Stars Over Sunset Boulevard

by Susan Meissner

  “I saw him this afternoon when I got back to the studio. I went over to wardrobe to invite him over tonight.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t thank him for it?” Bert had seemed happy that she liked the little nightingale. She had asked where he had found it. A little gift shop near my mom’s place in Santa Barbara, he’d said and then promptly changed the subject.

  “No. No, of course you would. I just wanted to make sure he knew I had given it to you.”

  Audrey laughed. Violet was a little odd sometimes. But in a nice way. “You and your Southern good manners never cease to amuse me. If someone asked you to ride a camel for them, backward while wearing a tutu, I’ve no doubt you’d do it twice, just to be nice. Wouldn’t you?”

  Violet grinned back and said nothing.

  • • •

  The six guests at the impromptu party were all Selznick International employees and party talk on the patio naturally drifted to Cukor’s leaving, the script that everyone and his brother seemed to be writing, and Vivien Leigh’s scandalous and supposedly secret love affair with Laurence Olivier.

  “No more work talk!” Audrey finally announced, an hour after the get-together began. “Let’s play a game.”

  “And let’s move indoors,” one of the women said. “It’s too chilly out here.”

  The chairs were brought back into the kitchen, drinks refilled, and everyone began to move into the living room. Audrey noticed Bert wasn’t inside.

  She went back outside and found him looking up at the branches of the massive jacaranda that kept the little backyard in perpetual shade and sprinkled the patio with lavender confetti every June when its blossoms fell.

  “Coming, Bert?” she asked.

  He nodded without looking at her. “You’ve got a pair of mourning doves in that tree.”

  She looked up into the trees’ limbs and saw nothing. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  He turned to her. His features were barely distinguishable in the moonlight. “Are you all right, Audrey? You seem sad tonight.”

  She looped her arm through his. There would be no talk of life’s disappointments.

  “I’m fine. Let’s go in and you can pour me another drink.”

  Hollywood

  March 9, 2012

  Christine pulls into her parents’ Bel Air driveway and presses the code for the wrought-iron gate. It slides quietly on oiled rails.

  Her mother, Glynnis, answers the doorbell, two long-stemmed goblets in hand. She hands one of the glasses of Chardonnay to her daughter. Then she points to the hatbox, the handle of which is over Christine’s arm. “Come on in and let’s have a look!”

  They enter the expansive kitchen and Christine sets the hatbox on the marble-topped island in the center of the room.

  “Your text message was very intriguing,” Glynnis says. “You know, I just drove past our old neighborhood the other day. I have a listing up in Hollywood Hills. Right next to the Bela Lugosi house.”

  “So do you remember the name of the woman next door who babysat me?” Christine sips from her glass.

  “Her last name was Redmond, I think. She was a widow—I remember that. And I think she had a daughter who lived in Europe somewhere. I can give you the address of the house we lived in, if you want to swing by on the very slim chance she is still there.”

  “Slim chance?”

  “She was elderly then, Chrissy. And that was twenty-five years ago.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Can I see it?” Glynnis says.

  Christine pushes back the lid on the box. She lifts out the hat and extends it to her mother, who turns it over to look at its underside and the label.

  “So you really think this hat is a costume piece from Gone With the Wind?” her mother asks.

  “It looks exactly like it. I looked it up on the Internet. The thing is, the hat is supposedly at a university in Texas. I looked that up, too. So now I don’t know what to think.”

  “But the owner very much wants this hat back.”

  “Yes.”

  Glynnis walks over to a desk area in the kitchen and takes out a notepad and pen. She sits back down and begins to write.

  “This was our address back then. Mrs. Redmond lived on the right as you face the houses across the street.”

  Christine takes the paper. “Thanks.”

  “You were pretty smitten with Mrs. Redmond. You liked going over to her house even when your dad and I were home. She always had her television on, which I didn’t really care for. And she always had it set to reruns of shows from the fifties and sixties. No wonder you like the vintage look.”

  Flashes of old black-and-white episodes flutter in Christine’s mind. “I do remember that.”

  “Even after we moved you’d want to watch I Love Lucy and The Dick Van Dyke Show when you had friends over, instead of Saved by the Bell and Full House. Drove them all crazy.”

  They laugh and then finish their wine. Christine leaves a little after seven. She checks her phone as she gets into her car to see if Mr. Garceau has tried to reach her. He hasn’t.

  On impulse, Christine drives the ten miles to the neighborhood that she hasn’t thought about in more than a decade. Starlight shimmers down on her as she pulls up to the curb.

  The house she lived in all those years ago has been extensively remodeled and is barely recognizable.

  The little bungalow next door looks exactly as Christine remembers it.

  But every window is dark.

  NINE

  March 1939

  Violet stirred the pot of gumbo as it bubbled on Audrey’s stove and breathed in its savory aroma. She lifted the spoon to her mouth and carefully tasted the concoction. Perhaps it wasn’t the best gumbo ever made, but she was fairly happy with her first attempt at using her mother’s tried-and-true recipe. She’d gotten a hankering for it the previous week—she’d been particularly homesick—and written her mother. The return letter had come yesterday. The search for fresh okra had sent her to three grocery stores, but the finished product would be worth it. Hopefully Audrey wouldn’t be too much longer and would have an appetite when she got home. Violet hadn’t seen much of her at the studio that day and she’d had to ride the streetcar and bus by herself.

  She lowered the flame on the pot and sat down at the kitchen table to wait for her roommate’s return. Valentino wound in and out of her legs, and Violet scooped up the cat and set him in her lap. It had been a busy day, a frustrating day. The film was finally back in production and everyone was again going to be working ten-hour days or longer. A new script, this one pounded out by screenwriter Ben Hecht, had been given to the cast that morning, and Miss Myrick had been told it was the last revision there would be. She had whispered to Violet that she’d believe that when she saw pigs fly. Violet had also been introduced to Victor Fleming that day, but he was obviously only concerned with remembering who Susan Myrick was, since she still had to approve every word said and every prop used. Mr. Fleming seemed more direct than Mr. Cukor had been and unlikely to coddle anybody, including the leading ladies.

  Scarlett’s wedding to Charles Hamilton had been shot that afternoon. Bert had been in charge of making sure the bridal gown was ready for Miss Leigh, and he came to the set at the start of the shoot to ensure everything about the dress was in order.

  “This wedding was a rushed affair in the book,” Bert had said as they both watched Vivien Leigh position herself under the lights. “Scarlett wore her mother’s wedding dress, remember?”

  Violet recalled reading that part. Agreeing to Charles Hamilton’s proposal had seemed the most reckless thing Scarlett could have done.

  “Plunkett used a dress form with the measurements of the actress playing Scarlett’s mother so that the gown would seem big on Miss Leigh. Rather cl
ever.”

  Bert seemed proud of the dress even though he was merely in charge of its whereabouts. Violet hadn’t thought the dress was very pretty; the sleeves were as big as sides of beef and the dozens of silk leaves made the skirt looked tattered.

  But she had told him it was a very convincing dress and he was soon called away to attend to another costume need.

  During a break to change some light fixtures, Miss Myrick decided to dictate a few notes to Violet regarding the plans for the Twelve Oaks barbecue scene, which was going to be a huge affair shot on location at a park called Busch Gardens. Violet had been hoping to find a way to broach the subject of putting in a good word for Audrey with the new, no-nonsense director and it seemed as though it had just been handed to her. Most of the technical crew had been busy with lighting adjustments, Mr. Fleming had been talking to the camera crew about changing a lens, and a couple of script girls and hairdressers were milling about, waiting for filming to resume.

  It had seemed like a good time to mention it.

  Violet looked down at the cat as what had happened next replayed itself in her mind. “How was I supposed to know that’s not how it works?” she said, and Valentino looked up at her and meowed.

  She hadn’t known a director can’t just put in a new girl as an extra, even if she’s a studio employee and as beautiful as any other extra on the set, and had had a leading role offered to her once. There were contracts and casting protocols and regulations and the blood of a two-headed giraffe to be reckoned with.

  “I didn’t know,” Violet said, leaning down and speaking into Valentino’s fur.

  Thankfully, Mr. Fleming hadn’t been within earshot. It was only Miss Myrick who told her that what she was asking on behalf of her roommate was completely out of the question. Violet’s cheeks had burned crimson nonetheless.

  “It’s ridiculous, if you ask me.” Violet rose to her feet and put the cat down on the floor. She reached into a cupboard and pulled out a tin of cat food. Valentino began to dance around her feet as she opened it. “They are stupid rules.”

  The cat meowed in response. She set down his dish, stirred the gumbo, and sat down again to wait.

  By seven thirty there was still no sign of Audrey.

  Violet got out two bowls from the cupboard but filled only one. She took her dinner to the table, wishing now that she’d thought to make corn bread, too. She certainly had had the time to make both.

  She lifted a spoonful to her mouth and tested the temperature with the tip of her tongue. The gumbo was blistering hot and she winced. As she lowered the spoon to the bowl, she heard the front door open and close.

  Audrey was home at last.

  “I’ve made gumbo!” Violet called from the kitchen.

  Audrey rounded the corner and stood in the arched doorway between the living room and kitchen. “What did you do?” Her eyes glittered with what seemed to be bridled anger.

  Violet stared at her, openmouthed. “I . . . I made gumbo.”

  Audrey stepped fully into the room. “What did you do at the studio today, Violet?”

  Blood rushed to Violet’s head and bosom. Audrey must have found out she’d tried to get her into the cast as an extra today. But how? And why was she mad about it? “I tried to help you,” Violet said, the sting of Audrey’s obvious resentment making her voice sound frail. “I only tried to get you in the movie. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “No, it’s not what I want!” Audrey tossed her purse onto the table. The gumbo in Violet’s bowl shuddered.

  “How can you say that?” Violet nearly choked on the words. “I know that’s not true. I know you want it.”

  Audrey closed her eyes. “You don’t know anything.”

  Violet’s own anger, fueled by offense, began to course through her. “I know what you told me! You told me you want your movie career back. You told me you were going to have new photographs taken. You told me it was all about meeting the right people! People who could make things happen!”

  Audrey’s eyes snapped opened. “I never told you I wanted to be a nameless extra in Gone With the Wind.”

  “And what is so terrible about being an extra? Surely lots of famous actresses started out that way. Do you know how many people write to Miss Myrick all the time, wanting a bit part in this movie?”

  Audrey shook her head slowly. “I never asked you to get me a bit part in Gone With the Wind.”

  Violet could scarcely believe how her good intentions were being thrown back in her face. And here she’d thought Audrey would’ve been grateful that Violet had even tried.

  “I don’t know how you even found out that I asked.” Violet fingered away tears that had gathered in her eyes. “I couldn’t make it happen.”

  “Thank God you couldn’t.”

  Violet stared at her, incredulous.

  “I found out because a couple of script girls heard you,” Audrey said. “And they told a couple of wardrobe girls, and those wardrobe girls told some sound technicians, and the sound technicians told everyone else. You embarrassed me, Violet.”

  Two more tears pooled at Violet’s eyes and they slipped down unchecked. “That’s not what I meant to do.”

  “Now everyone thinks I put you up to it.”

  “But you didn’t! It was my idea!”

  Audrey sighed heavily, as though the air in her lungs was weighed down with concrete. “But that’s not how it looks. And that’s all that matters in this town.” She turned for her bedroom.

  “I was just trying to help,” Violet called after Audrey, her voice breaking.

  “I don’t need your help,” Audrey muttered, loud enough for Violet to hear.

  Audrey’s bedroom door opened and closed.

  Violet looked down at the bowl of gumbo, her stomach a weave of knots.

  She rose from the table, poured the soup back into the pot, and turned off the burner.

  • • •

  In the morning Violet expected Audrey to tell her that she needed to find another place to live. But Audrey said nothing as the two of them ate breakfast and got ready for work. Violet apologized and offered to make it right somehow and tell everyone that asking had been all her idea, but that was the last thing Audrey wanted Violet to do.

  “There must be some way I can make it better,” Violet said.

  And Audrey said no, there wasn’t.

  They rode the streetcar without speaking and went their separate ways when they arrived at the studio. Violet worked late, arriving home after eight to an empty bungalow. She went to bed without seeing Audrey, but was unable to fall asleep until she heard Audrey’s key in the lock sometime after midnight.

  On the set the following day, she asked Bert what she should do—he, too, had heard about what she’d asked Miss Myrick. They were standing on the Forty by a flowing creek. The stunt double for Gerald O’Hara was preparing to jump a white horse over a fence, and Bert was there to make sure his costume matched perfectly—and stayed clean.

  “Just let the matter dry up on its own and soon it will float away,” Bert said. “That’s what my mother says happens to gossip if you stop spreading it and stop listening to it.”

  “But everyone thinks Audrey put me up to asking!”

  “I’m sure anybody whose opinion Audrey cares about knows she would never ask you to do that. You’re new to this; she’s not. They all know she’s not. It will blow over, Vi. I think it already has. No one is talking about it today.”

  “She hates me.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “She’s not talking to me!”

  “Give her some time, Violet.”

  Violet felt fresh tears beginning to rim her eyes. She hadn’t realized how much Audrey’s friendship meant to her until the last few days. There was no one back in Montgomery like Audrey. Violet’s childhood friends were all gettin
g married and having babies. They had nothing in common with Violet anymore and had already begun to drift away from her. She squeezed her eyes shut to force the tears to recede.

  “Violet,” Bert said, and he waited until she opened her eyes to look at him. “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told her.”

  “You talked to her about this?”

  “She talked to me. She called me the night it happened.”

  “Oh!” Violet had heard Audrey talking on the phone after she’d put the uneaten gumbo away and gone to bed. She had assumed she’d been talking to the mysterious Vince.

  “You were motivated by a desire to do something good for Audrey because you care about her. I think in the end that’s what’s important. And that’s what she will remember.”

  Gratitude for Bert and his kind heart blossomed inside her, scaring her a little with its intensity. She suddenly remembered the sensation of Bert’s strong arm around her waist and his hand in hers when they’d danced weeks before on a floor dusted with shimmering beach sand. A tightening deep within made her shudder slightly.

  “All right?” he said.

  She smiled and nodded.

  “She’ll get over it, Violet. Audrey isn’t one to carry a grudge.”

  Bert was summoned then, as he often was when another scene was due to be shot.

  As he walked away the stunt double on the horse attempted a practice jump and fell too early off the animal, onto the painted dirt.

  • • •

  The sun had already dipped below the western horizon when Violet made it back to the Mansion to type up the day’s memos for Miss Myrick. It would be many more hours before she was finished, but that was the case for just about everyone associated with the film. Half a dozen secretaries were still at their typewriters or on the phone when Violet stepped inside. She had just started on her first memo when Audrey appeared at her desk.

  “You going to be here awhile?”

  She seemed to be a little less angry with her.

  “Probably,” Violet answered. “You?”