Grand Central: Original Stories of Postwar Love and Reunion

by Karen White

  “Mr. Holmes, I’m sure we appreciate your interest. But we need time to discuss this. I have to say, I’m not at all impressed by Hollywood; it’s not a place for a proper young woman. We have more realistic plans for Marjorie, as I’m sure you do for your own daughter. Now, let me pay for the ice cream, and we’ll be in touch.”

  “I understand, I do. The truth is, I have a whole lineup of girls ready to be tested, so it’s no skin off my nose if Miss Konigsberg decides otherwise. I do think she’d test well, though.” Mr. Holmes turned those penetrating little eyes on Marjorie again, and again she met the gaze head-on.

  “Would I have to prepare a scene for you?” Marjorie asked, once more taking the tactic of assuming her parents would say yes.

  “No, don’t bother. It’s mostly about how well you photograph. We have plenty of acting teachers on the lot. That’s the least of it, to tell the truth.”

  Marjorie felt her excitement sour a bit; she was an actress already and did not take kindly to having her talent denigrated in this way. Yes, she understood that the movies were more about how you looked than how you acted; that was why she loved Vivien Leigh so, because she was a real actress first, a great beauty second. But to have it put forth so bluntly did diminish the sacred splendor of this moment, when she—just like Ava Gardner!—was being “discovered.” As if she were some new, important country!

  “I can prepare one anyway. I’ve got several memorized, naturally, for auditions,” Marjorie murmured, and Mr. Holmes merely shrugged.

  “Suit yourself.”

  A few more pleasantries were exchanged, Mr. Holmes shared a photograph of his wife and child, grumbled a bit about having to take an early train to Baltimore, then they parted. Mr. Holmes shook Marjorie’s hand firmly, bending down to peer into her face before grunting and nodding once more.

  On the brief car ride home, the Konigsbergs did not discuss the events of the evening; as adept as they were at handling each other, Mr. and Mrs. Konigsberg were even more adept at handling their daughter and knew better than to interrupt her certain reverie with anything so dreadful as practical words and plans. This tactic continued for two days until one night at dinner, Mr. Konigsberg casually revealed that he had indeed telephoned the number on the back of the card, and discovered that an Abe Holmes did work for MGM studios in Culver City, California.

  “So that’s all square anyway,” he said while passing the lamb chops to Marjorie. “The man’s legit, if crude. I’ll give him that.”

  “He did seem rather forward,” Mrs. Konigsberg chimed in supportively. “Not what I would call refined.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with any of this,” Marjorie said primly.

  “Well, it’s the heart of the matter, Marjorie. Do you really want to do business with a man that rough around the edges? Certainly not. But of course, the whole idea is preposterous anyway; I don’t know why we’re even discussing the man. It’s out of the question, this screen test. Marjorie, I know you’ll pout, but you’ll thank me later. It’s best to get these silly notions out of your head now. You’re young, you’re sensible, you’ll recover.”

  Marjorie did not pout. She did not cry or storm off to her room; she simply bit her lip, looked thoughtful, ate little, and left the room quietly. She caught her parents exchanging glances over her head several times, but no further mention of the “whole idea” was made.

  But it consumed her every waking moment and her dreams, so vivid that they seemed like movies themselves, even to the point of a director shouting “Cut!” right before she woke up. She must get to Grand Central on the twenty-first. Another chance like this would not come her way; she’d never heard of a movie scout coming to Narberth before. And her ties here were already cut; there was little chance she’d get another part at the Narberth Players, given how hostile they all were to her now. Subsequent performances had been trials, as no one spoke to her backstage, and onstage, every trick in the book was pulled out, from simple upstaging to discovering vicious pins in inconvenient places in her costume.

  Plus, she was eighteen. Next year she would be nineteen. How old, how dreary and unexciting, nineteen was to eighteen! An eighteen-year-old new discovery. She could just read it in the fan magazines. Nineteen simply wouldn’t be the same; it would be too late. No, this was her chance, her every dream and desire come true, and she was not going to let her parents ruin it for her.

  And then, joy of joys! Her stupid sister Paulina telegrammed with the news that she was marrying a sailor, some hick from Nevada that nobody knew, and that they were in such a hurry to be wed they weren’t coming home to Philadelphia first, and then the entire household blew up. It exploded, just like the photo she’d seen in Life of the bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima; a giant mushroom cloud hung over the Konigsbergs’ nice white colonial home, a looming gaseous mass of tears and recriminations and shouting and long-distance phone calls made through gritted teeth. And Marjorie’s “whole idea” was forgotten by all—except, of course, by Marjorie. Who managed to sneak in her own long-distance call—waiting feverishly for the operator to ring back that the call had been put through, terrified that someone else would answer the phone before she could—to Mr. Holmes’s secretary, confirming her appointment and being given the instruction to meet him in the Kissing Room at Grand Central at the appointed hour.

  And here she was, waiting for Mr. Holmes, waiting for her future, her ascending star to the Hollywood heavens, just like—

  Marjorie stopped her pacing. She gaped. She stared. For walking briskly into the Kissing Room was a couple, both wearing dark glasses, both avoiding eye contact with anyone, especially with each other. But they were together; the man, tall, thin, with dark hair and a prominent nose, had his arm around the woman’s waist. She was tall as well, with golden brown hair and blushing red cheeks like a milkmaid. Marjorie could not help herself; she gasped as she recognized this hurrying, bashful-looking woman as Ingrid Bergman. She gasped again when she recognized the man holding on to her, so tightly, as if afraid she might bolt, as Gregory Peck.

  Two movie stars! Right here, in the Kissing Room, in Grand Central, where Marjorie Konigsberg was to meet Abe Holmes, talent scout for MGM, and be screen-tested herself. She couldn’t quite believe her luck; it was a sign, a blessing, an absolution of the guilt she felt in lying to her parents. She had an urge to rush up to the couple, now standing before that mysterious elevator sharing a nervous glance, and confess that she, too, was like them. She, Marjorie Konigsberg, was on her way to a screen test, and would see them in Hollywood soon. But the elevator opened and Gregory Peck practically shoved Ingrid Bergman into it before following her, and Marjorie heard the elevator operator ask a question that was given a muttered answer before the door shut, and the light went on above it indicating it was rising.

  Oh, where did that elevator go? Marjorie had an impulse to press the button and find out for herself, but it was too late; it was nearly twelve thirty, and Abe Holmes would be here any minute, and it was time to check her reflection one final time. She pulled out her compact, ran her tongue across her teeth, smiled, looked pouty, looked radiant, looked sad, looked mysterious, all in quick succession. Satisfied, she snapped her compact shut and quickly surveyed the room, looking for the most fetching seat on which to array herself. Deciding upon a corner—the very corner where the paper bag lady had sat—Marjorie took her seat carefully, smoothing her skirt, placing her handbag discreetly by her side, and choosing a far-off spot on which to focus, dreamily, as if she had more pressing, ethereal notions in her head than a mere screen test.

  “Well, the kid decided to meet me after all,” a voice boomed down at her.

  Taking a deep breath, Marjorie raised her head slowly and met Mr. Holmes’s appreciative, penetrating gaze. She realized she had forgotten what he had looked like; in her dreams and fantasies, she had only seen that business card, and a mysterious voice behind a giant camera, and b
right lights, screaming fans, a bouquet of flowers from Mr. Carson—or maybe Gregory Peck!—with a card that said, I always knew you had talent. What I didn’t know was how much.

  “Why, of course. I telephoned your secretary. Did she not tell you?”

  “Sure, sure. Still, you never know. Your parents were pretty slick, I have to say. I didn’t think they’d let you.”

  “I’m eighteen, Mr. Holmes.” Marjorie kept her voice low, modulated, slightly amused. “I make my own decisions now.”

  “Hmm.” Mr. Holmes snorted a laugh. “I think we should drink to that.”

  “Well,” Marjorie consulted the clock. “It’s nearly time for the test, isn’t it? I don’t think we have time.”

  “Don’t worry about that. They wait for me, not the other way around. Let’s go.”

  Mr. Holmes gestured for her to stand, and she did; he then made his way to that mysterious elevator, and she followed, her heart pounding.

  “Oh! I just saw Ingrid Bergman!” She couldn’t help herself; she knew she sounded ridiculously juvenile and starstruck but she simply had to tell someone. “She was with that new actor, Gregory Peck. They went into this elevator, too!”

  “You don’t say.” Mr. Holmes, shifting his suitcase from one hand to the other, looked amused. “Not my problem—neither one of them is at MGM—but still interesting. She’s married, of course. I don’t know about him.”

  “Goodness!” Marjorie gasped. “But you don’t think they were—well, they got into this elevator, that’s all. Does it go up to some studio? Where I’ll have my screen test?” That made sense, of course; if the two stars had made use of this elevator, and she was, too, apparently—Mr. Holmes had just pushed the button—then it must have something to do with the movies, with the studio.

  Mr. Holmes didn’t answer; he turned to her, looked her up and down as if realizing, for the first time, she had a body attached to her face (her fortune!), and grinned. Mr. Holmes grinning was a sight that made Marjorie’s stomach sour; his teeth, which she had not noticed before, were yellowed with tobacco and coffee. And his lips were slightly liver colored.

  Marjorie turned away right as the elevator arrived. It opened, and Mr. Holmes ushered her into it; the red-capped elevator boy closed the door.

  “Reservations?” he inquired, without making eye contact.

  “Yes. Holmes. MGM.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Marjorie relaxed, only now realizing that she had been tense. But there had been something in the way Mr. Holmes looked at her that had set her nerves on alert. Everything was all right, though; obviously they were just going up to wherever the screen test would take place.

  The elevator bell dinged, and the boy opened the door. Mr. Holmes gestured for Marjorie to step out first.

  “Will I have time to freshen up my makeup and hair?” she inquired, too focused to take much notice of her surroundings.

  “We have hair and makeup; don’t worry about that. They’ll fix you up for the camera.”

  “Oh good,” she said, and followed him as he made his way through a crowded, lobbylike room full of couches and potted palms, a pianist playing in some far-off corner, a bar in another corner, intimate little seating arrangements—and a front desk, just like a hotel. And then she realized this was a hotel; a fancy script B was emblazoned upon every door and desk, even the ashtrays and matchbooks on the tables.

  “Nice, isn’t it? You ever been to the Biltmore before?” Mr. Holmes asked, strolling unhurriedly, as if he was a tour guide and not an important Hollywood talent scout, to the front desk. He even pointed out the famous gold clock hanging from the ceiling. Marjorie was completely befuddled. That elevator led to a hotel lobby? The Biltmore Hotel?

  “I just want to drop my bags,” Mr. Holmes explained; he must have sensed the questions bursting out of her, making her perspire so that her blouse started to cling to her, her hair to frizz slightly at her hairline. She knew her nose must be as shiny as the mirror behind the desk.

  The clerk, an older man with a neat mustache, cast a look her way. He raised an eyebrow but did not say a word as he filled out a registration form, taking Mr. Holmes’s information.

  “One key or two?” he finally inquired with another look at Marjorie.

  “One.”

  “Very well, sir,” the clerk replied, barely concealing a smirk.

  Marjorie’s body suddenly felt all wrong; her legs were strange and wobbly, having no connection to her torso; her neck seemed to grow, and her head was large and hovering over the rest of her. She looked down at her gloved hands; they seemed yards and yards away. Her throat was parched, and she heard herself whispering for a glass of water, please.

  “What? What’d you say?” Mr. Holmes pocketed his room key and turned to her, taking her by the arm and ushering her away from the desk.

  “Water? Could I please have some water?”

  “Sure, sure. There’s plenty of time, just like I said. We can sit and have a drink and talk about the test. I have some pointers for you. I tell you, kid, you have what it takes. I guarantee it. But every little trick helps, and I’ve been doing this a long time. A long time. I’ve seen some real talented girls just wilt on set. We don’t want that to happen to you, do we?”

  “N-no, of course not,” Marjorie managed to whisper, her throat still so dry she marveled at the sound of her own voice.

  “Of course not. Now, let me drop my bag.” Mr. Holmes moved toward a bank of elevators opposite the front desk.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll just wait here,” Marjorie stammered, looking about for a place to sit. But to her wavering eyes it seemed that despite the hundreds of couches, there were no empty seats.

  “Sure, sure. But I worry about you. You look a little peaked. I don’t want to lose you. Come on up with me for a second. I’ll dump my bag in my room and we’ll come right down and get you something to drink. Maybe to eat, too; you don’t look like you’ve eaten in a while.”

  And because Marjorie simply did not know if she could stand on her own, if she would not crumple to the floor from fear and nerves and hope and longing and a devastating feeling of being overcome by something larger than herself for the first time in her life, she nodded. And allowed herself to be propelled toward the elevator. But not before catching the disapproving eye of the clerk who had signed Mr. Holmes in.

  Mr. Holmes kept a firm grip on her elbow, and she was both nauseated and grateful for it; without his grasp, she knew she would fall to the floor, as her legs no longer seemed to have any bones at all. He gave the elevator boy the number of the floor, and Marjorie realized, too late, that she hadn’t heard it, and that perhaps it would be necessary for her to remember it, at some future, awful time.

  But the door opened and they got out and Marjorie had no idea what floor she was on, but then remembered that the door numbers would easily tell her this, and so she concentrated on the numbers as they walked—well, Mr. Holmes walked; she was fairly dragged—down an endless carpeted hall, black dial-less telephones on polished tables at intervals, bright lights in sconces. 1124, 1126, 1128, 1130.

  1132.

  Mr. Holmes pulled out the heavy gold key, inserted it, and opened the door. He walked inside first, without hesitation; he walked inside like a man who had walked inside many hotel rooms, not even noticing his surroundings, throwing his hat on a chair without even looking to see where the chair was. From the doorway, where Marjorie had stopped, frozen like a dog who had reached the end of its leash, the corner of a bed, covered in a white bedspread, could be seen.

  “C’mon in, kid,” Mr. Holmes called. She could no longer see him; he no longer had a grip on her. And so she wondered why she remained where he had left her, poised on the threshold of a hotel room, and not already running toward the elevator.

  “I don’t think so,” Marjorie Konigsberg managed to whisper. But still, she did n
ot leave.

  “What?” Mr. Holmes reappeared, his jacket off, his tie loosened. He had a glass of water in his hand.

  “I said, I don’t think so,” Marjorie murmured, looking down at the plush, slightly dirty carpet.

  “Here’s some water.” Mr. Holmes thrust the glass in her hand. He took a step back. He did not touch her.

  “Thank you.” Marjorie gulped the water, but her throat was now so constricted it nearly came back up again. She slowed down, taking little sips. Not meeting Mr. Holmes’s amused gaze.

  She handed him the glass, and their hands touched. His was warm and clammy; she could feel the heat even inside her glove, a wet spot where the sweat penetrated. Mr. Holmes took the glass and sat it on a small table just inside the door. Then he took Marjorie’s hand, which she had been unable to make behave properly; it simply hung in the air still, an awkward, lifeless thing. He removed her glove, and intertwined his fingers with hers, sending a deep, bone-rattling shudder through her body.

  “Now, c’mon. Be nice. I have a lot I can teach you. And we have plenty of time before the test.”

  “But—but there is a test?” Marjorie felt desperate and exhausted, both, like an animal with one leg caught in a trap, uncertain whether to gnaw it off or simply give up.

  “Yes, of course. There’s a test. What, you think I’d pull a con like that? Giving out my business card with MGM on it? Nobody could get away with that. There’s a test. There’s always a test. And you’ll be swell. All you need to do is relax a bit. Now, let me help you relax.”

  Marjorie took a step backward, even as her hand was still claimed by Abe Holmes. Talent Scout. MGM Studios. Culver City, California.

  She took a step backward. She hesitated. She thought of her parents. She thought of Mr. Carson, who had picked her out first. She thought of Ingrid Bergman and Ava Gardner and Vivien Leigh.