by Sydney Avey
“Hi, I’m Dunham Thorp.”
His companion took the cue. “And I’m Marion.”
She was lovely. A little vacant, but that could have been due to something she had ingested.
“Actress.” Dunham jerked his head in his wife’s direction.
Leone dipped her chin toward Marion and took Dunham’s hand firmly in her own. “Dancer. Unemployed.”
“Writer. Same.”
Marion came alive. “And I paint and look after our daughter, Ella.” She slipped her forefinger along the sleek marble-top cocktail table until it stopped at the base of Leone’s glass. “And that looks delicious but dangerous.”
“Mmm. What do you write, Dunham?”
“Press releases. Scripts. I’m working on a novel, but I have a deal in the works that is going to get us out of here.” He put his hand in his pocket and came up with a lighter for the cigarette Leone had pulled from a pack sitting on the table.
“Why would anyone want to leave all”—Leone drew smoke into her lung and then gestured around the room with her hand—“this?”
Three sets of eyes surveyed the room. Ears inclined toward moving mouths; arms slipped around female waists; hands thumped male shoulders; hips caught sharp table edges; lips caressed cheeks; drinks spilled. Snatches of conversation could not be traced to their source. It was like a watching a movie with an out-of-sync soundtrack.
Dunham leaned in and rested his forearms on his knees. “I’ll tell you why. There’s no space for artists like us in Hollywood anymore.”
Leone sat up straight and leaned toward Dunham. “What do you mean? This room is crowded with artists.”
“Ah yes, but creating meaningful work requires solitude and a supportive community.”
Leone took a drag on her cigarette and leaned back. “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”
“You would think so, but we’ve found a community of people who support each other and give each other space at the same time. ‘Individuality within Community,’ that’s their motto.”
Marion laid her hand on Dunham’s knee and fixed her huge brown eyes on Leone. “It’s on the coast. A doctor lives there who can help our little girl. She had polio.”
“I’m so sorry.” Leone crushed out her cigarette in a cut-crystal ashtray. She turned toward Dunham. “So, what’s the deal?”
“I have a friend who is starting a magazine, a conversation in print, if you will, about issues of the day. He wants me to be managing editor.”
“A news magazine?”
“Definitely not. A monthly journal of ideas. We’ll recruit people with new and stimulating points of view. We’ll encourage friction among thinkers of all persuasions: political, religious, sexual—”
Marion broke in, “And artistic. Gavin wants a poetry section.”
“I write poetry.” The words slipped out before Leone could discipline her tongue. Who is Gavin? I should have asked.
Dunham leaned back and crossed his leg over his knee. “Do you type?”
R
Back in her dormitory, the rich food, strong drink, and stimulating conversation fueled vivid dreams that robbed Leone of badly needed rest. Because she could no longer afford lessons at Madame Smolina’s studio, she began sleeping late. When she woke, her body ached—whether from hard living or lack of exercise she wasn’t sure. She started a routine of stretching and strengthening exercises on her own, something she had seen her mother do when the ballet studio closed for holidays. Her resolve lasted a week. Her mother possessed a disciplined spirit that must come from something other than regimen. Despite her troubles, her mother had a wholesomeness about her that perplexed Leone, angered her even. What did she lack?
Leone began to dream of long walks on the beach. She longed for overcast skies to envelop and protect her while she figured out how much of her life was an act, and how many of her deepest desires she could satisfy without losing her soul. She pulled away from the party set and began attending rallies, lectures, and poetry readings, sometimes with Rosemary, sometimes alone. She met people like the Thorps who introduced her to intimate salons where the literati gathered.
In tasteful living rooms in Pacific Palisades, she met European artists who had fallen out of favor under Hitler’s looming shadow. Hollywood was an Ellis Island for emigrating writers, composers, painters, and filmmakers pouring in from Europe on every ship that crossed the Atlantic.
“Stay and be killed, or start over.” A bespectacled young man in his early thirties spoke in a thick German accent to a small group of graduate students who surrounded him. “My products are here”—he tapped his head—“in my mind. So, I will just set up shop in a bar.” He scanned the rapt faces who hung on his words. “Do you know of one?”
“Who is that?” Leone asked Dunham, who showed up often at the salons with Marion by his side.
“Bertolt Brecht. He’s a poet, playwright, and director. The Nazis just kicked him out of Germany.”
Marion stood next to her husband and stared off into space. The dark-haired, elegant woman often appeared to be in a trance. There were days, like this one, when a misbuttoned blouse or uncombed hair marred her physical perfection. “Everyone is looking for a haven.” She addressed the air.
“It’s true,” Leone said. “The entertainment industry may not provide the refuge a true artist requires. It is a business, after all.”
Dunham cupped his chin with his hand. “You know, Leone. Moy Mell may be just the place for you.”
“Is that the community you told me about?”
“Yes. Why live hand-to-mouth in Hollywood? Talent needs a big starry sky, and that we have out in the Dunes. We take our food from the ocean and the produce fields that stretch for miles. We do the work that pleases us, and we look out after each other. I could use your help getting our first issue of Dune Forum out.
An appealing idea. Better to fend for herself and find a way to contribute the fruit of her imagination to the betterment of mankind, than wait on Roosevelt to ladle soup into her bowl or employ her in the Professional Products Division of the Works Progress Administration.
“One of the Dunites knows about a hut on the cliffs above the ocean we could probably get for you. The old guy used to live there, but he prefers camping in the Dunes.”
“The Dunites? Who are they?”
“Free-thinking people who want to live a simple life.” Marion stared into her cocktail.
“All kinds of people, really.” Dunham took up Marion’s hand and patted it. “Hermits who wish to be alone with their demons dig in for years. Hobos wander through the community. They eat our clams and warm themselves by our fires. And Gavin’s friends. Gavin collects artists the way his grandfather collected books.”
“You have mentioned him before. Who is he?”
“Gavin Arthur is Chester Alan Arthur III, the grandson of our twenty-first president. You won’t be in a room with him for five minutes before he lets that fact drop.” Dunham laughed. “But he’s a great guy. There is a chair at his table for everyone, whether it’s John Steinbeck come by to read to us, or Upton Sinclair wanting help to eliminate poverty in California, or Leone Barry who writes poetry.”
Dreamy-eyed Marion stirred from her reverie. “Come with us and see for yourself.”
26 - Dunes
26
Dunes
Oceano
Nothing in her life had prepared Leone for the wild freedom of the Dunes. Where theater life had been a tight schedule of classes, auditions, rehearsals, performances, and parties, life in the Dunes required only that she learn how to feed herself. That her hut on the cliff removed her from daily life down in the sand hills that formed the Dunes presented a challenge, but not an insurmountable one.
Barter and glean, that was the economy that sustained the community. Hermits built their cabins of willow branches and scraps of wood that washed up on shore. They dug for coveted Pismo clams and sold or traded them. Leone mended their clothing for a bucket of clams.
The sparse, largely male population of misfits found a solace in this otherworldly place where they could nurse their alcoholism, delusions, or desire to be left alone. Some were hiding from past misdeeds or soured family relationships. Others, worn down by poverty, found renewed health in the rigors of daily life in the Dunes.
Living alongside the hermits, a collection of artists and intellectuals gathered around Gavin Arthur at Moy Mell and enjoyed an abundance of food and drink provided by their host. Her first week in the Dunes, Leone was a frequent guest at his table. The burgeoning utopian community nestled beside a grove of eucalyptus trees attracted visitors from across the United States. From Gavin’s spacious cabin, heated by a wood stove, guests could walk through a tunnel of blackberry bushes to reach the Community House. Visitors were always an occasion for feasting, music, dance, and discussions that lasted until exhaustion numbed them into incoherence.
At times when she wasn’t helping out at the Community House, Leone retreated to her hut where she ate simple meals of fried clams and local vegetables. She cooked outside over an open fire and slept on a clean pallet she fashioned from packing crates, cardboard, and thin quilts distributed by charities. Quiet days stretched out before her, unmarked by any routine other than waking at dawn, fixing her coffee, and tidying up. Some days she settled into an upholstered chair with ripped seat cushions the previous tenant had pulled outside and placed on the precipice overlooking the Dunes below. Here, she read an advance copy of Vita Sackville-West’s eagerly anticipated Collected Poems Gavin had lent her. In the distance, the vast ocean moved in froth-tipped, icy-colored aquamarine waves, kneading the shore in long, powerful strokes. Entranced by words and waves, Leone drifted in and out of sleep.
Other days she stayed inside and wrote at a table pushed up against the wall under the hut’s only window. Tape held one windowpane together where the glass had shattered. Blowing sand had etched and clouded the other three panes. She wrote from early light until the sun passed over. After a few weeks, though, she became restless. She walked into Halcyon, got a ride out to the Dunes, and reported for work.
“It’s about time you showed your face.” Dunham looked up from the table where he was sorting through stacks of handwritten manuscripts. “I’m ready for you now. Did you bring your typewriter?” He ran his fingers through the thick, curly, dark hair that fell across his brow.
Leone threw her hands up in the air. “You were serious about that? I imagined that my writing and editing skills might be more useful to you.”
“Gavin is the publisher; I am the editor; Gavin’s friends are the writers: and you are the typist. Your job is to make sure the copy we submit to the printer in San Francisco is perfect. It’s an important job. Let’s go get your typewriter.”
Sounds like third row in the chorus line to me. How had her grandmother managed her way out of the steno pool? Not by lollygagging around at home, missy.
The next morning, Leone arrived early at Moy Mell. Most residents and guests were still asleep, so she walked over the dunes toward the ocean. Walking on the sand deposits delivered from the mountains by creeks and rivers was hard work, but her calves were conditioned for it through years of dance. She would be able to catch up with Dunham who would be out clamming with his small daughter.
She thought she spotted the girl in the distance, whirling around on the wet sand. Dunham popped up from behind a dune not far away and hailed Leone.
“What is she doing out there?” Leone asked.
“Shhh.” Dunham put his finger to his lips and squatted down so he could not be seen from the shore. “The fish and game warden is about.”
Leone dropped down next to him. “What is Ella doing out there?
“She’s clam dancing.” He looked delighted. “She learned it from one of the hermits. You whirl around in the sand on one leg, and your foot burrows down in the wet sand until you feel a clam with your toes. You should try it.”
“What happens if the warden catches her?
“Oh, he will. He’ll inspect her bucket to make sure the clams are legal size and then wish her a good day. Children don’t need a license to clam.”
“Ah.” Leone peeked over the dune. Sure enough, the warden was having a lively conversation with the girl. A few minutes later, he drove off down the beach, and Dunham stood up and waved Ella over. She moved slowly over the dune, her muscles still weak from her bout with polio. Dunham reached for her bucket and then for her hand. The three headed back to the Community House, where Dunham would cook a big breakfast while Marion slept.
“Gavin approved your poem for our first issue.” Dunham looked straight ahead.
“He did?” Leone could hardly breathe. “Would you thank him for me?”
“Thank him yourself. He’s giving a party tonight. Ansel Adams will be here this afternoon to photograph the Dunes for a future issue of the magazine. You can meet him.”
R
Leone spent the day at the Community House helping prepare Thomas A. Watson’s essay, “An Engineer’s Idea of God,” for the printer in San Francisco. By the time the fog rolled in, the weekend guests had arrived from the Bay Area, and a fire in the fireplace brightened the room. Gavin left his seafood stew to simmer in the Dutch oven on the stove and sequestered himself with Ansel.
Marion wandered into the room. Blue paint speckled her bare arms.
“How did your painting go this afternoon? Leone asked.
Marion looked down and touched a dried fleck of paint on her elbow. “When I get more paint on myself than the canvas, it’s a good day.” She drifted over to the Victrola. Picking up a record, she began to sway back and forth. “We’ll having dancing tonight, I suppose.”
“We will indeed,” Gavin came through the door, followed by Dunham, Ella, and a pretty young woman with long dark hair. “I have new records, the Ray Noble Orchestra and the Billy Cotton Band.”
Ella let go of the young woman’s hand and rushed into her mother’s arms. “Marion,” she squealed. “Guess what? I helped core apples for the cider Dunham is going to make.” Marion sat down and pulled her daughter onto her lap.
Cars arrived and people crowded into the room. The party was in full swing when Ansel returned from his walk and announced he intended to return during the next full moon. The young photographer was gone before Leone had a chance to approach him.
“He’s quite famous, you know.” Marion looked at Leone with her soulful brown eyes. “He’s just opened a gallery in San Francisco.” Ella, sleeping heavily in her mother’s arms, shifted position. “And he’s just had his first child, a son.”
The malaise Leone had managed to keep at bay the last several months returned. How to describe it? Like a flashback. It wasn’t like traveling back in time, but more like a flash and the room whooshing back from her. She saw them all through a dark mirror, her face a ghostly imprint on the glass, a faint image through which she strained to keep sight of them all. The salty smell of Ella, circled in the warm safety of her mother’s arms, made Leone’s eyes water. Who is going to take care of that little girl when her daddy takes off with the barefoot brunette? Marion lives in a daze. A sneezing fit banished the scrim that had darkened her view.
Gavin came by with a bottle of expensive whiskey.
“I must be catching a cold.” Leone raised her glass.
“I’ve got just the medicine to fix you up.” Gavin splashed the burnt amber liquid into her glass.
Someone dropped “Jog Along,” a fox trot, onto the turntable, cranked the Victrola, and set the tone arm down carefully. The women got up and took practiced steps around the room. As the noise level rose, the men left off their conversations and joined the dance.
Leone stood alone in a corner. Weak and shaky, she opened her eyes wide and focused on a light beaming softly through the window across the room. Headlamps focused on the distant road? Someone finding their way with a flashlight? She went to the bar, refilled her glass, and slipped outside.
In the moonlig
ht, the dunes took on a pink glow. Ella’s dog Dribble rose from his resting spot on the porch and padded alongside Leone. Together they made their way out on the dunes.
“You get left outside too?” Leone stretched out her hand and patted the top of the dog’s head. Outside. How often had she felt left outside? Outside the norm when she was a little girl without a father; outside her body when she was in the hospital in LA; and although no one knew it, outside any group of people, no matter how hard she tried to fit in.
Far off, the glow of a campfire beckoned. When Leone and the dog arrived at an old hermit’s cabin, her glass was empty. The hermit sat cross-legged in front of the burning woodpile, feeding sticks into the blaze. Crackling flames from the fire lit his craggy face. He nodded toward Leone’s glass.
“Ya look dry.” He patted the sand next to where he sat, and Leone dropped down to sit beside him, but not too close. She pulled her knees to one side, and the dog settled near her feet.
The hermit passed her a cracked clay jug full of some unnamed home brew. “Come to join my party, have you?”
Leone filled her glass and raised it in tribute. A swig and a wince drew a laugh from the hermit. “I see you’re used to the good stuff. Why are you out here?”
“Why are you?” Her second small sip of the liquor seemed less raw.
He looked up at the three-quarter moon. “I been out here a long time, asking myself that question. I think I finally come to an answer. It don’t much matter where I am; it’s who I am that matters.”
Leone scooched herself a little closer to the fire. “And who is that?”
The hermit rolled up on one knee and reached for a Mexican blanket that lay in the sand. Careful to avoid the open fire, he tossed it in her direction. She pulled it around her shoulders, arranging it across her knees while she waited for his answer.
Across the dunes, light from the big house filtered through the eucalyptus and cast eerie shadows on the sand. “Well it ain’t one of them, that’s for sure.” He nodded toward the house.
