The Woman Who Fell From Grace

by David Handler

I couldn’t forget her if I wanted to, and I didn’t want to.

  A few fat raindrops were starting to fall. Quickly, I put the top up and went inside. Next door, Gordie’s TV was blaring. There was, I was pleased to note, no sign of his goddamned cat.

  Lulu growled at me.

  Sat there in her chair and growled at me as if I were a stranger who’d barged into the wrong room.

  “Excuse me, miss,” I said. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I happen to live here. At least I did the last time I looked.”

  She stopped growling. Now she was just glowering at me.

  I went over and sat on the arm of the chair and patted her. Or tried to. She pulled away from me, as if I’d sprayed my hand with some kind of doggy repellent.

  “For your information,” I pointed out, “Hoagy could use a little sympathy. Possibly a lick on the face.”

  No response.

  “Lassie would have been right there by my side,” I said. “Chased those two off. Or at the very least raced over to Polk’s office and barked. ‘Hoagy’s in trouble! Hoagy’s in trouble!’ ”

  She continued to glower at me from under her beret.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I grabbed her nose. Cold and wet. “Want to go back to New York or something?”

  She hopped down and waddled over to her bowl. She wanted her dinner or something.

  I gave it to her. She ate mechanically, like a middle-aged husband chewing on his wife’s pot roast for the thousandth time. I watched her, concerned. She wasn’t herself. She seemed very far away to me. I couldn’t imagine why.

  I made a fire in the small fireplace and put some ice in a towel and laid it against the throbbing welt on the side of my head. I was pouring myself a Macallan when I heard it. Softly at first. Then louder.

  Meowing.

  I ignored it. I sat and enjoyed the fire and my single malt and ignored it. It got louder. And then she began to yowl, loud enough to be heard across the valley. Certainly loud enough for Roy to hear her. Roy and his shotgun.

  Disgusted, I went to the front door and opened it. Sadie sat there in the doorway in the rain, all bright-eyed and perky and wet. She’d brought me a token of her affection. A dead mouse. At least, I think it was dead. I didn’t look too close. I told her to go away and take her friend with her. I closed the door. She promptly started yowling again. I threw it open. Now she was hanging from the screen door by all fours, eye to eye with me. I went out there and yanked her from the screen and set her down on the ground. She immediately leapt up onto my right shoulder, scampered around the back of my neck, down the other shoulder, and into the crook of my left arm, where she nestled moistly and began making small, comfortable motorboat noises. At least someone seemed happy to see me.

  “Tell you what,” I said to her grudgingly. “If you’ll shut up, I’ll bring you out something. But just this once. Never again.” I put her down. “Wait out here. And don’t ever bring me a rodent again.”

  Lulu was still eating and still giving me the cold shoulder. I spooned the leftover mackerel from her can into a saucer and took it back out to Sadie. The rain was really coming down now. Not that she was complaining. She was waiting just as I asked her to, quietly getting wetter and wetter. I sighed and held the door open. She came right in. The mouse she left on the doorstep. Lulu eyed her from her bowl but didn’t seem to mind. Whatever was bothering her it wasn’t Sadie. I put the saucer down inside the door and Sadie went for it, starved.

  I sat back down before the fire with the telephone. I talked the rental agency into hauling away their Nova and a florist into delivering a dozen long-stems to the farm in Connecticut. I tracked down Pam through her brother in Croydon. She was being a woman of leisure at a residential hotel in Bournemouth, and bored stiff. She’d be at Shenandoah as soon as the airline schedules allowed.

  I fed the fire and my whiskey glass. I put on a Garner tape and let the little elf and the rain have their way for a while. Then I opened up the notebook. Alma Glaze had kept her diary on unlined paper. Her writing had a tendency to go uphill as she got to the right edge of the page. No curlicues or flourishes. Her handwriting was small, tight, and no-nonsense. Just like the text. Just like the woman.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JUNE 9

  I sit in the gazebo, gazing out at the North Lawn, trying to stay out of everyone’s way. They have begun their filming today. The very last scene, the duel, is being filmed first. I’m told they do everything out of sequence in Hollywood. How can they? How can the actors know what to feel if the preceding scene has not yet been filmed? Curious. The lawn is filled with their modern equipment — cameras, lights, trucks, trailers. Amidst all of it stand the duelists, Errol Flynn and Sterling Sloan, in their costumes and powdered wigs.

  Mr. Flynn cuts such a tall, dashing figure as De Cheverier. He is an utterly charming, devilish man. Last evening he kissed my hand and pronounced me “the loveliest writer I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He is so full of life, so eager to embrace its challenges. … Mr. Sloan is in many ways his opposite. He is a small man, five feet six at most. He must stand on a platform to see eye to eye with the strapping Flynn. He has such tiny hands that the costumer told me he must wear boy’s gloves. His forehead is unusually high, his skin fair, his mouth delicate, hair a lovely ginger color. But that voice! So rich and baritone! Were it not for that he would seem too small and frail to project John Raymond’s inner strength. Sloan is a very quiet man. There is an air of deep suffering about him, of dark inner torment.

  Laurel Barrett is an exquisite, fine-boned creature. She has the loveliest, purest white skin I have ever seen. However, she is very arrogant and high-strung. When I told her how pleased I was she had been chosen to play Evangeline, she said, “I can well imagine you would be.” I gather she is not well liked by the cast and crew. Certainly she makes no attempt to be cordial. There seems to be more than a little marital strain between her and Mr. Sloan. Or perhaps I simply do not understand performers.

  Mr. Wyler, the director, certainly seems to. Willy is very much in charge. He asked the gentlemen to perform one small part of the duel scene over and over again this morning. They did so without question. I suppose they are used to this, since so much of moviemaking seems to be mindless, painstaking repetition. … Happily, Mr. Goldwyn has returned to Hollywood for the time being. What a vulgar, horrid snake! What a total figment of his own imagination! And what does he actually do? His sole interest here seemed to be in trying to bed any living, breathing woman he could get his hands on. Briefly, he even pursued the “dahlink” widowed author of “Old” Shenandoah, as he insists upon calling it. We were not amused.

  June 10

  The children are in heaven. They consider this entire enterprise their personal playground. The twins are enamored of the cameras and lights and of the men who handle them. Particularly Edward, who, with the typical verve of a man with one entire year of college under his belt, has pronounced himself bound for a career in the theatrical arts. He is terribly underfoot, I’m afraid. … little Mavis has taken to worshiping Mr. Flynn with every ounce of her ten years. She follows him about and constantly seeks to dominate his attentions. He’s been quite charming about it. Her main competition is Miss Barrett, who appears to be terribly smitten by him. I can only hope the filming will not be highlighted by a real duel between these two gentlemen.

  Mr. Flynn has liquor on his breath at nine in the morning. Still, he is a perfect professional and the crew adore him. They do not care for the moody aloofness of Sloan and Barrett, whom they have dubbed Himself and Herself. Mr. Niven is most ingratiating. Miss Barrymore intelligent and convivial. I believe she and I shall become friends.

  Seeing my characters come to life this way, I cannot help but think of their continuing on after Oh, Shenandoah. Of Evangeline’s going forth to live the joys and the sorrows of this sweet land of liberty. John Raymond must win the duel. For it is he, a statesman, a man of peace, who is destined for greatness in the new land. De Cheverier, t
he eternal rebel, is a man of war. He is aflame, burning brightly in Evangeline’s heart, but his time has now passed.

  And on it went. Alma’s notes for Sweet Land were, in fact, rather sparse. There was little here that Mavis hadn’t already told me. Mostly, there was gossip. Pretty good stuff, though, if you’re interested in that sort of thing. It so happened I was.

  June 14

  Everyone is talking about how Mr. Niven and Linda Darnell are sleeping together. Neither of them has bothered to be discreet about it. I do not understand these people.

  My poor Frederick is hopelessly in love with Helene Bray, the fast young actress who plays Evangeline’s best friend, Abigail. Helene curses like a sailor and flirts with most of the young men on the set. She also happens to be sleeping with Rex Ransom, the handsome young actor who plays James Madison. I don’t have the heart to tell Frederick. … Edward has the acting bug now. But he’s so enthusiastic and genuine that he’s actually managed to befriend Himself the moody Mr. Sloan, who has consented to discuss his craft with Edward in his free time. Quite an unexpected privilege.

  Little Fernie O’Baugh, the daughter of that fellow who fixes cars in town, looks simply lovely in her costume as Evangeline’s sister, Lavinia. … I wonder if perhaps Mavis is spending too much time around Mr. Flynn. He made the oddest, crudest remark today about how much he enjoyed having her sit in his lap. I do believe I will start keeping her away from him.

  June 25

  Willy drove Miss Barrett to utter hysterics this morning. They were filming the scene where Donald Crisp, the fine actor who plays her father, tells Vangie he despises De Cheverier and would never countenance their marriage. Willy wanted Miss Barrett to break down in response and was not satisfied with what she was giving him. He made her film it over and over and over again, tormenting her, driving the poor woman to such a state of frenzied exhaustion that she genuinely was breaking down. She was not acting. Only then was he satisfied. It did not seem to bother him in the least that she then had to be given a sedative and put to bed. Mr. Sloan got into a violent quarrel with Willy because of it. I thought the two would come to blows. An aide had to separate them. Mr. Sloan then refused to come out of his trailer after lunch. He said he had a severe headache. Willy instructed the crew to pound on the trailer with hammers, creating such an unbearable amount of noise within that he simply had to emerge. The shooting went surprisingly smoothly after that. … Actors are children. Willy is their father.

  I must say I am appalled at how casual they all are about altering my dialogue. Mr. Sherwood was most faithful in his script. Not so Willy and the performers. They keep changing a word here, a phrase there, and in the process destroying its authenticity. When I sell the film rights to Sweet Land of Liberty, I will make sure they cannot do this. It shall be in the contract.

  June 29

  Whispers about Mr. Flynn and Miss Barrett. They have filmed several love scenes together, and the passion they are generating appears to be quite genuine. She has been seen coming out of his trailer. Such a lovely creature. How could she? And with her own husband right here! I do not understand these people.

  July 12

  Quite a scare today. Little Mavis didn’t turn up for lunch and no one seemed to know where she was. Toward late afternoon she was found across the road in the Appleby pasture, which they’ve rented for the battle scenes. The little fool had taken off on a horse and had a nasty spill. Dr. Toriello rushed her to the hospital, where it was discovered she had broken her collarbone. She’s in a great deal of pain, but she’ll live. I must remember to thank Mr. Sloan. The crew said it was he who found her.

  July 16

  The rains came again today, washing away all of Willy’s best-laid plans. He is under increasing pressure from Mr. Goldwyn to finish on time. The strain is beginning to show on him.

  The bad weather did give me an opportunity to lunch with Miss Barrymore. She is a lovely person, hardworking and professional and very proud of the fine theatrical tradition of the Drews and the Barrymores. She is deeply concerned about her dear brother John, whom she calls Jake, a darling boy but so troubled by drink and demons. She believes he will soon die. She has noticed the same sickness in a member of this cast. I assumed she meant Mr. Flynn, but she meant Mr. Sloan, who, like John Barrymore, achieved greatness in his portrayal of Hamlet. Ethel believes certain men are born to play the Sweet Prince, and that these men are also born to be destroyed young by the poisoned cup just as he was. … If Mr. Sloan drinks he hides it well. I have never noticed him intoxicated.

  July 27

  Newsreel cameramen came today to fan the flames of publicity. Went away with the impression that everything was going well. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  The love affair between Mr. Flynn and Miss Barrett is quite evident now. So is the effect her brazen infidelity is having on Mr. Sloan. He is pale and drawn and complains of constant migraines. Frequently, he is unable to leave his trailer. The doctor has been attending him. Miss Barrett dismisses his condition as a display of martyrdom and refuses to yield to it. This has resulted in a frightfully juvenile battle of wills. If he will not come out of his trailer to do a scene, then she will not come out of hers. This afternoon they kept the crew waiting for hours before they would appear. Everyone, I must say, seemed quite unconcerned about it. Stars will be stars, or some such thing. … Willy’s reaction was the most surprising. While he is upset at the delays, he actually seems pleased that Miss Barrett is involved with both men, for it mirrors my story and consequently makes the scenes among them all the more genuine. I told Miss Barrymore I thought this was rather inhuman of him. She said it was always a mistake to think of a director as a human being.

  Mr. Niven told me it is best not to take sides in such matters. Most of the crew have taken Miss Barrett’s, partly because they adore Mr. Flynn, partly because Himself, when he does emerge from his trailer, is so snappish and unpleasant. There is something about that man I don’t like. My Edward believes he is a genius and terribly misunderstood. Edward thinks Miss Barrett is a witch. Actually, he used a stronger word than that. College man.

  August 10

  Mercifully, they finish today. A party is planned in town tonight. I suppose I shall have to go.

  Something rather strange happened this morning. They had been shooting the last bedroom scene upstairs in my old room, the scene in which John Raymond bursts in on Vangie while she is dressing to demand once and for all whether she loves him or De Cheverier. Her sister, Lavinia, little Fern O’Baugh, happens to be in the room at the time, as is Bessie, Vangie’s wise old personal maid. Pearl Blue plays Bessie and is a dear. It being rather cramped and narrow up there, I stayed out of the way during filming. When they were done, I went up to see Fern. I was at the top of the stairs when I heard a scream, and then Fern came flying out of the sitting room, her face white, her wig cockeyed. The poor child practically knocked me over in her haste to get down the stairs. I wondered, naturally, what had happened. When I went in there, I found only Pearl and the makeup girl, Cookie Jahr, finishing up. I asked them what on earth had frightened Fern so. They had no idea. They said she had been chatting gaily away when suddenly, without warning, she had screamed and run out of the room. Mystified, I went next door into the bedroom. The crew had cleared out. However, I did find Mr. Sloan in there with one other —

  That was it. Alma’s notebook ended here. The rest had been torn out.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHY HAD FERN O’BAUGH screamed?

  What had she seen? Whatever it was, someone had made damned sure there’d never be anything on paper about it.

  Alma Glaze hadn’t changed her mind about how to end Sweet Land of Liberty, as Frederick had advised me. I knew better. She, or someone else, had torn out those last pages of her diary because of what they had to say about Sterling Sloan, and how he died. But what? Who had been there in Vangie’s room with him? What had been going on? How was I going to find out? Fern had told me time was runnin
g out. She’d mentioned the golden-anniversary celebration. Did a survivor from the cast or crew know something? Cookie Jahr, the makeup girl? No telling. I only knew that something had been covered up just like Fern said. And that somebody wanted it to stay that way. Real bad.

  I put the notebook down and yawned and knuckled my eyes. It was past one. The rain had let up. The fire was just a glow of coals. Lulu was asleep in her chair, Sadie in the kindling box. Across the courtyard, the east wing was dark. The Glazes were asleep, too.

  I carried Sadie next door. Gordie’s light was on. So was his TV. He was fast asleep before it on the love seat in his Washington Redskins knit pj’s. I turned off the TV and picked him up off the sofa. He didn’t weigh much. I carried him up the spiral staircase to his room and got him into the bed without waking him. Or so I thought.

  I was reaching for his bedroom light when he opened his eyes. “Had me a looth tooth, Hoagy. Bottom tooth.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Fell out. Kept it though.” He sure did. He had it clutched right there in his clammy little hand.

  “That’s swell, Gordie. Real nice.”

  “There a tooth fairy here?” he asked gravely.

  “I seriously doubt it.”

  Out came the lower lip. He rolled over and faced the wall, crestfallen.

  Don’t look at me that way. I never claimed I was good with kids. Just that I don’t like them. “Uh … actually, I’m pretty sure there is one, Gordie. Has to be one. I mean, this is the planet earth, isn’t it?”

  He turned back to me, brightening considerably. “Hoagy?”

  “Yeah, Gordie?”

  “G’night, Hoagy.”

  I turned out his light. “Good night, Gordie.”

  I slipped across the courtyard and into the east wing, which was left unlocked at night for Gordie’s sake. I closed the kitchen door softly behind me. It was dark in there, except for a light over the stove, and quiet aside from the hum of the refrigerator and the growl of my stomach. Charlotte’s meat loaf at supper tasted as if it had been made from remnants of the Berlin Wall. As sandwich makings, however, it might do. I found its remains in the fridge, cut a slab, and slathered two pieces of bread with mayo and ketchup and Fern’s homemade pickle relish. I took a bite. Not terrible. I opened a beer and drank from it. I went into Fern’s bedroom off the kitchen and turned on the light.