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The Great Pretenders

Page 3

by Laura Kalpakian


  “You are not the center of the universe. Neither is Empire.”

  “Well, Empire is the center of any universe that you belong to, Honeybee. This will be your home, forever, and if you change your mind, you can always come home—”

  “Then why did you make her leave? You broke Julia’s heart! You broke my heart. You broke her spirit!” I blubbered and choked.

  “Julia left me, as you well know. You went with her.”

  “What else could she do? Stay here and watch you carry on with a girl forty years younger than you?”

  “Julia had her own secret life. Her own betrayals.”

  “Julia was never unfaithful to you.”

  “Funding a Communist organization with my money? The NAACP! The NAACP is crawling with Red agitators stirring up the races. I’d call that an unforgivable betrayal of my every principle! Those Negroes this morning were laughing at me! All that money! And the Matisse to Jerrold Davies! Jerrold is a Red who fled to France rather than testify to a legitimate congressional committee. And Julia produced his Les Comrades. An outright Communist film!”

  “Her name wasn’t in the credits,” I offered, though I certainly remembered how Julia had laughed to think that Leon would read of her contribution in Variety and go apoplectic—which he did. He actually made an international call to Paris just so he could rant at her! She listened, replying only with monosyllables while she filed her nails. I admired her coolness. “I don’t blame her,” I retorted. “She was angry when you fired Simon and Jerrold, and Nelson and the others.”

  “Julia knew very well I signed the Waldorf Agreement in forty-seven, along with the other studio heads. We vowed not to hire or to keep on any known Communist. The men I fired refused to cooperate when the Congress of the United States—the Congress!—asked them, under oath, about their affiliations.”

  “Why shouldn’t they be able to believe what they want, even if it’s Communism? I thought it was a free country!”

  “It is a great country, and that’s what we’re preserving. The Communists want to destroy us, to undermine American values, and they mean to use the movie business to do it. Besides, Simon is a drunk and Nelson was a homo. If he killed himself, then that was why.”

  “He did kill himself, Leon! I was with Julia in Paris when Kathleen called and told us! It was awful! He shot himself in the head in his bedroom, Leon! His wife found him!”

  Leon’s features composed themselves. Cue the thunder. If I were a faltering director or an errant producer or a sloppy actor, I’d be afraid right now. “I have no wish to discuss the past with you, Roxanne. You want to leave home. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.” I reined in my tears.

  “Are you prepared as well to part with the allowance I give you? Because if you leave home and don’t go to college, that will certainly end. It is a generous allowance.”

  “You heard the lawyer. I have money from Julia.”

  “Fortunate for you, since without it, you would be hard-pressed to earn a living.”

  I did not reply, but certainly, I have no useful skills, and I have no talents. My L’Oiseau d’Or education had no employment value unless you count knowing how to slice off the neck of a champagne bottle with a knife like they do in the French Foreign Legion. I love to read, though I can’t imagine myself writing, and my English major and a French minor at Mills? Don’t make me laugh. Still, I managed to declare, “If I’m not living here and not taking your money, what do you care?”

  He went to the desk, picked up the phone and dialed, and spoke for about twenty minutes with Melvin Grant. I stood up and walked to the window. I did not yet have the kind of mastery of my emotions that he did. That Julia did, for that matter. Maybe that only comes with time and age and practice.

  He put the receiver down. “As you know, I own a lot of properties in LA. One of them is a bungalow, a cottage at Malibu. You can live there. You can go to Melvin Grant’s office and pick up the key from the secretary, and sign the lease.”

  “Thanks,” I said, my voice shaking. I started to leave, but he too rose, and took me in his arms, held me, pressed me to him as if he would never let me go. I held him too, breathed in his old remembered scent that spoke to me of being loved, cared for, a cherished child. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him, and how sad I was, and how I wanted everything to be different. But since it could never be the same, what was the use?

  I broke from his embrace, picked up my hat, gloves, and purse, and went out to the garages, where I found my MG T among the dozen vehicles Leon kept there. The silver MG was a present for my twenty-first birthday, and though I loved it, it was fussy and unreliable. I had to coax the choke when it refused to start, and hope like hell I wouldn’t have to go back inside the house after my grand exit. Finally the engine hummed to life, and I tore down the long drive, the long, winding hill, and out the gates, as I sped toward Melvin Grant’s office on Wilshire.

  “Miss Granville,” said the receptionist at the law office. “I was told you’d come by and sign these papers and collect the key. Perhaps you’d like to pay the first year’s rent now.”

  My eyes widened.

  “That’ll be a dollar.” After I gave her a dollar, she handed me a receipt. “The rent for nineteen fifty-four will be due next year on January first.” She put the key in my hand.

  I drove down Sunset to Pacific Coast Highway. Though the Silver Bullet is a difficult English car, it has everything I love: speed, style, wire rims, a smooth purr to the engine, and grace on curves. On PCH I turned north toward Malibu, where I pulled off to the side of the road, and though it was January, I unsnapped the convertible top and pushed it back so I could really feel my freedom. Speeding up PCH, to my left the sea was a dolphin-gray, and blue-gray waves broke in a white, ruffled froth along the pale beaches. The wild wind seemed both soothing and invigorating as I snatched that stupid little hat off my head and flung it away. Then, one by one, I pulled off the black gloves, like a stripper. My short hair whipped around my face. Yes, I was bereft and saddened that Julia had died, bereft and saddened that I had lost my grandfather to that slut, Denise, but happy to be my own self, free of the antique past, ready for the future. No thought of what that future might be or mean, however, and at the moment, not caring either.

  * * *

  • • •

  Two days later I returned to Summit Drive to get my things. I chose a time, mid-morning, when I knew Leon would be at Empire. I parked in the broad circular drive, opened the massive front door, and went in. I went up the staircase, and in the hall I was surprised to see Denise’s mother, Elsie O’Dell, come out of a bedroom door. (Denise’s real name was Dora O’Dell, a fact I knew because Julia used to make fun of it.) Elsie’s overdone mouth opened in alarm to see me. Her hair was an impossible saffron color, and she looked like a Victorian sofa, all puffs and rolls and bulges on tiny little feet. I thought about making some snotty remark, but instead, I walked past her without a word. She didn’t deserve to be spoken to.

  In the spacious bedroom suite that had been mine for as long as I could remember, only the view—the tiered gardens, the swimming pool, the artificial lake—remained the same. The room was clean, but everything of mine was boxed up, labeled, and stacked; the drawers and closets were all empty, the canopy bed stripped and bare. Well, fine. I poked about in the boxes. The girl who had lived here seemed far distant to me.

  Clarence knocked and entered. “Shall I instruct that all this be delivered to your new home?”

  “All I want is my clothes, my books, my records, and the hi-fi. The rest of it can just go up in the attic.”

  “Very well, Miss Roxanne. Please give me your new address before you leave. By the way, this came for you yesterday.” He handed me an envelope, nodded, and left.

  The return address was Mr. Wilkie’s law office, and inside there was a typewritten note with his signature saying t
hat the enclosed was from Julia, but that this was a strictly private communication. He had been under instructions not to give it to me when the will was read, and many others were present. The letter inside was dated November of last year, two months before she died.

  Roxanne, dearest,

  If you are reading this, dear girl, then I am gone. Do not mourn. I have missed you every day since you left, but it is altogether right that you should have an American education, and find your own life in your own country, that you find work to give you satisfaction, and a man who will reward and return your love.

  Though you suffered in our disintegrating marriage, Leon and I have always loved you. Even if for a while we did not love each other. Our love for you will never change. Life is short and love is long. Love is demanding and rewarding and aggravating, sometimes angering, but it is never finished or over, or done with, not even in death.

  You and Leon are the dearest people in the world to me, and I do not want either of you to live with rancor in your hearts on my account. I am writing this so that you shall know, without any doubt, Roxanne, that I have forgiven Leon. You may wonder why I do not write to him. The wounds that Leon and I inflicted on each other are still too fresh, too raw for me to tell him. But you can tell him. And when you think the time is right, please do tell him I have forgiven him. You must also forgive him. Look after him, Roxanne.

  I have and will always love you both. You must love each other now that I am gone. Do not cling to resentment on my behalf. Be good to him, and to your sweet and dearest self. You will be the shining star of any firmament you choose, dearest girl. You have been the joy of my life.

  Love always,

  Julia

  If I had not seen Elsie O’Dell on the stairs, I would have gotten in the MG, right then. I would have driven straight to Empire Studios, gone right to Leon’s office, and flung myself against his shoulder. We both would have wept and smiled to read the letter, wept and smiled for our love for each other and Julia. A heartwarming scene, something out of It’s a Wonderful Life, or even a touching Max Leslie comedy. But, in fact, I had seen Elsie on the stairs. Everyone in this particular drama had made their choices. Maybe Julia had forgiven Leon for the pain and betrayal. I could not. I vowed not to return to Summit Drive, not even to speak to Leon as long as Denise lived here. I put the letter in my handbag and went downstairs.

  Looking for Clarence, I passed through the breakfast room, and there sat Denise Dell, wearing a dressing gown, the pale half-moon of her right breast exposed and glowing. She was smoking and reading the trade papers. A bright shingle of brilliantly blonde hair fell forward, grazing her shoulder. She looked up at me, then she returned to Variety, as if I didn’t deserve the slightest acknowledgment, not even the grin of the victor.

  Chapter Three

  The cottage that was mine for a dollar a year was far north of the fashionable Malibu, the Colony. My place was a ramshackle affair that sat up high, with steps leading to a broad porch that gazed out to the beach and the sea—like being on a yacht without the seasickness. It and the few other cottages nearby backed up to Pacific Coast Highway and faced the ocean, separated from the beach by low, rolling dunes, half dirt, half sand, lit up by stubbly, colorful ice plants clinging as best they could, given the winds, the tides, the shifting sands. High winter tides had gnawed at the beach itself, and great bright coppery coils of kelp lay above the tide line and gray gulls circled overhead.

  I had barely aired out the place when my neighbor, Mr. George Wilbur, came over with his wife, Mildred, in tow. I say “in tow” because she walked behind him, stood behind him, spoke when spoken to. She was better behaved than their dog, a big, friendly Irish setter who bounded up the porch, eager to make friends. The Wilburs were both of them pinch-lipped, middle-aged, and nosy. They insisted they’d only come by to be certain I wasn’t a squatter. This place had been empty for months, they said, and before that a disreputable writer had lived here; they knew he was disreputable because various women were frequently overnight guests. Before that a disreputable musician had lived here. He too had various overnight guests. Once I convinced the Wilburs I was no squatter (did they want to see my lease?), they said they were happy to have me nearby. I personally wasn’t so happy to have them nearby, though I liked their dog, Bruno.

  My place was built a long time ago, judging from the narrow-slat wooden walls. The kitchen and living room had broad windows that opened onto the wide, high porch with a glorious view of the beach, the ocean, the horizon, and all the ongoing daily interplay of light among them. In the living room there was a battered upright piano, badly out of tune, and with keys that felt almost bloated with the salt air, but it still played. I wondered if it might actually be the piano that Nelson had played in the library all those years ago. In the grate of the big stone fireplace I found ash—the writer’s drafts, no doubt. The writer left a bookshelf full of Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and a lot of lesser authors, and assorted pencils. In the fridge there was a carton of milk, and a loaf of bread so thick with mold it looked like moss. A mousetrap sat on the kitchen counter. I had my work cut out for me.

  The smaller bedroom had a narrow metal-frame bed that looked to have come from an orphanage. The bigger bedroom was more cheerful, with a big south-facing window, a double bed, a dresser, and a couple of side tables, all in the rounded style of the twenties. The place had bamboo blinds and haphazard furniture. In the living room a desk fronted the windows, and a television with rabbit ears that could be made to work (sort of), sat across from a big, threadbare, comfy chintz-covered chair. All in all, more appealing to me than Summit Drive’s antiques, reeking of the European past. Still, I know Julia would have been appalled that I was so ready to love this place. She was very much comme il faut, elegant, though not spontaneous. Me, I was ready to be spontaneous, bohemian, eclectic, my new favorite words.

  The first thing I unpacked and put on the bedroom vanity was my half-empty bottle of Panache. The word itself was first used, ever, in Cyrano de Bergerac. When Empire made the talkie of the play in 1931, the year I was born, Leon commissioned a Beverly Hills parfumier to create this cologne, Panache, as a gift for Julia to celebrate. It’s an intoxicating fragrance; the top notes are citrusy, the lower notes an earthy bergamot with a hint of vanilla. This cologne was Julia’s signature; only she could wear it. On my fifteenth birthday, she gave me my own bottle, declaring that we both had panache. I felt very grown-up. That same day she drove me to the studio of Empire’s makeup maestra, Violet Andreas. She sat me in the chair and told Violet I needed some lessons in what could be done with the artful application of makeup to conceal the blemish on my cheek, lessons I have used to my advantage every day ever since.

  From Malibu I drove to the parfumier in Beverly Hills and collected his condolences when I ordered a new bottle of Panache. That same day I visited other boutiques where my name sufficed for credit. I ordered bedding, fine cotton sheets, dishes and silverware, and a set of cookware (though I’d never cooked for myself) to be delivered. My place was far from any restaurants, so on my way home I went to the small local market and stocked up on eggs (how hard could it be to scramble an egg?), TV dinners, fruit, potato chips, beer, champagne, and boxed donuts. The checker gave me my change and a sheet of something green.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Green Stamps,” he said. “Everyone saves Green Stamps. You know,” he went on patiently, “you get these stamps when you shop, and you paste them in the little books and then you take them to the Green Stamp store and buy stuff.” He looked pleased.

  I just laughed. “I’ll never lick a bunch of stamps and paste them in a book! That’s ridiculous. Here.” I gave them to the woman in line behind me and left the place amused.

  To cover the bare walls I called up the librarian at Empire’s archives and asked for half a dozen movie posters, films from the old days. I specifically said nothing with Deni
se Dell in it. The librarian found for me the pièce de résistance, a gaudy poster from the 1931 Cyrano de Bergerac that I hung above the fireplace. As a child at Summit Drive, I would sometimes watch Cyrano in the screening room all by myself just to see my father. I was jealous on Rowland’s behalf when José Ferrer won the Oscar for Best Actor in ’51 for playing the title role. My father was far better.

  The bad news of the Malibu place was that I had to park my sweet little British sports car behind the bungalow on Pacific Coast Highway, where the salt air would eat away at the paint and the leather seats and the polished wood dashboard. Without telling Leon or Melvin Grant, I paid an Empire carpenter to build a garage for the MG.

  Wearing rubber gloves and scouring away, I finally vanquished the dirt and decay while loud music played on my hi-fi—Peggy Lee, Rosemary Clooney, Frank Sinatra, Perry Como. I hung the framed movie posters. On the living room desk overlooking the Pacific, I put two framed photographs—a studio photograph of Julia from the thirties, and a snapshot of the two of us in Paris. I particularly liked this picture, because you could see the family resemblance. We both have dark hair, wide-set, dark eyes, broad foreheads, and the same smile.

  Only then, when I had imparted some order to the place, did I invite Irene, sans Gordon, and sans Gordon Junior, and sans her twins, who were even worse brats than Junior. She was in the early weeks of another pregnancy, and so she was pale and unwell. Naturally she pronounced the place absolutely dreadful. She and I split a bottle of champagne on the deck before going out to eat at the Farm Café, which she also pronounced dreadful. She’s very refined, my Irene.

  Five years apart in age, we are a study in contrasts. I was always painfully self-conscious about my birthmark, socially awkward, and slow to make friends. Irene was like Grace Kelly before there was a Grace Kelly: beautiful, blonde, bland, impervious to trouble of any sort. Irene’s mother had run off with a stuntman, and her father, Walter, was one of those actors destined always to play roles where he smokes a pipe. When Florence married Walter in 1941 (her third husband, by the way), she insisted I leave my grandparents’ house and come live with them and Irene in Brentwood. I refused to go, and threw tantrums; I was ten years old and Summit Drive was the only home I had ever known. Leon and Julia said absolutely no, they would not part with me, until Florence threatened legal action. That would have meant a scandal. Florence would have done it too. She had a long-smoldering resentment against Leon and Julia.

 

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