by Sydney Avey
The nursing staff that stood behind the doctors pushed closer. Cecil touched her hand, nodded his head, and the lock on her speech clicked over another notch. Sodden words strung together in a senseless phrase that fell from her mouth. The doctors rubbed their chins, blinked, and shook their heads. The nurses nodded encouragement.
Cecil caught up her hand in his. “Speak, Leone. Tell me how you are feeling.”
The latch on her voice sprung open. “I feel very well, Doctor.” Oh my stars, what a lovely sound! That’s my voice. That’s me. Speaking!
24 - Disappointment
24
Disappointment
1931
Leone left the hospital and walked into a new life. Newspapers across the country hailed her as the pretty little dancer, hurled by accident into a hysterical paralytic condition, healed by the power of suggestion while under hypnosis. Some nameless fear had caused her to imagine a physical problem where none existed. That, and her youth provided the ideal set of circumstances for healing through hypnosis, Dr. Reynolds explained in interviews and lectures. Some would say it was a miracle. He maintained it only proved the veracity of French physician Hippolyte Bernheim’s theory of suggestibility, which led Dr. Sigmund Freud to believe there could be powerful mental processes that remain hidden from the consciousness of man.
Powerful mental processes indeed; when Dr. Reynolds pulled back the curtain on this unfamiliar mental and emotional terrain, Leone stood blinking in the public spotlight. She dared not consider what forces had stripped her of all sense. It seemed more prudent to just accept her fame as a gift.
“A year ago, I was battling the nuns at Saint Mary’s over illicit cigarettes and illegal booze.” Leone laughed as she handed a copy of the Cumberland Evening Times to Madame Smolina. “Look here! A full page, with pictures.”
Some of the dancers continued to prepare for class, lacing up their toe shoes. Others drifted over to glance at the headline, “The Very Strange Case of Pretty Leona Berry.”
“I see they spelled your name wrong.” A tall dancer with sharp elbows smirked.
“I’ve been in the papers lots of times, but I’ve never had a whole page devoted just to me.” A short dancer with plump knees bent over to examine the article.
“Oh, I know.” Leone bestowed a sympathetic smile on her admirer. “My name has been in the society pages before, but only as a featured dancer in my mother’s dance recitals. Now I’m photographed with Hollywood stars. I get callbacks from most of my auditions, and soon I’ll have my Actors’ Equity card.”
Madame Smolina turned away. She clapped her hands, and the dancers took their places at the barre.
Bragging is an unattractive quality in a woman. Nellie’s voice reverberated in a deep recess of Leone’s mind. She moved to join the dancers at the barre, but they arranged themselves in such a way that she had to look to Madame to chastise them.
“Leone, you may use the back of the folding chair I keep in the closet for those times when it seems the room is not big enough to accommodate one of us.”
Back home, the responses to Leone’s renown were equally chilly. Opal expressed her skepticism in a letter. I’m wondering how you could hear that charlatan if, as you say, you were deaf, she wrote. I’ve read that this Dr. Reynolds is star struck. Do not allow him to use you for his own purposes.
Nellie added a postscript: Pay no mind to naysayers. Whatever the doctor’s motives in thrusting you into the limelight, use this time to your advantage. Whatever you set your heart on, with hard work you will achieve it.
Leone did not waste time considering her mother’s skepticism or her grandmother’s advice. Cecil had given her a new life. Oh yes, he returned her to health, but more than that he introduced her to powerful, talented people who drew her into their circles. A dangerous temptation or a golden opportunity? She cared not a fig. Finally, she had a chance to kick up her heels and have a little fun.
R
Leone dropped her weekly letter from home into the wastepaper basket beside the stool where she perched, one long net-stockinged leg stretched to the floor, the other balanced on the stool rung. In the dressing room, dancers pressed shoulder to shoulder, adjusting costumes, buckling dance shoes on their feet, fastening feathers in their hair. Leone leaned into the brightly lit mirror and lined her eyes with a Kohl pencil.
The sting of her mother’s criticism still hurt. Mother danced vaudeville in New York and Chicago before she had me and came back to the West Coast, minus the husband and father I never laid eyes on. She outlined her lips in red pencil and filled them in with a brush. Who is she to say dancing vaudeville is no life for me? Sitting back, she admired the results.
Just because it didn’t work out for her doesn’t mean it won’t work out for me. Look at me! A Catholic schoolgirl just two years ago, and now I’m a featured dancer in the Los Angeles Theater District! Whistling an infectious new tune from Chasing Rainbows, she snapped her makeup kit shut.
“Happy days are here again,” a lovely voice sang out from the doorway. The commotion drew all eyes to the exquisite person of Letty Randall Webb, and then back to Leone.
“Leone, darling, I just popped in to let you know that Charles, Cecil, and I are in the audience tonight, wishing our little dancer the very best.” Letty leaned on the doorpost and fiddled with the white fox fur collar of her evening jacket. All chatter subsided, and the dancers gathered in front of the actress.
“Miss Webb, I saw you at the Belasco last week. You were magnificent.”
“Miss Webb, what is it like to work with Maurice Moscovitch? The Los Angeles Record raved about him. They said his characterization was perfect.”
Still seated on the stool next to Leone, an unimpressed dancer muttered under her breath, “But his acting is archaic.” Leone slipped off her stool and bumped the rude dancer’s arm as she passed, causing the girl to poke herself in the eye with her mascara wand.
Lights flickered, the signal to queue up for the next number. Letty flashed her high-wattage smile at the group. “No more talk about my performance. Tonight is about your performance.”
The dulcet tones of Letty’s voice sent a thrill through Leone. The actress drew close, slipped a finger under Leone’s chin, and lifted her face. “And yours, my pet.” Long eyelashes fluttered. Warm lips touched both sides of Leone’s hot cheeks. “Cecil says to tell you to dance your heart out tonight. Show the world that you are cured.” One more peck on the cheek and she turned for the door, a whirling dervish of frothy taffeta and fox fur.
“Gosh,” one of the dancers said. “Every time I see Letty, my heart just stops. She’s as pretty as a cupcake topped with an inch of shiny pink fondant frosting.”
Leone flushed. Of late, it wasn’t stage lights that put the stars in her eyes. It was Letty Randall Webb.
R
In Hollywood’s Biltmore Hotel, Leone and Letty rolled on the bed, howling.
are you afraid to love?
Perish the Horrid Thought!
if you are satisfied with your sex life, read no further!
“Oh, oh, oh, my tummy hurts.” Letty sat up and clutched her stomach.
“The Gittelson Brothers have truly outdone themselves.” Leone waved a theater program in the air and dropped it into her lap. She ran her finger over the advertisement that was giving them such a giggle. “Would you listen to this!
“Just tell the lady you ordered your tickets from Gittelson Brothers— and remember—if she says No, she means Yes—if she says Maybe, she means No—and if she says Yes, she ain’t no lady.”
“Are you?” Leone turned up the corners of her mouth in a coy smile.
“A lady?” Letty smoothed her hand over her blondish curls.
“Satisfied with your sex life?”
“Maybe.” Letty rose from the bed in the hotel suite where she and Charles were staying while he directed a new film. Sinking her exquisite bare feet into the lush white carpet, she floated over to the desk that sat below the pl
ate glass window and drew back the sheer to gaze down at Pershing Square.
“Leone, have you ever seen Dolores Del Rio? She’s just stunning. She’s starring in this movie Charles is directing.” Letty continued to stand at the window, her back to Leone, her arm resting gracefully against the window frame.
Leone stared at the curve of Letty’s spine beneath her sheer silk dressing gown. Sensations she had allowed herself in the cocoon of Catholic school—intimacies explored under the sheets during sleepovers; secrets shared with like-minded girlfriends looking for safe places to find out what all the fuss was about; titillations they assumed would one day transfer to the opposite sex—these feelings now rose up and squared off over a woman who wore sexuality as casually as she draped her marabou boa off one shoulder. Desire came out from a corner of Leone’s mind. Danger danced out of another corner.
When Letty bent over to open the desk drawer and fish around for something, Leone dropped her gaze to the actress’s pert bottom but lifted her eyes quickly when she felt her face flush. Whoa. Slow down.
“Does Charles find her stunning?” Leone asked.
Letty straightened up and turned around. She was holding an eight-by-ten photograph. “Of course he does. That’s why he cast her. She is perfect for the role of the duchess. She’s positively regal.” Letty narrowed her eyes. “What are you suggesting, Leone?”
Leone straightened her shoulders and sat up tall. “Is that what you like? Regal women?”
“I thought we were talking about what Charles likes.”
“Charles.” Leone wrinkled her nose. She stood up from the bed and threw a tasseled shawl over her shoulders. “Military hero, business tycoon, London producer, Hollywood director.”
“And my husband.”
Was there a hint of smugness in her smile? Leone’s eyes moistened.
“I have something for you, darling.” Letty extended her arm and waved the photo she held in her hand in come-hither fashion. “I thought of you while the photographer was snapping away.”
Letty, fresh-eyed Kansas farm girl, slipped her musical voice into a smoky register that sent shivers into nascent parts of Leone’s body, a response she was just now coming to understand. Leone brightened and took hold of the photograph.
In the sepia-toned picture, the actress stood sideways, head thrown backward, gray eyes seeking an audience. Her soft curls hung down her naked back. She wore a black mermaid gown of textured lace and held a tapestry in a round frame. Across the nondescript artwork, Letty had written: To lovely Leone, held very high in my thoughts. L.
Leone kept her head bent over the photograph. Her face burned. Not exactly where I want to be held, but her message is clear: Back off.
R
“All right girls, snap to it.” The dance captain ended his tête-à-tête with the stage manager and snapped his fingers in the air. From the second row of the chorus that backed up the principal dancers, Leone executed yet another bored bump and grind. Principal dancers were allowed to try their hands at a little acting, a small speaking part to support the slinky star. Their role was to sidle up to some Johnny and spew the sarcasm audiences mistook for wit.
“Okay, take five, girls.” The stage manager dismissed the chorus. “You, third from the left in the second row.”
Leone slowed her exit and tapped her chest with her finger. Moi? She mouthed.
“Yeah, you. Could ya try lookin’ like you’re having a good time?”
Leone crossed her eyes and flashed the bony man dressed in black an exaggerated smile of impure glee.
“That’s more like it, honey. Hold that thought.”
Leone walked off the rehearsal stage tugging at an elastic panty-leg band that was designed to cup her buttocks and stay in place. Was it costumes or budgets that were getting skimpier? Both, she imagined.
A snatch of conversation from a huddle of dancers in the wings reached her ear. “She can dance circles around any of us, and her voice isn’t bad, but that one? No acting chops.”
Leone raised her chin and moved past them. She supposed they were talking about her, but it didn’t matter. It was true. She had no talent for the nuances of acting, but what difference did that make? The worse things got in the American economy and European politics the faster Hollywood churned out sharp-edged, bawdy entertainment. Hard-pressed to put food on the table, men fantasized about the tough-talking anti-heroes who knew how to put a nagging dame in her place. To appeal to their wives and lovers, producers kept a stable of dames who knew how to stand up to a man; women like Garbo, Harlow, and Hepburn.
As hard as she tried, Leone could not ignore the facts. If Hollywood could cast a triple-threat dancer in the chorus, one that could step into a stronger role if need be, why not? Younger, prettier girls who had “lead in the high-school play” on their resumes showed up every day at the Hollywood Studio Club.
Leone changed out of her rehearsal clothes and pulled on a tailored shirt and the straight-hanging, mannish-cut trousers she preferred. She sat on the stage-door steps and smoked a cigarette.
Someone pushed through the heavy door and dropped down behind her. Fingers wove themselves among the close-cropped curls at the back of her head.
“Want to come out with us tonight?”
The stiffness in Leone’s shoulders relaxed. She put her hand on top of the hand that Rosemary rested on her shoulder. She hadn’t felt close to anyone since Letty blew into her life, and out of it just as fast. Letty. Her postcards had stopped coming months ago. Leone’s phone calls went unanswered.
Others pushed through the door, hurried down the steps, and grouped around Leone. Leone threw her head back and grinned her signature saucy smile.
“C’mon sister, let’s go drinking.” Rosemary offered her a hand up. Leone rose quickly to her feet and fell in with her new companions.
25 - Derelict
25
Derelict
1933
Alcohol-fueled parties could not assuage Leone’s fear. The darker the cloud grew in Europe, the brighter Hollywood glittered, but mere blocks away bread lines grew longer. Her savings exhausted and callbacks dropping off, Leone found herself one rent check away from joining that line. The thought of being dependent on a handout filled her with fury.
“Can’t you ask your family for help?” Rosemary linked her arm with Leone’s as they climbed the back stairs to a suite in the Chateau Marmont.
“I would die first.”
“Oh, I doubt it will come to that.” The two stood on the landing patting their hair into place and adding layers of lipstick. “We creative types always find a way.”
Down the hall, a door opened. A large man stuck his head out of the doorway and peered right and left. Spotting Leone and Rosemary, he beckoned to them. “Girls, come right this way.” Rosemary swept ahead, and Leone followed.
That worlds without money existed Leone could attest to, but there was always a price to pay. Hollywood was growing bawdier. Although Leone could count on free food and liquor at parties, where she was always welcome, the price of admission was acquiescence. Wasn’t that what she had left home to avoid?
Anything Goes was not just the name of a Broadway show set to open at the end of the year; it was the battle cry of the bohemians. Free booze, free drugs, free sex, and free artistic expression—and the purveyor of the last two services? Herself and her friends. Let them expect whatever they wanted. She would dress the part and accept the free food and drinks. Soon enough they would figure out that her spirit was not as free as Isadora Duncan, a modern dancer who, given enough scarf, broke her neck when one end of her signature wardrobe piece flew into the wheel of the convertible she was riding in and garroted her.
Does free spirit mean “Damn the consequences, full speed ahead?” From her perch on a settee where she sipped absinthe and sized up the other partygoers, Leone let her mind wander.
Or does it mean freedom to follow your inner wisdom? Her grandmother’s voice. Try as she might to silence th
at voice, what Grandmother would think always lurked in a closet of her mind.
And who informs inner wisdom? Leone asked, pleased with herself. She was holding up her end of this internal conversation quite well. Despite the muddle she was in over her future, she had not lost all reason.
God: some would say. Like a tiny bird suddenly alert to possible danger, Leone held very still, all ears. That was not her grandmother’s voice. What was that?
“A penny for your thoughts.” The party host leaned over the settee. He held a sugar cube nestled in a slotted spoon in one hand, and a pitcher of chilled water in the other. Leone lifted her Pontarlier glass and allowed him to pour chilled water over the spoon into her drink.
“They do this in Paris.” His voice was as smooth and cultured as the drink.
“Mmm.” Leone swirled the milky green liquid around in the glass, raised it to her nose, and breathed in the anise sweetness and tangy herbal undertones. Only in sophisticated cities like Hollywood could one appreciate a culturally iconic drink such as absinthe prepared in just the right fashion and served in just the right glass.
Her host put his lips to her ear. “If you want to light up your brain, see my man over in the corner. He’ll take you into the back room and fix you up.”
Leone looked up and spotted a young man standing apart from the crowd. He wore a suit much like the one she wore, loose pants and a two-button jacket with wide lapels. What set them apart was her makeup. She wore her party face; eyebrows extensively tweezed and defined with a thin pencil line, lips painted to look like they had been tattooed on her face.
“Mmm.” She slid her eyes up toward the man with the silver spoon and blinked once, slowly. This affectation of boredom lent her an air of mystery and excused her from conversations she did not care to have. Her host patted her shoulder and glided off.
A couple balancing glasses of champagne sat down across from Leone on a sculpted, cream-colored sofa with angora mohair seat cushions she had been admiring. The man extended his hand across the small cocktail table that separated the couch and the settee.
