She rubbed her eyes in confusion; then she began to cry.
“Oh, Mary, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it!” I rushed to her side, intending to comfort her, but something held me back. Was it the shock that this creature bore no resemblance to the woman I had known and loved? Was it because I felt somehow responsible for this wreck of a person? I had stayed away for so long because it was easier that way; hearing about Mary’s decline through the grapevine allowed me to protect myself. But now, I had to ask—from what? What was so important about my own survival, anyway? I was just another Hollywood relic, too.
“We relics need to stick together,” I said now, my voice too loud, too bright—I was speaking to her as one did to a child. A fretful, willful child, and I despised myself for it.
Mary looked at me suspiciously, then she fumbled for a bottle on her nightstand.
“That’s a good idea,” I heard myself say, still sounding like an aged Florence Nightingale. “Pour me one, too, will you?” I didn’t think that she would—I didn’t see any glasses around—but I roamed about the room, giving her the time she needed to shore herself up.
The room was clean, but there was a musty smell like a museum—because it was a museum. The enormous cabinet television was the only concession to modern times. Everything else hadn’t changed since Mary redecorated in the thirties; the same photographs were on the dressing table in shiny Art Deco frames; the same gleaming, once-modern end tables, the same patterned silvery wallpaper, like something out of an old Astaire–Rogers musical.
So many photos were of Mary—and Douglas, always Douglas. You didn’t have to look farther than your nose to see who Mary’s great love was. I understood; there were photographs of Fred all over my small apartment, photographs of him in uniform, when we’d first met; photographs of him in costume on Silver King.
But there were other photographs here, too, and I picked one up, smiling in remembrance. I had the same photo at home. It was of the two of us at United Artists, Mary and I, along with Cecil B. DeMille and Sam Goldwyn. I glanced at another photo on her dressing table; again, we two, this time with Charlie and Doug. And another of us with Zukor and Lasky.
“Mary.” I held up the one with DeMille and Goldwyn. “Remember this? How close we were? Why can’t it be like that again? Now that it’s only the two of us left. Now that everyone else is gone—why can’t we go back to how we were? We need each other, Mary.”
“Oh, really?” She set the bottle down on her nightstand with a hard bang, gin sloshing all over the place. “I need you? For what, Fran? You can’t write me a movie now.”
“Was that all I was to you?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe it!” Now I did go to her, because I had to; I had to shake her into some kind of sense, because she did not mean that. She couldn’t mean it. If she did—then everything I knew was wrong. Everything.
“Mary, I don’t believe it! Look at this photo—look at us!”
“That was then, Fran. I’m not that person anymore.”
“But don’t you see, Squeebee, darling? You can be! That’s why I’m here—to rescue you, to get you to live again—so you can go outside, darling, and see the sun, and get out of this musty place!”
“Oh, Fran!” Mary laughed now, a real, genuine, throaty laugh. “You always did have a high opinion of yourself!”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, don’t pretend—you always thought you were better than me, smarter than me. Now you think you can save me?”
I perched on the foot of her bed, more than a little uncomfortable. Did I think that? No matter how much I respected Mary, I supposed I had always felt a tad—smug—about my education. “Is that how you really feel, Mary?”
“You were that way with everyone. Poor Fred didn’t stand a chance with you, did he? And on the seventh day Fran created—a movie star!” She clapped her hands and giggled again.
“That’s not fair.” I didn’t like this Mary, this startlingly sober, vicious Mary. Where was the pathetic drunk who needed to be rescued? That was the Mary I’d come to see; the Mary, in fact, I’d counted on seeing.
Not this suddenly clear-eyed oracle who could see inside my soul.
“But it is, Fran. I don’t know how you sleep at night—do you, Fran? Do you sleep at night?”
“No,” I whispered, looking away.
Because of course, she was right. I had pushed Fred into an acting career. Despite the fun he had making movies, I’d always known his heart wasn’t in it; he’d never been comfortable in Hollywood. Oh, he made many friends—many genuine friends—but he’d always had much more fun camping out with our sons and the real cowboys he worked with than he ever had at a movie premiere. But I was in the movies, and I wanted my husband to be, too—just like DougandMary.
“I’m sorry, then, Fran. Sorry you can’t sleep. Neither can I, so we’re even.” Mary poked me with her foot, and I looked up; she had tears in her eyes, too.
“Thank you, Mary.” I started to scooch up the bed, to be near her, but then she smiled at me again.
“But you did the same thing to me, you know,” she continued, plucking at her covers with her gnarled hands—the nails beautifully sculpted and painted a pretty pink, to match her nightgown.
“What?”
“You came here to rescue me, did you, Fran? You think I hide away because I’m too afraid, too used to being the queen, and so I hide away here in my castle—that’s what you think, isn’t it? And so here you come—Saint Frances!—to rescue me. Isn’t that right?”
I had no answer.
“But what you don’t understand, Fran—you never did!—is that it’s all your fault I’m here. Fred died, Douglas died—but I didn’t. I grew old—too old for my public. I had to remain a little girl to them, you know—I couldn’t be a woman, not like you. I couldn’t have children, a real family. I had to remain a child—their child. And whose fault was that?”
“What on earth do you mean, Mary?” Now I wasn’t merely uncomfortable; I was terrified. It was as if I’d stumbled into a madhouse and would never be able to leave. I’d be trapped here forever with Mary. I’d become a ghoul, just like her—a ghoul spouting outrageous accusations, held hostage by false memories.
“It was your fault, Fran! Yours! You made me a child, didn’t you? You thought you were so clever! The Poor Little Rich Girl—that was my first film playing a little girl.”
“And it was a hit—the biggest hit of your career up until then. Remember, darling, that day we went to see it at the Strand?”
She shook her head impatiently. “No—yes, of course—but that’s not the important thing. You made me a child—what did you say? Once, you said that you were…you were…”
“I was giving you your childhood.” I was struck by the memory; I hadn’t thought of it in so long. But yes, that’s exactly what I’d said. But it was a good thing! I wanted my friend to have what was so cruelly denied her; I wanted to give her that.
But did she want that childhood? That idyllic, made-up childhood? It wasn’t her idea, it was mine, that was true. But we’d had so much fun making those movies! How many times on set had Mary told me that she was doing something for the first time; skipping rope, playing jacks, making mud pies? I gave her the chance to do all those things she’d never done, and the public loved it, she loved it—you could see it on the screen, how much fun she was having! Wasn’t she?
“Yes—that’s what you said, I remember. And you did—and it trapped me, Fran, don’t you see? I’m trapped here because I can never grow up, even though I’ve grown so—so old. So ugly.” She whispered this last. “It’s all your fault, Fran.”
“Mary, those were movies. Just movies.”
“No! They weren’t just movies, you know that better than anyone—you saw how the public worshipped their Little Mary! You were right there! And they were never only movies to me—they were my life. And so I haven’t any other, I never have. But you—you had a life! With
Fred, your boys, your career. Mine crashed but Frances Marion was the writer everyone wanted—you made sure of that, didn’t you?” Mary smiled a crooked, resigned smile. “No one wanted me. I was trapped. So you can’t rescue me, you see—that’s not your role. Because you’re the one who trapped me in the first place.”
I couldn’t move; I couldn’t speak. I was cold and shivering, just as I’d been on the road from Verdun, and I felt just as desolate, lost. She couldn’t mean what she said. She couldn’t. It wasn’t true! It—
“You’ve got it all wrong, Mary,” I stammered weakly. “You’re—”
But for the first time, it struck me that none of the movies I’d written for an adult Mary had been a success.
“Oh, but, Fran, darling, don’t you see? I’m right.” And the way she said it, so sweetly, so sadly—not accusingly, not at all—made me slide off the bed, desperate to get as far away from her as possible. I nearly tripped over a robe on the floor in my hurry to flee this place, this house of horrors.
Forget Mary—it was too late for Mary. I could see that now; too late to turn back the hands of time, to go back to how it used to be, no recriminations, no regrets. Had I really believed that was possible? It was folly, pure and simple; she was too far gone. But I wasn’t—blindly, I pushed my way out the door and hurried down the stairs, hanging on to the bannister for dear life. For the first time, I slipped on the marble foyer of Pickfair, but somehow I righted myself; I had to, I had to get out of this place, this mausoleum that according to the madwoman upstairs I was just as responsible for building as she was. I had to flee before it entombed me, too.
The door slammed shut behind me as I tumbled out of the house; the startled doorman didn’t even have time to give me his headshot. As desperate as I was to escape, my car had been whisked around to the garage, so I had no choice but to wait for one of the chauffeurs to fetch it. It was just as well; I needed to catch my breath. I was clammy, wrung out, and after the stifling, cloying atmosphere of Mary’s bedroom, I was shivering. Lifting my face to the sun, I vowed that for whatever time was left to me, I would seek its embrace, its benediction. I deserved that, no matter what Mary said.
I ached for a cigarette but I hadn’t smoked in years; the doctors made me quit after a bout of pneumonia. I needed something in my hands—those hands that were always so restless. Restless hands to go with a restless mind—wasn’t that what Mother always told me?
But then I realized there was something in my hand; to my astonishment, I was still clutching that photograph.
Damn.
Turning, I looked back up at the house; her bedroom wasn’t visible from this angle, but I knew she was there anyway, still smiling so sadly, lost in her false memories. I’d have to go back inside. But no, I couldn’t. I couldn’t imagine being able to look her in the eyes again. Spying a trash container beneath a potted palm, I tottered unsteadily over to it, ready to toss the photograph inside; surely someone would find it and return it to her. Or not—I really didn’t care.
But something stopped me before I could drop the heavy silver frame into the container; something beckoned at me from behind the glass.
Mary. The expression in her eyes—so different from what I’d just witnessed! Instead of resignation and bitterness, I saw confidence and joy in her eyes. And in mine. In this photo, both of us looked successful and happy. Well, Fran—of course you were happy. You were in love with Fred and Mary was in love with Doug. Still, we were so attuned to each other, you could see it—it was as if there was an invisible thread between us, even though we were both looking at the camera. Both smiling confidently. Joyously.
The only girls in the picture.
It occurred to me then that we were always the only girls in the picture—or even in the room. The two of us huddled together in that dark, forbidding screening room, surrounded by disapproving men, as The Poor Little Rich Girl was previewed. Me during the war, unwanted, bullied, propositioned, everywhere I turned another man scowling at me in disapproval, asking me why I was there, in a man’s world. Mary at United Artists, sitting in a boardroom surrounded by Chaplin and Doug and Griffith. A flower in her elegant dress, bordered on all sides by men in dark suits. Even when it was only one of us, it was always as if the other was there in spirit, too. We might have been alone, but we were never lonely. Because we always were there for each other.
When I thought back to those years, those golden years, that was how I remembered it. At least—that’s how I chose to remember it; I knew now that Mary remembered something different. Something darker.
Something closer to the truth?
No. Just a different truth; like in a movie shot from different points of view—like Rashomon, which I’d admired so when it came out—our experience was the same. We remembered these identical experiences differently—but that didn’t make them any less truthful. Two people could look at something—like this photograph—and see two different stories. I knew, now, what Mary’s story was.
I could accept it—not willingly, but still—as her truth. I could see my role in her imprisonment, just as I could see—had always seen, try as I might to deny it—my role in Fred’s career and, ultimately, his death. For if he hadn’t been successful, if we hadn’t built our own monument to Hollywood in The Enchanted Hill, he wouldn’t have stepped on that nail. He might still be with me, the two of us rocking comfortably together in the evenings, holding hands and chuckling over the antics of our grandchildren. But he was gone, truly gone.
Mary, however, wasn’t.
As I continued to look at the photograph, I saw another story—my story. And it was just as true, just as valid, as Mary’s.
A story that began with two women—once girls. One golden-haired, one with raven locks. Standing next to each other on a porch, gazing up at a night full of stars. Laughing together on a set crowded with lights and cameras and cables, Mickey high on a ladder teasing them as they played jacks, getting their hands and knees dirty. Rejoicing in each other’s true love. Falling in love, growing old—growing bitter.
Feeling alone.
But ultimately, forgiving each other—saving each other. For if we didn’t, wasn’t everything we’d sacrificed, every inch of accomplishment for which we’d struggled—movies, studios, Academy Awards, millions of people made happy because of two hours in a dark theater—all in vain?
Mary and I were these women; we were the girls in the picture, still. The girls whose brave and tender hearts were still beating beneath the wrinkled breasts, the old-fashioned nightgowns and sensible grandmother blouses. The girls we’d become the moment we’d said hello in that other dark room, so many years ago.
The girls we’d believed to have been lost in the haze of regret and recrimination that comes with surviving in this unscrupulous business; this unjust world. But it turned out they’d been here all along, these two; caught forever in a shared moment, preserved together in a silver frame.
Lovingly, I touched the faces of the girls in the picture, faded a little with time but heartbreakingly perfect. I couldn’t throw the photo away. I couldn’t throw her away; I couldn’t leave her alone in that room. If she didn’t want to come out, then I could stay there with her. I could be her comfort in the darkness. No—not her comfort. And not her savior, either.
Her friend.
I took a shaky breath; rescuing was easy. Accepting was much more difficult—and terrifying.
But I opened the door and walked back inside. Back to who I used to be, before Louis B. Mayer and MGM and bad reviews and rusty nails and heartbreak and phone calls that were never returned, queries of “Frances who?” and “Didn’t you used to be—?”
Back to my truest, my very best self—
Back to my friend Mary.
To Benjamin Dreyer, who rescued this novel from the slush pile
As always, I am not alone in my journey; there are many people who have earned my gratitude for their roles in the publication of this book:
Kate Miciak, my
indefatigable editor who always pushes me to be better.
Laura Langlie, my agent, who is always on my side.
Gina Centrello and my invincible team at Penguin Random House, who never fail to touch me with their support and enthusiasm: Kara Welsh, Kim Hovey, Gina Wachtel, Sharon Propson, Susan Corcoran, Quinne Rogers, Leigh Marchant, Allyson Pearl, Robbin Schiff, Benjamin Dreyer, Loren Noveck, and Julia Maguire. And my team at the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau, who are always looking out for me: Anastasia Whalen and Caitlin McCaskey.
Bill Contardi, who leaves no stone unturned.
The kind professionals at the Margaret Herrick Library at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
The enthusiastic sales reps at Penguin Random House, so many of whom I’m proud to call friends.
All the booksellers.
And finally, Norman Miller, Mark Miller, and Stephanie Miller. And most of all, my sons, Alec and Ben, and my rock, my husband, Dennis Hauser.
I’m asked what I’ve made up, and what happened in real life, when I write my novels. The dialogue, the emotions, the reasons why people do what we know they did—those are imagined. Imagined based on research, of course. But still, imagined. Did Mary and Frances have a fight on the set of Secrets? We don’t know. But we do know they didn’t work together again. Was Mary bitter about the fact that Frances imprisoned her as a little girl on-screen? Again, we don’t know. But every time she tried to grow up in a movie, her public demanded that she return to playing children. Mary Pickford was the first—but not the last—actress to become a casualty of her own image. An image first created by Frances.
When writing a novel, as compared to a biography, storytelling is the primary intent, and in order to do that, I naturally have to condense parts of the characters’ lives and leave other parts out. Things I omitted include many of the movies Mary and Frances made with other people, and some of the studios at which they worked. Frances’s first two marriages are glossed over, as is her fourth. That marriage, to George Hill, had more of an impact on her life than I depict; George was an alcoholic, and he committed suicide after they divorced. I also don’t explore the depth of Frances’s friendships with other women, particularly Marie Dressler and Hedda Hopper. And again, I don’t fully write about Frances’s post-silent career, when she made the movies she’s actually best known for today, including Dinner at Eight, Anna Christie, and The Champ. Her involvement in forming the Screen Writers Guild, too, isn’t really explored here. Frances stopped writing for the movies in 1946, and then wrote some novels and plays—again, not mentioned here.
The Girls in the Picture Page 37
