by Sally Koslow
I don’t want to embarrass Scott or cause a scene. When I say, “Darling, please meet Mary Crowell,” he genuflects, sweeping an imaginary plume to the floor as if he were Cyrano de Bergerac in a doublet.
The woman blushes. I cringe. “Scott, I’ll need to step away for half an hour,” I say. “I’m sorry.” And relieved.
“Mr. Fitzgerald, why don’t Miss Graham and I meet you at seven in the bar?” the press agent jumps in to suggest.
“Stupendous. Simply marvelous.” Stoo-PEN-dus. MAHvelus. Adjectives Scott dismisses as the vocabulary equivalent of antimacassars. Nor does he usually mimic Tallulah Bankhead loudly enough to turn heads.
We leave Scott and I sprint through the interview. As soon as it’s over, Miss Crowell and I dash to the three tables and six chairs that constitute the airport’s bar. Several glasses sit in front of Scott, empty. His eyes are half closed.
“What will you have, Miss Graham?” the press agent asks.
“A brandy, please,” to steady my nerves.
“And Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“Make mine another double.” The words roll out in a smear. The bartender places a glass in front of Scott, who says, “Mud in your eye,” gulps it down, belches, and asks for another, which quickly arrives.
I push the drink away, saying, “Scott, you’ve had enough.” With surprising force, he grabs my wrist. Half of the gin spills on the floor, but he all but gargles the rest and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Miss Crowell gets up from her chair and takes a few steps back. She is blushing. A loudspeaker announces our plane. “Time to leave, sweetheart,” I say, struggling to modulate my voice.
“Aye-aye, Captain Ahab.” He salutes Miss Crowell, then me, and grabs his trench coat, which he struggles to put on and fails to button. I hastily say goodbye to Miss Crowell and we walk to the tarmac, where Scott’s coat balloons with a gust of air. He resembles a fedora-crested crane attempting to take flight. When we find our seats on the plane, a bottle of gin clunks to the floor.
“Please tell me you won’t drink any more,” I plead. I feel a filmy heat in my face and perspiration under my arms as a stampede of anger and shock floods my body.
Scott takes a swig directly from the bottle and raises it higher than his head. “To the intrepid Miss Sheilah Graham, who will conquer Chicago, hog butcher for the world, toolmaker, stacker of wheat, player with railroads and the nation’s freight handler; stormy, husky, brawling, city of the big shoulders. They tell me you are wicked and I believe them—”
“Enough,” I hiss. Passengers are gawking. “Cut it out.”
To my relief, when the airplane rumbles to life, Scott begins to doze. Los Angeles vanishes as we lift into the meringue clouds. Is the bliss I’ve known for months a fool’s paradise that will also disappear because the real Scott has been revealed as a common drunkard? I’m clenching my hands so tightly my fingernails leave half-moon indentions in both palms.
He continues to sleep, softly snoring, but when a stewardess walks down the aisle proffering cigarettes and magazines, he wakes up, touches her arm, and coos, “Do you know who I am?” I can smell the gin on his breath and am sure she can, too.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know who you are,” she says. “Do you have a special request?”
“I’d like it to be 1925.”
“Excuse me?”
“1920 will also do.”
The year he married Zelda. He barks a laugh. “I demand that you tell me who I am.”
The girl looks away, perhaps in hopes of being rescued.
“Never mind. I’m F. Scott Fitzgerald, the writer. The famous writer.”
I could easily rip out every page of each magazine in the woman’s cart and stuff them down Scott’s throat.
“Would you like something, Mr. Fitzgerald?” Her voice trembles.
He empties his glass. “A Gin Rickey, easy on the fizzy water.” The stewardess honors the request and moves on to the next passenger as I sink into my seat. “Do you know who I am?” Scott demands of a man sitting across the aisle.
“No, pal, I don’t,” he replies.
“I’m Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald.” His tone is not entirely unpleasant. He hums a few bars of The Star-Spangled Banner. “You probably know me as F. Scott Fitzgerald, the inventor of the now extinct Jazz Age.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“And who are you?”
He responds with “Holy cow, I’ve heard of you,” and adds what sounds like “Humbert Hinklefeather.”
It’s unclear to me if the man is being comic or respectful, but Scott says, “See, Sheilo, I’m not dead yet. Hum here knows me. I’malivegoddamitandI’mfamous. Hum, do you know Hem? First-class bum, Hem.”
“Ernest Hemingway?”
“Señor Machismo. Also known as the Prick.”
“You know him?”
“Know him? I made him. Always ready to lend a helping hand, my friend Ernest—especially to the guy on the rung above him.”
Scott commits the mortal sin of laughing at his own joke while I watch with shock and curiosity. How is it possible for my stallion to change into such an ass? I remember a line that struck me in Tender Is the Night: “There is something awe-inspiring in one who has lost all inhibitions.” But there is nothing awe-inspiring now in seeing Scott. “When we stop to refuel, I want you to go back to Los Angeles,” I blurt out. “Going to Chicago together is a mistake.”
His expression turns sweetly sincere. “But you need my help, Presh.”
“Perhaps, but you’re in no position to offer it and”—I choose words as anodyne as possible—“I don’t like you . . . this way.”
“In that case, fuck off,” says the banner carrier for verbal rectitude, a man who’s been known to flinch at “menstruate.” I am as shocked by Scott’s language as its intent. “Go fight your own battle,” he says, then assumes the tone of a revival-meeting preacher. “But I’m warning you. You’ll always be alone, Sheilah Graham. Which is why we belong together. Two lone wolves.”
I close my eyes to staunch the tears I won’t allow. For all of my adult life I have felt isolated, marooned by my lies. Perhaps Scott’s talent, which people have ceased to honor, sequesters him, too—or he is set apart by the chip he carries on his shoulder about being one down from the rich. It’s also possible that he’s simply an exceedingly nasty wino others abhor and learn to ignore.
The only step that strikes me as viable is to send my he-wolf packing. “When we get to Albuquerque, please get out,” I say. “In fact, I insist.”
“You’re casting me off?”
“Not at all. We’ll see one another back home.”
“You’ll regret this,” he growls as the plane taxies to a halt.
Perhaps, but I don’t stop him. When the door opens, he grabs his hat and coat.
“Goodbye, darling,” I say, feeling protective as Scott wobbles down the aisle. Does he have any money? Can he even find his wallet? If he flashes it about, won’t he be vulnerable to thieves? Part of me wants to rescue him as if he were a child and insist that he stay, but my wiser half takes control, adding, “I’ll miss you. I’ll call you from Chicago and I’ll be back in Hollywood in a few days.”
Scott stomps out the door into feral New Mexico.
About fifteen minutes later, the stewardess unfolds my seat into a berth and pulls the curtains around me. I let the revving engine muffle my sobs and try to pinpoint how my sweet, dignified love could degenerate into a creature suitable for James Whale’s next production. As the propellers begin to whirl I turn this over repeatedly. Liquored up and tongue-loosened, Scott is an ugly contradiction I do not know. For the past few months he’s been such an attentive listener and cross-examiner that I realize most of our time has focused on my history and my problems—to the extent that I am willing to reveal myself. I feel unequal to understanding what has brought on his binge, just as I am ill-equipped to restore this corruption of Scott to the man I know and love.
The d
raperies in front of me part. I expect the stewardess, checking to see if my seat belt is buckled. It is Scott who sticks in his head.
“Honey, I thought you’d got off the plane.”
“I did. I needed more gin.” Beaming, he holds up his trophy. “I wasn’t quite pickled.”
I open my arms to welcome him into my sleeping compartment, and as the plane rises into the night sky, rock him like a baby.
Chapter 26
1937
In the morning Scott staggers into my bedroom at the Drake, drains the few drops that remain in a bottle he is holding, and rings room service for another.
“Gin is the last thing you need,” I say.
“The sergeant has spoken.”
A bellboy almost as small as a munchkin delivers the liquor and lingers for a tip. Scott starts to chase him, whooping with glee, until the terrified man flees in a streak of red. Scott runs into his bedroom and slams the door. Where I—to a fault—am aware of the social costs that come with defying the world’s social order, for Scott, propriety has disappeared down a bottle.
James Wharton, the show’s producer, arrives. We begin to chat in the sitting room of my suite when Scott barges in, wrinkled and groggy.
“Mr. Fitzgerald, what an unexpected delight to meet you,” he says, masking any surprise.
Scott accepts the greeting as if it’s a package he expected. “Mr. Wharton,” he says, pumping his hand, then drops clumsily into a wing chair. I try to judge the level of drunkenness by the ruddiness of his face. Medium-rare.
“I’ve brought my scripts with me, Mr. Wharton,” I say. “Under different conditions I’m positive I can deliver exactly what you want. It’s the delay that throws me off.” Forty seconds of hell.
“Yes, you’ve made that clear, Miss Graham. Now, if you’ll allow me.” He takes all six scripts, sits down at the room’s table, and begins to read.
After ten minutes, I flash my toothiest smile and break in with, “You are going to let me go on tonight, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t respond for another few minutes, when he tidies the scripts into a pile and looks up. “What you’ve written is fine, but I have to think this over and discuss the situation with my betters back at the office.”
“But I’ve come all this way—and I know I can vastly improve if I’m not alone in a Hollywood studio where I may as well be on the moon. I’m happy to do this live from Chicago.”
“Like I said, it’s not strictly my decision.”
I feel Scott’s eyes following our conversation. As if a puppeteer yanks his strings, he comes to life. “You rat-faced twit,” he shouts as he stands. “Does she go on or not?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Fitzgerald.” Mr. Wharton backs away.
“Put up your dukes, ya little creep.” Scott takes the stance of a boxer, shouting, “Show me what ya got.” He raises his fists, lunges, flails, and collides with his opponent in the third punch. The poor fellow’s lip spurts blood.
“My God, stop it, Scott,” I scream as he stands over James Wharton like a victor. I shout, “Cut it out. Stop,” afraid he will pounce again.
I run to the bathroom for a towel. “She’s going on and that’s that,” Scott says when I return. “No two-bit chump is stopping Sheilah Graham. Let’s see you try.”
I bend over the producer, dabbing away blood. “Mr. Wharton, please. I am so sorry,” I say, repeatedly, and to Scott, “Calm down. Compose yourself. Please—”
I’m interrupted. “Of course you can do the show tonight, live, Miss Graham—as long as you come alone,” Mr. Wharton croaks, his voice nearly lost in the bedlam. He clambers to a stand, holding the towel tight to his wound. “Be ready at six.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I say as he escapes, the door slamming behind him. I take a deep breath and face Scott, who stands across from me smirking, his arms crossed. The silence between us is a taut wire.
“I believe some gratitude is in order,” he says, drumming his fingers on his arm.
“Is it now? Gratitude?” I yell as loud as I am able. “I’d like to kill you. How dare you behave like such a horse’s ass? You’ve almost ruined me. I hate you. I despise you.” If he were closer I’d be pounding his chest.
Scott stands stock-still and stony. I can’t tell if my rant penetrates his blanket of intoxication. Mortified by outrage and self-pity, I run into my own room and throw myself on the bed.
Minutes pass. I gather my wits and return to the sitting room. Scott isn’t there. I check his bedroom. Empty.
That evening in the studio, after a round of read-throughs, I do justice to my script and collect a chorus of praise. Heroically vindicated, I race back to the Drake, praying that Scott will be sober and stoop-shouldered with apologies, his bag packed for our midnight flight.
I find the door to our suite ajar. He is sitting in a chair and a stranger is kneeling, feeding him as if he were a toothless invalid. A large linen napkin is tied around Scott’s neck like a bib, yet despite this coverage, he is spattered with dark spots, as is the other man’s shirt, its sleeves rolled to his elbows.
The stranger howls, “Fitzgerald, you fucking bit my finger” as Scott leans forward, grinning maliciously, ready for another chomp. “Be a good boy. Have more coffee, and then you’ll get your steak.”
“Excuse me?” Hearing my voice, the man swivels in my direction. He’s about my age with even features, dark hair, and a spiffy mustache.
“Oh, hello,” he says, as amiably as if we were meeting at church. “You must be Miss Graham. Scott’s been telling me all about you.”
“I’ll bet.” I wince. “What, may I ask, are you doing?”
“Getting Scott sober.”
“And you are?”
“Arnold Gingrich, Scott’s editor,” he says and chuckles. “I’d shake your hand if mine weren’t otherwise occupied and most likely injured. Sorry you had to walk in on this Mack Sennett comedy.” He turns to Scott. “You don’t have rabies, do you?”
“Show my doll the ‘Crack-Up’ stories, will ya?” Scott calls.
“Pipe down there, cowboy,” Mr. Gingrich says to Scott. “I gather you haven’t seen any of his articles in my esteemed Esquire?”
This new magazine had been earning kudos among the Garden of Allah battalion, but I didn’t know Scott was a contributor. Robert Benchley recently went on and on about a piece Ernest Hemingway published citing seventeen books he considers so exceptional he claimed he’d rather reread any of them than have a yearly income of a million dollars. I laughed at Ernest’s pretension, though I bought the issue. I’m embarrassed to admit that the only book I’ve gotten to is The Brothers Karamazov—because Scott urged it on me. Anna Karenina , Wuthering Heights, Madame Bovary, War and Peace, Huckleberry Finn, all the others—I’ve read none of them.
“Arnold here will do anything to pry a goddamn story out of me,” Scott bellows, juice from the steak dripping from his mouth. “He’ll rip out my liver if necessary.”
“Keep up the drinking and you’ll have no liver for me to rip out.”
“Is trying to sober up authors part of your job, Mr. Gingrich?” I ask. He laughs as he continues his mercy mission. “And are you having any luck?”
“Not yet, but I’m a patient guy.” He turns back to Scott. “First things first, right, my friend?”
“Another drink. Another drink.” Scott might be cheering on the Princeton Tigers.
“How did you know Scott was in town?”
“He called—my offices are around the corner. He wanted me to bring over some articles of his I’d published so you could read them.” He nods toward a large folder on the table.
“Have you ever seen him like this before?”
“I can hear you, Sheilo,” Scott yells, his eyes glittering. “I’m right here. ”’
“Many times, but never quite this bad.” Arnold Gingrich pinches Scott’s nose and pours coffee down his throat. Scott spits it back in a geyser of black.
“I’m grateful for
what you’re trying to do, Mr. Gingrich, but if you don’t mind me saying so, this is demented.”
“Arnold loves me,” Scott says. “Don’t you?”
“You know what, Scott? I do,” Arnold says. “I’ve admired your work since I was in high school. You’ve always been my idol.”
The sincerity of the admission quiets Scott.
“Shall I gather, Miss Graham, that you’ve never read ‘The Crack-Up’ or any other of Scott’s pieces I published over the last few years?”
“Never.” Nor have I heard of them.
“They may explain a lot. I visited Scott in Baltimore two years ago to see why he’d stopped sending us stories we’d already paid for. It had gotten to where the damn auditors were circling my desk with spears.”
“Pimps like Arnold expected me to write about young love, tra la,” Scott sniggers. “The last fucking thing on my mind.”
Arnold continues to ply Scott with steak and coffee as he explains that he’d told Scott even if all he turned in was a pile of pages printed with “I can’t write, I can’t write,” he needed something—anything—to satisfy his publisher for advance checks that had been cashed. Scott promised to try. The result was “The Crack-Up ” and a list of other titles that helped him torpedo through a writer’s block that had, apparently, stretched for years.
“You do know that Scott Fitzgerald plus liquor is as different from Scott without liquor as night is from day, don’t you?” I hear Arnold Gingrich’s compassion.
“I do now, but my more pressing concern is how I’m going to fly him back to Hollywood. He has a meeting tomorrow with Joe Mankiewicz—”
“The fearsome Monkeybitch,” Scott shouts.
I ignore him. “Scott’s contract is up for renewal. We’ve got to get home, and our plane leaves in a few hours.”
“Jesus,” Mr. Gingrich says, “we better stop the small talk.”
He continues his routine until Scott nods out. At eleven, the airport limousine arrives, and Arnold and I manage to bundle Scott into his coat. He and I fall into the car, where another couple is waiting.
