by Mary Miley
“Shall I use your new name?” I asked, thinking ahead to the introductions.
She nodded uncertainly, then sighed. “I suppose so. I’ve just started using it on the back of my photographs and to sign my checks.”
“Good girl. It’s a great name.” The artistic, avant-garde crowd she hung around with had been urging her for some time to come up with a more distinctive-sounding moniker, and she had finally settled on one.
“Every one of my friends thought Williams was too ordinary for an actress. I still consider it a very, very good name, but … well, I guess they were right. Anyway, everyone had ideas for my new last name—someone suggested Myrna Lisa, can you believe that?” She giggled. “It’s catchy all right, but I’d be too embarrassed to use something so silly.”
There must have been a hundred people at the party already, with more arriving behind us. We surveyed the living room from our vantage point at the top of the steps and jostled our way through the crush toward an enormous slate patio ringed with more torches. Colorful Japanese lanterns dangled overhead. In the space of sixty seconds I’d spotted several familiar faces from the Son of Zorro and a few people I’d met on my Fairbanks errands. I began to breathe easier. I could fit in here.
A waiter came near us with a tray of canapés, and I managed to snatch one. Another was taking orders for the bar. Myrna and I were about to request gin rickeys when I caught sight of a waitress circulating the room with a tray of champagne. My all-time favorite.
“Wait, Myrna! Have you ever had champagne?”
She shook her head.
“Try this,” I said, lifting two glasses off the tray and thanking the waitress with a smile.
She took a sip, but before I could hear her opinion, her eyes opened wide. “Gosh, there’s Raoul Walsh,” she said, pointing to the well-known director. I spun around. “He hired my dance troupe at Grauman’s Egyptian to do the orgy scene in The Wanderer. I was drinking and hanging over a couch with a wine goblet, trying to do what they told me to do. It was really fun.”
“Can you introduce me?”
Her mouth turned down. “He doesn’t know me. I’m just a dancer.”
The champagne was delicious and cold as ice. It had not taken me long to realize that in Hollywood, as elsewhere, Prohibition laws were treated with the scorn they deserved. Liquor was served at every party, brazenly, defiantly, without fear of raids, arrests, or fines, not merely because the police were bribed as they were in most cities, but because the studio bosses ran the show here. The police did what they were told.
Every man in the room was handsome and every woman beautiful, so why I should find myself staring at one particularly compelling, dark-haired gentleman, I do not know. He had just entered the house and was standing in the foyer unaccompanied, surveying the crowded room. His eyes worked from right to left quickly, then back again more methodically, until he had taken stock of every face. It reminded me of another man I used to know—a bootlegger—who did the same thing before entering a room. All at once a shout came from behind me, and an actor I recognized from the screen as Jack Pickford called, “Johnnie! Over here!” Only then did Johnnie descend the two steps into the living room and plunge into the party.
Someone tapped my shoulder and there was Douglas Fairbanks in his smart midnight-blue dinner jacket, looking like he’d just stepped out of a high-society picture. “Good evening, Jessie,” he said, sipping a frosted glass of orange juice. “You’re looking lovely tonight.”
“Thank you. I’m here with a friend, and I’d like you to meet her. This is Myrna Loy.” And for form’s sake, I added the entirely unnecessary second half of the introduction, “Myrna, this is Douglas Fairbanks.”
Douglas made a short bow. “Charmed, I’m sure, Miss Loy.”
Myrna stood rooted to the rug, hopelessly tongue-tied. “Gee, Mr. Fairbanks. This is such an honor. I, um—I’ve seen all your pictures.”
“Until recently, Myrna was a dancer at Grauman’s Egyptian Theater,” I said helpfully, nudging her with my elbow.
“Um, that’s right, I used to dance the prologue to Thief of Bagdad.” She was referring to the lavish live spectacle presented on the stage before every showing of Douglas’s most recent film, a fairy tale with astonishing special effects that had been released last year and was still playing in many theaters.
“So you and I have shared the same stage, so to speak? Allow me to express my gratitude for your part in making my picture such a success. Ah, here she is … Mary, darling, I’ve told you about my temporary assistant. This is Jessie Beckett and her friend Myrna Loy.”
As one of the few adults whose height matched that of “Little Mary” Pickford, I could look her straight in the eye. “I’m honored to meet you,” I began, trying not to appear overawed by her presence and hoping she couldn’t see my heart hammering beneath my frock. I’d seen her at the studio a few times, but being introduced socially almost took away my powers of speech. “I’ve learned so much from you over the years, I feel I owe whatever success I had in vaudeville to you.”
“How very kind.” Mary Pickford looked even prettier than she did in her pictures, with wide hazel eyes and delicate lips darkened red. Her voice was higher than I had imagined and soft as a cat’s fur. For the party, she had swept her famous blond ringlets in a mass behind her head and donned a pale gold flapper dress embroidered with pearls. Hard to believe I was talking to the woman who had virtually invented film acting, the woman who had not only starred in hundreds of pictures, but who had started her own studio; the woman who could play a feisty eleven-year-old boy as convincingly as she did an old woman. I’d’ve rather met “Little Mary” than the queen of England.
“Douglas said you played children’s roles in vaudeville?” she asked politely, sipping her orange juice and no doubt wondering why a lowly assistant script girl had been invited to this chic affair.
I nodded. “I grew up on stage, too. Just like you. My mother was a headliner, and she managed to keep both of us working most of the time.” The truth was, things were pretty darn good while Mother was alive. It was later, after she died, that my life fell apart.
“No father?”
“Died.”
Sympathy wrinkled her smooth brow. “Oh, Jessie, so did mine. And my mother took us kids—Lottie and Jack and me—on the stage and managed our careers. She still does. I don’t know what I’d do without her. I’ll bet you never went to school, either.”
“You can’t go to school when you move to a different city every week. My mother taught me my letters and numbers, and I read every book I could lay my hands on.”
“I learned to read from the billboards along the train tracks,” Miss Pickford said, shaking her head with the wonder of it. I was about to ask her what early roles she had played, when she said, “What sort of roles did you play?”
“My first was Moses in the bulrushes, the second was Baby Jesus. After that I specialized in kidnapped-baby roles, caterwauling like the devil during chase scenes. When I got old enough to memorize lines, I played the brat in Ransom of Red Chief and scenes from Romeo and Juliet, that sort of thing.”
She gave a knowing nod and smiled at the recollection. “I played Juliet myself. I milked that death scene for all it was worth!”
“Juliet was my first death scene … they became something of a specialty for me: Juliet, Ophelia, Desdemona, Cleopatra—”
Miss Pickford’s perfectly arched brows moved together in a slight frown. “Ophelia doesn’t have a death scene.”
I waved my hand dismissively. “Yes, I know. Shakespeare missed a real opportunity there, so we added one. Audiences love death scenes and mine were pretty darn convincing. As I got older, I continued with the kiddie roles. It was what I knew best and my size let me get away with it. I learned the tricks of the trade from watching your pictures.”
Miss Pickford smiled, putting her hand lightly on my arm, almost as if we were real friends. “And what tricks were those?”
�
��Well, for one, to keep thin and flat-chested. And to make short, quick movements. Also, to add a skip to my step whenever possible. To accentuate my freckles and keep my fingernails short and unpolished. And of course, to keep my hair in long ringlets.”
“But you’ve bobbed yours.” She sounded envious.
“Just a couple months ago. I hated those curls!”
“I loathe mine. So babyish! Now don’t you dare tell a soul I said that! Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could cut my hair, but my public would think it a betrayal as bad as Benedict Arnold’s and would probably quit watching my pictures. I don’t dare risk it.”
I was more than a little surprised at this confession. Like most people, I had supposed that “The Most Popular Girl in America” did whatever she wanted. Suddenly I saw how naïve that was. In some respects, Mary Pickford was a prisoner of her image.
For a few minutes, we swapped recollections of night trains, dollar hotels, and boardinghouse food, until a waitress carrying a tray of champagne approached. I set my empty glass on the tray and picked up a full one. Miss Pickford glanced over her shoulder, then did the same, replacing her glass of orange juice with one of champagne.
“Don’t tell Douglas,” she said with an exaggerated wink. “He disapproves of alcohol. Usually I try to accommodate him, but, well, sometimes I get tired of pleasing everyone else.”
At that moment, her attention was drawn to someone behind me. I turned to see her younger sister, Lottie Pickford, making her way unsteadily toward us. Lottie wore a wild look as she clutched at Mary’s arm.
“Lottie, what on earth—”
“Can you—have you—” Her eyes darted around the room, frantically searching right and left.
“Lottie, darling, I’d like you to meet…” But Lottie must have spotted the person she was looking for, because she stumbled toward the stairs without uttering another syllable. A few steps away, Douglas took in the entire scene. His well-disciplined actor’s features failed him for a moment and his eyes narrowed to dark slits. His lips tightened. With a jolt of surprise, I read disgust on his face. Clearly, Douglas despised his sister-in-law.
“I’m sorry…” Miss Pickford began, but I waved off her apology.
“I already know Lottie from Son of Zorro.” Lottie had a small but significant role in the picture as Lola, the pretty servant girl who serves as a spy in Don Fabrique’s employ and uncovers the blackmail plot. Lottie was usually late to work and often petulant, but no one dared reprimand the sister-in-law of Douglas Fairbanks. Only now did I realize his courteous treatment of her on the set masked his true feelings. And as I watched Lottie’s behavior, I understood the reason for his contempt. Douglas Fairbanks despised liquor, and Lottie was a drunkard.
“Oh, of course you do. I forgot, you work for Frank Richardson now. Well, excuse Lottie’s bad manners tonight, I’m afraid she’s dealing with some—”
Whatever she was going to say was interrupted by a shrill scream and the sound of pottery breaking into a hundred pieces, followed by furious accusations from the other end of the room. Too short to see and too curious for my own good, I stepped up on one of the chairs that had been pushed against the wall.
Two women in sparkling gowns were hurling insults until one of them, the older one, lost all sense of decency and pulled back her bejeweled hand. With a lightning movement, she smacked the younger woman across the face, pushed through the throng toward the door, and stormed into the night. The victim staggered but did not fall, thanks to the quick reaction of a couple of men nearby who held her close. The stunned silence quickly filled with a babble of conversation as the guests analyzed the spat.
“Seems like a disagreement,” I said lamely, stepping down off the chair. “I wonder who that was.”
Miss Pickford sipped her champagne calmly. “That was Faye Gordon who just left.” I looked surprised, as little Mary Pickford could not have seen over the heads to the other side of the room. She read the question in my eyes and gave a rueful smile. “I recognized her voice, and throwing breakables has become something of a trademark with Faye. Poor dear, she has had some bad luck lately, but she should learn to keep her temper in check, at least in public. And this,” she said grandly as an attractive couple approached us, “this handsome man is my darling brother Jack and his wife, Marilyn Miller.”
Compared to their famous sister, Jack and Lottie Pickford were amateurs, but they were good-looking and competent enough on-screen. Marilyn Miller and I were almost the same age, and I knew her from vaudeville. When she didn’t seem to recognize me, I tried to spark her memory by saying, “It’s so good to see you again, Marilyn. You may not remember, but we knew one another some years ago in vaudeville when we were children. You were touring with your family as the Five Columbians and my mother and I had a mother-daughter act.”
She didn’t respond. A little embarrassed, I tried again, “Remember how we were always dodging the sticklers who were trying to enforce the child labor laws?”
Then I looked at her more closely and noticed the empty eyes—her pupils were deep black pools so large I couldn’t tell what color her irises were—and I guessed why so many party guests were going upstairs. Bruno Heilmann might flaunt the Prohibition laws downstairs, but even he couldn’t be so cavalier about narcotics. I looked back at Jack Pickford. His pupils were enormous, as well. Cocaine or hashish, probably, although I’d seen enough heroin and morphine since I’d come to Hollywood to know those were popular party fare, too.
Marilyn and Jack did not incline toward conversation, at least not with me. Jack made a curt remark to his sister, then pulled his wife to the front hall where he erupted into a tirade, berating the stone-faced butler who had brought down the wrong wraps.
Miss Pickford didn’t appear to notice. She reached toward Douglas, who was still chatting with Myrna and two other fawning women. “Duber, let’s go or we’ll be late to the Gishes.” She turned back to me. “Douglas was right when he said I would enjoy meeting you, Jessie. I’m sure we’ll see you around town in the near future, and we can talk again about vaudeville. Excuse us, please, we have another stop tonight before we can go home and relax.”
The crowd did a Red Sea parting as the Hollywood royalty made for the exit. The champagne waitress passed again, this time giving me a long, measured look that I found disconcerting. Myrna lifted two glasses off her tray. “Here, let’s toast! To the most exciting night of my life!” She bubbled more than the champagne. “Imagine, little Myrna Williams—I mean, Loy—talking to Douglas Fairbanks for ten whole minutes! No one would believe it back home in Montana. And did you get to meet Jack Pickford? Isn’t he a dream?”
“Actually, we were introduced, but he wasn’t in a sociable mood.”
“Do you know the scandal about his first wife’s death? You must remember! It was all over the newspapers about five years ago. Olive Thomas was her name. She was a real vamp, very, very gorgeous and a big star.”
Who hadn’t heard the tale? Actually knowing some of the people involved brought the story closer to home. I remembered Olive Thomas from her pictures and from her mysterious death in Paris.
Myrna continued. “I was only fourteen at the time, but I read all about it in the magazines. I never believed Jack’s claim for a minute. You tell me, please, how anyone could accidentally drink an entire quart of nasty-tasting toilet-cleaning solution at three A.M. without noticing something tasted funny. Did you think it was suicide or murder?”
“I never could decide. The reports I read said it wasn’t toilet cleaner, that Jack had lied so the press wouldn’t learn the truth and ruin his career.”
“What was it?”
“Bichloride of mercury. You know what that’s for, don’t you?” I had understood the sexual implications at the time, but Myrna was younger and probably never caught on. “Syphilis,” I told her. “I kind of thought that maybe her death really was accidental, that both of them were so high on cocaine and booze that they didn’t know what they were
doing.”
“I overheard my mother and her friends talking about it. One of the neighbors insisted that it was suicide, that Olive was depressed over their awful marriage. Another thought Jack murdered her. My mother still thinks that she was planning to poison Jack, but drank it herself instead by mistake, but that sounds impossible. I guess no one will ever know the truth.”
“The French police certainly didn’t bother to find out. They couldn’t send the body home fast enough. The sad thing was that all those tales of wild living spilled over to Mary Pickford, dragging her name through the mud along with Jack’s, even though she wasn’t within a thousand miles of Paris and had nothing to do with any of it.”
“Gosh,” said Myrna, “that’s not fair. Anyway, I’m surprised to see Jack and Marilyn together tonight. This month’s Photoplay says they are getting a divorce, but they looked happy enough tonight.”
“Myrna, those magazines are full of lies. You can’t believe a word they print. All these big actors have press agents who’ll say anything to get publicity. They make up ninety percent of it. Here, I’ll prove it. You know how everyone says Douglas Fairbanks does all his own stunts? Well, he does most of them, true, but I’ve seen a stuntman do a few.”
“Really?”
“Excuse me, don’t I know you?” A woman wearing a short, chic gown came up to Myrna and me. “Weren’t you at Pickfair last Christmas?”
Before I could respond, two young men cruised over. “Haven’t we met before?” asked the one with the dimples. “Of course we have,” said his friend, answering for me, “at the Montmartre that night Rudy was doing the tango, wasn’t it?”
The cynic in me knew exactly what had prompted the sudden spike in our popularity—people had seen Douglas Fairbanks and the Pickfords talking to us and assumed we were “somebody.” Somebody they couldn’t quite place … Thus elevated to the ranks of the Hollywood elite for a few short hours, Myrna and I basked in our new status like two Cinderellas before the final stroke of midnight returned us to reality.
