Susan Strassman came in to collect her parents. She put her arms around me and thanked me again and again. I started to tear up. Maybe I had done some good after all. Maybe I wasn’t a total stinking failure.
When the Strassmans left, Carleton gave me a Kleenex. “Why?” I asked him.
“Because you’ve been crying and your nose is running.”
“Not the Kleenex. Studio heads aren’t philanthropic. They don’t want to make old men happy. Money always figures in. Why did you decide to give Simon screen credit?”
“Spoken like Leon Greene’s granddaughter. Come on, I’ll walk you to your car. I admit,” he said as we trotted down the staircase, “when I read the papers, all those confessions from your writer who fronted for Max Leslie, what was his name?”
“Charlie Frye,” I said, hating the very sound of it.
“I assumed you had lied to me too. That you and Art had both lied to me. Hedda Hopper paid me a nasty personal visit, and I took a lot of shit from her because I’d said you were the most interesting woman in Hollywood. I was placed in the unhappy position of having to defend you. I had to assure Hedda that Art was true-blue, a veteran, the sole writer of Adios Diablo, or else let her believe that Miss Roxanne Granville had duped me too, just like she duped her own grandfather.”
I could feel my birthmark flush with shame.
“People would think I had fallen for your pretty face, or that I’d lost my wits. A man in my position, I can’t have that. After my talk with Hedda, I was so furious I almost recalled Art from Mexico, but if I did that, word would get out, and it would look like . . . No, I’d gone too far, and committed too much to the picture. I had to look as though I had faith in my own production. Which I did not. That’s when I went down to Mexico to see for myself what the hell was happening, and there was Simon Strassman, large as life.”
He fell quiet for a bit as though reliving that awful moment, and I wobbled alongside him.
“Simon wasn’t shy about its being his picture. Everyone working down there knew who wrote the original script. Someone would blab, when everyone came back to Hollywood, someone, drunk—whether he was in Ciro’s or some sleazy bar—someone would blab, and pretty soon the whole world would know that you and Simon and Art had all duped me. So, yes, I was plenty angry with the Granville Agency and with you. But”—he stopped to light a cigarette—“when I was down there, I also couldn’t help but notice the great creative chemistry that Art and Simon and Sam Pepper have together.”
We had come to my car, and I leaned against it for support. I wanted to get in and drive away, but I was too proud to squirm. After all, I had asked the question. I had to be able to hear the answer.
“That’s when we got hit by one of those freak torrential rainstorms, and everyone just came together to save the picture, save the sets. The damage was awful, but the people were inspiring. When we were cleaning up the mess after the downpour, it was like the rain had washed away the past and I started to think about the future. Simon is one of those big, brash personalities. He could be good for publicity, especially if they come after him and arrest him—and I’m not being heartless, Roxanne. He agrees with me—it’s a risk he’s willing to take. Sam Pepper is no shrinking violet either. Art grew up in Mexico; he’s a decorated veteran. It took all three of them to make this picture. I admire them, creatively speaking. Personally, they’re each difficult, and they drink too much, but they’re great together. And the studio has claimed the rainstorm as an act of god, and we will collect from the insurance company. So that eases the financial burden. So, yes, you’re right. Studio heads always think of money.”
“That still doesn’t tell me why you’d risk Simon’s name on the screen.”
“I want Adios Diablo to be the most talked about picture of nineteen fifty-seven.”
“Even if it’s talked about because people hate it? Because it was written by a Commie? And a veteran of the Pacific helped cover it up?”
“We’re in the middle of a sea change, something new and strange—not just the picture business. Everyone.”
“I know a lot of people who read the Challenger who would agree with you.”
“Ah yes, your friend wrote for the Challenger, didn’t he? All those inspiring pieces about the bus boycott in Alabama.”
“Yes.”
“Ah. Well, even if the politics, the message of Adios Diablo, ties Hedda Hopper’s knickers in knots and gives John Wayne constipation, it’ll be the film no one will forget. It has the best goddamned train wreck since Buster Keaton made The General. Cost me a fortune.”
I smiled. “I see you’re not averse to risks.”
“Neither are you. That’s why I want to hire you.”
“Me? I’m the biggest disgrace in this town.”
“At the moment. That’ll pass. You’re a natural. The picture business is not for people with touchy pride or impeccable taste. It’s not for weaklings, or people who want tidy lives. There’s no eight-to-five, clock out, and go home. You have to live, breathe, eat, and sleep movies, so that even in your dreams you hear the wheels, the gears and sprockets of the cameras and editing machines and the whirr of projectors as the film threads through it. You’re one of those people.” He crushed the cigarette under his heel. “You were born to it. I want you on my side. On Paragon’s side. Do you have other plans for the future?”
I gave an unconvincing laugh. “I don’t have any plans at all. But what would I be doing? I don’t have any talents.”
“I doubt that’s true. You recognized that Adios Diablo was a great picture. I’m sure I can find something to keep you occupied. Come see me next week.”
“Do you mean it?
“I do. Just don’t wear red.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
I took Irene’s advice and got my hair cut, and afterward, I went to a matinee of High Society. That very first scene, where Louis Armstrong and his musicians all sit at the back of the bus, that made me want to stand up and yell at the screen. And really, Bing Crosby as a cool jazz man? Don’t make me laugh. Bing is a geezer, old enough to be Grace Kelly’s father. If beautiful, fresh Grace Kelly was going to be stuck with an old man, she should have chosen Louis Armstrong—at least he had some grit and verve. I was still cranky when I got home from the theater, parked the MG in the garage, and opened the mailbox on PCH. No eviction notice—that was cheering. As for the rest of it, bad news and bills, I scooped those up to read later.
Along PCH I saw a Bentley coming north. It slowed and pulled off to the side, stopping right beside my mailbox, and the uniformed driver got out and opened the door to Leon Greene. I thought perhaps I was asleep, dreaming maybe. He was hatless, casually clad, still superbly tailored, though I could not read his expression. Even when he took off his dark glasses, I could not read his expression. Even when he opened his arms in a welcoming embrace. I was too stunned to speak, but I hugged him just the same.
When at last he released me, he said, “Roxanne, I have someone I want you to meet.” He gestured inside the Bentley and a stern, white-clad woman got out, holding a tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. Leon took the baby from her tenderly. “Meet my son, Roxanne. Aaron Leon Greene. Isn’t he beautiful?”
What could I say? He was a baby. His little face above the blanket, and a baby cap protecting his head, he slept, utterly unaware of all the drama that had swirled around his coming into this world. I said all the things you’re supposed to say to a new parent—beautiful, cute, adorable. When, to my chagrin, Leon put him into my arms, I held him in an unpracticed embrace as the white-uniformed nanny glared. She was middle-aged with severe features; a perpetual scowl had driven deep furrows between her brows, and the pinch to her lips was clearly of long standing.
“Mrs. Shea,” said Leon, “we’re going to take Aaron inside. Please wait here. I’ll let you know when you’re wanted.”
“It’s
time for his nap,” she replied.
“And he’s sleeping, as you can see.”
She glanced at her wristwatch. “And he’s due for a bottle and a change soon.”
“We won’t be long.”
Leon took the baby from me and hoisted him expertly to his shoulder. I led the way up the stairs to the porch and opened the door. I babbled nervously, asking him to ignore the untidiness while Leon wandered around, noting the movie posters, the file cabinets, some with dried red paint on them. He patted the baby’s back rhythmically. He turned to the window and looked out to the ocean, where a late-afternoon banner of sunshine spread itself across the water. “I haven’t been here in thirty years. The view is still the same.”
“You know this place?” I asked, astonished.
“We used to film here—early pictures, silents. Making films in those days was like a party with your friends. You just put everyone in a couple of trucks with some cameras and costumes and went wherever you wanted. No one cared if you showed up in their orange groves, especially if you gave them ten bucks. The beach was free. I bought this place so we’d have somewhere to change costumes and drink. I paid cash.”
“Which films did you shoot here?”
Leon shrugged. “Who can remember the titles? In those days we sometimes turned out twenty or thirty silent pictures a year. You could do a whole screenplay on the back of a paper bag. The talkies changed all that. You needed a script, actual words for the actors to say. But back then, since there was no sound, I could yell at the actors all I wanted while we were filming. Once, we had an orchestra, not a full orchestra, but a bunch of musicians right there on the beach, playing music to get the actors in the mood. It was a comedy, and the actors were building human pyramids on the sand while they played a lot of madcap music. Julia conducted, and the tide came up, and caught her unawares, splashed her, and all the musicians ran away to protect their instruments. The cameras turned on them to catch them all scrambling. I thought I’d die laughing. We all came back to this house to change clothes. We lit a fire and someone went out for sandwiches and beer. Such a fine time. Such good times those were.”
I stood beside him, and looked outside as if actors still cavorted on the beach, Julia energetically conducting musicians, while Leon with a megaphone yelled at everyone and the waves frothed around their feet. “Why didn’t you tell me this when I first moved here?”
“As you may recall, just then I did not want to discuss good times with Julia. I was furious with her. I mean, we had just returned from Wilkie’s office, where I had to sit there and nod while she gave money away to the NAACP.” He put his cheek alongside the baby’s. “I’ll dig up some of the old silent films. You can come to Summit Drive sometime and watch them.”
“But you said—”
“I’m sorry I said I was finished with you, Roxanne. I said a lot of cruel things, things I didn’t mean—or I did mean them at the time. I was enraged at the thought of you with a colored man.”
All my ambivalent feelings for Leon warred and jostled like unsecured cargo on a storm-tossed ship. “Please, Leon, don’t call him a colored man.”
“Fine,” he said sharply. “I didn’t come here to talk about him.”
I opened a window and welcomed the wind off the sea while Leon patted the baby’s back and soothed his fussing with murmured endearments.
“I knew this baby would change my life, I just never guessed how much. Aaron has made me rethink everything I know, Roxanne, everything I believed in. Ever since I first held him in my arms, I’ve asked myself every day what’s really important. The money? The reputation? The power of life and sometimes death? Love. Love is all that’s really important. You’re my granddaughter, and I’ve loved you all your life, and I will always love you. I want you to know you’re welcome at Summit Drive anytime, and I hope you’ll come. Often.”
“What about Denise? She won’t want to see me.”
“She doesn’t want to see anyone who can’t help her lose weight and find the perfect script for her next film. She doesn’t seem to care about the baby at all. She’s eaten up with ambition.” He added ruefully, “I recognize the symptoms. I wouldn’t have before, but I do now. Denise is convinced that you set up the Fly Me to the Moon disaster from the beginning, that you planned it, that you wanted to bring us all down because you always hated her.”
“I always did hate her, but I didn’t set out to ruin her, or anyone else, and I’m sorry,” I said truthfully, adding, “I don’t regret helping Max, but I shouldn’t have brought the scripts to Empire. I’m sorry, Leon.”
“I’m sorry too, Honeybee. I’m sorry about Max too. Is he doing all right?”
Two months ago, two weeks ago I would have lashed out, Fat lot you care! But if Leon had changed and tempered, so had I. And too, living in England, Max had moved beyond the possibility of legal harm. His occasional dismal letters that Marian shared with me and Thelma also proved he had moved beyond the possibility of any hope that Marian might join him. He lived in one room, and he sent money to Marian, who was still living with Thelma in Tarzana. Norman had been placed in a facility nearby. “Adrian Scott got him a job in England with some of the other blacklisted writers, writing on The Adventures of Robin Hood for British television. It plays over here too, in the late afternoon, kiddie TV.”
“Well, I’m glad to know Max is working anyway. Writers need to be writing.”
“That’s what Max said to me. That if he wasn’t writing, he was dying.”
“Composing or decomposing, one or the other, that’s the writer’s fate.”
The baby yawned a great, wide-mouthed, satisfied yawn. He hoisted the baby to his other shoulder, where he left a pool of drool. Leon didn’t seem to mind. The baby fussed, and with his little hands he tugged at the cap on his head, pulling it off and dropping it to the floor. I picked up the cap, and Leon put it in his pocket.
“See?” Leon said proudly. “Aaron already has a mind of his own. Mrs. Shea insists on the baby cap, but he hates it.” He tickled the baby’s chin. “Is that Nelson’s old upright?”
“Yes. I think it is.”
“I mourned Nelson, Roxanne, I did. And I know a lot of people were angry that I didn’t go to the funeral, but I couldn’t let people think that I was going soft on Communism, or that I supported his being a homo. I’d known Nelson for twenty years, but I cared more for my reputation than I did for my friends. It doesn’t mean I love my country any less, and it doesn’t mean I would ever embrace a Communist, but I wonder now . . . There are things I should have done differently. I should have called you right when I read those two scripts Elliott Dunne sent to Denise. I should have picked up the phone and asked what the hell you thought you were doing.”
“So you did recognize Max’s touch.”
“Max wrote them, and you were fronting for him, and I thought you brought them to Empire to make me look stupid, or to give me a heart attack. Or both. I saw it as an act of betrayal.”
In my own defense, I could only offer that I was angry.
“I was angry too. I should have sent the scripts back with a curt note. I never should have taken on the picture, but Denise thought Maisie was the perfect role, and she really wanted it. I wanted Denise to be happy.”
“Do you still want her to be happy?”
“It’s a marriage,” he replied. “Marriage always requires compromises.”
I didn’t want to have to feel sorry for him, but I did. He had squandered love and time; he had broken up his marriage to Julia because he loved Denise, and now, it seemed, he had only dreary compromises to show for it. Well, they were not all he had. To watch him with this tiny baby was to see a man in love.
He walked around the room, patting the baby’s back, and his gaze fell on the huge framed poster from the 1931 Cyrano de Bergerac starring Rowland Granville over the fireplace. He seemed to study it. “I used
to think Rowland and Florence broke up just because they were young—she was only nineteen when they got married—or he didn’t like living in California, or any other number of reasons. But now I think it was because Florence didn’t know how to love Rowland, or how to love you, for that matter. She didn’t know how to love anyone, because Julia and I forgot how to love her. I’ve been thinking about this for months now, even before this little boy was born.” He kissed the baby’s cheek and played with his nose. “It’s a cycle that repeats itself, and what a terrible thing it was for Florence to grow up without a mother and father who loved her.”
“It is a terrible thing.”
“You speak from experience.”
“I didn’t have a mother and father, but I never felt unloved. I had you and Julia.”
Leon smoothed the baby’s wispy hair, and it seemed to me that he pondered before he spoke next. “What will happen to Aaron if his mother and father don’t love him?”
“You love him.”
“I won’t live forever.”
I peered at him more closely. While he still looked like Leon Greene, and carried himself like Leon Greene, he did not sound like the titan of Empire we all loved and feared. For the first time I saw that he was an old man.
The baby squirmed and started to squall. Leon put him on his shoulder, jiggled him, and made soothing noises. “Mrs. Shea will have a fit if she hears him. She’s an absolute Nazi about his schedule. The whole house has to run on the baby’s schedule. She was locked in a power struggle with Clarence right up until the day he left.”
The Great Pretenders Page 34
