The Great Pretenders

by Laura Kalpakian

  “I do really love him, and I can’t give him up.”

  “Sooner or later, sooner or later, you and he, you’re gonna be somewhere where some cracker just can’t stand the thought, can’t stand the sight, and they are going to kill him.”

  “Then let him leave me.”

  “He might just do that.” She released my wrist.

  I paid for the root beer float, and I put ten dollars in the jar by the cash register that said Send Montgomery Shoes before I walked out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  After the premiere of Fly Me to the Moon, Denise retreated to Summit Drive, where (Irene told me) she spent her days raging through all thirty-five rooms, rampaging at the servants, lashing out at Leon, and being cruel to Elsie. She put on some forty pounds in a matter of weeks, and when she wasn’t making others miserable, she ate or cried or slept or read the reviews of Fly Me to the Moon. They were good, cheering. Critics praised the lively script, the wry performances. Denise, personally—astonishingly really—collected applause from none other than Bosley Crowther, the influential critic for the New York Times. Crowther was not usually kind to Empire Pictures, but here he said that Maisie’s struggle with words like oscilloscope was part of her charm, indeed, part of her character. Fly Me to the Moon did well at the box office too. Max and Marian—I heard via Susan Strassman relaying messages with pseudonyms—were just as pleased as they could be. I heard nothing at all from Charlie, who, I assume, was in the Empire Pictures Writers’ Building sulking. Had I guessed he was such a bundle of resentment and insecurity, I would have asked a chimpanzee to front for Max before I’d asked Charlie Frye.

  And Jonathan? In the past four or five years, Jonathan had appeared in probably twenty films, and nobody had noticed him. With Fly Me to the Moon, effervescent fare that it was, critics and audiences suddenly woke up to his gifts; his comedic timing was impeccable. Superlatives rained down; the praise that washed over him was universal, and adoring. He wasn’t Laurence Olivier (or Rowland Granville, for that matter) but he’d never have to wear another toga. He stood poised to be the next Cary Grant. To continue his winning streak, his agent insisted on another light comedic picture for his next venture, asking five times what he’d been paid by Empire. (Empire had not bothered to put him under contract for more than one picture.) With all these shimmering prospects, Jonathan terminated his Casa Fiesta lease in bohemian Laurel Canyon and rented a house in respectable Brentwood. I went to see it, not altogether surprised to find that it had been furnished by a designer, that it had a pool, a patio, a housekeeper, and glamorous neighbors. Variety gave him a big, fat headline when he signed for a film called Aloha Express with Paramount. They would start shooting in Hawaii in early summer, and ironically, Jonathan would have to learn to surf, at least enough to fake it before the stunt double took over.

  He and I might once have been Ugly Ducklings together, but we no longer felt like Quackers. On those few occasions when we went out, he took me to high-profile restaurants and bars where the movie star Jonathan Moore was shown to the best table, and people nodded admiringly as he passed by. People came up to him just to shake his hand. We talked mostly of his successes, and the fact that Paramount had paid him four times his Empire salary. He never brought up Denise, and he never again evinced that moment when something like genuine regret, or caring, crossed his face as it had the time he had accused me of asking presumptuous questions.

  I saw so little of him I was astonished one morning driving to the Culver City post office box to see a billboard advertising aftershave with Jonathan’s handsome face and shirtless torso, staring into a mirror and beaming at the bottle of aftershave he held in his hand. I hadn’t known that he was doing commercials. As I scooped the mail out of our post office box, I brightened to see Terrence’s distinctive handwriting on the envelope, though when I read it, my heart broke and fear for him seemed to ice over my veins.

  Tuesday

  Liza Jane,

  Somewhere there’s a blues song, or there ought to be, “Just got out of the Montgomery jail.”

  Police crackdown on car pool drivers nabbed me for being black behind the wheel and having people in the car. When the cop saw my California driver’s license, it was all over but the black eye and the bloody lip.

  In jail with me here was an old man named Moses Shaw whose father was born a slave. He and I had the same split lip and the same black eye from the same left-handed cop. Moses told me he had an old Model T out behind his barn that hadn’t run since ’28. He fixed it up and started driving it every day into town picking up people who needed a ride to work. This is his third arrest. He and I came up before the judge on the same day. The judge said he set Moses Shaw’s bail low so Moses wouldn’t be dying in the Montgomery jail and a lot of outside agitators and northern radicals (he looked right at me) bellyaching in the press how Alabama was unkind to their Negroes. He really said that. “Our Negroes,” like we could still be deeded, stamped, delivered. Moses just said “Yes sir” to the judge, polite as pie, and when the judge asked him to sign, he made an X. He tipped his hat to me and Rev Cooke and said “See you round,” and he left.

  I was told to leave Montgomery and that the judge and the law wouldn’t answer for my safety if I stayed. My lawyer said if I knew what was good for me, I’d do just like Moses Shaw and say Yes sir to that white judge and get my black ass out of the courtroom. If I was really smart, I’d leave Alabama altogether and go back to California. Another charge like this, and I could go to prison for sure. My bail was high, but Rev Cooke paid it. When we went to get my Ford, all four tires were slashed, the battery was gone, the ignition wires were cut, the front and back windows were smashed into a million pieces, and there was no back seat, not even springs. We just left it and walked away.

  Don’t worry ’bout the black eye, Liza Jane. I’ve had worse, and at least my nose wasn’t broken, and I don’t need stitches.

  Love,

  T

  Don’t worry about the black eye? What about the Montgomery judge who could send him to an Alabama prison? A judge who would not look kindly on an outside agitator. I envied Coralee and Ruby their faith in God, that they could ask God to protect someone they loved when they were powerless to protect him. What did I have? Here’s looking at you, kid, I murmured over and over whenever I thought of Terrence and feared for the danger he was in.

  For the next two weeks, even if he couldn’t drive, be part of the action, he certainly knew how to witness and write. Terrence’s Challenger stories read like verses of “The Ballad of Moses Shaw,” complete with photos. Terrence was on hand to record when Moses Shaw got arrested again, but this time his Model T “got lost.” Next he hitched a pair of mules to a wagon and used that to haul people. Arrested again, this time for driving an illegal vehicle on the city streets, his wagon came back as kindling, and his mules hadn’t been fed in days. The sense of civic engagement, excitement, danger, and endurance in Montgomery bubbled off the pages. Terrence published a stirring story describing when one hundred fifteen people (fourteen ministers in addition to Reverend Cooke) were indicted by a grand jury on an obscure 1921 law that forbade boycotts. He recorded in colorful detail people, often in big groups, going joyously to the courthouse to turn themselves in for breaking that stupid law, a civic parade that became a celebration, a sight that uplifted and solidified the cause.

  Terrence’s letters were more personal. He described at length homes he had been invited into. Meals he had shared. Music he had heard. Church pews he had sat in. Cafés where he’d had sweet tea. Bars where he’d had cold beers. The people he had met and come to know.

  Staying with the Cookes is like putting on a pair of glasses and all sorts of things come into focus that I didn’t see before. When I tell people here that my father was from Alabama, they’re so courteous, so warm that it feels like I’ve been adopted, even though I tell them I don’t know nothing a
bout him. People here have taken me to their hearts in a way I can’t explain, except that

  Well, honey, I just came back to the page after dinner, and I’m just going to have to let it go at that. I can’t explain.

  Love, T

  That night, I couldn’t fall asleep, and when I finally did, in my dreams a shadowy figure appeared, old, stooped, his back to me, walking down a dusty road in a landscape I did not know. I called after him, but I didn’t know his name, and he did not heed my voice or turn around.

  Chapter Thirty

  From the beginning, Carleton Grimes made a big show of Paragon’s commitment to Adios Diablo. He invited me to come to the massive publicity send-off from Union Station, a private train that would take everyone to El Paso, where they would be met by an armada of trucks and vans to cross into Mexico for what was supposed to be a thirty-six-day shoot. Hiring the private train, he told me, actually cost less than regular tickets and freight rates for all the cast and crew, which was over a hundred people, and the vehicles and sets and costumes. He had another consideration as well: With a private train, there would be no question of segregated cars once they crossed into Texas. I was impressed at his foresight; Leon would not have thought of that.

  Two mariachi bands played lustily, wandering through the vast, vaulted station. Katy Jurado, Golden Globe winner for her role in High Noon, gave a speech in English and Spanish. Adios Diablo had no major stars (Paragon could not afford them), so Carleton asked for a favor from none other than Grace Kelly. Once word went out that the Oscar-winning actress would be there, the local television stations, radio, and fan magazine magpies flocked to the publicity event. Miss Kelly graciously allowed herself to be photographed with the cast, including Clayton Strong, who waved to me. (When he auditioned for the role, and got the part, Clayton sent a dozen roses to Clara Bow Drive with the message, No more togas. Regards and thanks, Clayton Strong.)

  For Miss Hedda Hopper’s note-taking benefit, Carleton Grimes introduced her to the new young director, Sam Pepper, and the writer, Art Luke. Sam Pepper flattered Miss Hopper. Art, a man not known for his charm, was short with her, and to make amends, Carleton described Art as the Gary Cooper of writers, a savvy choice that made Miss Hopper blush like a maiden beneath her flower-and-feather-laden hat. Carleton also had extraordinarily nice things to say about me, calling me the most interesting woman in Hollywood. Hedda insisted we have lunch sometime soon.

  Was it possible to nibble a shrimp salad and be in mortal peril? Yes. Hedda Hopper was as effusive as she was dangerous, offering sotto voce confidences and all sorts of gossip, including who was sleeping with whom. God forbid she should allude to me and Terrence, or insinuate anything about Jonathan and Denise—not on behalf of Denise (or Jonathan for that matter), but for Leon’s sake. My nerves made me break out in a rash along my back. As she held her little silver pen over a notebook, I remained perfectly charmant, but drank only Fernet-Branca. The bitter, medicinal tonic reminded me with every sip that my whole life, personal and professional, was based on duplicity of one sort or another, on lies, evasions, pretense, and subterfuge. I kept thinking that the very names she lauded (Hedda had done her homework)—Charlie with his coup at Empire, Maurice with his success at MGM, Art Luke’s first major screenplay on its way to El Paso, Jimmy Ashford, who had just been made a lead writer on Gunsmoke—all four were equally pretending to be something they were not, fronting for men whose reputations Hedda had helped to torpedo. If she knew my role with these writers, she would tear me to shreds and put me on one of her hats. And if she knew I was shacked up with a reporter for the Challenger who was covering the bus boycott in Montgomery, what had happened to Diana Jordan would look like hopscotch compared to what Miss Hopper would do to me.

  Popeye probably had an aneurysm a few days later when he was parked on Clara Bow Drive. A convoy of enormous tail-finned cars lined the curb and Hedda herself stepped out of a white Cadillac. She wore a peach-colored suit that dazzled the eye, long white gloves, and a hat with long peach-colored feathers that waved gaily when she walked.

  “How quaint,” she exclaimed, coming into the house, “to have your offices here on this lovely leafy street.”

  “We’d be pleased if you didn’t mention that,” said Thelma. “There are zoning regulations, you know, and we don’t want trouble.”

  Thelma showed her into my office, where I greeted her. New desk, smart chairs, modern lighting, modern art, new curtains (closed) and no copy of the Challenger in sight. While the photographers were setting up (I only let myself be photographed from the left), Hedda and I chatted away, and when we parted, it was with effusive goodbyes and cheek-brushing kisses.

  Her piece, when it appeared, was a confectionary gem. “Roxanne Granville, daughter of Sir Rowland Granville, the great British actor, granddaughter of Leon Greene of Empire Pictures, bravely struck out into a show business avenue of her own. The Granville Agency has championed the young and unknown, seeking out wonderfully talented, unsung writers who are rapidly rising in stature and numbers.” In addition to some quotes from me and the flattering, even glamorous photograph, Hedda sought quotes from associates. Leon (or his office) complied with a sugared statement. Maurice Allen lauded my insight and excellent taste. Charlie said (probably ironically) that I knew how to recognize genius. Jimmy Ashford said the Western will live forever thanks to Roxanne Granville. Carleton Grimes said again, for print, that I was one of the most interesting women in Hollywood. Art Luke was in Mexico. Just as well.

  “You know,” said Thelma as we read the article, “I bet this is what it was like to run a speakeasy back in Prohibition. You know you’re illegal, but you’re offering up something everyone wants.” The phone rang and she picked up. “Granville Agency.” She turned to me, smiling, and put the phone in my hand.

  “The trials are over,” said Terrence, his voice laced with weariness, “and Dr. King’s been found guilty of boycotting, and so have the others, including Reverend Cooke. Everyone’s out on bail, and they’re appealing, and it’ll just go through the courts now, maybe all the way to the Supreme Court.”

  “That will take months,” I said. “Maybe years.”

  “Yeah, so now it’s just a question of endurance. And they will endure. Make no mistake of it. They will overcome too, but for now they will endure.”

  “Will you stay there and wait with them?” I asked, appalled to think how long he might be gone.

  “I’m too restless to sit around while the courts churn through these motions. I’m coming home.”

  “Oh, Terrence! When?”

  “I don’t know. Soon.”

  “I’m here. I love you. I’ll always love you.”

  The operator demanded more coins and cut us off before he could say he loved me.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  We didn’t see Popeye anymore after that blitz of praise from Hedda Hopper. I liked to think that J. Edgar himself called Popeye and said, “Popeye, there’s no place on god’s green earth a Red can hide from Hedda Hopper, and if she says these people at the Granville Agency are A-OK, well, that’s good enough for me. Besides, this girl is related to my dear old pal, Leon Greene, so never mind staking out Clara Bow Drive, Popeye. Go torment someone else.”

  I gave this speech to Thelma, but she wasn’t nearly as amused as I had hoped she would be. She didn’t even laugh. She just said, “Ten days without seeing Popeye is just that. Ten days. Nothing more. We keep everything, all our precautions, just as they are.” And with that she returned to her typing.

  One early afternoon I came back to Clara Bow Drive from an appointment at Paramount and pulled up behind the oleander blockade. Humming “Little Liza Jane,” my arms full of scripts, I opened the door, but everything fell to the floor when I saw Terrence sitting there, his elbows resting on his knees, a suitcase on one side, the Royal on the other, his gaze on the floor. He stood, with a kind of weariness that seemed to me etche
d into his face, into the marrow of his bones. He opened his arms to me, and I went to him, the joy of his homecoming flooding through me. I held him, my cheek against his chest, the sound of his breathing, the beat of his heart music to my ears, the pleasure of his name on my lips.

  “I missed you something fierce, Little Liza. Something fierce. I took a cab from Union Station straight here.”

  “Go on, leave,” said Thelma. “I’ll cancel everything for tomorrow, Roxanne. Go take some time to be together.” She put her arms around both of us. “Don’t even pick up the scripts. Just go!”

  As usual, we put the top up on the MG (otherwise, with a convertible, we were too conspicuous) and his suitcase and the Royal in the trunk. When I didn’t have to shift gears we held hands, and when we reached PCH, I felt a glorious burst of happiness that translated into speed.

  “You better slow down,” said Terrence. “They’ll arrest you.”

  I started to protest, but one look at his serious face, and I lightened up on the gas pedal. I kept (almost) to the speed limit as we drove north. The hillsides were awash in a dusty green and sprinkled with golden California poppies, wildflowers waning in the spring heat.

  “I’ve forgotten all this,” he remarked. “Forgot everything except you, Liza Jane.” He put his strong hand on my knee, and my heart lit with happiness, and the conviction of being loved.

  As we dashed up the stairs, Bruno saw us and started barking wildly, but he must have been chained up, because he didn’t jump the fence. Terrence paused just briefly on the porch to look out over the beach, the sea, and the horizon, a view he had always loved. I opened the door (the matchbook still securely in place) and we dropped the suitcase and the typewriter on the floor and hungrily made our way to the bed, where the five months of our being parted had pent up in both of us. We made love swiftly, intensely, remembering each other’s bodies with every possible sense: touch, taste, scent, words. We slept and woke, and had something to eat, and he talked in a roundabout, anecdotal way of his time in Alabama. I noticed right away that his speech had slowed in the months he’d been gone. Even the way he used language had slid into an easy vernacular, as if August Branch’s insistence on correct usage had slipped his mind altogether. His talk was peppered with more biblical allusions than I remembered, and phrases I didn’t recognize. What is a hissy fit? What is Hoppin’ John?