City of Flickering Light

by Juliette Fay

  He wasn’t asleep. From the shadow of the hallway she could see him sitting in a chair at the little maple wood puzzle table she’d picked out with him almost a year ago now. He stared out the window with his back to her. “Please just go.”

  Irene felt it like a backhand to her face. He hated her that much.

  But then another voice answered from the direction of the kitchen. “Mr. Sharp said I’m to stay here with you until he finalizes—”

  “I don’t care what that mamzer says, I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Mamzer is a bit harsh, sir.”

  “You speak Yiddish?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Then get the hell out, you little putz.”

  Irene stepped into the room. “I’ll stay with him.”

  Henry twisted around in his seat, and a young man with a suit that was a size too big stepped out in front of her. “How the heck did you get in here?”

  She held up the key.

  He shook his head. “Mr. Sharp says—”

  She drilled him with a look so menacing that he took a step back. “You get out of here right now or I’ll go straight to the papers. Louella Parsons would love to hear from me.” She opened the door and moved into the room. He scurried out and thumped the door closed behind him.

  And there was Henry, face pale, clothes disheveled, and was that . . .? Yes, a swipe of blood on his shirt. He gazed up at her, confused, and then his eyes started to leak. “Irene.”

  She strode quickly across the room and knelt in front of him, sliding her hands up his shoulders. “Henry, I’m so sorry.” He collapsed into her arms and wept.

  After a few moments, he sat up and reached for a handkerchief to wipe his eyes, the initials EO embroidered on one corner.

  Henry folded and refolded the handkerchief. Irene didn’t know what to do in the silence that had suddenly enveloped them. Should she apologize for their withered friendship, or was that absurdly beside the point now that someone so important to him had died?

  She rose and went to the kitchen to give herself a moment to think and brought out glasses of water. She had half a mind to go downstairs to Dan’s apartment and pilfer some of that soothing greenthread tea. She still had his key, too.

  “How much do you know?” asked Henry, not meeting her gaze.

  “Only that he was shot.”

  “It was Hazel.”

  “Hazel Hampton shot him? He was the only friend she had left in the business.”

  “She was drunk at a party, and he took her back to his apartment till she sobered up. Some insomniac neighbor saw him put her in a cab just before two men showed up. She owed everyone money, and they were likely trying to get it out of him.”

  “Do they know who?”

  “No, but they’ve got Hazel down at the station looking at mug shots.” Henry closed his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m saying these things, that I’m telling you all this like it’s . . . real.”

  “It won’t seem real for a long time. A small part of you will never, ever believe it.”

  He turned to look at her, finally, and she could see him remembering her own loss. She didn’t need to remind him how well she understood the utter devastation. Besides she had something more important to say.

  “I didn’t know what to make of it—you and Edward. I . . . I thought I knew you.”

  “You do know me.”

  “Yes, I do. I just didn’t . . . I’ll admit I was shocked. I’d never known any . . .” She laughed awkwardly. “I’m from Ohio!”

  “So was Edward.”

  “I’m so desperately sorry for reacting badly. I’ve wanted to tell you for months, but I didn’t know how to bring it up. It was naive and stupid of me. And of course I know there are plenty of your kind in the business . . . I just didn’t realize . . .”

  “It’s not like we’re going to wear lapel pins with a big H on them,” he muttered.

  She smiled weakly. “That would come in handy at parties, though. Ignorant people like me wouldn’t make assumptions.”

  “I’ll bring it up at our next club meeting.”

  “There’s a club?”

  He cut his eyes at her. “No.”

  She gazed back at him. “I am truly sorry, Henry. Even more sorry than when I jumped off that train without asking you to come along. Imagine if you hadn’t been brave and stubborn enough to come anyway. Where would any of us be now?”

  His face softened from anger to sorrow. She reached across the table and took his hand, ran her thumb gently over his knuckles. It was nice to be able to make such a gesture, wordless and comforting, and not worry that it would be taken the wrong way. “I want to be your friend again,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “I’ve missed you.”

  He was tired, but he was afraid to sleep.

  “I could cuddle up behind you, like Millie does with me.”

  “I thought that bothered you.”

  “It did at first, just because I wasn’t used to being touched by anyone. But now I miss it.”

  He went into his bedroom and lay down, and she took off her shoes and got in beside him. She fixed the blankets and smoothed his hair. He lay on his side facing away from her, and she pressed herself up against his back and slid an arm around his waist. “Is this okay?”

  “Yes, it’s nice.”

  “Good. It’s better to keep touching people. Otherwise you lose the knack and then you need someone like Millie to come along and make you.”

  He began to cry again—she could feel his ribs shaking against hers—but after some minutes he was worn-out and dozed off.

  Carlton Sharp showed up around three that afternoon.

  “I understand that you dispatched my assistant with talk of going to Louella Parsons at the Examiner. I hope for the sake of both your careers it was an idle threat.”

  Henry had showered and changed into fresh clothes, but exhausted and colorless, he still looked like he was on leave from a tuberculosis ward.

  “It was,” said Irene. “But that doesn’t mean we’re going to put up with your sending pimply-faced boys around to keep us in line.”

  “I’m not trying to keep you in line.” He jabbed a finger in Henry’s direction. “I’m trying to save his career!”

  “The career of an up-and-coming star who already has plenty of fan mail pouring in. For all you know, he’s the next Rudy Valentino or Douglas Fairbanks. Your interests are the studio’s interests. My interest is Henry.”

  Sharp crossed his arms. “Good. Then you’ll marry him.”

  Henry’s gaze spun away from the window and toward Sharp.

  “Excuse me?” said Irene.

  Sharp glared at Henry. “The insomniac neighbor who saw Oberhouser put Hazel in the cab, and the two men turn up after that? She’s seen you coming and going at all hours these last several months. She’s got some daffy idea that you’re one of those two dope peddlers. It never occurred to her that you and Obie were just a couple of daisies.

  “If you become a suspect, even if you can lie better than Lizzie Borden, all kinds of things will come out. They might come out anyway if the newspapers get wind of it. I’m working with the police—”

  “What does that mean, ‘working with the police’?” asked Irene.

  “It means they come to me and I go to them. We work together.”

  “And you pay them.”

  “I provide incentive for them to call me first.” He turned to Henry. “Which worked out, didn’t it? You got all those sweet little notes you wrote and a couple of things to remember him by that his greedy relatives will never know about. Oh, yes, I’ve been dealing with them, too. A couple of sisters in Ohio who have no idea about his . . . proclivities.”

  Henry closed his eyes. Irene grabbed his hand under the table and squeezed.

  “We need to marry you off before someone picks up the scent, or your career is over.” He turned to Irene. “And yes, that’s in the best interest of the studio at the moment. In the next
moment it might not be, and then he’s on his own. So, young lady, I suggest you consider very carefully any advice you may give in that regard.” He stood up and buttoned his suit jacket. “And start shopping for a wedding gown.”

  44

  Joan Crawford thought we should get married . . . I told her, “That isn’t how it works in Hollywood. They usually pair men who like men and ladies who like ladies.” Because if we both liked men, where would we be as man and wife? She’d resent me, and that would be the end of our beautiful friendship.

  William Haines, actor, interior designer

  Gert was there by five. “I was way out on the back lot,” she said, still panting from running up four flights of stairs when Henry answered the door. “I had no way to get to you!”

  Henry could feel his eyes start to leak again, and he wondered if it would happen every time he saw someone he knew, someone who cared about him even a little bit. Because if this was going to happen over and over again, he wasn’t sure he could take it.

  A neighbor across the hall opened his door and peeked out. Henry pulled Gert in and closed his quickly. He didn’t want to fall apart again. He’d been sobbing off and on all day, and he felt like an old handkerchief, soggy with tears and fraying around the edges.

  Gert pulled him into a tight embrace, her former-acrobat’s arms strong and sheltering even though he had a good eight inches on her. And he was crying all over again.

  He was in the middle of telling her about the neighbor thinking he might be one of the killers, when Irene returned with a sack of takeout food from The Cottonwood down the street.

  “Oh,” she said. “Hello, Gert.”

  Gert’s lips went flat. “Hello, Irene.”

  Henry looked from one to the other. “Please,” he said. “We’re all friends now.”

  “We are?” said Gert skeptically. “Because there didn’t seem to be much of that going around the last few months.”

  “We’ve sorted that out,” said Irene.

  “About time,” muttered Gert.

  “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Gert crossed her arms. “It’s none of my business at all. It’s completely between you and Henry, of course. But I can’t help having an opinion about it.”

  “I’m not interested in your opinion, Gert—”

  “Well, I’m going to tell it to you anyway, Irene, because you need to hear it. You grew up in a small town. So what. So did ninety percent of the people who now call this madhouse town home. You don’t get to come here and live this life, in this business, and suddenly turn into one of those church ladies from East Buggy Whip, Oklahoma, with corsets so tight they cut off all blood flow to their small brains.”

  “Gert, for godsake—”

  “I’m not done. He was your friend. He saved your bacon over and over. And you think you’re on some high pedestal, so morally superior that you get to judge him—”

  “I do not think I’m morally superior! Far from it! I just didn’t know how . . . to . . .”

  “Enough,” said Henry.

  “Didn’t know how to what, Irene? Be a friend? Be a human being?”

  Henry banged his hand on the table. “I’m begging you . . .” And he felt his eyes filling again.

  Both heads swiveled toward him, fury at each other turning to contrition at the sight of his tears.

  “You know how sorry I am, Henry,” Irene murmured, and he nodded.

  Shame staining her pale cheeks, Gert looked away. “I won’t mention it again.”

  After a moment, Gert went into the kitchen to get plates and forks: Irene busied herself with unpacking the food. There was a knock at the door, and she went to answer it, ready to throw her shoulder against it in case it was a scoop-seeking reporter or a nosy neighbor.

  She was also ready to play the fiancée if she had to, though she still wasn’t sure how she felt about it. In the abyss of Millie’s absence, the idea of having someone permanent to come home to every night sounded incredibly comforting. Even if he slept in another room and snuck around with men.

  She opened the door only about six inches and peeked around it.

  Dan stood in the hallway.

  The briefest flurry of surprise crossed his face before he was able to iron it into some semblance of composure. “I just came to check on Henry and offer my condolences.”

  “You knew.”

  “About Edward and Henry? Yes. I assumed a lot of people did.”

  “Who is it?” called Gert.

  “It’s just me, Gert,” he answered.

  “Oh, Dan, how are you? Why are you barring him at the door, Irene?”

  So much for “We’re all friends now,” thought Irene. Apparently not mentioning it again didn’t preclude Gert from sneaking in a jab on other matters. She stepped back, and Dan followed her into the apartment. He said nothing, only walked over to Henry and rested a hand on his shoulder. Henry turned away toward the windows, and his shoulders began to shake. Dan waited quietly, never taking his hand off his friend. Then Henry put a napkin to his eyes, and Dan sat down.

  “Cottonwood,” he said nodding. “Mutton and blue corn dumplings. Who bought all this food?” He looked at Gert.

  “Irene did. She must have been hungry.”

  Irene was tempted to shoot back some sharp comment, but Henry looked so ragged, and it didn’t matter anyway. Let Gert be the one to lob snotty comments. She would abide by his wishes.

  “I was thinking Henry might like the extras for lunch tomorrow, but I can go out and get more.” She smiled. “Maybe I’m just practicing to be a good wife.” She meant it as a joke, but Henry looked up quickly.

  “You don’t have to do that. He was just trying to scare you.”

  “Who’s he?” said Dan, his fork stalled halfway between his plate and his mouth.

  “Carlton Sharp,” said Irene. “He thinks Henry needs to get married so his fans won’t suspect him of being homosexual.” She had only paused for a fraction of a second before she said the word. It was the first time she’d ever said it, and it felt a little strange on her tongue, almost like she was cursing in polite company. But it was a perfectly good word, she reminded herself, merely descriptive, not derogatory. At least it didn’t have to be. Other words for such a thing were far worse.

  Dan put his fork down. “You two are getting married?”

  “No,” said Henry.

  “It wouldn’t be a real marriage,” said Irene. “It would just be to help Henry.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this now!” said Henry, with more force than he’d managed all day. Then he was immediately penitent. “I’m sorry, I’m just . . . I’m not ready for this.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” said Irene. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  Henry pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’m just going to sit on the sofa for a bit.”

  Without a word, Gert followed and sat close beside him, threading her arm through his. Irene and Dan brought the remaining food back to the kitchen.

  “He might need a little quiet right now,” Dan said.

  “I know,” Irene muttered as she washed up the few dishes. “I feel bad enough already.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. He knows you’re just trying to be a good friend. But Gert’s here, so let’s let them be.”

  Irene knew he was right. Henry didn’t need an entourage; he needed one person to sit with, to get through the next hour, and the next after that. She dried her hands and went over to him. “I’m going to head home now,” she said.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes, but I’ll come back tomorrow. Gert and Dan will need to be on set, and I can just call in sick with a headache or something.”

  Henry turned to Dan. “You’ll walk her home.”

  “ ’Course I will.”

  “It’s just a few blocks,” Irene protested.

  But Dan was already heading out the door, and after Irene kissed Henry on the cheek and said a polite, if
cool, goodbye to Gert, she followed.

  The night air was chilly, even for October, and she would have liked a sweater. They walked in silence until she couldn’t stand it anymore and blurted out, “How’ve you been?”

  “Miserable.”

  She stopped and looked up at him. He slowed and turned back to face her.

  “Why’ve you been miserable?”

  “You know why,” he said. “I’m still angry about that Navajo script, but . . . everything else about you, I miss.”

  She sighed. “I miss you, too. And I’m sorry about the script. I just wanted to tell a story about your people. Honestly, Dan, I imagined you playing the lead! But I guess I thought too highly of my ability to write something bankable that would also feel true. And I’ll admit, I got caught up in thinking it could be a career-maker, and that I might even get to direct.”

  “I shouldn’t have brought up the business with Millie.”

  “No you shouldn’t have. It was too personal. I suppose that story felt personal to you, too, though.”

  “I thought I was . . . I was sure I’d settled all that. Being white and Navajo. Living here instead of on the reservation. It all got stirred up again.”

  “That’s not what I intended—actually just the opposite. I thought it would make you happy if I could get the studio to tell that story, even a watered-down version of it.”

  “Are they making the picture?”

  “Last I heard, no. Zane Grey is pushing back on some of the changes, and there’s a lot of back and forth that doesn’t seem to go anywhere. If it does get made, it won’t be anytime soon.”

  He gazed at her for a long minute. Finally he asked, “Are we getting back together?”

  She smiled. “Are you asking me?”

  He put his warm hands on her chilly shoulders. “Are you saying yes?”

  She stepped into the circle of his embrace. “I think I might be,” she whispered.

  “Good,” he murmured into her hair. “Because I’m asking.”

  “And if that flicker ever gets made, we just won’t see it.”