City of Flickering Light

by Juliette Fay

  Eva had tried to have the decision reversed, but to no avail. “I’m afraid you may have cooked your own goose,” she said.

  “How exactly did I do that?” Irene whined miserably.

  “You fought for that script, and A Baby’s Cry is far better because of it. The studio chiefs are thrilled and they don’t really care why it’s good. They assume it was his doing because he directed. The writer always gets short shrift, Irene. Better you should learn that now.”

  Oh, she was learning, all right. Learning about getting your salary cut almost in half. Learning about sitting alone in a dark room, staring into a tiny lit screen until your eyes watered, toiling away on other people’s work. Learning that while some directors got it done in a handful of takes, others shot as many as thirty—and they all looked exactly alike!

  Learning that an egotistical hack like Vanderslice could play God with her life.

  Irene still had Millie, though. Actually, now more than ever. Once A Baby’s Cry had wrapped, Millie’s relationship with Jack puttered along until it fizzled altogether. He was on another flicker now, filming “on location” in Sacramento, the river up there often used as a stand-in for the Mississippi. Millie was on a picture, too, a drawing room comedy about a maid who inherits a fortune, buys her employer’s mansion, and hires him as a chauffeur because he was swindled out of all his money. It was filmed completely on set, and she was home every evening.

  As Irene’s eyes fluttered open, heart still pounding from the dream of the locked train, she realized Millie had crawled into bed with her once again.

  “I have to tell you something,” Millie whispered.

  Millie often had flights of fancy to share, so Irene couldn’t account for the warning pressure she suddenly felt in her throat. “What is it?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Irene spun around to face her. “You think? Or you know?”

  “I know. I went to a doctor, and he gave me a test.”

  “Millie, for the love of God! How could you suspect you might be pregnant, make a doctor’s appointment, and go to that appointment, all without saying a word to me?”

  “Because you’ve been busy and distracted and unhappy, and I didn’t—”

  “I am not any of those things!” Irene threw the covers back and got out of bed. She wanted to leave, to flee this new information, as if she could somehow disconnect herself from the knowledge that Millie, her roommate and dear friend—only friend at the moment—had done it again. Only this time, there was a baby involved.

  But she couldn’t leave. Where would she go? It was the middle of the night. She went over to the window and stared out at the jacaranda tree.

  “I’m sorry.” Millie’s voice came out in a little sob. “I’m so sorry, Irene.”

  Irene turned to look at her in the dappled light of the streetlight through the tree. “Why are you apologizing to me?”

  “I know this is not the kind of thing you would . . . and you’ve got a lot on your mind, and I just—”

  Irene closed her eyes, willed herself to calm down. Here was Millie, in a hell of a fix, and her big concern was how Irene would take it. The writer in her set itself on the task of scripting a solution to this crisis. Was the doctor a quack? Could the test be wrong? Could it have been switched with someone else’s test?

  She sat back down on the bed. “Millie, are you sure? Didn’t you and Jack use . . .?”

  “Well, um . . .” Millie sat up and gulped back a tear. “That first time was kind of a surprise, and he didn’t have any, and all the drugstores were closed.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Oh, yes. We talked about it.”

  “And?”

  “And he offered to pay for whatever I want—to end it, or have it and put it up for adoption. He’ll do anything.”

  “Except marry you.”

  “He was never going to do that.”

  “For godsake, it’s his responsibility! In any other town in America, that’s exactly what he’d be expected to do!”

  “You’re right, of course,” said Millie, still penitent. But then she added “Except, well, this isn’t any other town in America, is it? We can do almost anything we like here. We can sleep with people we aren’t married to and drink like there’s no law against it and make a lot of money even though we’re girls. The usual rules don’t apply.”

  Boy, was that ever true.

  Millie’s gaze searched Irene’s. “Are you . . . are you disappointed in me? Are you angry?”

  Of course she was! It was one more mess to clean up! But how could she be more angry with Millie than she was with herself? She had ruined her relationship with Dan, gotten herself relegated to the cutting room, and was avoiding Henry. So much had gone wrong in her own life lately, and the only person she had to blame was herself. Irene let out a long, hard breath.

  “Millie, it was an accident. You didn’t mean for it to happen, and you certainly didn’t accomplish it all on your own. We just need to figure out how to handle it. Have you thought about what you want to do?”

  “I like babies,” Millie whispered, wiping her eyes with a corner of Irene’s sheet. “I didn’t know it before A Baby’s Cry with that adorable little Rosemary, but I do.”

  “You want to keep it?”

  Millie’s face lit with a soft little smile. “Yes.”

  “So you want to have it and adopt it later, like Barbara did.” Barbara was an actress they all knew who’d gone “away” long enough to give birth and get her figure back, and then several months later adopted a cute little boy she’d “coincidentally” met visiting an orphanage to make a donation. “And what will you do when you have to go on location for a month?”

  “Well, I figure I’ll do what all rich people do. Hire a nursemaid and pay her handsomely so she won’t tell any secrets.”

  Irene sighed. “There’s no getting around the fact that you have absolutely no idea how to raise a child.”

  “Well, I certainly know how not to raise one. I’ll just do the opposite. I’ll love it and listen to it and help it grow into its very own self.” Millie’s hand slipped onto Irene’s elbow. “And you’ll be the best auntie in the whole wide world.”

  I’ll have to be, won’t I? Someone would have to make sure the child went to bed before midnight and brushed its teeth more than occasionally and got registered for school before the age of ten. She looked at Millie, smiling like a grand prize winner instead of a poor girl who’d been knocked up and left by her boyfriend. At least there was no doubt this baby would be loved. Millie was made of love.

  “You’re sure you’re not mad?” said Millie. “Even a little bit?”

  “I’m sure.” And she realized she wasn’t, not even a little bit.

  Millie hugged her so tight it actually made her laugh.

  “You know you’ll have to go somewhere when you start to show.”

  “It’ll be fun! Like a vacation. Where should we go?”

  “Oh, Millie. I can’t go with you. I’ll lose my job.”

  “You don’t even like that job. Besides, you can get it back.”

  “No, I probably can’t. I’m not a star like you. If I quit and go off with you, someone will take my spot before we’ve left the city limits.”

  “You don’t have to work at all. I can pay for you, just like you did for me all that time.”

  “I like to work. I actually love it.” She’d been writing synopses in the evenings and submitting them to the Scenario Department, hoping to earn her spot back that way.

  “You love work more than you love me?”

  “No, of course not. And if your life were in danger, I’d quit in a minute. But you’re coming back, Millie. And if you have any trouble getting work again after your absence, I’ll be on solid footing to support us. The three of us. We can’t take chances with our income if there’s a baby involved, right?”

  Millie shook her head. She would not take chances. Other than the ones she had already tak
en . . . or might take in the future.

  40

  He was my cream, and I was his coffee, and when you poured us together, it was something.

  Josephine Baker, actress, dancer, singer

  Henry and Gert sat in his tent on the back lot, where much of Fox Trot on the Congo was being shot. She’d taken to the role of the zany wife, her first big break, as if she were born to it.

  Henry stood and stretched his legs. “I was thinking I’d walk over and watch the nightclub scenes. Want to join me?”

  “Not really, but I suppose I should. Tongues will wag if I’m alone in your tent for long.”

  “Oh, tongues are already wagging. Edward tells me Carlton Sharp is cooking up an on-set romance for us, you know.”

  She grinned up at him. “I could do worse.”

  “Yes, you could be stuck with a man who doesn’t love you, on top of not wanting to sleep with you.”

  The set had been built among lush vegetation that required constant watering in the dry summer months. The tribe revered the great god Scott Joplin, and their orchestra—which looked remarkably like the band at any respectable nightclub, except that all the players were black, and their tuxedos were trimmed with bones and shells—played ragtime, jazz, and popular hits of the day. The African nightclub had a bit of the Cocoanut Grove atmosphere, with its palm trees and twinkling lights, though these were meant to be candles.

  The players were rehearsing a new song, and Henry and Gert stood off to the side to watch. The horn section stood and blew a loud and happy trill, and one of the dancers who’d been hired for the take skittered out onstage. He was tall and broad shouldered with short pomaded hair, and he moved in a whirl of arms and legs, jumping higher than seemed possible for a mere mortal, and landing in a blur of tapping that had all the crew grinning and cheering him on. When the dance was over, he took a quick bow and jogged back offstage while everyone erupted into enthusiastic applause. Even the band members were clapping.

  Gert, however, stood still as a pillar.

  “What’s wrong?” said Henry.

  “Tip,” she said. “That was him.”

  “That fellow? He’s the one you’ve been in love with all this time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, for the love of Mike, go to him!”

  “What if . . . what if he’s married or he doesn’t remember me . . .”

  “Gert Turner, no man who’s ever kissed you, or even met you, has ever forgotten you.”

  Still she remained motionless, staring in the direction he’d gone. Henry took her by the shoulders. “I know it’s been a long time, and it might not be the same. But, honey, you’ve got to go see, or you’ll never forgive yourself.”

  He guided her gently but firmly by the elbow and led her around the back of the set. Tip was dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief and nodding as Edward gestured and offered notes about staging.

  “Excuse me, Obie,” said Henry, and he could feel rather than see Edward cringe. “Gert here knows this gentleman from their vaudeville days and wanted to say hello.”

  Tip looked over at her, a polite how-do-you-do smile on his face. But then the impact hit, as if he’d suddenly been struck by a meteor of longing.

  “Gert,” he said softly.

  “Hello, Tip.”

  “Obie, I had a question about that scene in which I fall off a cliff.” There was no such scene, but Henry knew Edward would understand something was up. “Mind if I pick your brain for a minute?” He walked away, and Edward followed.

  “Well?”

  Gert closed the tent flap behind her, and her entire face bloomed into a smile the likes of which he’d never seen on her before. Gert never moped, but until that moment, he realized she’d never been completely happy, either. This was unalloyed joy.

  “Is he married?” Henry prompted.

  She shook her head.

  “In love with someone else?”

  Again, no.

  “Still madly in love with you and missing you just as much as you’ve missed him?”

  Her eyes went shiny, and she slumped onto the canvas chair opposite him. “What am I going to do? It’s worse than ever.”

  “What did he say?”

  “The first thing he said was, ‘Is that your man?’ ” She chuckled. “I told him you were my best friend, and a homosexual Jew.”

  Henry’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “Glad you got that cleared up.”

  She reached out and squeezed his arm. “I wanted him to know you could be trusted.”

  “Not to steal you away?”

  “Or snitch. Also, as a Jew, you two have something in common.”

  “Everyone hates us.”

  “Well . . . ” She grinned. “Not everyone. Some of us love you.”

  That night, Henry made sure his apartment was tidy and his refrigerator and liquor cabinet were full. He’d gotten a one-bedroom place at the Alto Nido apartments just upstairs from Dan, and the girls had all helped him decorate. Millie had found him a standing lamp with a wide wrought iron base, three bulb sockets, and an octagonal silk shade with copious fringe (one bulb was enough to light the room) and an ornate silver calling card stand (though no one came calling with cards in a walk-up apartment building). Gert insisted he have a phonograph; she picked one out with a mahogany cabinet with ample storage underneath for a record collection (he currently only owned four).

  Irene had gone with him to an actual furniture store and within an hour chosen a handsome but practical scroll-backed sofa with a maroon damask pattern, a maple wood puzzle table that folded up to fit nicely in his kitchen but expanded to seat six, and a mahogany sleigh bed.

  “Eat everything,” he told Gert when she arrived, glowing in a light blue satin sheath dress that set off her eyes.

  “I probably won’t have a morsel,” she said. “I’m so nervous!”

  “Fearless Gert Turner? You don’t even know the meaning of nervous.”

  “Don’t tease me.”

  “What are you worried about? Because if it’s whether that dress looks absolutely tantalizing, trust me, I’m ready to ravish you myself.”

  She laughed, but the humor faded quickly. “I’m worried that once we’re over the excitement of simply seeing each other after so long . . . it’ll fizzle. Or worse—”

  “Or worse,” said Henry gently, “you’ll love each other more than ever, and then what.”

  “He tried to back out, you know. Said he couldn’t stand to lose his mind all over again missing me when we have to part.”

  “What changed?”

  “I told him I agreed completely. We should give up this one-and-only chance and head straight to losing our minds, because that was going to happen either way.” She shook her head. “We can’t ever really be together, I know that. I’m no radical who thinks the world is going to change overnight just because I want it to. But in our hearts, we already are together, laws be damned.”

  Henry nodded. He’d had the same thought many times.

  “How do you stand it?” she asked.

  “I barely can, but what choice do I have? At least here, in this unholy town, Edward and I can love each other, even if it is under cover of darkness. Speaking of which . . .” He stood up and kissed her forehead. “Now don’t be late to work!”

  As Henry emerged from the cab in Westlake, he saw a car pull away, and Hazel Hampton’s pale, unpainted face behind the wheel. She visited Edward often, Henry knew, in her attempt to live a clean life.

  Edward was waiting for him as he always was, in pajamas, robe, and slippers, with good scotch and the curtains drawn. “How’s Gert?” he asked. “Please tell me she’s coming to work tomorrow. I can’t take another change in the lead actress.”

  “She’s a vaudevillian—those birds are tough. Nothing stops the show.” Henry took a sip of Edward’s scotch. “Besides, Tip doesn’t have any professional reason to stay in Hollywood now that his scene is done. He’ll be gone in a day or two, and poor broke
nhearted Gert will be all yours.”

  Edward smiled wryly. “You devil.”

  “Well, what about it? He could easily be worked into the script. Make him the king’s nephew or something. Throw him a few more scenes. It’d be a drop in the bucket on production costs.”

  “You’ve turned out to be quite the romantic.”

  Henry took Edward’s hand and brought it to his lips. “And whose fault is that?”

  41

  The only thing I regret about my past is the length of it. If I had to live my life again, I’d make the same mistakes, only sooner.

  Tallulah Bankhead, actress

  In September, Millie got the call she knew would come.

  “Thank you for meeting with me today, Mildred,” said Carlton Sharp.

  “Well, I wanted to see what this office looked like when I’m wearing a nice dress and decent shoes,” she said.

  His professional smile dimmed at the memory of their previous encounter one year ago in this room, but he tried to pass it off with gaiety. “Any different?”

  “No, just the same. Except for me, of course. And you can call me Millie.”

  “Well, then, Millie, please call me Carlton.” He gestured for her to sit down on the same sofa she’d sunk into when she’d been so certain she was in trouble.

  “That’s okay. I just finished a movie in which I played a cripple, and I’ve got a lot of standing to catch up on.”

  He seemed slightly confused, but nodded anyway. “Well, then I’ll get to the point as quickly and politely as I can.”

  “I’m pregnant. About six months, if the doctor knows anything.” He’d actually guessed she was more like five months along, but Millie knew the later in the pregnancy she was, the less likely Carlton was to push for an abortion.