by Juliette Fay
They’re not the same, she told herself. But it didn’t seem to matter.
13
It was brutal. I called it mud, blood, and flood.
Dolores Costello, actress, on filming Noah’s Ark, during which countless extras were taken away by ambulance
“Can I borrow a dress?” Millie asked Agnes, one of the four other girls who now shared their crowded third-floor room. Mama Ringa had said there would only be two other girls, then promptly squeezed in one more bed and two more girls.
Agnes, tall with a big chin, dressed only in a slip and clearly no underwear, looked Millie up and down from her perch on the windowsill. “What for.”
It was not a question. It was an answer that was the beginning of “no.” Millie knew the likelihood of Agnes being generous was slim, but she persisted. Millie often got her way in unlikely situations. Except of course when she didn’t.
“I have a date tonight, and I’ve been wearing the same three dresses over and over again, and he’s seen me in all of them. In burlesque we always shared dresses.”
“Oh, burlesque,” Agnes drawled, wedging herself even more tightly into the window, the only one in the attic room, greedy for every hint of a breeze that might sidle by. “Aren’t we highfalutin.”
“What’s highfalutin about burlesque, for Pete’s sake? It’s stripping, Agnes.”
“Yeah, and that’s all it is.” Agnes hung one of her legs out the window, and for a brief moment Millie wondered if she might jump.
“You’d better pull that leg back in. If Ringa sees you showing your wares like that, you’ll be out on the curb.”
“Ringa,” Agnes sneered. “Acts all proper. Where you think I get the money to pay her?”
“I thought you were working at that dance hall her brother owns.”
“Dancing.” Her eyes went flat and dull. “That’s the front room. There’s lots more rooms in back.”
Millie wandered closer and leaned against the window jam, facing Agnes. “Can you quit? Or tell him you’ll dance but nothing else?”
“Sure, I can. Except you only make a nickel a dance—can’t live on that. So when Ringa throws me out for shortin’ her on the rent, I can just go ride the rails with the rest of the hobos. Then I’ll be cold, dirty, and giving it up for free.”
“You tried the studios?”
“Jesus, of course I did!” Agnes exploded. “You think I came here all the way from Boise to lie down for a buck and a half?”
“No, I didn’t mean—”
“You’re not getting one of my goddamned whore dresses, so shove off!”
“Every girl in the house was in line down there,” Irene said when she returned from the bathroom. “I was five seconds away from making Lake Irene.” She grinned at Millie, but Millie didn’t grin back.
“I’ll hold it until we get to the . . .” She glanced at Agnes. “Until we get there.”
The two men were waiting outside, Wally with his foot leaning jauntily—if a bit awkwardly—against the running board. “Well, aren’t you two pretty!” he called out before they’d even come down the steps from the house.
There was some confusion about where everyone was to sit. Millie thought she and Irene would sit in back, but Wally said to Irene, “You sit up front and enjoy the view. Millie’ll sit in back with me!”
They rode out to the beach, to the Rendezvous Ballroom on Crystal Pier. Irene and Carter were having normal date conversation: Where are you from? How long have you been in Hollywood? Where did you learn to be a cameraman? Carter, with his round face and thin lips, was shy. Irene drew him out, but Millie could hear the strategy behind Irene’s questions. On exactly what rung of the studio ladder did Carter stand, and could he be of any help to them?
It was the opposite for Millie. Wally drove the conversation all over the place. In fact, she was beginning to suspect that he’d had a few before picking them up. He wanted to know strange things about her, like did she like to swim and had she ever eaten oysters and how many boyfriends had she had. He didn’t really want to talk about his work at the studio, “didn’t want to brag,” he said, and she hoped there was something to brag about.
The Rendezvous had seen better days, and there was nothing terribly sparkling about Crystal Pier. But the food was so far superior to Ringa’s that Millie was happy to eat and eat and laugh at Wally’s ridiculous jokes and eat some more. She tried not to think about Agnes, half out the window, nor about whether the same fate might await her if studio work didn’t materialize soon. But as Wally danced her forcefully around the room, past the enormous windows looking out over the sea, she couldn’t help but be grateful that she was anywhere but back at Ringa’s, contemplating what might happen when the silver tea set money ran out.
“It’s getting too stuffy in here!” She laughed breathlessly as they collapsed at the table. “Let’s go walk on the beach and cool our feet in the water.”
“That sounds nice,” said Irene, glancing at Carter. He was an absolutely terrible dancer, and Millie knew Irene was happy to try something he might excel at. Like walking.
A look passed between Carter and Wally then. A man look, thought Millie, and she was glad of it. Let them get a little hopeful. A hopeful man would promise things.
So she was not surprised that after they’d taken their shoes off and tickled their toes in the foamy water’s edge and she’d giggled girlishly about how good it felt, Wally suggested she might walk in one direction with him while Carter and Irene walked in the other. Fine with her. It would give her more room to flirt, slide her soft fingers up his arm, and say vaguely naughty things that would incite a certain amount of witlessness (or in Wally’s case more witlessness) and she might then be able to extract some promise of work.
“Let’s all stay together,” said Irene, eyeing Millie meaningfully. “It’s more fun that way.”
Wally eyed her just as meaningfully and said, “Your friend’s got some strange ideas about fun, don’t you think?”
“We’ll all meet back here in an hour,” said Millie and hooked her arm in his. She avoided Irene’s gaze as they turned and headed off down the beach.
The flirting and finger sliding were going quite well, she thought, and she took control of the conversation for the first time all evening. “Now, Wally,” she cooed. “I won’t be able to stay around Hollywood and have fun nights like this with you much longer if I don’t get some work. I can’t pay the rent with my good looks, now can I?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Wally, grinning stupidly. “Your looks seem like cash in the bank to me!”
“Aren’t you sweet.” She snuggled a little closer and let her breast graze his arm. “Well, that tells me you might pick me the next time you need a girl extra. Me and Irene, of course.”
“I just might,” he said. “Or maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?”
“Well, maybe there might be something better than being an extra,” he said. The flush in his cheeks told the temperature of his desire. “We should maybe sit and talk about it.”
“We could do that right now,” she said. “Right here on the beach.”
“Aw, now the beach is no place to have a serious conversation like that.” He looked around, head swiveling eagerly. “Let’s sit like respectable people, up on that veranda over there.”
Millie frowned. “But that’s someone’s house. We can’t just go sit on their veranda.”
“Place is dark. No one’s home. It’s all ours!” He gripped her hand and tugged her away from the shore and up the steps to the house. The porch was furnished with a cluster of white wicker furniture from which all of the cushions had been removed.
“Must’ve gone up to the mountains for the cooler air,” he said, tugging her down onto a divan. The latticed wicker dug into her backside, and she let out a little “ouch!”
“Is that lovely bottom of yours a little tender?” he murmured. “My lap is nice and soft.”
“I’d like to hear mo
re about the work you can get me at the studio,” she said as he tugged her onto his thighs. She could immediately feel his arousal.
“Plenty of time for that,” he moaned. “Right now there’s more important things . . .” He slid a hand up under her dress so fast she didn’t have time to bat it away.
“Hey, you can’t—”
He grabbed her hard through her panties. “I just did.”
“Wally, no! Stop that!” She tried to elbow herself away from him, but with his other arm he cinched her in tight to his body. Then he flipped her onto her back, held her wrists tight with one hand, and pried her knees open with the other.
“Please!” she begged, straining every muscle to resist him. “Please no!”
“That’s right,” he hissed in her ear. “I like a girl who makes it more of a challenge.”
14
“I had twenty-eight costumes in The Queen of Sheba, and if I’d worn them all at once I couldn’t have kept warm.”
Betty Blythe, actress
Henry knew it was hot outside. Didn’t he bring cups of water and apples to Irene and Millie every day? It was August, for the love of Mike. Of course it was hot.
Still he sulked about sitting in the claustrophobic, if cooler, Costume Closet, as Albert called it. With Albert. Who was annoying as often as he was entertaining. His stories of the early days, when the studios were just rented barns and they made a two-reeler in a day, could be fascinating. But Albert was peevish and persnickety, as likely to complain as to take a breath.
Henry’s grandfather never complained. He either fixed the problem, or he got even with the person who’d caused the problem. If Henry complained about his father (and there had been much to complain about), his zayde would generally respond with, “Oy, the kvetching!” effectively ending the conversation.
“And did I tell you Obie’s pestering me to go on location? In the desert! It’s some sort of Arab scenario. And where am I supposed to sleep? On the sand like a lizard?”
Oy, the kvetching.
There was a polite knock on the door.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, what now?” said Albert.
The door opened, and light splintered in around the edges of a very tall person.
“Obie!” cried Albert. “We were just talking about you.”
Edward Oberhouser smiled. “I suspected as much.” His gaze shifted to Henry. “I’m not sure we’ve met.”
Henry stood and extended his hand, taking in every detail: the famed director, both artistically and commercially successful. Henry matched him in height, but not in stature, and searched for something not completely foolish to say.
“I’m a great admirer! Of your work, I mean. Your pictures, that is. Films.”
Albert arched an eyebrow.
“And I yours,” said Oberhouser. “Nary a split seam in sight.”
“Obie,” Albert scoffed. “Don’t make fun of the boy.”
“I’m actually quite sincere, Albert. A torn costume holds up the shot, and I’ve noticed a great improvement in that area recently.”
“I was overwhelmed!” Albert blustered. “Forced to do things too quickly!”
“Exactly why it was so wise of you to hire an assistant.”
“Well . . . yes . . . I suppose it was.”
“And I know you’re not keen to go on location.”
“I will if you really need me. I mean, really need me.”
“I was just wondering if maybe . . . I’m terribly sorry . . . your name again, please?”
“Henry. Henry Weiss, sir.”
“I wonder if Henry might be interested in location work. That way you can do the critical costume design and preparation, which is, of course, so important. And Henry can fix the split seams.” He turned back to Henry. “Do you think you might be available to join the crew and me in the Mojave?”
Oberhouser’s voice was low and elegant, and Henry felt as if he’d cast some sort of a polite but effective spell over them both. “Of course!” they replied almost in unison.
“Splendid. That’s just splendid. Now come with me, Henry—Albert, you can spare him, can’t you?—and we’ll discuss our journey.”
The next day Henry found himself rocking along the very same train tracks on which he’d ridden into Hollywood. Back at La Grande Station, he’d been herded onto a train car with the extras instead of the crew. He found this out when he sat down next to a young woman with short blond hair and bright blue eyes.
“Going to be hot,” she said, gazing out the window. “Even hotter than here. Makeup’ll be running like the Mississippi River.”
“Are you the makeup girl?” asked Henry.
She turned and gave him a steady gaze. “No, I wear it.”
“Oh. Oh. Are you . . .? You’re not . . .”
The young woman waited for him to finish, and then it dawned on her what he was stammering about. “Betty Blythe?” she guffawed. “I certainly wouldn’t be back here with the extras, now would I? I’d be up in that luxury car with Obie and Fritz Leiber, the leading man.” She glanced out the window again. “Sipping something with ice in it.”
“I guess I ended up in the wrong car.”
Her head spun back around to study him. “Oh, Lord. You’re the one they brought in to replace that Arthur what’s-his-name. For the lead’s brother, right? I hope you’re not on the stuff like he was. He’s lost his chance for good—had to blow town because the pushers were after him for all the money he owed. And for what? A little feel-good?” She shook her head.
“No, I’m just the tailor . . . or, I suppose, the costumer. And I’m not on any stuff.”
She studied him a moment. “Tailor—well, that’s interesting.”
He felt himself color at her directness. “Nothing terribly interesting about sewing on stray buttons.”
“No, it’s just that you don’t look anything like a tailor. You certainly don’t look like Albert, anyway.”
He smiled. “Only Albert looks like Albert.”
“Or grouses like him. The string fell off my bonnet in the last movie I was in, and you would have thought I asked him to make me a whole new wardrobe, for cripes’ sake.”
Henry didn’t like to disparage his boss, but it was nice to hear he wasn’t the only one who got annoyed with Albert. He held out his hand, “Henry Weiss,” he said.
She gave it a firm shake. “Gert Turner.” She studied him. “You’re not . . . I’m sure it’s a fairly common name, but . . . is there any chance you’re related to Benny Weiss, the comedian?”
“He’s my uncle! Or was, may he rest in peace.”
“We were on a bill together back in vaudeville! He was a mensch.” She smiled sadly. “He taught me some Yiddish, and how important it is to make friends with the other performers.”
It sounded just like his uncle to teach a young vaudevillian the ropes. “He was on the road most of the time, and he and my father didn’t get along,” said Henry. “But he’d come by in the summer when he wasn’t booked, and I loved him. Actually, he got me into comedy.”
She gave a wry smile. “You certainly have a wide range of talents. Sewing and humor.”
He laughed. “You assume I’m actually good at them.”
The train clattered along the tracks as they talked. She wanted to know about his comedy career, and he hesitated to tell her that he’d been part of a burlesque show. But when he said dance review, she gave him a knowing glance and said, “Strippers?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “I hate to admit it—I hate even to think about it—but I had to do a bit of that myself after my vaudeville days were over.”
“Some of the nicest girls I know were in burlesque.”
Though her smiles had been generally of the sassy variety, this one was pure gratitude. “We do the best we can with the cards we’re dealt.”
Henry didn’t think he’d always played his hand as well as he could have, so he certainly knew he was in
no position to judge.
Soon they were pulling into Barstow. Everyone began to rise and gather their things.
“I thought we were going to the Mojave Desert,” Henry said to Gert.
“Oh, well, it’s out there somewhere. This director always goes for realism, but you have to have a place to put up the cast and crew. The cost goes way up on location, so Barstow’s good enough.”
“How’d you find that out?”
“I make friends, Henry. Just like you.”
The costumes for The Queen of Sheba could barely stand up to the term.
Flimsy hankies is more like it, thought Henry as he reviewed the racks in his room in the Barstow Harvey House, which doubled as the Costume Closet. He wasn’t there long. One of Edward Oberhouser’s assistants came along to say he was to be on set at all times. “And bring your sewing basket,” the fellow said with a smirk.
Henry brought his costume supplies box (which he wrote in conspicuously large letters across the front), and got on the truck with the rest of the crew, bouncing along a bad road out of town a mile or two. It was desert, all right, with the mercury registering 105 degrees. Henry was given a chair not far from the director and scenario writer, Eva Crown, who seemed to bob their heads together and confer after almost every take. He already had mending to do—one of the drapes of fabric from King Solomon’s robe had pulled away from the shoulder—but he couldn’t take his eyes off the scene unfolding before him.
The queen and her retinue were traveling to Israel for her audience with the king. Three very realistic-looking chariots, ornately decorated with primitive figures of warriors, were loaded with gifts of incense, gold, and jewels, and female extras posing as handmaids. Henry knew from his Hebrew studies as a child that the queen should arrive on a camel, but apparently finding, renting, and hauling camels to Barstow had been vetoed by the producer. Besides, chariots with teams of horses were so much more exciting.
