Finding Dorothy

by Elizabeth Letts

  When, at last, the tube came out and the wound slowly healed over, leaving nothing but a shiny pink divot, Maud spent her days sitting in a rocking chair near the big windows, sun streaming onto her face. The staff brought her nourishing broth and then fresh food. At first, she was allowed to walk down the halls, and then a nurse wheeled her out into the gardens. She sat in the dappling sunshine pining for home—for Frank and Bunting, and the baby, Robert, whom they were calling Robin. How she missed them! But she was determined to set aside her impatience and focus on regaining her strength. When at last she was able to circle the garden once on her own two feet, she was ready to go home.

  The first time Frank carried her new baby to her and placed him in her arms, Maud looked down at him in confusion. This pink, healthy, strapping six-month-old was completely unfamiliar to her, and as soon as she held him, he set to fussing. Maud looked up at Frank, tears filling her eyes. Frank, for his part, handled the infant expertly, jiggling him on a hip to send him to sleep, pulling silly faces to make him laugh. Maud scarcely recognized the child. She could hardly believe that he was her own—he had never suckled. Never fallen asleep in her arms. He might as well have been a beautiful changeling dropped off on her doorstep.

  And Bunting! When had he gotten so tall and full of words? When Maud reached out her arms to her beloved firstborn, he was too shy to run to her. He hung back, peering between his father’s long legs. Her heart cracked. Her eldest son had become a stranger.

  * * *

  —

  IT TOOK MAUD MORE than a year to fully recover, but finally she was able to care for the household and the boys again, and she started to feel like herself. The memory of the first day home, when the boys had seemed like strangers, had long since faded, and they no longer remembered that she had ever been absent. But one thing between herself and Frank had permanently changed. Each night Maud lay alone, curled up on the far side of the mattress when Frank crawled into bed. She wanted more than anything to roll toward him, to bury her face in his chest and allow him to wrap her in his embrace, but her doctor had given her firm instructions: she must not conceive another child. The sponge in the lacquer box was not enough protection. Another parturition would put her life in immediate peril.

  Frank had agreed to the restriction. He treated her with the utmost kindness and concern, but Maud no longer felt like herself. She was a dainty piece of china, a teapot with a mended spout. She had no doubt of his love for her, but she longed constantly for his embrace, and treated him coldly for fear that she would have a moment of weakness.

  One night, Frank rolled toward her in the dark and placed his chin on her shoulder. She could feel the scratch of his moustache through her gown.

  “Maudie, darling?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I feel like I’m suffocating here in New York. So much competition. So many people fighting for the same dime. It sounds like out in Dakota, a man can really be somebody. What if we head out there? Take our chances? Try to make our fortune?”

  Maud felt a slight stirring somewhere deep inside her, like the wings of a baby bird cupped in her hands.

  “I know you miss Julia and T.C.,” Frank continued. “Tell me, darling, what do you think?”

  Maud could have ticked off a million reasons why it was a bad idea, such an uncertain venture, with the children so young. But they had left the theater company to keep Maud well, and look what had happened: she had gotten sick. Safety, certainty—whose choices in life gave them that kind of guarantee?

  “Well, all right then,” Frank said, mistaking her silence for unwillingness.

  Maud lay her head against his chest and felt his heart thumping in her ear—Frank, so good, so kind, so generous, so bighearted. He had been such a hollow man of late. Maud was stronger now. Why shouldn’t they adventure once again?

  CHAPTER

  15

  HOLLYWOOD

  1939

  Maud sat in her perch at the studio watching Judy play a scene with Bert Lahr, the Cowardly Lion. Maud had heard that Lahr arrived at the studio at six-thirty in the morning to allow for the two hours it took to apply his rubberized mask. The poor man must have been stifling under the hot studio lights in such a thick costume. None of this, however, seemed to affect him in the least. He was carrying on with a high dose of histrionics that never seemed to flag, no matter how many times they repeated a scene. He was funny to the core. Filming required strict silence on the set, but when Bert Lahr was giving his lines, sometimes Maud had to cover her mouth with her hand or pinch the inside of her arm to keep from laughing out loud.

  Evidently, Judy was having the same problem. In this scene, holding Toto, she had to tell the lion that he was nothing but a coward, only each time she tried, she burst out laughing. The poor girl was seized by the giggles, and there was nothing she could do to stop them. Watching Judy trying to suppress her laughter, Maud remembered how Bunting used to torture his little brother Robin, making faces at him during Sunday dinner. He would squirm in his seat and bite his knuckles trying not to laugh, but Bunting got him every time. This was what was happening to poor Judy now. They shot the scene four or five times, and each time, the girl’s mouth would start to twitch, and before the segment was finished, she’d be doubled over with laughter.

  At first, it was amusing, but soon the director’s tone grew sharp.

  “We don’t have all day to do this,” Fleming said. “You need to get ahold of yourself.”

  Ethel Gumm, who had been sitting quietly near Maud, listening, now jumped up and bustled down to the stage, her heels rat-a-tat-tatting on the wooden floor. She leaned in and whispered something in Judy’s ear. The actress’s expression grew momentarily stormy, but she quickly turned her attention back to the director, a serious look on her face. Nevertheless, halfway through the next take, Judy dissolved into giggles so intense that tears were running down her cheeks. Lahr appeared to be enjoying his power to make the girl laugh, but Fleming looked agitated.

  Ethel Gumm now approached the director and whispered something to him.

  “Take it from the top,” the director said. “Take thirteen. Judy, get ahold of yourself.”

  This time, Judy almost made it through her lines. Her lips quivered, her eyes creased up, her nostrils flared. Maud crossed her fingers in her lap. The girl was trying. But it was no use.

  As soon as she began to say the line “Why, you’re nothing but a great big coward,” she burst out laughing.

  Fleming, his jaw taut, streaked across the stage toward her. With a loud smack, he slapped her in the face. Judy staggered backward and then, startled, started crying and rushed off the set.

  Maud gasped. She looked over at Judy’s mother, who still stood near the director, expecting her to say something or rush to her daughter’s side. Ethel, however, did neither. She was smiling.

  Maud stood up, marched down the stairs from the viewing platform, and pushed her way past the cameraman until she stood directly in front of Victor Fleming.

  “Shame on you! How dare you slap her? You’re a grown man, and she’s just a little girl.”

  Fleming spun, glowering. “Excuse me? Mrs. Baum. You need to leave the set immediately. We’re trying to work here.”

  “She’s not a little girl,” Judy’s mother interrupted. “She’s a professional actress, and she’s expected to act like one. I gave him my permission to slap her, if that’s what it takes to keep her in line.”

  Maud could feel anger welling inside her. Speaking in a low voice, she shook a finger at Fleming. “Don’t you ever strike that girl again, or I promise you I will make you regret it.”

  To Maud’s added fury, Fleming seemed amused. “And what are you going to do to me exactly?” He turned away from her. “Who let her on the set?”

  “Now, now there.” Mervyn LeRoy had appeared out of nowhere. “Mrs. Baum,” he said, nodd
ing Maud’s way, “what seems to be the problem?”

  “He struck that poor child. Since when does a grown man hit a child?”

  “Now, Victor,” LeRoy said, slipping his arm around Fleming’s shoulder. “You can’t hit the girl.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Fleming said. “I was just trying to get her attention. It was her mother’s idea.”

  Maud looked around for Ethel, but Judy’s mother had chased after her daughter and was nowhere in sight.

  “If you ever lay a finger on the girl again,” Maud said, “I’ll contact every newspaper in the country and I’ll tell them that you’ve ruined The Wizard of Oz.”

  “Well now, Mrs. Baum, I don’t think you’d do that,” LeRoy said soothingly. “That’d be cutting off your nose to spite your own face, wouldn’t it? If this picture does half as well as we think it’s going to, you’re going to sell a million more copies of that book.”

  “You think it’s money I’m after? A man does not lay a hand on a woman in my presence,” Maud said. “I’m not speaking as a businesswoman here. I’m speaking as a mother and a human being.”

  A moment later, Judy came back, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, accompanied by the assistant producer, Arthur Freed, who had his hand on her arm and was speaking to her softly.

  “All right. All right,” Fleming said. “I shouldn’t have hit the girl. Judy, come on over here and give me a big old punch. That will teach me a lesson.”

  “I won’t hit you,” Judy said, sniffling. “But I’ll give you a kiss.” She stood up on her tiptoes, leaned forward, and kissed him on the tip of his nose.

  “Truce?” Fleming said, sticking out his hand. Judy shook his hand, but Maud noted that the girl did not meet his eye.

  The makeup crew rushed in and touched up her makeup, chalking out the reddish splotch on her cheek.

  “Now, let’s get on with it.”

  As Maud watched warily, the film started rolling again. This time, Judy made it all the way through without cracking a smile.

  * * *

  —

  “MRS. BAUM!” AS SHE was heading home for the day, Maud turned to see Arthur Freed trying to catch up with her.

  “I just want to thank you for what you did in there. We get so heated up, so involved, we forget sometimes that our actress is just a child. I’ll personally make sure that no one lays a hand on her. I don’t think Fleming meant anything by it—”

  “Someone needs to look out for her. She’s just a girl.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” he said affably. “I’ve seen you hanging around the set, Mrs. Baum. I’m a great fan of Oz, you know. Grew up reading those books. I’m the one who wanted to bring the book to the studio.”

  “That’s nice to hear. But the success of your picture depends on the role of Dorothy, so I suggest you treat her well.”

  “You have my word, Mrs. Baum.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a card.

  “We want to get this right.” He handed her the card. “If you think of anything, just let me know.”

  Maud studied the man, trying to gauge how sincere he really was. “If you truly want to get this right, there is something you can do.” She paused, to give him a chance to understand the seriousness of her request. “I made a promise to my husband, Mr. Freed. Long before this film got started, I vowed to protect Frank’s story, to ensure that Oz stayed true to Oz. You just said yourself how much you loved the books as a child, so you of all people should understand. Oz must be Oz. Dorothy must be Dorothy. I understand Oz better than anyone. Yet I’ve not even had a chance to read the script.”

  Freed looked quizzically at Maud. “Read the script? It’s not even finished yet. It’s a work in progress. I don’t think a layman would get much out of it.”

  “I know the book backwards and forwards. I just want to make sure you stick to the facts.”

  Freed laughed. “Facts? But Oz is a fantasy!”

  Maud squinted at him as if he were a slow-learning child. “Of course Oz is a fantasy. But it’s true to itself.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “Just remember, there are millions of children out there who believe that Oz is a real place. Who need to believe that Oz is a real place. Because Oz is hope, and children can find themselves in dark places.”

  Freed rubbed his chin. “When I was a kid, I had all of the Oz books lined up on a shelf in my room. That first one was always my favorite.”

  Maud nodded.

  “Listen,” he said. “This is Hollywood, and Hollywood works on one rule and one rule alone. Do you know what that rule is?”

  Maud shook her head.

  “Never promise anything!” He chuckled, then mock-punched her arm. “Talk about a fantasyland.”

  “You’ll get me a copy of the script?” Maud said, not laughing.

  “No promises,” he said, then winked. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  * * *

  —

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, Maud presented herself to Freed’s secretary.

  “Mr. Freed has promised me a copy of the script for The Wizard of Oz.”

  The secretary looked at her skeptically.

  “I spoke to him yesterday,” Maud said, extracting the card he had given her as proof.

  The ginger-curled secretary took her time, languidly regarding the card.

  “Mr. Freed is not in,” she said. “You’ll need to come back another time.”

  “I’ll wait until he returns,” Maud said.

  The secretary cast a nervous glance at the closed door that bore a plaque with Freed’s name on it.

  Maud distinctly heard rustling from beyond the door.

  “Perhaps you should just call him, in case he happened to return and you didn’t notice.”

  A loud scrape followed by a bump was clearly audible behind the closed door.

  The secretary’s eyes darted back and forth between Maud, Freed’s door, and her phone. Eventually, she pressed her intercom’s button with a reluctant jab.

  Maud heard a tinny voice through the speaker: “I told you I was taking no calls!”

  “Sorry, sir, it’s just that a Mrs….?”

  “Baum,” Maud supplied.

  “Baum is here. She said you ‘promised’ her a copy of The Wizard of Oz script?”

  The tinny voice sounded again through the intercom: “Tell Mrs. Baum to come back in a couple of weeks. Script’s still being polished right now.”

  “Come back in a couple of weeks,” she parroted.

  Maud did not even answer. She darted around the desk, grabbed the doorknob, and flung open the door to Freed’s inner sanctum. Freed sat behind his desk. A shapely brunette ingénue, not a day over seventeen, was seated on his lap.

  Freed stood up so quickly that the girl almost tumbled to the floor. His face was a mottled purple, his eyes flashing. Under his suit jacket, his shirttails were untucked.

  “Mrs. Baum, I’m in the middle of a meeting,” he said, his voice tight. “If you could excuse us please. Hazel?” he called to his secretary.

  She popped her head through the doorway. “Mrs. Baum?”

  “Meeting!” Maud muttered to herself as she strode out the door. And this was the man she’d trusted to stand up in the teenager’s defense!

  * * *

  —

  A FEW DAYS LATER, Maud ran into Judy just outside the sound stage door, where she was lighting a fresh cigarette from the end of another.

  Leaning back against the door, Judy pulled from the cigarette with alarming ease. “Good morning, Mrs. Baum,” she said, exhaling.

  “You really shouldn’t smoke,” Maud said.

  “The studio doctor wants me to smoke eighty cigs a day.”

  “Eighty?” Maud said, unable to believe she had heard correctly.

  Judy nod
ded, taking a puff. “It helps me lose weight. But it’s hard to get enough time when we’re filming all day.”

  Judy took one last drag and pulled the door open for Maud, blowing twin streams of smoke out of her upturned nose.

  Inside the studio, Maud saw that the day’s scenes were set in the interior of the Witch’s castle. Margaret Hamilton, the actress playing the Wicked Witch of the West, was in full costume. The thick green-tinted makeup that covered her skin made her teeth and the whites of her eyes appear yellow.

  Whenever they were dealing with the Witches, Maud thought, the story veered too far from Frank’s conception. He had never meant for his story to be frightening. This set was creepy—all dark grays and menacing ironwork, a crystal ball, and a large hourglass filled with red sand. A piano was pushed near the edge of the set. Maud recognized the fellow with the pencil behind his ear—the lyricist, Yip Harburg, whom she’d seen a number of times—and the cranky piano player, Harold Arlen. Maud also spotted Arthur Freed, who gave her a wary glance. Maud had given up hoping she’d get the script from him. At least she now knew he wasn’t one to trust.

  Judy was engaged in a friendly conversation with the Witch, with whom she seemed to have a warm rapport, but she almost jumped when Fleming walked onto the set, her smile replaced by a watchful expression. The scene being filmed today involved only Dorothy and the Wicked Witch. None of the other actors were present. In the scene, Judy was locked in the Witch’s tower. Maud watched as the glowering green-faced character turned over the giant red hourglass and threatened the girl with her screeching voice and long-pointed fingernails. Maud squirmed in her seat as the Witch reduced Judy to tears. Of course she was acting, but there was something about her anguish that seemed too real, as if the girl’s heart was constantly poised on the cusp of breaking, so that just the slightest provocation brought her sorrow to the surface.