My wallet was gone.
Chapter 5
For a moment I was so shocked that I just kept looking into the pocketbook and rummaging around, sure that my pink plastic wallet had to be there, even though I could see that it wasn’t.
Then, the first thing I thought was, I better tell the waitress to cancel my breakfast because I couldn’t pay for it. That was all I could think of, so I went up to the counter in a sort of daze and told her I changed my mind about breakfast, I wasn’t really hungry. I think maybe she looked annoyed, but I’m not sure, I can’t remember. All I know is I almost collapsed into the booth and sat there staring at the things I had taken out of my pocketbook.
After a few minutes I began putting my stuff back into my pocketbook slowly, one thing at a time, like if I did it carefully enough I would discover that one of those things was actually my wallet, that it wasn’t gone at all, it had been there all the time, but I just hadn’t noticed it.
Only, of course, it wasn’t.
What was I going to do? I stared down the row of booths. There was a man in the booth at the end, facing me. He was eating breakfast and as I sat there, staring, he looked up and stopped eating for a minute, holding his fork right in front of his lips.
I shook my head, like I could clear away the fog that seemed to be in my mind.
What was I going to do? I didn’t have one penny, not one red cent, every bit of my $137 was gone, and not only that, but my bus ticket was in my wallet too.
Would they let me back on the bus without a ticket? Every time we got back on after a stop, we showed the driver our tickets. How else would he keep track of who was a paid passenger? Anyone could get on the bus, and the driver wouldn’t know the difference unless he saw a ticket.
And this wasn’t even the same bus driver we had yesterday. He wouldn’t know I’d been on the bus all night, unless he’d noticed me, and I’d been keeping away from the other passengers, so they might not even be able to say, “Yes, I remember her, she was on the bus.”
The only people who could swear I belonged on that bus were Ruby Durban and the woman with the baby, and they had gotten off at Springfield.
I thought my stomach would drop into my shoes. I remembered the woman coming into the rest room at Sal’s, seeing me with all that money, seeing me put it in my wallet.
I had been asleep for hours before the bus stopped in Springfield. My pocketbook had been on my lap, but she could have just reached in and lifted the wallet. As far as I could remember, it had been right on top when we got out of Sal’s Roadside Rest.
But she would have had to lean over Ruby Durban to do it, because I was sitting next to the window. And wouldn’t someone have seen her?
Not if everyone on the bus was asleep.
Maybe Mrs. Durban had taken it. It would have been easy for her. She was sitting right next to me, she could have waited until I fell asleep.... But a nice old lady like that? I couldn’t believe it.
Maybe she believed the story about my aunt and uncle having a big ranch and oil wells. Maybe she needed the money and thought I was so rich I wouldn’t even think twice about losing $50. I was all dressed up, I was carrying my model’s hatbox, I looked like I could be a rich girl, I guess.
But I still couldn’t believe it. Women with little babies in their arms aren’t pickpockets. That nice Ruby Durban, with her son working at Sears, Roebuck and her little twin grandsons, couldn’t be a thief. Maybe I had lost it. Maybe it had dropped on the floor under my seat.
I jumped up and ran outside and climbed on the bus. I went back to my seat, squatted down, and felt all around.
No wallet.
I looked up and down the center aisle. I started looking under every seat, but it was no use, I knew that. The wallet wasn’t on the bus. I went back into the Sleepyland Restaurant and slumped into the booth.
Either someone had stolen my wallet, or I had lost it somewhere between Sal’s and here. Maybe even walking out of Sal’s and onto the bus. But no, I remembered, I had shown the driver my ticket, put it back in my wallet, and put the wallet back in my pocketbook.
So someone had to have taken it.
But what difference did it make what had happened to my wallet? The main thing was, I was stranded in the middle of nowhere with no money and no bus ticket and no one I could tell. If I told the bus driver my wallet had been stolen, he would probably call the police. How could I ask the police to look for the person who had stolen my wallet, when the police were probably looking for me?
I put my head in my hands and tried not to break down and cry.
Even if the driver let me ride the rest of the way to California without seeing my ticket, what was I going to do once I got there? I couldn’t expect to get right off the bus and walk to the gates of MGM and get a part in a movie just like that. I don’t believe in fairy tales; like I said, I’m practical. And where would I live, how would I eat, how would I get around to the studios even if I got some other jobs modeling while I was waiting to break into pictures? It could be a week until I got my first paycheck; even if I started working the very first day in California, that would be five days with no place to sleep and no food to eat.
Three years of saving, three years of planning, and now everything was gone, my dream destroyed, not even twenty-four hours after I’d set out on my new life.
“Miss? Is anything wrong? May I be of assistance?”
I looked up and saw that the man from the back booth was leaning over, holding out a little white card. I didn’t know what else to do, so I took the card. It had “Walter Murchison, Good News Publishing Co.” printed on it.
“Whatever it is,” he said gently, “it can’t be that bad.”
It can be that bad, I thought angrily, and almost said it out loud, but I stopped myself. I couldn’t tell him the truth, if I didn’t want to be caught, but on the other hand, he had a kind face, and a pleasant voice, and maybe he could help me if he knew it really was that bad.
If he knew why I was in such a jam, he’d probably go straight to the police, because he’d get in trouble if he helped me. And if he knew I was fifteen, he’d turn me in for sure and tell me he was doing it for my own good, because
I was too young to be running off on my own. But if I said the right combination of words maybe this Walter Murchison would save my life.
“Well,” I began, my mind racing, “it’s sort of a long story.”
“Then may I sit down? I’d like to hear it.”
I nodded. He had a kind face, not real handsome, but nice. His hair was very short and sort of sandy-colored and he wore a seersucker jacket with narrow blue and white stripes and a white shirt. He had a red bow tie, which I didn’t like too much because I don’t like bow ties, plus it sort of sat on his Adam’s apple and made you notice how it stuck out.
But other than the bow tie and the short hair, he looked okay.
Even as I started talking I was trying to think up a good story, so I talked really slow, which was okay because he knew I was upset and he probably would figure I was having trouble getting the words out. Which I definitely was, but not for the reason he thought.
“I was on my way to Hollywood—I mean, I am on my way to Hollywood—”
“I knew it!” he said. “I took one look at you and said, ‘That girl’s a movie star or something. I’m sure I’ve seen her before.’ You are a movie star, aren’t you?”
“Well, no.” I couldn’t help being flattered, no matter how bad my situation was, because here was a complete stranger telling me I looked like a movie star. But it only felt good for a few seconds.
“Not yet, anyway,” I said.
“You’re going to be, is that it?”
“Right. See, the thing is, I’m on my way to Hollywood to be in the movies...
“Do you have a contract yet?”
“Well, no, not exactly.” But that gave me an idea. “They wired me the money, though, for a screen test, and I quit my job and took the first bus I could get to California.”
“Well, how in the world did you end up here in the middle of jerkwater Indiana?”
“Is that where this is?” I asked. “Jerkwater, Indiana?”
He laughed. I thought it was strange his Adam’s apple didn’t move when he laughed. I tried not to stare at it.
“No, that’s just an expression. This place is called Dugan.”
“Oh. Well, you see, I wasn’t paying too much attention to where we were stopping, all I knew was I had to stay on to the last stop, which was Los Angeles.”
Think, I told myself desperately. Plots of a dozen movies I had seen jumped around in my head, but none of them was any use to me. This was not the Lillian Roth story, or the Jane Froman story, or the Glenn Miller story, this was my story, the Sylvie Krail-Venida Meredith story, and no one had made a movie of it yet. I had to think it up myself.
“Well, I haven’t a friend in the world, and I’m an orphan so I have no relatives either. . . .” Both those things were practically the truth, I realized.
“All alone?” He shook his head.
“That’s right. So I really have no one to turn to in my time of need.”
“And this is your time of need?”
I nodded.
“But, what happened?”
“Well, there was this old lady sitting next to me on the bus.” Now I had it! I would tell him mostly the truth, just change it a little so he would see he really had to help me.
“And I befriended her and she told me she was really down on her luck and had spent her last few cents on a bus ticket to Springfield, Ohio, where she had some relatives who might help her out even though she hadn’t seen them in years.”
Walter nodded.
“Well, I felt sort of sorry for her, being so old and all, and having no money and not even being sure when she got to her relatives that they’d take her in, and I thought how awful it must be to be old and poor and have no place to go.”
Walter nodded again understandingly.
“And I thought, here I am, only eighteen—” I glanced at Walter to see if he believed that I was eighteen. He didn’t make any kind of face like he didn’t believe it, so I went on.
“—only eighteen, with my whole life ahead of me and a career in the movies when I’d be making lots of money, and I ought to help this lady. So even though I only had a little bit of money left over from my ticket, just enough to live on for a little while in Hollywood, I thought, Syl—I mean, Venida, you ought to help this lady out. This lady can’t wait for you to be a star and make lots of money, she needs money now.”
Walter looked very touched, I thought.
“So I took out my wallet and gave her twenty dollars. Which left me with thirty dollars to live on in Hollywood. She said she couldn’t take it, she made a fuss, but she took it finally. She said how she was real grateful and would look for me in the movies. And then I fell asleep, and when I woke up we were in Springfield and she was gone.”
“And so was your wallet,” Walter finished.
“Right. And I was just trying to do a good deed. I can’t believe that nice old lady would have robbed me, after I tried to help her. She must have been very desperate.”
“Oh, my. It’s plain you don’t know the way of the world, Ven—what did you say your name was?”
“Venida. Venida Meredith.”
“Lovely name. Well, it’s just as plain as day, Venida, you’re too trusting. That woman was probably a con artist. She made up that whole story to get your sympathy, and when you took out your wallet to give her money, she made sure to see exactly where you put it back, so she could pick your pocket.”
“Oh, I was afraid that’s what happened, but I really didn’t want to believe it. I don’t like to think bad thoughts about anyone, but I was asleep until we got to Springfield and ...” I sort of let my voice trail off. I don’t know why, but I had this kind of instinct that Walter would feel much sorrier for me if I didn’t act mean or angry about being robbed, but talked instead like I thought all people were good and kind and honest.
“And now,” I went on, “here’s my big chance, when I’m supposed to report for my screen test, and I haven’t even got my bus ticket, because that was in my wallet too. And I don’t know how I’m going to get to Hollywood in time for my test, and my whole career is finished before it even starts.”
I put my head in my hands again. This time I didn’t try to stop myself from crying, but for some reason, now that it would do some good, no tears would come. I felt a hand on my head.
“Tell you what, Miss Meredith. You’ll get to Hollywood on time. You’ll take that screen test, and I bet you’ll do real well, too.”
“But how? I have no bus ticket, no money—”
“I’m going to take you, that’s how. In my brand-new Pontiac Star Chief Catalina. I want to do something to help you restore your faith in people. A thing like this, why, it could sour you on the world. Being so young and impressionable. It’s not good to be too trusting of people, so they take advantage of you, but it’s not good to be too distrusting either.”
I was absolutely stunned. I stared at Walter, not believing what he was saying. He looked pleased as punch, as if it made him really happy to shock me like this.
“But—but—to drive me all the way to California from Dugan, Indiana?” I didn’t know what to say. The most I’d hoped for was maybe a small loan, which I would pay back when I got my first job. But this! To be driven all the way to California in a brand-new Pontiac! Just like a star. I was so bowled over I said the first thing that popped into my head.
“Isn’t that going to take you a little out of your way?”
Chapter 6
Walter was still laughing when we walked out to his car, which was parked in front of one of the Sleepy-land cabins.
“It’s beautiful!” I said, running my hand along one of the tail fins. Two-tone blue, with white leather upholstery. “Does it have a radio?”
“It has everything,” Walter said proudly. “Radio, heater, power steering, V-8 engine, automatic transmission, white-wall tires, dashboard clock, cigarette lighter—do you smoke, Miss Meredith?”
Remembering Natalie’s interview, I said, “I’m trying to cut down.”
“You should see it after it’s washed and waxed,” Walter went on. “It gets pretty dusty on these back roads. We’ll get it washed before we hit L.A. Don’t want you showing up for your screen test in a dirty car.”
“Goodness, Mr. Murchison, even if this car is dirty, it sure beats a Greyhound bus.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable than you would be on the bus, even if it takes a little longer. And if we’re going to be traveling companions, you’d better start calling me Walter.”
“All right, Walter. And you call me Venida.” But what he’d said about it taking a little longer bothered me. Why should a slick new car like a Pontiac Star Chief Catalina take longer to get to California than a big, hulky bus?
“When do you have to report for your test?” Walter asked.
I didn’t answer right away. If I said, for instance, four days, would he say, “Oh, well, we can’t get there that fast. You better find another way”? But when I told him my story, I made it sound urgent, like the test was practically tomorrow. I just couldn’t think of the right-sounding date. And I couldn’t risk losing Walter. He was the answer to my prayers, my only hope of reaching Hollywood and starting my new life.
Besides, his card had read “Good News Publishing,” so on top of everything, it sounded like he worked for a newspaper. What a break! He might even do a story on me, give me some publicity, so that when I walked into the studios they would already have heard of me. The right kind of publicity can “make or break” an up-and-coming star.
“See, the thing is,” Walter said when I didn’t answer, “there’s some territory I ought to cover before we head west.”
That sounded interesting. I never met a real newspaperman, and I know they lead very exciting lives. There wa
s this show on television, Big Town, which was all about life on a big city newspaper. All kinds of things happened to Steve Wilson when he was tracking down an important story.
“Well,” I said carefully, “you’re being so nice, I wouldn’t want you to miss a big story on account of me.
Walter had unlocked the car. He put my hatbox in the trunk and I slid into the front seat. The car was steaming hot. I could feel the heat from the leather seat right through the back of my dress.
He slammed the trunk shut and got into the driver’s seat. He opened his window wide and started up the engine.
“Purrs like a kitten, doesn’t it?” he said proudly as we backed out of the parking space.
I took some tissues out my pocketbook and patted my face and neck. It was so hot.
“It’ll be cooler once we get going,” he said. “Roll your window down, let some air in.”
We drove around the gas pumps and I could see people getting back on the bus. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, if I should talk to the driver and see if he’d let me on the bus even without a ticket. At least that way, I’d know I’d be in Los Angeles in three days even if I didn’t have any money. I had no idea what Walter’s “territory” was or how many stories he’d have to cover before we got to California, and I was beginning to think a little more clearly, for the first time since I discovered my wallet was gone.
I began to get a little nervous. I didn’t know a thing about this Walter Murchison except that he had a kind face and was a newspaper reporter. And what did a kind face mean? Ruby Durban had seemed to be a nice old lady, and she had probably stolen my wallet. You couldn’t tell what people were like from their faces. Or the way they talked.
But then Walter pulled out onto the blacktop and we were whizzing down the road with a breeze coming in the window and it was too late to turn back.
How did I know Walter would actually take me all the way to Los Angeles? In fact, now that I could think straight, it sounded crazy. Why should he? Why should he pick up a perfectly strange girl in a restaurant and offer to drive her all the way across country just like that?
To All My Fans, With Love, From Sylvie Page 5
