What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

by Henry Farrell

  Mrs. Stitt shook her head in stubborn denial. “It was already opened up—and that letter on top, too. And besides——” Hesitating she glanced back, almost furtively, toward the open doorway.

  “Besides——?” Blanche prompted.

  Reaching again into the wide pocket of her apron, Mrs. Stitt produced a large brown Manila envelope. After a moment’s hesitation, she held it out.

  “You—you might as well see this, I guess…”

  Blanche took the envelope. In the upper left hand corner was the insignia and name of the television station. At the center was a white sticker upon which had been typed her name and address. Other than that it seemed entirely unremarkable.

  “The other side,” Mrs. Stitt said thinly, looking away. “Over.”

  With a faint chill of apprehension, Blanche turned the envelope.

  The word seemed to leap up at her like a shouted epithet, angry, ugly, obscene, scrawled in strokes so vicious that in several places the point of the pencil had bitten into the thick stuff of the envelope and torn it. Turning the envelope back, Blanche pressed it quickly down into her lap as if in an attempt to crush the word out of existence. Looking down at her, Mrs. Stitt drew her hands stiffly across the front of her apron.

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice was contrite now, but still unsteady. “I guess I shouldn’t have shown you. Lord knows I hate to be a trouble maker, but——”

  Blanche raised a hand. “It’s all right.” Her gaze slid inadvertently toward the open doorway. “I don’t really think——”

  Abruptly, Mrs. Stitt held out her hand. “Here, I’ll take that and get rid of it.” Retrieving the envelope from Blanche’s lap, she folded it deftly over upon itself and jammed it into her pocket. “Miss Blanche,” she said, her voice quiet with concern, “I know this isn’t anything much to get worked up about. But it’s not a normal thing for someone to do—not for a person her age—and with her starting to act up again.…”

  Blanche looked down, shielding her eyes from Mrs. Stitt’s gaze, afraid she might reveal the fear that had suddenly come alive inside her. Jane is my sister, she told herself sternly, she has taken care of me and stayed with me and protected me all these years. The least I can do is try to understand. She’s my own sister.…

  She may be your own sister, honey, your own flesh and blood, but you’ve got to face it, deep down inside she hates you like poison and nothing would please her more than to see you get it right in the neck.

  The words echoed suddenly into her mind from far, far back in the past. It was Martin Stagg who had said them to her. She had been working on a picture, and he had called her into his office…

  I know, it’s a hard thing to admit to yourself, but Janie’s so crazy with jealousy she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

  Marty had been the producer of the picture, a big, bluff man with a large, knowing heart and an uncanny instinct for picture making and its people. When one of Marty’s performers was in trouble, he was always anxious to understand and help.

  Why do you think she pulls these drunks all the time—and going out and making a show of herself in public? Look how many times, just this last year, she’s got herself tossed in the can. Four, five times? Five. Next time, maybe the boys won’t get there fast enough to hush it up. And whose career is it going to reflect on? Hers? Hell, no, her career was washed up before she was even twelve years old. You’re the one who’s going to take the rap. And will she be sorry? Look—why does she have all those tantrums on the set and hold up shooting? Why is she always so sick every time Publicity sets up a personal for you, and you have to stay home and take care of her?

  And don’t think I’m not sympathetic to the whole problem. She was a star, one of the real biggies, and in a tough racket, too. I give her credit. She probably kept your whole family in chips, and not just pocket change, either. So just think what it must be like for her now. It’s like her life was over before it even got started. Everyone yelling and making a fuss over her and then, all of a sudden, nothing. I’ve never seen a kid star yet pull out of it without some kind of scar to show for it. And it’s twice as bad for Janie. Here you are—her kid sister—a bigger star than she ever was. How do you think she feels, tagging along in your shade all the time? She knows damn well the only reason she works is because of that clause in your contract. Hell, the whole world knows it! Honey, think how it’s twisting her up inside. I don’t care what kind of good intentions you’ve got, you aren’t doing her any kindness. Now, look—take my advice, let’s get rid of that clause. The front office is willing to buy her off with a good piece of change—I know that for a fact—and the publicity boys will make it look right. Come on—before she cracks up completely and does you some real damage—let her off the hook, huh?…

  But she had refused Marty’s advice. She had promised Jane, she told him, and she wasn’t going to go back on her word. And now, suddenly, thirty years later, his words were as distinct in her mind as the day he said them. Because of the old movies, of course, and the fan letters. Another confirmation that she was right: she and Jane needed to leave the old house and all its lingering, unhappy memories as soon as possible.…

  “Your sister is not a well woman, Miss Blanche.”

  Again Blanche forced herself to look up into Mrs. Stitt’s anxious face.

  “Miss Blanche, somebody’s got to tell you straight out, and I guess it’s got to be me. Your sister needs—well, she needs some kind of—attention. And I don’t care if you fire me for saying it, I don’t! It’s for your own good. When she gets into these—sulks—of hers, I just don’t know how you stand it. She gives me the shivers. Maybe, being close to her all the time, you just don’t notice like anyone else would. But just in the time I’ve been here it’s plain that she’s a lot worse.…”

  Blanche looked up sharply. “Worse? How do you mean, Edna?”

  Mrs. Stitt touched the pocket of her apron. “This sort of thing. And the way she acts generally—like a little, spoiled kid sometimes. And how she tries to stop me from doing the things you tell me so she can make me do something else. It’s hard to say exactly but—but it’s getting—worse. I don’t mind telling you, now the subject’s open—I’d have quit this job flat a long time ago except for you. She’s just too hard to get on with—with the drinking and all that.…”

  Blanche pulled herself forward in her chair, feeling an urgent need—a compulsion, really—to say something in Jane’s defense. “Edna, I’m sure it isn’t anything—serious. I think I understand Jane. She’s always been moody, and she’s been under a strain lately——”

  “Maybe so,” Mrs. Stitt broke in, “but I still say you’d be smart to have her see your doctor. Oh, I know it’s a hard thing for you to see. Shut up here in this house all the time, you’ve got no way to make a comparison—but lately, Miss Blanche—well, I just worry about you.…”

  “Oh, Edna!”

  “Oh, I don’t mean she’s really—off—or anything like that—I’m not saying that—but she does get—well, irresponsible. This thing this morning—it’s not so important just by itself but—well, I get to thinking about what could happen to you alone in this house with her sometimes—especially when she gets to drinking—and I lay awake at night. I do, for a fact!”

  Blanche looked up at Mrs. Stitt in helpless desperation. She dared not let the woman go on like this. Perhaps it was true; perhaps, just as you developed a tolerance for pain through long familiarity, you could also develop a tolerance for eccentricity. But Jane was her own sister, the only person she had, really, in the whole world. She refused to believe that Jane’s spells were beginning to be dangerous. For one thing they weren’t really so very frequent; Blanche had come to accept them as a kind of infirmity that she must put up with just as Jane put up with her invalidism. Of the two of them, Jane had gotten all the worst of it; imprisoned all these years with a helpless, cheerless cripple performing the duties, really, of a servant. It was only natural that it should be too much for he
r sometimes and that she should rebel. If I had only listened to Marty thirty years ago, Blanche cried within herself; If I didn’t know in my own heart that it’s really all my own fault… She gazed up at Mrs. Stitt, rubbing one hand in agitation across the back of the other.

  “You must be exaggerating,” she said with an abruptness she didn’t intend. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  Instantly sensitive to her tone, Mrs. Stitt flushed a deep crimson and looked down awkwardly at her hands. “You’re right, Miss Blanche,” she said, “it’s none of my business. I guess I just ought to learn to keep my big mouth shut.”

  Blanche reached out in quick distress. “Oh, Edna—no! I appreciate your concern. I honestly do, more than you know, but——” Sensing, she thought, some subtle shifting of the shadows out in the hall, she broke off. After a moment’s hesitation, she returned her gaze to Mrs. Stitt. “Where’s Jane?”

  “Downstairs.” Mrs. Stitt spoke absently, still absorbed in her own embarrassment. “Miss Blanche, I apologize. I shouldn’t have butted in like this. I knew I shouldn’t when I started in, but—well, if you’ll just try to forget it…”

  “Oh, please, Edna, I don’t want to worry about it. You haven’t done anything wrong.” She felt a strong anxiety to have the woman leave the room and be away from her. “You really haven’t.”

  “Anyhow, I thought you’d want the letters—I thought you’d be glad to have them.”

  “Oh, I am! But I’m sure it was just a mistake, Jane’s throwing them out. I’m sure of it.”

  Nodding, Mrs. Stitt edged toward the door. “Well,” she said uneasily, “if I’m ever going to get finished up, I’d better get back downstairs.” At the doorway she hesitated, turned back. “Oh, yes, I guess I’d better tell you now. I can’t come but in the morning next Friday. I have to go downtown about jury duty. They’ll let me off all right, because I have to make my own living. But I have to go down when they say just the same.”

  Blanche smiled. “Of course, Edna.”

  “But I can come on Monday morning, too—just for the morning—if that’s all right with you? That ought to be some help…”

  “That’ll be fine,” Blanche said hastily. “Thank you for telling me.”

  For a long moment after Mrs. Stitt had gone Blanche sat in brooding silence, her previous mood of well-being completely gone. She started to turn back to the window, but stopped, thinking she detected, a second time, some slight movement out in the hall. And then, remembering the letters, she gathered them up from her lap and slipped them into her pocket.

  Leaving her hand against the letters for comfort, she tried to calm herself. Even so, she heard a distant voice screaming faintly against some obscure inner ear.

  I got the talent! it cried. Even if nobody cared… And I’ve still got it!

  3

  I’m sorry,” the voice on the telephone said. “Mr. Hanley is talking to a client right now. May I take a message?”

  “Well, no—except that I called—Blanche Hudson. My number——”

  “Oh, Miss Hudson—if it’s anything urgent, I know Mr. Hanley will want me to call him.”

  “Oh, no. No, it’s nothing urgent at all. But I would like to talk to him when he’s free.”

  “Surely, Miss Hudson. I’ll have him call you back. Probably within a half an hour. Is that all right?”

  “Yes, perfectly,” Blanche said. And then she paused. “Oh—well, you might just tell him I’ve decided to sell the house. That should surprise him. Tell him I’m ready to sell to the first buyer.”

  The voice on the phone took on a slightly puzzled tone. “All right, I’ll tell him. And I’ll have him call you.”

  Blanche said good-bye and then, just as she was going to hang up, hesitated, listening. Though the secretary had already hung up, there was still a sound of contact on the line, a faint, whispered breathing. It continued for a moment or two and then, with a faint click, disappeared.

  With a frown of concern Blanche lifted the phone from her lap and placed it on the desk. She had purposely brought it into her room from the hallway so that Jane wouldn’t overhear her from downstairs. There was no really good reason for this, she supposed, or none at least of which she was consciously aware. It just seemed better to discuss the matter of selling the house privately with Bert before mentioning it to Jane. There was time enough to tell Jane when she was sure of what actually could be done. Then, too, there was no telling; with Jane in her present state, the idea of moving might upset her all the more.

  There was no sense, either, in being annoyed with Jane for eavesdropping; even confronted with it she would only deny it and then do it again at the very first opportunity. But it was annoying, knowing that from now on all her telephone conversations would be monitored from downstairs. Also she wondered—and with a faint feeling of apprehension—what Jane’s reaction to selling the house might actually be, now that she knew. Turning her chair to face the window, Blanche let her eyes trace the intricate pattern of the grillwork against the sharp blue of the sky. Circles within circles, strong straight lines swerving off suddenly, tapering away into nothing. Like life itself. Like reason and unreason.… Blanche cast the thought from her, pulling her gaze quickly back into the room.

  She looked back at the phone, suddenly certain in her own mind that Jane, having come upon the information about selling the house as she had, would surely oppose the idea. From experience Blanche knew that anything originating with her at the moment was sure to meet with Jane’s automatic disapproval. And anything that Blanche had planned in secret—well, there were bound to be repercussions from that!

  Blanche curled her hands tightly around the arms of her chair. She had made up her mind; she was determined. She only had to think of some way to allay Jane’s opposition before it began. If she could just make Jane believe that she herself opposed the plan. If she could make her think that Bert was forcing a sale against her own objection… for financial reasons…

  She nodded to herself, certain she had found the right way to win Jane over. Once Jane believed Blanche was against selling the house, she would support the idea. At least she wouldn’t bother to make a fuss about it. Blanche looked across to the push button fixed to the side of the bedside table. Frowning, she started in that direction. And then, abruptly, she stopped and turned her head toward the open doorway:

  “Oh, the postman, he won’t mind,

  ’Cause Mama says that heaven’s near.

  Tho’ you’ve left us both behind,

  I am writing, Daddy, dear.

  I l-o-v-e you!”

  As the song echoed with distant and terrible sweetness up the stairway and into the room, Blanche remained perfectly still, listening. Eyes closed, she simply sat there, as if transfixed, and then a slight shudder passed through her wasted body.

  She stood in the center of the room, a squat pudding of a woman in a soiled cotton house dress patterned with faded lilacs and daffodils. On her feet she wore flat-heeled sandals of red patent leather and bobby socks of pale pink. Above the rolled tops of the socks the whitish flesh of her age-thickened legs was heavily scored with broken blue veins. In the dyed, cherry-red ringlets of her hair was an enormous satin bow of such a vivid blue that even there in the dimness it seemed to generate a radiance all its own. Posing her hands close to her face, almost in an attitude of prayer, she assumed an expression of mawkish sweetness.

  “Now, when I’m very good,” she recited, “An’ I do jus’ as I’m told…”

  Across the room, her reflection, captured with merciful softness in the wall-length mirror, postured just as sweetly and mouthed the words back at her:

  “I’m Mama’s li’l angel, Pa says I’m good as gold.”

  The room, when it was built, had been intended as a rehearsal room for Blanche, a room in which she could practice the scenes, the songs and dances she would be required to perform in her pictures. Blanche had been intent upon her career; the room had been her own idea.
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br />   After Blanche’s accident, the room had, of course, lost its reason for being and as a consequence had remained, through the years, almost totally untouched. The hardwood floor had never been carpeted, the baby grand piano remained angled carefully into the corner next to the windows where the keyboard would catch the light. The iron sconces on the walls still contained, at the ends of short mock candles, orange-tinted bulbs shaped to resemble fat, pointed flames. The mirrored wall, through the years, had reflected little but dim emptiness and silently settling dust.

  Jane, however, had found a use of her own for the room. Here it was that she came at intervals to seek the lost moments of her childhood and to escape the harsh disillusionment of the gathering years. Often at twilight she came into the room to sit, not on the piano bench which was the only seat in the room, but on the floor. Narrowing her eyes to abet the deception of the lowering light, she would gaze deeply and steadily into the mirror across the room until she had summoned from its false depths that fragment of the past which she sought. Most often, as she sat there, the mirror was transformed slowly into the ocean, and the floor upon which she sat, cross-legged, as a child would sit playing a child’s game, was the beach. Suddenly, then it was summer. It was vacation time. There was the sound of the rolling surf. And her father was nearby.

  Don’t stay in the sun too long, sweetheart! We can’t have the star of the family down with sunburn!

  He called out to her from the porch of the cottage, his face anxious, as always for her safety and well-being.

  Don’t go out too far out, Janie! A big wave might come up and carry you off!

  That was her favorite daydream, the one about the beach and the ocean. Sometimes she could sit there on the floor for a solid hour, just listening to the breaking of the waves and the sound of her father’s voice. Lately, though, she found herself more forcefully drawn to another part of the past. She had brought out all the old scrapbooks, full of her pictures and clippings, and the music and recitations that she had performed on the stage.