Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories

by Ford, Lizzy; Fasano, Donna; Comley, Mel; Tyrpak, Suzanne; Welch, Linda; Woodbury, Sarah; Foster, Melissa; Hodge, Sibel; Luce, Carol Davis; Shireman, Cheryl

  “Going for another Oscar, Micki? Is this one at least full-length and not a short?” Eric asked.

  “An Oscar’s an Oscar.”

  “Hong Kong,” Jane said, “So you’ll finally be making Jaded Paradise. I thought you’d take that script to your grave.”

  “It’s a go after ten years in development. That’s one I’d love for Piper to cut, but Zimmerman is directing and has his own people, and you know Zimmerman.”

  “Micki, I’m honored that you asked me to cut your documentary,” Piper said. “And knowing how much Jaded Paradise means to you, I’m beyond flattered that you’d even consider me on such a great project. Thank you.”

  Throughout dinner, the conversation remained on film, projects, and then actors. During dessert, Belle poised her spoon in the air and asked her guests, “Guess what famous star of the silver screen was spotted swimming in her pool in the buff today?”

  “Not your neighbor—Silvia…Sybil—Sybil Whatsherface?” Melody asked.

  “How soon they forget. She was only one of the top actresses of her time. Sybil Squire.”

  “I thought she was dead,“ Melody said. “She was old in The Book of Love.”

  “Ancient at forty.” Jane rolled her eyes then touched Melody on the tip of her nose. “Ah, my dear, you are adorable.”

  “Lady Squire is eighty-five and very much alive,” Belle said. “Be careful what you say about her. Piper is a devoted fan.”

  “Is that so?” Eric’s eyebrows lifted. “I don’t remember much about her except she had some pretty hard knocks. What, six husbands all died tragically, plus her kids. Right? That’s messed up. I heard she chugged Drano or battery acid after her baby boy drowned.”

  “A rumor,” Jane said.

  “She was institutionalized then,” Eric added. “Shock treatments. Lobotomy. Lobotomies were the deal back then.”

  Piper moaned.

  “No, sweet boy, you’re confusing her with her daughter,” Jane said.

  “Maybe both,” Melody said. “Like mother like daughter.”

  “Farmer,” Micki slipped in. “Frances Farmer had the lobotomy.“

  Dr. J whistled, barked and then whistled again.

  “Didn’t they call her the Black Widow or the Night Widow?” Melody said.

  “Platinum Widow. The white hair, y’know.”

  Piper gripped her coffee cup tightly in both hands. Rumors. They were only repeating what they’d read in the biographies and gossip columns written by writers famous for twisting and embellishing the truth. Jane was the only one not spewing gossip.

  She looked at Jane and asked, “Did you know her?”

  Jane nodded. “We were close once. Not intimate close. Just friends.”

  “Are you related to Edward Hill?” Edward Hill was the studio head for Transworld Artists, the studio that made Sybil famous.

  “He was my father.”

  “Then you know all about her.” Piper leaned forward and almost knocked over her water glass.

  “We don’t…communicate with each other. Haven’t for many years. She cut me off when she cut herself off from the rest of the world. We’d become close when her daughter went abroad to school.”

  After dinner, Piper excused herself. She declined Eric’s offer to walk her to her door and his request to call her. It had been a day of extremes, escaping Gordon, moving into her new safe haven, and not only hearing about her screen idol, but also seeing her.

  *

  Piper waited until the Vogt’s guests had left before stepping out onto the deck. She couldn’t sleep. The subtle breeze blew across her skin. Exhaustion more than gravity pulled her down into the mesh chair. She drew long and slow on the second of the two cigarettes she allowed herself each day. The city lights blinked below, though her attention was elsewhere. Through the gray-blue smoke, she stared at the house next door. The mausoleum-like structure looked formidable in the shadows of olive and pepper trees, no sounds of music or TV or singing canaries. A single light burned in an upstairs window.

  Piper admired the woman’s ability to remain sane in a prison of grief. The same trait she admired in her grandmother. Both women had suffered. Sybil’s grief spanned many years. Nana’s grief came all at once when she lost her husband and two of her three children in a house fire in Orange County.

  Piper lifted the faded photograph and gazed at it. A child and two women sat on the side of a swimming pool, skirt hems hiked up above their knees, their bare feet dangling in the water. Piper turned it over. In ink on the back, it read: Maggy, me and Sybil June ’67. Her mother Maggy, Nana Ruth, and Sybil Squire.

  A pair of bats dove at the moths circling a porch lantern at the rear of the mansion. For nearly half a century, the actress’s life remained a mystery. Piper wondered what she was doing at this very moment behind those arched windows and ochre-colored stucco walls.

  A car with tinted windows eased to a stop across the street from the Vogt house, redirecting Piper’s attention. She hadn’t seen the headlights approach. From the dark shadows of her deck, she watched, waiting for someone to exit the car. A moment later, it pulled away. The dark sedan looked similar to the one Piper had spotted earlier that evening.

  *

  The next day, Piper drove to a Hollywood branch of the Bank of America. Although she did her banking online, she wanted to switch her account to the closest branch to her new home. When she told Gordon she wanted a divorce, he’d wasted no time clearing out the joint bank account and canceling the credit cards. So typical of him. Yet she was prepared, thanks to Lee, who advised her to open a separate bank account and sign up for her own credit card. “He’ll screw you royally if given a chance,” Lee had said. Lee was right. Without the funds in Piper’s own account, she’d be financially strapped. Lee had a gift for judging people.

  While waiting in line for a teller, Piper glanced around. A distinguished elderly woman stood at the teller window to her right. There was something familiar about her. The way she held herself. The shiny platinum hair.

  The teller asked, “Will you need someone to escort you to the safety deposit box this afternoon, Mrs. Squire?”

  “No thank you, Teresa, not today.”

  The woman turned toward Piper. Her mature face, smooth around the tiny creases, was made up with care. She was still lovely. Their eyes met. Glistening blue eyes that had riveted thousands of moviegoers over many years now held Piper’s. Sybil Squire’s platinum hair had been her trademark feature, but to Piper it was her stunning pale blue eyes that she found so extraordinary. Yet now there was something else, a sad—haunted look. The same look she saw countless times in her grandmother’s eyes. She sucked in a sharp breath, startled by the intensity of her feelings.

  Sybil Squire was halfway across the bank, her dated yet classic Italian leather pumps soundless on the marble floor, when Piper snapped out of her trance. A security guard in the foyer held open the door for her, his face passive, blank. Did he have any idea who she was? Or that she had been somebody at one time? Mrs. Squire nodded at him as she passed through the door. She stopped at the curb and looked up and down the street.

  Moments later, Piper pushed through the glass door without waiting for the guard to open it.

  “Mrs. Squire?” she said with a sense of breathlessness.

  She turned. “Yes?”

  “I saw you inside the bank and…well, I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Piper Lundberg, a neighbor of yours. I recently moved into the Vogt’s guesthouse.”

  “The Vogts?”

  “Theirs is the house above yours on Wilson Drive.”

  “Oh, yes. How do you do, Mrs. Lundberg.” She extended a gloved hand. Her smile merely polite, her handshake a brief encounter. She glanced down the street. A light breeze lifted the collar of her blouse.

  “I’ve been a fan of yours for years and years. When I saw you inside, I…well, I just wanted to tell you that.” Piper could have said, ‘You knew my Grandmother Ruth, you helped her and my mother throu
gh a terrible time in their life.’ Yet she didn’t. Bringing up past tragedies to a woman weighed down with them seemed wrong. Start fresh, she told herself.

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “I’m in the business, too. A film editor.”

  “I’m not in the business anymore.”

  “Maybe not, but you’re an icon in today’s film culture.”

  She allowed herself a soft chuckle. “I hardly think so.”

  “Oh, yes. In fact, my next project will be to cut Micki Vogt’s documentary on film noir, the classics. One of your films is among the ten greatest.”

  Piper thought she would ask her which film, but her only reaction was to raise a perfectly arched eyebrow. A shiny black vintage Lincoln pulled up to the curb in front of Sybil. The driver, a redheaded woman, leaned over and opened the front passenger door. Mrs. Squire extended her hand again. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lundberg. Good luck with your project.”

  The bank guard stepped out onto the sidewalk, his gaze riveted to the retreating car, admiration burning in his eyes.

  “Do you know who that is?” Piper asked him.

  He shook his head. “Uh uh, know the car though. Sixty-four Continental with suicide doors. Mint condition. Quite the car. Yessiree, quite the car.”

  Chapter 2

  Sybil Squire was born Dolores Annamaria Teresa Robles on June 10th 1926 in Baja, California, in a small village on the Mexican peninsula. Her father, Victor Robles, a fisherman with his own trawler, married her mother when the fifteen-year-old became heavy with child. Victor hoped for a son and was disappointed with a daughter. To make matters worse, when Dolores’ hair grew in as white as the sails on the boats in the harbor (villagers referred to the child as “angel hair“), and her eyes lightened to a pale blue, Victor’s disappointment shifted to distrust, then anger. A desperate Annamaria dyed the infant’s wispy white hair brown; burning her tender scalp in the process…it did no good. Victor sent his wife and her daughter packing.

  — Excerpt from the biography of Sybil Squire: The Platinum Widow by Russell Cassevantes.

  Today was Piper’s thirty-sixth birthday. By Hollywood standards, passing thirty-five was like falling off a cliff. According to Melody’s standards, she was closing in on ancient. Piper could care less about Hollywood standards. Tonight she would celebrate with Lee, if the super agent to the stars could squeeze her into her outrageous schedule. What she’d missed most was not hearing from Nana this year. What family she had had died with her grandmother. There had never been a father figure in her life. Her mother, Maggy, pregnant as a teen and unmarried, relinquished the role of nurturer to Nana. Maggy was happy to assume the role of older sister.

  Since moving into the guesthouse, she filled her days with editing workshops, reacquainting herself with the updated systems and learning the new software. Micki’d had the editing bay set up in the dining area of the guesthouse the day she moved in.

  Standing at the deck railing, taking in her new surroundings, she thought again how much she loved the neighborhood in this section of the hills. The compelling view had a certain nostalgic charm, the mature landscaping that wove up, down and around the maze of twisted streets of 40s bungalows mixed in with renovated mid-century modern and Mediterranean villa-style estates. It was no longer the wealthiest neighborhood. Those were further west. This was old Hollywood, established and eclectic, saturated with culture and a hundred-year history of filmmaking. Not far away was the Hollywood strip, Schwab’s (now a shopping complex and movie theater), the original Spago’s, the Sunset Towers and Chateau Marmont. This community inspired her like no other. She felt alive, eager to rejoin this surreal world of make-believe.

  Piper leaned on the railing and faced the two-story Squire mansion. The earthy hue of the red tile roof and ochre exterior appeared richer in the morning light. A pair of doves nested in an arc in the roof tiles. Living in that house was an icon of the old Hollywood, Sybil Squire. An icon who would unfortunately be remembered for her real life role as a tragic leading lady and not her many outstanding and versatile performances.

  Since that day at the bank a week ago, there had been no further contact between them. Piper had made the first move. It was up to Sybil now. Although Sybil was considered a loner, she wasn’t one to remain cloistered away, hidden behind window shades and heavy drapes. The drapes were opened every morning, left open throughout the day and sometimes late into the night. The afternoon breeze drifting through the hills carried the sweet songs of the canaries to Piper as she sat on the deck. At dusk, the birds fell silent. Of course, she didn’t make it a practice to spy on Sybil, yet she couldn’t help but notice when she swam in the pool, or rode off in the passenger seat of the Continental, or strolled around the grounds. Her redheaded housekeeper usually arrived at ten o’clock in an old Volkswagen bug. Piper heard her car long before it turned into the driveway, chugging to a stop at the back. They were close, the housekeeper and Mrs. Squire, apparent by the quality time they spent together. With the passing days a pattern emerged. Every afternoon at three o’clock, they played a card game in the shade of the back patio. At six, they both sat down to the meal the housekeeper had prepared, eating in the formal dining room, sharing a bottle of wine. From what she had observed, Sybil led a quiet, unassuming existence. Her life seemed tranquil—at least during the daylight hours. If there were demons snapping at her heels, they came out at night when she was alone, at a time when demons do their best work.

  Sybil appeared in the garden wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, a long skirt and a short-sleeved tunic in pale blue. Piper felt a tingle at the back of her neck, as though she had somehow conjured her presence with thoughts of her. After leaning down to take in the fragrance of several red roses, Sybil pulled a weed from the base of the rose bush, pulled another, then tossed the weeds aside and moved away. She strolled to a padded wrought-iron bench, sat, opened a brown book, and began to write in it.

  A journal or a memoir. It was an intimate moment, someone writing down their innermost thoughts. Piper stood up to leave, to allow Sybil her privacy. Just then the phone inside rang. Sybil looked up, searching for the source of the ringing. Their eyes met. Piper raised a hand in greeting, then looked away and retreated into the guesthouse.

  Lee’s office phone number lit up her Caller ID.

  “There’s been a change in plans,” Lee said as soon as she answered. “Things at the office got screwed up. Incompetent idiots. Can you meet me here?”

  “Sure.”

  “See you at seven. Happy birthday, Piper.”

  Not more than five minutes after talking to Lee, there was a knock at the door. Assuming it was Belle, she called out, “Come in.“ When the door didn’t open, she looked up from her computer screen. Sybil Squire’s housekeeper stood to one side of the glass door.

  Piper crossed the room and opened the door. “Yes?”

  “You Mrs. Lundberg?” the woman asked. She was a thin, wiry woman with teased, orangish-red hair, a shopworn face, and tight, flashy clothes too young for her sixty-plus years.

  Piper nodded.

  She handed her a folded piece of paper and grinned. “A note. Don’t this seem Victorian and all? But she didn’t know your phone number.”

  Piper unfolded the paper. Written on a sheet of notepaper printed with: From the Desk of Sybil Squire, she read:

  Please join me for coffee, if convenient. S.

  Piper looked up, trying to appear casual, and feeling anything but. “Now?”

  “What?” the housekeeper said, leaning toward her. Piper saw she wore a hearing aid.

  “Now? Does she mean now?”

  “Only if it’s convenient,” the housekeeper said, pointing at the note.

  “Yes. Yes, it is. Convenient,” she said. She glanced down at her bare feet. “Could you give me a minute?”

  The woman shrugged. “I guess you know where she lives.” She started down the steps “She’ll be by the pool. Use the driveway entrance.�
�

  “I’ll be right there. Tell her I’ll be right there.”

  Outside on the street, Piper caught a glimpse of the car with tinted windows cruising up the hill. That was the third time she’d seen it in the neighborhood. There was something ominous about a dark car with tinted windows. She hadn’t heard a word from Gordon since she’d packed up and moved out. His words—“You’ll regret this.“—echoed in her head.

  She shook her head. Sybil Squire had issued an invitation to tea—well, coffee actually, but close enough—nd on her birthday. Nothing was going to spoil this day. She ran fingers through her hair, looking around the room for her sandals.

  “Yes,” she said laughing. “Yes. Yes.”

  *

  Sybil was seated at a wrought-iron patio table when Piper let herself in through the gate along the south side of the property. A hummingbird hovered at the honeysuckle vines covering the fence. The red-tailed hawk was back, circling. Two cups and saucers and an old-fashioned carafe sat on the table. When she approached, Sybil motioned for her to sit. She sat with her back to the pool house, the morning sun bright in her face. To her right she heard the canaries singing, to her left the soft swish of a pool sweep.

  “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “You’re welcome. Sugar? Cream?”

  “No thank you. Black is fine.” She took cream, but there was none on the table.

  While Sybil poured, Piper took in her surroundings. The yard was well kept. A lawn service came once a week. She supposed Sybil herself tended the rose garden. The rest of the foliage consisted of hardy ivy, ground cover, and silvery Russian Olive hedges.

  Piper looked back at Sybil. She was watching her. She smiled.