City of Flickering Light

by Juliette Fay

  Henry was, in fact, becoming a star. Though fairly low budget—in part because he was unknown and had only been paid a flat five hundred dollars—Husbands for Sale was a surprise hit, and with Edward’s help, Henry had negotiated a contract for four hundred a week, whether he worked or not. As proof of his bankability, Photoplay magazine was now angling for any and all information about the man behind the tux. Henry was terrified.

  “Carlton Sharp will make something up, don’t worry about that,” Edward said. “The next thing you know, you’ll be an avid yachtsman with a penchant for saving stranded baby seals.”

  “I’ve never been on a boat in my life.”

  “And it couldn’t matter less.”

  Filming was not going well. The story revolved around a wealthy couple who goes on safari, gets separated from their tour, and stumbles upon a society in the middle of the jungle that is just as ostentatious and party loving as their own—only more “African,” of course. The couple becomes so endeared of the tribe that they create a big ruse to protect them from the outside world when colonialists threaten to invade.

  On the days when Hazel was “well,” her comedic chops could not be matched, and Henry watched and learned from a master. On the days when she was “a little off,” he could barely get a reaction out of her, no matter how boisterous and silly he became.

  He and the rest of the cast and crew waited while Edward took her on long walks to buck her up. Production costs rose. Lou Manning, vice president in charge of production, stepped in. Edward was beside himself over the fate of his friend, and nothing Henry could say would comfort him.

  “Sweetheart, they had to do it. She couldn’t—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Henry, don’t you think I know? I’ve been in this business far longer than you, so please don’t lecture me on—”

  “I’m not lecturing. I’m only saying—”

  “Well, don’t.” They sat in doleful silence for some minutes in Edward’s dimly lit parlor.

  “She really was something,” murmured Henry, and Edward burst into tears.

  In the hour before dawn, Henry lay with his arms around Edward, who had slept fitfully for the few hours since they’d gone to bed. Edward’s breathing changed, and he rustled slightly.

  “Sweetheart,” whispered Henry. “Is it too soon to suggest a replacement for Hazel?”

  “Unfortunately, it’s not. We’re so far behind schedule as it is.”

  “I was thinking . . .”

  Edward rolled over to face him. “I know,” he murmured. “I’ll talk to Lou, and we’ll get her in for a test. Today, if possible.”

  36

  Fate keeps on happening.

  Anita Loos, writer, producer, actress

  Millie had never been happier in her life. She’d considered the matter very carefully and determined that in the past she’d had occasional moments, and sometimes even whole days, of bliss, but nothing this consistent.

  A Baby’s Cry had finished shooting several weeks before, and she felt like a completely different person as an actress. Herbert Vanderslice had been a fly in the ointment, of course. She wondered if he may have actually been born annoyed at his mother for making such a mess of the sheets.

  But Wilson had taken her under his wing like a favorite uncle, and she had become an apt student of the Wilson Grimes School of Acting. He’d casually circle around while Vanderslice and Irene were off battling it out about whether a car chase should be added, or whether Jack might ride a horse for some unlikely reason. Wilson would mutter at her, things like, “If I see you shade your eyes with your hand while you’re looking for something one more time, I’m going to throw a tomato at ya. You’re indoors, for godsake. There is no sun to get in your eyes.” Then he would coach her to find a more subtle way to communicate.

  “How do you feel when you’re searching? Think about that and let your face respond. You’ve been letting your face make all the decisions.” He was right. She had.

  This had a strange effect on her. It made her ask herself how she was feeling more often, instead of just tripping along, letting other people and circumstances make all the decisions.

  Did she like Jack? Yes, she did. But how did she like him? As a lover, certainly. He’d turned out to be very . . . responsive.

  “Jack’s a natural,” Wilson told her. “He doesn’t just plod along. He watches you and responds in the moment, not to what he expects you’ll do because he read the script. You could take a lesson from that.”

  And so she paid more attention to Jack in the moment, both on set and in bed. If the response she felt was negative, she gently redirected him. And then he responded to her response.

  Oh, it was all so delicious!

  She paid more attention to Irene, too, which she was able to do because Irene seemed to be home quite a bit more than usual.

  “What’s the news from Henry?” Millie asked her one night as they were standing in the bathroom getting ready for bed. “How’s that new Africa flicker coming along?”

  Irene’s face was strangely blank. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him lately.”

  “I thought you and Dan liked to go out for dinner with Henry and Gert.”

  “I suppose everyone’s busy.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Yes, well, we’re all on pictures, and it’s all I can do to keep that idiot Vanderslice from ruining ours in post-production.” Irene was in their bathroom rubbing Pond’s Extract vanishing cream into her skin like she was scrubbing a dirty floor. “Then, of course, I’m trying to write new scenarios so I can keep my job. You’re off with Jack, so you don’t see how hard I’m working.”

  Millie came up behind her and rested her chin on Irene’s shoulder so she could see her in the mirror. “Something’s upset you.”

  Irene took a breath and held it for a moment, then thought better of whatever she was going to say and let it out. “Not at all. I’m just irritated. I could kill that Vanderslice! I could strangle him with his damned silk bow ties until his eyes bug out.”

  Millie laughed. Irene was usually sensible, but when she wasn’t, she was so funny!

  “He’s just mad because he’s older than you, and he’s been in the business a lot longer, and he’s a man, and you’re still better at telling stories than he is.”

  Irene spun around to face Millie. “You really think so?”

  “Wilson was ready to accidentally run him over during a trolley shot.” She dabbed at the one spot of face cream that Irene hadn’t obliterated.

  “It’d be nice if he could manage it before Vanderslice gets me fired. He’s still higher up the ladder than I am.”

  “You won’t get fired.”

  Irene snorted. “It could happen.”

  “You’re too smart and talented to fire.” Millie followed Irene into her room, turned down the side of the bed Dan sometimes slept in, and climbed in.

  Irene laughed. “Something wrong with your bed?”

  “Yes, as a matter of a fact there is.” Millie grinned sleepily at her. “You’re not in it.”

  The next morning, Millie woke with Irene’s unhappiness still on her mind. It wasn’t just Vanderslice, she felt certain of that. But Irene wouldn’t reveal anything further, and Millie knew not to push. The only thing to do was lie next to her and be comforting, like a favorite pillow.

  Millie would have liked to stay snuggled up behind Irene for the rest of the morning, but she knew she really ought to be at the set early. They were screen testing her for a new picture. Something about a maid, which sounded like loads of fun. She’d had maids, of course, but she’d never been one before, so this was her chance to know what it was like.

  She went into her room and opened her top dresser drawer, rooted around for a garter belt, and pulled out her sanitary belt instead. She stood there for a moment, staring down at the straps lying across her palm.

  Well, that’s funny, she thought. I haven’t used this in a while.

  37

&nbs
p; Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.

  Joan Crawford, actress

  Irene had come so close to telling Millie about Henry. She was desperate for someone to talk to about it, to help her understand how someone so kind and good could also be a depraved pervert. That’s what her uncle had always said about men with that particular compulsion. It’s what everyone said, and not just the Bible thumpers who called it an abomination and worse. Homosexuality was a sin, of course, but it was also just . . . wrong.

  Wasn’t it?

  She knew there were homosexuals in Hollywood. Everyone knew. But that didn’t mean she knew what to make of it. Until now, she hadn’t had to make anything of it. She had just put the whole concept out of her mind and ignored whether some fellow in costume or set design might be of the “lavender” persuasion. But Henry was a leading man; his whole job was to love women. At least on-screen. Apparently he was an even better actor than anyone knew.

  Had he been acting with her in those first few months in Hollywood when they’d clung to each other for survival, an unspoken agreement not to complicate their friendship with romance? It was a shock to learn that it hadn’t been a sacrifice for him as it had been for her. Because if she were truthful—if only with herself—a little corner of her heart had always been his, and she had thought he’d felt the same. Falling in love with Dan had been amazing, wonderful, exhilarating, . . . and terrifying. Telling herself she always had Henry was a sort of security blanket that allowed her the luxury of vulnerability.

  She couldn’t talk to Millie about it. For one thing, Millie loved everyone. She’d probably be surprised for five minutes, then say, “Oh, well,” and go on with her life. That would be no help. But more importantly, Millie was so open. She was liable to mention it to the wrong person, and then Henry could lose his career. No matter how questionable his proclivities, Irene would never forgive herself if his life got upended because she told the wrong person.

  Dan, though. He could keep a secret, and he’d been in Hollywood longer than any of them. He’d certainly come across men of that ilk, and he could help her figure out what to do. If anything.

  Now she had two difficult things to discuss with him: Henry and the fact that she and Eva had submitted a synopsis for The Vanishing American. She decided to start with the easier of the two.

  Dan laid the three-page synopsis down on her kitchen table. “You can’t submit this.”

  Irene tried to stay calm. “Why not?”

  “Why not? Irene, you know why not.”

  “It isn’t an exact representation of Zane Grey’s story, but no scenario ever is.”

  Dan’s face went wide with fury. “It completely misses the entire point! You’ve got one evil white man, and you’ve made him look like some sort of rogue agent with a weak boss. It rosies up a whole system of government that, with help from supposed men of God, is bent on making us white or dead!”

  But you are white.

  She didn’t say it out loud, of course. And she knew he was only half white. But in that moment, it dropped on her like an anvil that he would never be able to accept a watered-down version of this story because it was his story. In so many ways, he was Nophaie, caught between his own whiteness and his Navajo heritage, and in love with a white woman to boot. What made it worse was that Nophaie had chosen the arguably more valorous route of returning to his people to lead and help them.

  Dan had gone to Hollywood.

  He had occasionally revealed the conflicted feelings he had about this choice. The rejection he’d experienced from his stepfather for having mixed blood; the lack of opportunity on the reservation; his insistence on living on the lean side so he could send as much money home as possible. He was getting better and better parts now, playing all sorts of roles, making much better money. And while this confirmed for him that he’d made the right decision, paradoxically it also seemed to bring on more guilt.

  “Please promise me you won’t submit it.”

  Irene was stunned. She knew there’d be parts of it he wouldn’t like, but it never occurred to her he would ask her to abandon it entirely. “Eva has it,” was all she could think to say.

  “Get it back from her. Tell her you changed your mind.”

  “It was a collaboration, so it’s partly hers. Actually, as the head writer, it is hers.”

  He stared at her for a moment. “You knew this would happen, and you waited to show it to me till it was out of your hands.”

  There was a tiny kernel of truth to this. She hadn’t anticipated that he would have nearly this strong of a reaction, but she did think that if he happened to have a negative response, it would blow over sooner if the decision to submit had already been made. The thought of directing had been too great of an enticement to leave it to chance.

  “I wasn’t trying to trick you, Dan. I actually hoped you might be happy to have any picture made that brings to light the plight of your people, and the way that even one bad government agent can affect so many lives.”

  “But the missionaries are all good.”

  “For godsake, you work in this industry, and you know that there is absolutely no way the studio is going to make a movie that offends churchgoers. Even so, the script shows the missionaries as not always aware of what’s best for the Indians.”

  “But not as rapists. I would have thought you’d have a little more justice on your mind, after what Millie went through.”

  Now it was Irene’s turn to be enraged. “How dare you throw that in my face to make a point! She’s my dearest friend, and I did everything I could to right that wrong! You owe me an apology for that.”

  He crossed his arms. “And you owe me an apology for this fairy tale of a scenario.”

  “Well, you’re not going to get it!”

  “Neither are you.” With that he stood and walked out her door.

  38

  We did as we pleased. We stayed up late. We dressed the way we wanted. I used to whiz down Sunset Boulevard in my open Kissel, with several red chow dogs to match my hair.

  Clara Bow, actress and original “It” girl

  It was really so easy to ignore it. Millie felt nothing. No morning sickness, no thickening around her waist, no weariness or heartburn. She knew the signs because the girls at Miss Twickenham’s Finishing School had loved to talk about sex and babies and what men looked like under their clothes. There was a lot of misinformation, of course. One girl swore a man’s private parts expanded to the size of two baseballs and a bat. Millie knew this wasn’t true, and she stirred up quite a lot of excitement when she told them exactly how she knew.

  For weeks she thought maybe she wasn’t pregnant at all. Although her monthly had always been regular and she was pretty sure it hadn’t come since February. She’d started sleeping with Jack in March, and now it was June.

  There was a little part of her, a small calm voice that said, It’s time to find out. Pretending everything is dandy when it might not be is the old Millie.

  So she made an appointment with a doctor in Los Angeles, took a cab to his office, gave a blood sample, and congratulated herself for being so responsible. This is what Irene would do!

  But when she called for the results, it was clear that congratulations were no longer in order. She felt so ashamed. How had she let this happen? How could she have jeopardized her career like this? Everything had been going so well! And now she was going to lose it all.

  And not just her career. Honestly that was the least of it.

  What would Irene say?

  Millie was fairly certain that she and Irene would not have been friends at Miss Twickenham’s. Irene would’ve been one of those girls who went to bed at lights-out, not snuck into the girls lavatory and sat around on the tiles talking about men’s private parts. In fact, Millie wasn’t entirely sure why they’d ever become friends at all. Irene had liked her for some reason, and Millie had never wanted to probe too deeply as to why. Ma
ybe Irene herself didn’t even know.

  This pregnancy business, though. This was going to be a problem. Stripping aside, Irene was raised a small-town, churchgoing girl. True, she slept with her boyfriend and illegally drank alcohol on occasion, but everyone in Hollywood did. And Irene never got drunk, nor would she ever allow herself to get pregnant. For godsake, she never even jaywalked.

  And what could Millie say? I’m pregnant and I know that’s bad, and I have no idea how to make it any better . . . but you should still be friends with me anyhow?

  She would throw herself on Irene’s mercy. She would do anything Irene told her to do as long as they could still be together. As long as Irene would still love her and be her friend.

  Days went by. A week. Millie couldn’t bring herself to do it. And not only because she was terrified of what Irene would say, but also because Irene wasn’t herself. Something was very wrong. She was inside her own thoughts all the time, distracted. Unhappy. How could Millie load one more piece of bad news onto Irene’s shoulders?

  Not telling Irene gave Millie more time to think, which was not good, because the more Millie thought about it, the more she knew what she wanted to do. It gave her time to talk to Jack and come up with a plan. And it made her realize that no matter what Irene said—no matter how furious or upset or disgusted—Millie would probably go through with it anyway.

  39

  Movies are written in sand: applauded today, forgotten tomorrow.

  D. W. Griffith, director, writer, producer

  Independence Day. Irene woke with a start. She’d been dreaming of a speeding train with all the doors locked, taking her away from everything she’d accomplished, everyone she loved.

  It had been almost a month since she’d last spoken to either Dan or Henry.

  Vanderslice had found his revenge for her constant insistence that he stick to the script for A Baby’s Cry. He hadn’t had her fired—though Irene was sure he’d tried—but she’d suddenly been reassigned to the editing department. She was now a cutter girl, splicing together scenes like some seamstress in a garment factory instead of creating new stories.