Was_a novel

by Geoff Ryman

  Okay, okay, so your mother was human. Millie thought of her own teenage boys. They all go through this phase. It isn’t pretty. They all go through this phase of hating their poor old parents. Who are only doing the best they can.

  “She was the real Wicked Witch of the West,” said the Kid.

  “She probably just wanted the best for you,” suggested Millie.

  “She thought that whatever she wanted was the best for us.”

  Well, that was probably true. Millie was keeping an open mind. Some of what the Kid was telling her was probably true, some of it probably not. Millie couldn’t judge which was which and wasn’t going to try. Not judging between truth and falsehood is called keeping an open mind.

  “After that, Daddy followed us around like a puppy dog. We’d go to Chicago, or up North, and he’d drive all that way, just to see us. And my mother would take us farther away. She left him and took us, and he was all alone.” The voice went thin with pity. “He was left all alone when everything went wrong, and he lost his movie house, and the town turned on him. He must have thought even we didn’t love him.”

  “It would have come right again,” said Millie. She knew. Boy, did she know.

  “Listen, honey,” said Millie. “I moved out here with my husband, oh, about 1927. We moved out here, and I didn’t know a soul, and then our marriage broke up, and I was left with two boys. I thought it was the end of the world, but I got a job here at Metro, just as it was starting up. So everything came out right. It would have gone right for your daddy, too.”

  The Kid shook her head. “The only way it could have come out right was if he got us back. And he never would have. My mother would have stopped him. He got another movie house in Lomita. We were already calling ourselves the Garland Sisters. And so he called his movie house Garland’s Theater, after us. He started calling himself Garland. Just so people would think of us as a family still.”

  Either that, thought Millie, or he was cashing in. She kept it to herself.

  “The night he died,” said the Kid, and her voice started to shake, “I had to go on the radio. I had to hug old Wallace Beery and giggle and say how pleased I was to be back on his show.” The Kid spoke in a nasty, piping voice.

  “I had to pretend I was oh so happy. Because they were going to announce that I had a contract with MGM, and I was supposed to pretend that it was because I had gone on his radio show, and of course it was the other way around, the whole thing was a lie. So I did my little routine and then I had to sing, and I knew Daddy was dying in the hospital, but they had a radio by his bed.”

  The Kid had started to cry, and Millie didn’t believe a word.

  “And I had to sing this stupid stupid song. ‘Zing Went the Strings of My Heart.’” The Kid rolled her eyes at its stupidity. “The words didn’t mean anything, but I sang it for him just the same.”

  The Kid’s voice clogged. Millie passed her a Kleenex. Well, there go the eyes. At least I haven’t done the mascara yet. If she’s lying, at least she believes it herself, thought Millie.

  “I don’t know if he ever heard it,” the Kid said, in a voice like a rusty hinge. “He never knew. Any of this.” The Kid made the Kleenex take in the whole of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

  “When people die,” said Millie and coughed, “the people who get left behind have lots of feelings. When my father died, I tried to put the blame for it on all sorts of things. I thought there had to be a reason for it. Sometimes there isn’t. And that seems the worst thing of all, that you can lose something for no reason. And so you start to blame other people.”

  “We all left him alone.”

  Ah, thought Millie. Now I got it.

  “Or even worse,” whispered Millie, “we start blaming ourselves.”

  The face in front of her was puffy, closed against her.

  “Well, you don’t need a lecture from me, I guess,” said Millie and stood up.

  “I hate it here,” said the Kid. “I don’t want to be here.”

  “You don’t like being a movie star?” Millie didn’t sound surprised. Most of them didn’t one way or another. But they hated it when it was taken away as well.

  “It’s okay, I guess,” said the Kid. “I don’t know.” She’d stopped crying, and merely sounded dispirited.

  The way they worked this kid over. Pulled all her teeth together, put her on diets to beef her up, put her on diets to slim her down, sent her to physios for her shoulders. No wonder she feels all spun around by everybody. Even me, painting on a different face.

  “A lot of people would like to be Judy Garland,” Millie reminded her.

  “So would I,” said the Kid.

  Millie caught a whiff of self-dramatization. Poor little movie-star stuff. Well, you are a movie star and, until you decide to quit, we both have a job to do. In about fifteen minutes. Millie examined the makeup. Still got the lips to do, and the fall. And her eyes will be all bloodshot. I don’t have any eyedrops.

  “Listen, honey, I’ve got to go and get something. You going to be all right on your own till I come back?”

  “Sure,” said the Kid. She leaned forward, arm across the counter, and rested her head on it.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” said Millie, but the Kid didn’t answer.

  Outside the trailer, the studio was in full boom. Millie always thought of the phrase as “Full boom.” That was how she had heard it when she was a kid. It made her think of noise, people shouting, getting things done. The sound stage was crawling with people. “You got half an hour, Millie,” Continuity shouted to her across the bare concrete.

  “Don’t worry, I know,” she shouted back.

  Outside there were actors everywhere in all kinds of costumes, coming out of the canteen, finding their sound stage. Props were being rolled in or out. Somebody was carrying a stuffed elephant’s foot. And the secretaries and the clerical help walking to their office the long way round, just to feel part of the excitement.

  What did Millie think? That is one unhappy kid, is what she thought. It’s true what they say, success don’t mean happiness. Funny thing about working with actors was that all the clichés turned out to be true. The blond bombshell really does get ahead by using men, and she really is pretty smart and pretty dumb at the same time. The great actress really is as temperamental as hell and impossible to be around. The clichés were true and that was surprising, more surprising in a way than to find out they weren’t.

  So the Kid doesn’t like the whole schmear, and who can blame her. It is pretty phony. But she asked for it. She doesn’t quit it. She’s the one the whole thing benefits most. She is the center of attention, it all focuses on her. Maybe it’s the responsibility. Like my husband Bill, when he got promoted, he didn’t really like it because it meant more work. But he had to pretend to like it, because you have to pretend you like success.

  Like he pretended he loved me.

  Now, now, Millie. He liked you well enough till he met that little girl form Encino.

  Back in her bungalow, Millie found eyedrops. Collected up other bits and pieces too. Time I got a bigger case, with all these stars. Maybe a degree in psychology too. So’s I can handle them when they start to act up. I wonder. You know, it wouldn’t surprise me one little bit to find out that Frank Garland is still alive and running a movie house in Lomita.

  She put a fresh stick of gum in her mouth. Kinda kept the breath minty when you had to talk into people’s faces doing makeup. She said hi to the Monkeys as they filed out of the stage. Bill, Mark, Tomlin, she passed them all, said something to each of them. One big family. Those guys must have been working from well past midnight on top of everything else. Well, the other studios are good; we’re just better, the best. Makes people feel worth something, like they’re doing something in life.

  Back into the dark and the
blaze of lights ahead. A wave to Continuity, who’s getting all antsy. Millie saw she hadn’t closed the door to the trailer properly. It hung open, resting against the latch. She walked in without making much sound. She heard the Kid say:

  “You going to be all right on your own until I get back?”

  Millie heard her own Missouri twang. The little minx, she thought. She’s imitating me.

  “Ah-yale be bay-yak in a min-uht,” said the Kid. Her voice rose and fell in swoops. She was sitting up in the chair. Lily had been in and pinned the fall onto her hair already. And I see she’s polished up the eyes for me and put on the lashes. The Kid was in costume, too, dressed like a little girl. The Kid was staring ahead, and it was spooky. She was staring ahead and smiling.

  “Bay-ack in a minute,” she repeated, turning the words into music. That’s how she does it, thought Millie. She turns the sounds into notes, even when she talks. That’s why it sounds so good. She modulates it. That was the word. She modulates her whole self.

  Kid didn’t seem to realize she was there.

  “Frank,” the Kid whispered. “Frank Gumm.”

  That child has indeed suffered a loss, thought Millie.

  “Honest and sticky,” the Kid said. She was smiling and looking kind of weepy at the same time. “And my name’s Frances.”

  “You ready?” Millie said, trying to sound like she had just climbed in and hadn’t heard.

  “Yes, I’m ready now,” said the Kid. That’s a line from the picture, thought Millie. That’s just how she says it to Billie Burke before she goes home.

  Millie didn’t say anything but worked quickly. She put a towel around the shoulders, over the mutton sleeves of the child’s dress, No time for eyewash now—it would make the eyes run.

  “Judy, I just got to finish your lips,” explained Millie.

  She used a pencil to outline them, no time for a brush, and then used brown for lipstick, just a few shades darker than the skin tone. Finally a bit of powder over the whole thing to kill the shine. The Kid sat still.

  My, but I’ve had to do this in a hurry. Too much talking.

  “Okay, sit up. Now remember, don’t scratch your hair, even when it’s hot. Suppose Lily told you that, too. Should be cooler today anyway with black-and-white.” Kid said nothing.

  They walked out of the trailer, and Judy Garland was on.

  The Kid modulated. Her shoulders went back, the curl to her lip relaxed. She went up to people.

  Kid saw Continuity heading their way and went straight up to her. “Hiya, Jenny, howya doin?”

  Continuity looked a bit surprised that someone was friendly, then remembered to smile. “Uh. Fine, thank you. How are you today?”

  “Oh, you know. Was your place okay after the storm?” The Kid sounded real concerned.

  “Why yes, thank you.” Continuity’s clipboard strained forward, like it was on a leash.

  “No, the braids are the right length for Kansas, Jen,” said the Kid. “I know, because in Kansas, they’re not long enough to help hide my tits.”

  Continuity’s face froze. The Kid winked at her. Continuity actually laughed.

  “And my makeup is keyed for black-and-white, ’cause I checked the color numbers as Millie put it on. So everything’s okay.”

  “I guess so,” said Continuity, shaking her head.

  Kid did that to everyone. Went up to them and said hi. It was like she was vacuuming them up or something.

  She went up to Bolger. “Say,” she said, looking serious, “don’t I know you?”

  He wasn’t entirely sure she was joking. Poor old Ray.

  “Oh, I know, you’re playing the Tin Man!”

  Then she giggled and kissed him on the cheek.

  She waved to the Monkeys overhead amid their lights and wires. She swaggered up to the technicians on the ground and she was as confident as they were. She played poker with them sometimes—and won. She crept up behind King Vidor and hugged his back. He yelped and spun around.

  “What the—oh, Judy!” the little guy said with relief. He would have taken it only from her. Kid jumped back giggling and covered her mouth. You just had to laugh with her.

  Well, thought Millie. Got to hand it to the Kid. You’d never know there was anything wrong in her life at all. You’d really think she was just some sweet, ordinary kid. Except that she’s a demon poker player and knows all my Panchro numbers. And her lines, from seeing the rewrite just once. And the names of all the technicians. She’s smart. She’s real smart, like some kind of genius or something. Millie found it just the slightest bit creepy.

  They ran through the last scene of the picture. Doesn’t usually work out like that, filming the last scene just about last. The set was tiny, so small they had the Kid’s bed jammed right up against the corner of the window frame. There was only just room for the little table squeezed in between the bed and the other wall. It was the little girl’s bedroom. The wallpaper was covered in poppies.

  It was a simple setup. The camera pulls away from the Kid in bed, and she wakes up and sees the family; Frank sticks his head in through the window and the boys crowd in.

  Only there wasn’t room for them all.

  Vidor intervened. “Uh, Clara. Look, when you take the cloth off Dorothy’s head, put it on the table. Listen to her for a while until the boys need to get on—leave on the dream line. Pick the cloth up and take it to the kitchen.”

  “Why would I do that if my little girl’s just woken up from a coma?”

  Vidor had an answer. “It’s wet and you’re worried about the varnish on the table.”

  Blandwick didn’t look convinced. “Look,” said Vidor. “You’re a farmer’s wife. You’re practical. So you make sure the Kid’s all right, then it’s up, brisk, quick out and then back in.”

  Blandwick held up a hand to stop. “Okay, I’ve got it.”

  Went for a take. No problem. Kid was bright, smooth. There was a bit when Blandwick lifted up the cloth and it pulled up some of the Kid’s hair, right where it was wound into the fall. Kid looked up at Frank Morgan, and brushed the hair back at the same time. It looked real like the little girl had done it without thinking, but the Kid was managing her wig. She knew she had to keep the hair the same from shot to shot.

  Millie watched Vidor. He was smiling, telling them it was fine. He’s not happy with it, thought Millie.

  “Let’s just have a few reaction shots,” he said, the lights reflecting on his funny round glasses.

  “Judy,” he said to the Kid, waving at her to stay on the bed. He sat down and began to talk to her in a low voice.

  Millie wanted to hear. She crept up a bit closer.

  “Like this,” he was saying. “Just breathe out at the top of your register, a whisper right in the front of your mouth.” He said the line for her. Reason he was so good. A bit eccentric. Studios were full of stories about how he would tell producers off. Maybe why he sometimes ended up finishing other people’s pictures.

  The Kid lay back as Continuity fussed with the quilt.

  And something happened again. The Kid’s eyes went faraway.

  King was bustling around with the camera, looking through it on tiptoe. A small man physically, lots of energy. Kid closed her eyes and went still as a corpse.

  “Okay, going for a take.”

  It was just the Kid on the pillow, her eyes closed, and she began to murmur over and over the last line: “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”

  Millie felt a prickle down her neck. Kid really sounded like a little girl, for all that the brace had to hold down her chest.

  “Right,” said King, sounding surprised. “That was just what I wanted.”

  They set up another shot. More huddling between Vidor and the Kid. Millie went to fr
eshen her makeup, but didn’t hear what Vidor said. As Millie touched up the eyebrows, the Kid started to sing to herself, “Zing Went the Strings of My Heart.”

  She kept on singing it, softly, as the lights and the cameras were moved.

  There was a rustle of paper on a clipboard.

  “Dog,” said Continuity. “The dog jumps up on the bed half-way through the scene. And Dorothy is already sitting up and holding it.”

  “Terry? Terry?” called the dog’s trainer. “Dog’s shy,” he explained to Vidor.

  “Where’s the dog?” called Vidor, annoyed.

  “Here, dog,” whispered the Kid. Only Millie seemed to hear here. “Up’n the bed.”

  It sounded like Missouri. Or Kansas. Darned if the dog didn’t come too, right up on the bed out of nowhere. You are a country girl, aren’t you, honey, thought Millie. They couldn’t have found somebody better for this part in a million years. A country girl who got picked up, spun around and dropped into Hollywood and Technicolor.

  Vidor sat Blandwick down and pulled her shoulders into the frame. Cameraman kept shaking his head.

  Ten minutes, maybe twenty. Hours of waiting. It was amazing how these actors could sit and wait and wait and then just launch themselves into it. Mind you, that’s why they were paid. To be able to say lines like they believed them. The Kid started singing again.

  Finally Vidor said, “Okay, let’s go. Dorothy, your last lines from ‘Anyway, Toto, we’re home.’”

  The camera whirred, Vidor pointed, the Kid said her line, and it was wrong.

  On the word “home,” her face crumpled up and she started to cry. Not modulated. Ugly, wet, snotty.