tucked under a pretty straw hat. She had a warm smile, and Irene thought she was lovely in a sort of Great Plains pioneer way.

  Irene of
fered her the handwritten page.

  “Well, it’s perfectly clear to me that it’s called Behind Her Socks!” Miss Crown let out a ringing laugh that invited Irene to laugh right along with her.

  “It’s sure to be a hit,” said Irene with a grin.

  “An absolute sensation! Because who doesn’t want to know what’s behind other people’s socks?” She let out another laugh and shook her head. “It’s supposed to be Beyond the Rocks, by the way. Did you at least like the story, even when you thought it had such an absurd title?”

  Irene nodded. “Yes, it’s very good.”

  Miss Crown’s gaze leveled at Irene, and she stopped smiling. “But?”

  “Oh, no, not at all,” said Irene. “It’s wonderful.”

  “It’s an early draft.”

  “Of course.”

  “So you could tell?”

  “No, I—”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Irene, but—”

  “How old are you, Irene?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “I see no ring, so I assume you are unmarried?”

  “Yes.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “How many romance novels have you read in your life?”

  “I couldn’t count—”

  “You go to the movies very often?”

  “As often as I can afford to.”

  “Irene. Last name?”

  “Van Beck.”

  “Irene Van Beck, you are my ideal moviegoer. I write for you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please don’t call me ma’am. I’m not that much older than you. Well, I’m a bit older. Call me Eva.”

  “Okay.”

  “Irene, can you do me an enormous favor?”

  “If I can, I’d be happy to.”

  “Can you give me one little idea—anything at all—that will improve this script?”

  Irene smiled. Wandering around the lot in search of its creator, she’d thought of several.

  “Ah! I knew it,” cried Eva.

  “Well, I was thinking that when Theodora and Lord Bracondale get lowered by the rope onto the ground, it’s sort of . . . flat. You know, they’re safe, and they’re chatting, and it’s romantic and all but . . .”