Frances burst into uncontrollable laughter; Mary simply shrugged, knowing why Fran was so amused. She was picturing Little Mary with the golden halo—Little Mary, the Girl with the Curls!—a lesbian like Alla Nazimova!
“Oh, Mary!” Fran shook with laughter, and finally Mary saw the humor in it; she grinned.
“Well! It would certainly solve a few problems! We’d never have to think about marriage, or what it might do to our careers!”
“Or children, either.” Frances swiped the tears from her cheeks. “I think about children now. Don’t you? I never did before but now that I’ve met Fred, I can’t picture our life complete without them. Yet I know how much time they’ll take, and I want to keep working—Fred wants me to, as well. I suppose that’s why God invented nannies.”
“Yes, well, my films are my children.” Mary sprang up and retrieved the damaged hat, plopping back down on the sofa again. “And I don’t believe for one minute you’d be happy playing marbles in the nursery. I know you, Frances Marion! You live and breathe the movies just like I do, and that’s why I love you.” She kissed Fran on the cheek.
“Mary, of course I’ll write Pollyanna for you. But I am going to keep writing for others, too. The war—it made me feel there are other issues to explore now, and I like stretching myself a bit. You don’t mind?”
Well, yes, she did. When she was envisioning what United Artists would be like, her very own studio—she and Douglas were drawing up plans right now for the construction of their joint lot—she had pictured Fran with her, just like always. She had even gone so far as to pick out the wallpaper and carpet for Fran’s office, right next to hers. But Fran was different now; she’d seen things Mary couldn’t imagine. She had been to war, real war, while Mary had stayed behind waving flags, pretending. There was a new gulf between them filled with different experiences, different ideas. She could only hope they’d find a way to bridge it; she was certain that they could.
“Fran, no. I don’t mind. I have a lot on my plate right now, too. I’m going to be making fewer movies, now that I’m running a studio, but they’ll be bigger ones—all ten-reelers or more. Of course I can’t expect you not to work as often, waiting for me. But promise me one thing, though, Fran. Will you?”
Fran hesitated, playing with that thread on her sleeve again, but then she nodded. “Of course, Mary. Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll let me be maid of honor at your wedding? I’ll never forgive you if you don’t! After all, I’m the one who introduced the two of you!”
“Oh, Squeebee, I wouldn’t think of asking anyone else!”
“Then it’s settled. Now, let’s get you unpacked, Fran—this place is a rat’s nest!”
Fran laughed, and they set about hanging up her various clothes, exclaiming over Fran’s new dresses, negligees, hats, and shoes galore. Mary couldn’t help but notice, as she hung it up, that Fran’s Army uniform—drab, not at all like the bright blue uniform she’d had made up for herself—had stains on it that couldn’t be removed, and she realized she’d neglected to ask Fran about one very important thing; her guilt poked at her with red-hot prongs. How could she have forgotten? She was so caught up in her own drama, she’d forgotten about Fran’s.
“Tell me about the war, Fran. Tell me some of what you saw.”
Fran was silent for a long while; her face looked weary, but her eyes were startlingly clear. “Well, Mary, there was this shoe…”
And the two continued to unpack, Mary listening intently while Fran spoke softly, painting the picture with her words.
I should have known the moment Doug, without even looking, handed his dripping umbrella to Fred.
Or the moment that Mary, unconsciously (or so I hoped), elbowed me back so that I had to walk a few steps behind her as we entered the hotel.
I should have known the moment that Fred and I, waiting patiently in our train compartment in Southampton for the Fairbankses’ boat to dock, heard the roar, saw the airplanes, felt the trampling of thousands of feet all around us as the ship pulled into the harbor.
Goodness, I should have known the moment I read the headlines:
FAIRBANKS AND PICKFORD MARRY!!
THE WEDDING OF THE CENTURY!!
HEARTS AND CAREERS UNITED!!
MARY AND DOUG: LOVE EVERLASTING!!
THE POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL IS POOR NO MORE—TRUE LOVE HAS MADE ME RICHER THAN EVER, SAYS MARY
LONG LIVE THE QUEEN AND KING OF HOLLYWOOD!!
I AM THE LUCKIEST MAN IN THE WORLD, PROCLAIMS DOUG
THE WORLD SWOONS AT THE MOST ROMANTIC LOVE STORY IN HISTORY
“Remember the headlines when we married?” I asked Fred, ruefully.
“Scenarist Marries Athlete,” he replied. But he also laughed; he truly didn’t care, and I wished I didn’t, either.
“I don’t think this is going to be the quiet honeymoon we planned,” I said, and all Fred could do was shake his head and hold his ears to drown out the cheering crowd rattling the windows of our compartment.
A joint honeymoon, Mary had suggested, after she’d surprised me—and the world—by marrying Doug in secret. I’d been a little hurt, to tell the truth, but I instantly seized on the idea of the honeymoon and somehow convinced Fred, too. And now here we were. Waiting for Doug and Mary.
Fred and I had arrived first, sailing to England a month before, in May of 1920. How could it possibly be 1920 already? A new decade; a new life. Already the horrors of war were a distant memory—or so I told all who asked.
Fred had come through safely, too, and our reunion in Paris in December of 1918, a month after the Armistice, had been right out of any Hollywood movie. I was so nervous, waiting in the lobby of the Ritz; I caught my breath every time the revolving door spun round.
My uniform was packed away, and I’d bought a Parisian dress for the occasion, agonizing over the design. Should I dress as alluringly as possible? Or clothe myself somberly, like a Quaker, out of respect to Fred, his background, the rubble of war still all around, the memories of those who had been lost? In Paris that December, every woman was clad in black, heavily veiled or wearing a black mourning armband. It was a city of widows and bereaved mothers, and I couldn’t stop looking at the faces, beautiful in their grief. Resolute mouths, eyes clear but lined with sorrow, pale cheeks. Jewelry was minimal, often fashioned out of bullets or ammunition, and of course there was a preponderance of brooches or lockets that held a loved one’s strand of hair. Edwardian fashions could still be glimpsed, but a young woman named Coco Chanel had set up shop at 31 rue Cambon, where she sold simple day dresses made of jersey and evening dresses shimmering with beads, all made with unfussy, straight lines that slightly hugged a woman’s body but did not contort it out of its natural shape. It was already being whispered that corsets were on the way out, something I more than welcomed. I’d rarely worn one throughout the war and rejoiced in the freedom of movement, of being able to relax against a chair, bend over easily, walk briskly without fear of passing out.
I finally chose a midnight blue suit for my reunion with Fred; its lines weren’t quite as simple as a Chanel, but it was modern and still somewhat dignified, with a wide black velvet lapel and black velvet embellishment at the hem. I wore a smart black velvet tricornered hat; hats were getting smaller, no longer the enormous cartwheels from before the war.
“Frances! Hey, Fran!”
I looked up, heart racing. But it wasn’t Fred who was calling my name; to my astonishment, it was George Hill who was hurrying toward me, hat in hand, through the crowded lobby.
“George!” It was so good to see a Hollywood face, especially one I’d known forever. Ever since my days at Bosworth, when I was Lois Weber’s “do anything” girl, George had followed me around, working his way up to a cameraman, sometimes trying his hand at screenwriting, too. He was several years younger than me, and I’d gotten used to the way he gazed at me, with adoring, puppy dog eyes. I never encouraged him, but I didn’t mind being looked at that way, either
. What woman does?
“What a treat to see you!” George shook my hand, too enthusiastically; my elbow nearly snapped in two. “I can’t believe my luck! How are you, Frances? I’d heard you were over here, like the rest of us unlucky mugs. How was your war?”
This was the question we all asked each other in Paris. How was your war? As if it was dinner, or a traditional holiday. And not the conflagration that destroyed an entire generation of men.
“Fine, fine. I was with the CPI. We filmed women, nurses, you know. How are you? You came through fine, I see.”
“Yes, lots of us were lucky. I was stationed in Italy, where it wasn’t so bad. But it’s over now, and here you are! You’ll have dinner with me, won’t you, Fran?” George’s brown eyes were wide and hopeful, and I remembered something Mary had once said. He’s your Mickey. George adores you, Frances. But he would never say so. He’s lovesick.
Mary was right, but George was a boy. Even now that he was in military uniform—a captain, even, which added a few years to even the most callow farm lad—I still thought him that. Just a boy. Whereas Fred was—
“Frances!”
“Fred!” I was wrapped up in powerful arms, lifted off my feet, and twirled around. Out of the corner of my eye I saw George, only a blur. But still I caught the way his grin faltered, and I didn’t care, I didn’t want to think about him at all, and when Fred finally set me down, George had vanished.
“Fred, Fred! You’re here!” My tongue felt loose and stupid in my mouth; words, usually my reliable allies, would not come. Entire sentences seemed impossible. The only thing I could do was sit down on a chair, my knees suddenly wobbly, and stare up at him. Forever.
“We’ve come through, Frances. Both of us.” The light in Fred’s eyes dimmed a little, and I understood; he’d seen things he didn’t want to talk about. We both had. Hurriedly I suggested all the things we might do together in Paris, now that we both had leave: see the Louvre, Versailles, Napoleon’s Tomb.
And so we did; our scant few weeks in Paris together were a kaleidoscope of memories that I knew, even as we were making them, I would treasure forever. Fred posing with his hand in his jacket, à la Napoleon, at the vast marble tomb. Fred trying his first snail, the tiny fork held so awkwardly in his big paw of a hand, a sincerely puzzled expression on his face that made me giggle until I thought I would choke. Fred coaxed into ordering wine with dinner by an insistent waiter; “teetotaler” was not a word the French understood.
Every evening, saying good night, I was aware of a peculiar feeling in the air; a tense vibration that only my ears could hear. It was like a high-pitched violin, stuck on one note, a pleasant note, but still one waited, breathless, for the next. Which never came.
We lingered in darkened doorways—we were both staying at the Ritz, but on different floors—kissing. Other times, we clung to each other, using touch to become better acquainted; his fingers traced my jawline, I brushed his lapel; he nuzzled my cheek, I placed the flat of my palm against his iron abdomen. Always through clothing, which for the first time didn’t seem like a barrier. More like a gate that would be opened, soon.
I longed for him. He longed for me. Our two strong bodies, young, in the best physical condition—how could it be otherwise? Especially when the hearts housed within those bodies reached out, as if each was a magnet for the other. And so was that insistent one note that hummed between the two of us.
We talked about everything. Except for one thing: the war. Fred was as reluctant to talk about his experiences, what he had seen, as I was. So we didn’t, but still we seemed to understand, anyway, that we each had gone through a trial only to emerge stronger.
Had I, though? When finally we had to part—he was staying behind to organize and compete in the Inter-Allied Games, an amateur athletic meet—I did not feel strong. I was as weak as a parched flower, overwhelmed by the months we would have to endure before we could meet again; trying to hold on to the thought that when he came home, we would be married.
At the gangplank I clung to him, as if I could absorb him, carry some of his physical presence with me across the ocean. But he finally had to pull away and give me a gentle shove so I wouldn’t miss my ship. And when I disembarked in New York, I found myself surrounded by cameras and reporters, all under the direction of the head of the Famous Players–Lasky publicity department—and I instantly fell into the old Hollywood ways, smiling, posing, quipping for the reporters.
Poof! Paris and Fred, both, were far more than an ocean away.
Inside my valise were sixteen reels of film I had to edit, and I threw myself into the work, proud when American Women at War was shown, in serialization, at select theaters. But by then, nobody really wanted to watch anything about the war. The film came and went without notice and I had to wonder why I’d volunteered in the first place; what, really, had I accomplished? Who had I really helped? I told these women’s stories, but nobody cared. And when, years later, movies about the war were popular—movies like The Big Parade and What Price Glory?—it was the soldiers’ stories people wanted. Not the women’s.
I lingered in New York, marveling at how changed the city was. Now that Prohibition had been enacted; now that everyone was back from the war and hemlines were rising and morals were plummeting. Everyone knew “a guy.” A guy who could get them gin or wine or whatever they desired. Everyone knew “a place.” A place—a speakeasy, they were beginning to be called—where with a password or a secret handshake and a wink, a magic door would be opened and you could step into a rabbit hole, like Alice. Only this Wonderland was filled with the new, frenzied music called “jazz,” and smoke from cigarettes, and girls in loose-fitting dresses, hemlines creeping up above the ankles, falling into the laps of men in tuxedos whose ties were always a little askew, eyes always a little bloodshot. Everyone drank too much because who knew what would happen tomorrow? There might be a raid, all the liquor might get confiscated by the Feds—it could all be gone tomorrow. Everything could be gone tomorrow; hadn’t the war taught us that? So drink up, Alice! Drink it all up, grow small or tall, or anything else you might imagine!
I didn’t drink up, not like my chums. I enjoyed going to an occasional speakeasy with Dorothy Parker, my old friend from the Algonquin, or with Anita Loos, who was in New York with her fiancé, John Emerson, no longer writing for Douglas Fairbanks. But I felt like an imposter; a visitor from another planet—a planet named Fred Thomson. Goodness knows, I was no prude but I watched the abandon, the sloppy drunkenness, the affairs begun, consummated, and ended in a single evening, with the clinical dispassion of an archaeologist—or a writer. I stored the images up, because I understood that films would have to reflect this new morality. Oh, when I recalled some of those early films with Bosworth—the cavewoman movie!—I shuddered at the idea of these bright young things hooting in laughter at the archaic titles and costumes and story lines. No—movies must keep up with the times; that was one thing I understood. So I observed, I watched, I took notes. But not once did I tuck a flask in my own garter.
When are you coming home? I need you! Mary telegraphed once, twice, three times. Then she called. Then she sent bouquets of flowers bearing the same message.
Why was I avoiding her? My best friend in the entire world? I had no idea; I only knew that I feared returning to the old status quo. I supposed that was one thing I’d learned from war; I was strong, I was capable. I didn’t need Mary to pave the way for me anymore.
But I did miss her, and her distress was obvious; once again, I felt the thrill of having been chosen. Mary needed me, and I could never say no to that. So after three weeks in New York City, I boarded the train and headed west to Mary, and her dilemma with Doug.
But as soon as Fred returned home in November of 1919, I took the first train back east, and we were married. A quiet ceremony witnessed by Charlotte and Mary, who had come east, too. Finally, that night, we removed the barriers between us. And I never heard that peculiar, stuck note ever again.
/> We had no time for a honeymoon. I had to get right to work, writing Humoresque for Hearst, dashing back to Hollywood for Pollyanna with Mickey and Mary. But it wasn’t quite the same. We had fun on the set, of course, but I couldn’t help feeling stuck in the past; this was the same kind of movie we’d made before the war, and it seemed a little stale. None of us lingered at the studio at the end of the day. Mary went home to deal with her dilemma, Mickey went out on even more epic benders. And I went home to Fred—who was restless, champing at the bit trying to figure out what he would do, now that ministry was out of the question due to his marrying a divorcée.
When I got a call from Hearst asking me to direct my first film, a quickie called Just Around the Corner, to be filmed in a week in Manhattan, I agreed. With one condition.
“Fran, I don’t know,” Fred answered, when I asked him if he’d play a small role. He was being careful; as careful as I’d been with him these last few months. Even while I was so busy, earning all the money, I’d tried to play it down by saying things like “How silly this is!” and “What a ludicrous thing I’m doing!”
I was appalled at myself for disparaging my talent, my industry, just to preserve Fred’s ego, but honestly, I didn’t know what else to do. Despite his very vocal support of my career, I knew his pride was hurt at not being the provider. I knew it because every evening when I came home, as if on cue, he very pointedly asked me how my day had been. I came home earlier than I ever had, and it wasn’t only because Mary and Mickey left early, too. No, I was afraid not to come home to dinner; I couldn’t leave Fred alone to do—what, exactly? Fred would never behave like so many men did. But I didn’t want him to think my work was more important than he was; I never wanted to give him any reason to regret leaving the ministry for me. He may have said he respected my career, but I could never forget that his first wife had always had dinner waiting for him when he came home.
“Please, Fred, help me out with this. I think you’re a natural actor—what preacher isn’t? And I’m really in a jam. The actor we hired took another job. Please help.”
The Girls in the Picture Page 23
