Finding Dorothy

by Elizabeth Letts

  A moment later, the red light blinked off and the guard pushed the door open. Maud waited for all of the costumed Munchkins to enter before she slipped in. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, an entire new world began to materialize. The giant warehouse-like interior had been transformed into a brightly hued paradise of blooming flowers. A miniature village stood beside a bright blue lake spanned by an elegant arched footbridge.

  Maud spun slowly in a circle, taking it all in. Her first impression was that it was beautiful, like California, with its blooming flowers and blue skies; only here everything was heightened, the artificial colors more brilliant than real life.

  “What do you think? Impressive, ain’t it?” Maud turned to see the producer, Mervyn LeRoy, standing next to her with a big smile on his face. “Come on in and take a look,” he said, gesturing grandly. “Everything is built to scale.”

  “Well, it’s…” Maud looked around. She was at a loss for words. Everything was exquisitely rendered; even the graying wooden house, plopped in the middle, slightly askew, looked startlingly real. Yet unreal. A fantasy, built from the things of this world.

  But now Maud’s attention was drawn to an unexpected sight. Sticking out from under the crooked gray house was a pair of legs, with sequined red shoes attached to the feet.

  “Oh my!” Maud’s hand flew up to her mouth.

  “Not a thing to worry about,” LeRoy laughed. “Nobody at the end of those legs. That’s the Wicked Witch of the East. She’s wearing the magical slippers.”

  “Magical slippers?” Maud said, inching closer. “But those are red. They’re supposed to be silver.”

  “We tried silver, but it didn’t show up well in Technicolor. You wouldn’t want the magic slippers to look as gray as old galoshes, now would you? Not just red slippers—they’re ruby slippers!”

  “Ruby slippers,” Maud said slowly, processing this unexpected bit of news. Frank had been fascinated with color photography, experimenting with hand-colored magic lantern slides long before Technicolor had been invented. Certainly, Frank would prefer sparkling ruby slippers to magic slippers of washed-out gray.

  “I suppose it’s a sound decision. As long as you don’t go changing the color of the Yellow Brick Road.”

  Leroy tipped his head back and burst out laughing. “We’re building Oz from the ground up,” he said. “And nobody knows how to do any of it. We’re making it up as we go along. Everybody is talking about the Disney animation of Snow White—biggest hit picture last year, and it was a fairy tale about a bunch of dwarfs. But you know what I say? I say that if Disney can make imaginary characters seem real, then, by golly, we can make real people seem like they are imaginary. Don’tcha think, Mrs. Baum?”

  Maud didn’t answer.

  “Mrs. Baum?”

  Maud, transfixed, was staring down at her feet, which were standing on the tip of a large curlicue of yellow paint. It looped around, then straightened out, stretched for about a hundred feet on the ground, then climbed up a painted wall of scenery. For the barest moment, she felt as if Frank were standing beside her, but as she turned toward the apparition, she saw LeRoy looking at her expectantly.

  “Not bad, eh? Matte painting. Looks even better on camera.”

  As they’d stood there, a large group of costumed Munchkins had swarmed around them, and over the tops of their heads, Maud caught sight of Judy, skipping along behind them, wearing her blue gingham Dorothy costume.

  “Mrs. Baum!” she called out cheerfully. “Did you come to watch us dance?”

  LeRoy looked over at Judy. “No dancing now, doll.” He glanced at his watch. “You can break for lunch. We won’t need you for an hour or so.”

  Maud saw her chance. “Judy?” She waved the girl over. “Would you let me take you to lunch?”

  “Oh, I’d love to, but…I have to eat in the commissary.”

  “I can join you in the commissary,” Maud said.

  The girl smiled. “Sure, that would be swell!”

  As Maud emerged from the dim sound stage, the sun was so bright that the world outside looked like a wash of white. Maud followed Judy’s bright blue gingham down several alleys and around a couple of corners until they emerged in front of the commissary.

  Inside, tables covered with white tablecloths were crowded into a large, noisy room, filled with the sound of conversation, laughter, and the tinkling of glasses and silverware. Some of the diners appeared to be in costume—a motley crew of evening dress, cowboy wear, and military uniforms. Others wore dapper linen jackets with colorful silk handkerchiefs in their pockets and well-shined loafers, their slicked-back hair and jowly faces marking them as money men.

  “That’s Clark Gable,” Judy said in a stage whisper. Across the room, Maud picked out Gable’s familiar face. He was holding court at a table near the center of the crowded dining room, next to a voluptuous brunette in red silk. The rest of their party, a group of men in dark suits, leaned in and appeared to hang on his every word.

  Being accustomed to seeing his face nine feet high, Maud was surprised by how small he looked in person. She noted a few more movie stars—Carole Lombard was sipping from a goblet, her platinum blond hair impeccably waved. Myrna Loy, dressed in a pale blue sheath, tilted her pretty face as a man in a dinner jacket whispered something in her ear. Maud would have loved to linger, but Judy led her to a secluded table near the kitchen’s swinging doors that was partially hidden from the dining room by a couple of large potted palms. It was likely the worst seat in the house for stargazing, but it did afford a bit of privacy.

  A uniformed busboy appeared at the table, poured out ice-cold water from a sweating silver jug into their glasses, and then silently slid away.

  “You must be hungry after all that work!” Maud said brightly.

  “I’m ravenous!” But then Judy’s smile collapsed again. “Except I’m not supposed to eat, because this dress is too tight. They had to let it out with a safety pin today, and so now I’m in big trouble.” She smiled again, and Maud marveled at the way her face was as changeable as a spring day in Dakota: sunshine, dark clouds, and sunshine again, all in the space of a minute.

  “Every other day, I’m not allowed to eat a single thing,” she said. “Or I won’t fit into the dress. I’m positively starving. They want me to look like a little girl, not a young lady. Did you know they wanted Shirley Temple instead of me—desperately! She’s not even eleven yet.”

  Maud frowned. “Oh dear no. Shirley Temple would have been all wrong for Dorothy.”

  Judy looked relieved.

  Of course, Maud thought, but would never had said aloud, Judy Garland was also all wrong. She was much too old to play the part. The book’s Dorothy was just a girl—maybe six or seven—though her exact age was never stated. Maud sympathized with the way Judy had tried to tame her developing figure into a girlish dress that was much too young for her. She recalled her own schoolgirl days when she had tried to hide her emerging breasts. It was disheartening to think that with all of the things that had changed for women, including education and the vote—privileges her mother had fought for but never seen come to pass—some perceptions had still not changed for girls, like the simple fact that the growth of one’s own body could be seen as an act of treason.

  “Not allowed to eat?” Maud said. “That sounds quite dramatic.”

  “They give me pills,” she said. “They’re supposed to make me less hungry, but they don’t.

  “Two grilled cheese sandwiches,” Judy said to the waiter, uniformed in black and white. He raised a single eyebrow at her but said nothing. A few minutes later, he placed a green salad with a scoop of cottage cheese on it in front of Judy, and a grilled cheese sandwich in front of Maud.

  When Judy saw the salad, her mouth tightened into a furious little bow. “No matter what I order, if Mr. Mayer sees me, he tells them to bring me this
horrid salad with cottage cheese—which I hate.”

  Without saying a word, Maud pulled the salad in front of her own place, pushing the nicely toasted grilled cheese in front of Judy. “I’m so fond of salad,” Maud said. “I hope you don’t mind!”

  Judy shot her a grateful look, grabbed the sandwich, and took a big bite.

  “So, have you read the book?” Maud asked.

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I’m not much of a reader.” On the set, Maud thought, Judy had appeared so confident, so effervescent, too grown-up to be Dorothy really, but one-on-one this way, she seemed young and eager to please.

  “Well, that’s all right. Did you know that my husband, Frank, always said that once moving pictures were perfected, people would probably not read much anymore?”

  Judy seemed more interested in her sandwich than anything Maud was saying.

  Maud tried again: “Did you know that there are more than three million copies of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz in print right now?”

  “You don’t say.” Judy looked past Maud, fidgeting with her paper straw.

  “And Mr. Baum could imagine moving pictures, ever since he saw Mr. Thomas Edison’s Kinetoscope at the Columbian Exposition—probably even before he saw it. He was fascinated with photography.”

  Judy’s hand covered her mouth. Her nostrils flared. Maud realized she was trying to suppress a yawn. This was not going well. What could Maud do to get this young girl’s attention?

  “I would almost say that when he sat down to write The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, he was writing it for the year 1939 and for somebody named Judy Garland to come along and be ready to play Dorothy. It might seem crazy to you—”

  “Do you really think so?” Now Judy leaned forward, resting her chin on her clasped hands. She looked intently at Maud. “I bet every girl in the country wishes she could be the one to play Dorothy. I bet any number of them could do it better.”

  “Not true. They’ve chosen you, and for good reason. I just know you’ll do a wonderful job.” Maud’s voice rang with conviction, even though, inside, she still did not think this young lady looked like pigtailed, skinned-kneed Dorothy. But she did look like a girl in need of encouragement, and that was something Maud could offer.

  “What was he like?” Judy said suddenly. “Mr. L. Frank Baum. Was he a good man? And what did the L stand for? Was that his real name?”

  “His first name was Lyman, but he always went by Frank. He was a very good man.” Maud paused, smoothing her cotton napkin in her lap, trying to think of how to convey the essence of Frank to this young girl. “When I first met him, he was an actor in a theater company.”

  Maud noticed a glimmer of interest. “My father’s real name was Francis, but he always went by Frank,” Judy said. “He was in vaudeville. He’s the one who taught me how to sing.” A pained look washed across the girl’s face and then retreated as fast as a foam-crested wave on Santa Monica Beach.

  “That must have been lovely,” Maud said.

  “Well, it was lovely…when he was still around.” Judy trailed off and looked searchingly at Maud. “My father is dead.”

  “Oh,” Maud said, reaching out and placing her hand over Judy’s. “I’m so sorry.”

  The girl’s expression closed up, but Maud suspected that she wanted to talk about him, so she persisted. “I’ve told you about my Frank—can you tell me about yours? What was he like?”

  For a moment, Judy’s brown eyes seemed to be looking inward, but then she brightened. “My daddy loved to sing—and he had a terrific sense of humor. He wasn’t like most stuffy old grown-ups. He could make some fun out of anything. He used to write the grocery list in rhyme, and make up a tune to go with it, and then, if he forgot what we needed, he’d sing it right there in the store.” Judy giggled and dropped her voice. “Once a mean old lady with blue hair told him to stop singing because we were in a public place. I was so embarrassed I wanted to fall through the floor, but he just smiled, and said, ‘May I have the pleasure?’ and before long she was dancing right there among the canned peas.”

  “What a delightful man. You must miss him very much.”

  Judy took a sip of water and looked away.

  “I know I miss my Frank, and he sounds just like your father. He was always making things up and making people laugh.”

  “When did Mr. Baum die? Was it a long time ago?” Judy looked back at Maud, her brown eyes damp.

  “Oh yes, my dear, Frank has been gone for almost twenty years. I certainly never expected to live so much longer than he did, but life never seems to go as one expects, does it?”

  “Do you think it was magic that brought the coat back?”

  The girl was staring at the tablecloth, her brow furrowed in concentration, as if a lot was riding on Maud’s reply.

  “Well, I don’t really know,” Maud said. “What we deem magical depends a lot on our own point of view.”

  Judy said nothing, didn’t even look up, just picked at a tiny speck on the tablecloth.

  “When did you lose your father?” Maud asked.

  “When I was thirteen. But I still miss him all the time. I still can’t believe he’s gone. Sometimes I try to talk to him. I suppose that makes me crazy.”

  “Oh my dear, no. That most certainly doesn’t make you crazy. By the time you reach my age, you’ve lost all kinds of important people, and talking to those who are gone comes to seem quite in the ordinary course of things. What is it that you want to talk to him about?”

  Judy fiddled with her fork, turning the tines down and raking them lightly across the cloth.

  “I keep wishing…” She looked up. “I really can’t tell you. It’s, well, it’s kind of a secret…”

  “The kind of secret you can’t share with anyone or the kind that might feel a little better if you had someone to share it with?”

  “I’m not sure I know. How would I know if it’s better to keep it to myself or to share?”

  “I suppose it depends how heavy it feels. If it feels very heavy, sometimes sharing it can lighten the load.”

  Judy rubbed her right shoulder and frowned. “Well, it is very heavy…”

  “Then why don’t you tell me?”

  “Because, I’m afraid I’ll sound silly…or maybe—” Judy broke off. She rubbed her palm against her forearm, her eyes downcast. “Maybe I’m afraid that if I say it out loud, it will seem more likely never to happen.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Maud said firmly. “I’ve accepted many secrets for safekeeping over the years, and I’m a most unmagical person. I think I can hold on to secrets without affecting them in the slightest.”

  “Well, all right,” Judy said. “What I wish is…” She laced her fingers together, turning her palms upward.

  “I wish he would give me…some kind of sign.” Judy stared down at the crumbs on her plate.

  Maud chose her words carefully.

  “My husband believed very deeply in signs, and messages coming from other worlds, and all kinds of mystical and spiritual things.”

  “But was your husband’s coat—a sign?” Judy asked.

  “I think,” Maud said, “that when people imagine things, such as Oz, those things take on their own life, and something seems to happen, and those things seem to have meaning…” If Frank were here, he would have said, Of course it’s a sign! To him, the work of serendipity was at play all around them, never questioned, always believed in. But as much as she’d loved Frank, Maud had remained a shopkeeper’s daughter, firmly anchored in the palpable things of this earth—things that could be observed and touched, measured and weighed.

  Judy’s voice trembled. “I was in the studio,” she said. “I was singing on the NBC radio show, and my mother told me it was my big break and I couldn’t miss it for anything. They turned on the radio for him in his hospital room, so that he c
ould hear me singing, and I sang it for him…”

  “Oh my dear child!”

  “But I don’t know if he heard me,” she said. “What if he was asleep or, I don’t know, too sick to listen? It was the only thing I could give him, so I tried to sing it as well as I could. I thought it would help him get better. But he died before I ever got to ask him. The next day he was gone. And I keep hoping and wishing and praying that he’ll give me some kind of sign, just so I’ll know that he was listening. But all I hear is silence…”

  Maud struggled to think of what she might say to console the girl, but death was hard, and sometimes no words could truly provide consolation. Instead, she reached out her hand again to clasp Judy’s.

  “And your mother?”

  The girl’s lower lip quivered. “Mother says being a star will make me happy—and of course she’s right—”

  “A star,” Maud said.

  “Even though I’m not glamorous…”

  “Let me tell you something about stars. I once lived in Dakota, where the stars shone like bright diamonds, so close you truly believed you could reach up and pluck one from the sky. Some people are just born like that, glowing so bright. My Frank was. I don’t believe that’s something you can become. You’re either born that way—or you’re not. Just be yourself, Judy. I promise you that what you already are is good enough.”

  Judy wiped her mouth with her napkin, leaving a smear of bright red on the cloth. Her brown eyes glowed like wet stones in a clear stream. “You know what? That’s exactly what my daddy told me. Mother always says, ‘Work harder, give ’em what they want. You’re going to be a star someday,’ but Daddy always said, ‘Judy’s not going to be a star. She already is.’ ”

  Just then, Maud saw the waiter approaching. She deftly switched their plates so that Judy’s empty plate was in front of her and Maud’s half-eaten salad rested in front of the girl.