he: A Novel

by John Connolly

  Tonnage Martin leaves his service when Vera eventually departs California. Tonnage Martin later sues him for $2,700, and dies of a heart attack in Ohio. He is not invited to be a pallbearer, for which he is much relieved.

  169

  He and Babe make Saps at Sea.

  At fifty-seven minutes, it is no streamliner, and closer to a feature. So, too, was A Chump at Oxford. Their contract stipulates four shorter pictures, but two longer pictures equals four shorter ones.

  Their contract with Hal Roach has been fulfilled.

  It is December 1939.

  They are about to leave Hal Roach’s lot forever.

  170

  He feels sympathy for Viola Morse, because Babe is now in love with Lucille Jones. Theirs is a delicate courtship of glances and circling – so delicate, in fact, that Lucille Jones is largely unaware of its inception.

  But Viola Morse is not.

  Viola Morse is no ingénue. Viola Morse has one marriage behind her, and has raised a son alone. Viola Morse has been patient with Babe, and loving of him. Viola Morse observes the change in Babe, and soon discovers its cause, and understands that she is to be cast aside for a woman almost twenty years Babe’s junior.

  What pains Viola Morse most is that she cannot even accuse Babe of having an affair. Babe has not slept with Lucille Jones. Babe is so smitten with Lucille Jones that Babe is unable to bring himself to profess his affection for her. Babe sends flowers and chocolates to Lucille Jones when she is ill. On the set of Saps at Sea, Babe makes sure to greet Lucille Jones every morning, and inquire after her health, and the health of her family, and perhaps even the health of the rabbits that scamper in her garden, and the bluebirds that sing from the branches beneath her window. Were Babe simply to have fucked Lucille Jones, Viola Morse could understand. Babe would then be just another middle-aged buffoon scenting his own mortality and scrambling in panic after the promise of youth. Babe would be sad, and idiotic, yet not beyond comprehension.

  But Babe has not fucked Lucille Jones. Neither has Babe kissed Lucille Jones. Babe is a body in orbital decay, cycling more frequently from apastron to periastron, inexorably approaching a merging with the light.

  And yes, there are those who might say that the actual nature of Babe’s pursuit of Lucille Jones is sadder and more idiotic still, predicated – as it appears to be – on pedestals and virginal innocence. But these people do not know Babe as Viola Morse does. Babe’s mind is virtually without corruption, and his heart is open. Babe’s touch is gentle. Babe is tender to a fault. Despite his great weight, Babe has never once hurt Viola Morse during lovemaking, not even inadvertently.

  Viola Morse realizes that Babe genuinely loves Lucille Jones. And, slowly, Viola Morse learns that Lucille Jones loves Babe in return. It means that Viola Morse cannot help but lose this man who means so much to her.

  For Viola Morse, the pain is unendurable.

  Babe asks Lucille Jones to marry him, and she agrees.

  They have not yet gone out on a date together.

  They have never even had coffee.

  He and Babe share a celebratory bottle of champagne. He should be concerned for Babe, he thinks. After all, Babe is marrying a younger woman, one whom Babe hardly knows. He, though, has some experience in the business of making a fool of oneself with an unsuitable mate, and Babe and Lucille Jones appear – well, he cannot find the appropriate word, and so settles for ‘right’. They are right for each other. He can discern no trace of duplicity in Lucille Jones, and knows there is little in Babe.

  As the years go by, Babe and Lucille will celebrate their wedding anniversary not annually but weekly, and watch pictures together in their theater at home, and keep a menagerie in place of children. And Lucille will care for Babe as he lies dying, even as illness robs Babe of his tongue, so that Babe can signal his love for her only by hand and eye.

  And it will be Lucille who tells him at last that Babe is gone.

  But the interweaving of his life and Babe’s has begun again. Just as Vera, after an argument, once took to the streets in a car that she could not control, so Viola Morse does the same. Viola Morse’s only child, her beloved son, dies suddenly, just as Babe is to be married. Viola Morse has given the best part of her life to two men, and now both are gone. Viola Morse swallows sleeping tablets, climbs in her car, and on Wilshire Boulevard collides with three vehicles, one of which is a police cruiser. Viola Morse is taken to St Vincent’s Hospital, and recovers, but he finds the coincidences odd nonetheless:

  This crashing of cars, this discarding of lovers.

  Babe’s guilt over Viola Morse is disfiguring. It bends Babe into unfamiliar shapes.

  Should Babe postpone the wedding?

  No, not unless the postponement is to be indefinite, and followed by marriage to Viola Morse.

  Does Viola Morse feel betrayed by Babe?

  Yes, just as Alyce Ardell feels betrayed by him. There will be no marriage to Alyce Ardell, and questions once asked will remain unanswered. Alyce Ardell will slip away from pictures, slip away from him, and will be remembered only as a footnote to his life. The making of Saps at Sea marks the end of their dance.

  Because he does not take Alyce Ardell to the preview of Saps at Sea.

  Instead, he takes his ex-wife, Ruth.

  171

  At the Oceana Apartments, he recalls a sense of optimism.

  He and Babe toured in a revue – twelve towns, ecstatic crowds. They opened in Omaha and were briefly presented with the key of the city before being asked to return it, because the Omaha city fathers discovered they possessed only one key, and Wendell Willkie, running for the presidency, was expecting to receive it. But the revue brought in money, and bought them time to rest. He raised the walls still higher around his property, and Babe built a new home on Magnolia Boulevard.

  And he, once again, had Ruth in his life.

  I could never bear to be alone, he thinks. It was a blessing when it came to Babe, but a curse with women.

  An exchange returns to him, from The Flying Deuces: he and Babe by the banks of the Seine, Babe excoriating him for his failings as a friend. He believes that he may have written the words, or adapted them from what was presented by the writers, but he cannot always tell. The mind plays tricks. He could go to his notes, but he is tired, and he does not trust his legs to support him. What is important is that Babe speaks the words, and now, in the quiet of the Oceana Apartments, silently he mouths them in turn:

  Do you realize that after I’m gone you’ll just go on living by yourself?

  He does not live by himself. He has Ida.

  But still he is alone.

  172

  He goes to see Chaplin’s latest picture, The Great Dictator. It has been four years since Chaplin released Modern Times. He admires the bravery of The Great Dictator, even if its politics are too overt for his liking. He could not make a picture like it, but he would not wish to, either.

  He glimpses Alyce Ardell on the street as he leaves the theater, but she does not see him. He has not spoken to Alyce Ardell since his reconciliation with Ruth. He may never speak to Alyce Ardell again.

  He enjoys being with Ruth. They have discussed the possibility of remarriage, and she is not averse. But if he is to remarry, his finances must be in order. A new contract will be required. He knows that Babe will concur because Babe is in trouble with the IRS over unpaid taxes. Ben Shipman is holding off the IRS for now, but a settlement will have to be agreed.

  He arranges to meet Ben Shipman at Ben Shipman’s office.

  I’d like to know what progress is being made on a new deal, he says.

  Ben Shipman is not an agent; Ben Shipman is a lawyer. But for these two men, Ben Shipman would be willing to go from door to door on bended knees to extoll their virtues. Instead, his clients have hired the Orsatti Agency to negotiate on their behalf. The Orsattis have a tangled history with the Mob. Victor Orsatti is formerly married to June Lang, who divorces him to marry Handsome Johnny Ros
elli. Handsome Johnny Roselli kills a guy in Sicily, which is why Handsome Johnny Roselli is now in Hollywood, setting up a protection racket on the major studios. Meanwhile Frank Orsatti, Victor’s brother, is a former bootlegger, a pimp, and an enforcer for Louis B. Mayer. The Orsattis make Ben Shipman nervous. Ben Shipman is convinced they make his client nervous too, which is why he is here asking Ben Shipman about progress rather than putting the question to the Orsattis directly.

  I thought you were in no particular hurry to get back to work, says Ben Shipman.

  – Circumstances have changed.

  – Changed how?

  – I’m considering getting married again.

  – Married to whom?

  – Ruth.

  Ben Shipman knows that he has been seeing Ruth. Ben Shipman was hoping it might be a passing phase. Ben Shipman has nothing against Ruth, beyond the hours spent arguing with her attorney over alimony, but marrying her again seems like a drastic step.

  – It’s only a year since you divorced Vera.

  – It’s been more than a year.

  – You know, there are men who remain married for most of their lives, but they usually try to stay married to the same woman. You seem determined to acquire as many wives as possible. Not that I’m counting, but you’ve been married four times to three women, and that’s not including the Russian ceremony and the Mexican jaunt. Have you ever considered just not being married? Try it. Who knows, you might like it. The women might like it, too.

  – Ruth and I are getting along just fine.

  – Then why spoil a beautiful thing?

  – We’d like to give it another try.

  – Jesus. Seven times. Seven times you’ll have said ‘I do.’ You think that’s normal? What are you, a sheik?

  – Ben …

  – All right, all right. Last word: if you’d never married, you’d be a wealthy man by now. I’m just saying. It’s not too late.

  – I want to get back to pictures.

  Okay, says Ben Shipman. I’ll make some calls.

  In the end, it is Fox that comes through for them. Fox doesn’t have a reputation for comedy, but it’s a big studio.

  What are they offering? he asks Ben Shipman.

  – Fifty thousand dollars. One picture, with the option on a second. Non exclusive. You and Babe are free to work elsewhere, if you wish.

  – What about artistic control?

  – It’s not in the contract, but they’ve agreed to it.

  – Shouldn’t it be in the contract?

  – I can go back and renegotiate, but it’ll cause delays. They seem straight.

  Ben Shipman is an honest man. It is in Ben Shipman’s nature to believe what Ben Shipman is told, except in a court of law. If the Fox executives aver that Ben Shipman’s boys will be allowed the same degree of control over their pictures that they enjoyed under Hal Roach, Ben Shipman has no reason to doubt it, and if the Orsattis have any objections to the deal, then Ben Shipman has not been informed. It does not strike Ben Shipman that the Orsattis may simply not care.

  And so Ben Shipman consigns his charges, his friends, to the pit.

  173

  He and Babe make Great Guns.

  They make A-Haunting We Will Go.

  They make Air Raid Wardens.

  They make Jitterbugs.

  They make The Dancing Masters.

  They make Nothing But Trouble.

  They make The Big Noise.

  They make The Bullfighters.

  Fox and MGM are their new overseers, but he cannot rouse himself even to indifference. There is to be no artistic control, and he will have no input on scripts. He will not be permitted to edit, and the directors will not listen to his ideas.

  Fox strips them of their hats and suits.

  Fox strips them of their nobility.

  Fox strips them of their characters.

  What are we? he asks.

  And Babe replies, We are what we have always been.

  – But this is not how we are. I don’t recognize these men.

  They are strangers among strangers. They are strangers even unto themselves.

  No one at Fox values them, and they are relegated to the B-picture crews, but their work makes money for the studio. Ben Shipman shows him the figures. Ben Shipman tells him that Great Guns could earn a profit of $250,000 for Fox.

  Ben Shipman is wrong.

  Great Guns earns twice that amount.

  So the pictures are profitable, but they are profitable despite few of those involved even pretending to respect what is put before the Audience. Budgets are quoted, but the money never makes it to the screen. Actors are cast, but they cannot act. Directors are assigned, but they will countenance no collaboration. Even when he is finally permitted to co-direct, he is not credited, as though his input is an indulgence that might damage the studio’s reputation were it to be formally acknowledged.

  Do you know why these pictures make money? he asks Ben Shipman.

  – They make money because of you and Babe.

  – No, they make money because we are selling our legacy, frame by frame. Nobody likes these pictures. The Audience comes because it loved us once.

  – The Audience loves you still, or else it wouldn’t be there.

  – No, the Audience loves only the memory of us. It loves men who no longer exist.

  It is left to Babe to intervene, Babe to salvage, Babe to persuade, Babe to console. Babe is practical. The IRS wants money. Myrtle, Babe’s ex-wife, wants money. What is a man to do, but work?

  Times are changing, says Babe. Maybe we ought to change with them.

  And he understands. Babe does not entirely resent being released from a jacket too tight, a hat too small. Babe contains more than one persona within him. So, perhaps, does he, but he has never chafed at the constraint.

  – But if we change, what do we become?

  And these pictures give him an answer.

  They must become, like all old men, supporting players in the lives of others.

  They must become the shadows of themselves.

  174

  He sees less of Babe in these years.

  He does not feel slighted. As a man who has built his own high wall against the world, he knows that only by sequestering himself with Lucille can Babe deal with the pressures weighing on him: the poverty of these films they are forced by necessity to make; his ongoing torment by Myrtle, who seems consumed by a kind of madness that manifests itself in the pursuit of money to which she is not entitled; and the not unconnected attentions of the IRS, which also seeks money, but without the excuse of madness.

  All this, Babe has brought upon himself.

  I made a mistake, Babe tells him. With the divorce from Myrtle.

  Babe, it emerges, forgets to collect the final decree. It languishes for years, until Babe requires it in order to marry Lucille. The IRS takes this to mean that Babe and Myrtle were still married and domiciled during this period, and therefore Babe is required to pay their joint taxes, all while Myrtle drags Babe back into court, over and over, so often that Ben Shipman suggests they club together and buy a bench.

  I don’t understand why Myrtle is doing this to me, Babe tells him.

  He has no answer. He thinks of all the years Babe spent cleaning up Myrtle’s shit and piss, of the bars and the sanitariums. He thinks of Babe’s refusal to abandon Myrtle until she left him with no choice. He thinks of Babe’s guilt and Babe’s loneliness.

  He thinks the alcohol may have damaged Myrtle’s brain.

  – You’re happy, and she’s not. Perhaps it’s just as simple as that.

  But he knows that even this may not entirely be true. Babe’s sadness runs deep, even deeper than his own. He sees it when Babe looks in a dressing-room mirror and takes a great wad of flesh in hand, like some version of Shylock seeking his own reduction. He sees it when Babe reads of Walter Brennan and Victor McLaglen, of Henry Travers and Charles Coburn, and imagines a career of roles that might have been
. Even Lucille speaks of it sometimes, on those rare occasions when he and Ruth socialize with them.

  When Babe is sad, Lucille whispers, I hear him call himself a fat old man. Babe asks me why I love him. And I always reply: how could I not?

  And he understands, because he loves Babe also.

  How could he not?

  175

  At the Oceana Apartments, he reflects that in all their years together, Ben Shipman has never uttered to him the words ‘I told you so’, although Ben Shipman has been offered ample opportunity. Instead Ben Shipman has quietly followed him from crisis to crisis, like a valet with a dustpan, ever ready to sweep up the broken shards of his master’s relationships.

  Ben Shipman calls him on the telephone, as Ben Shipman does every day. There is always some small business matter to be discussed, some offer of work to be declined: a script, a television interview, a personal appearance. When there is no business, there is a mutual acquaintance encountered on the street, or a kind mention in a newspaper column in Peoria or Des Moines.

  But he has been spending much time lately in contemplation: of Babe, of the errors of his life. It is how he knows that he is dying.

  So he asks Ben Shipman the I-told-you-so question.

  Why would I have said that? Ben Shipman replies.

  Ben Shipman is old, but Ben Shipman is still a lawyer, and is therefore never happier than when answering one question with another.

  I knew I’d told you so, Ben Shipman continues, and you knew I’d told you so, so why would I have to tell you that I’d told you so?

  – Because I might have learned my lesson.

  – What lesson? That you weren’t entitled to try for happiness? That you’d be better off dying alone behind high walls, with a nurse feeding you from a spoon? What lesson is that to teach a man?