Getting Garbo Page 10

  “What’s that for?”

  “New Year’s Eve.”

  “It’s not midnight.”

  “Why wait ’til the last minute?”

  We skip, I mean it, skip down the street to the entrance to NBC and just as we get there the actress we’re looking for comes out with her co-star on the show, who happens to be, you guessed it, Roy Darnell. He’s been doing a lot of “live” TV. They both have traces of grease paint behind their ears and their heads are real close together and they’re laughing as we approach them.

  “Here’s my girl Reva,” Roy says. “Why aren’t you out at a party?”

  “I am, I mean, we are, Billy and me—few blocks from here,” I stammer. “We just came by to see you guys.”

  Roy introduces us to the pretty but bland blonde with him, just like we’re all friends who’ve casually run into each other on the street. I’ve persuaded Charming Billy to finally get Roy’s autograph. He’s been resisting, insisting Roy’s never going to be anything, but just to spite me he has Roy sign his crumb book. We’re not crumb collectors anymore, but we reserve our slick-pages autograph books for the proven performers and carry little spiral pads for the who-can-tells. Sort of like the farm system in baseball. The starlet-heading-for-Hollywood doesn’t look like anything special. So we both get her in our crumb books. Her name is Grace Kelly. A couple of years from now she’ll be the biggest female star in the world. And I’ll have her. In my crumb book. Go know. That’s what makes collecting so great. It’s like being a prospector, panning for gold.

  As they’re walking off, Roy turns back and yells to me, “Reva, you be sure to have a happy new year!”

  “Sure will,” I yell back to him. “Same to you.”

  When Charming Billy and I get back, the party is swinging. Marco has the fruit bowl perched on his head as he hip-wiggles and lip syncs to a Carmen Miranda record. Lots of laughter and chatter, and as it gets toward midnight Freddie Tripp, who’s a coffee-skinned Negro, slips on a Billie Holiday record he brought. The lights are lower. Some of the collectors are dancing together and it’s a hoot. Mostly at arm’s distance, but Podolsky is coming on outrageously to Tillie, who unfortunately has been stricken by an uncontrollable case of the giggles. Charming Billy and I are among those slow-dancing, Billie Holiday is singing “For All We Know.”

  Charming Billy leans me back in a big dip, so far back we fall into the closet. We’re both cackling and he pulls the closet door shut and he’s on top of me and I can’t believe what’s happening but as he’s French kissing me he’s got one hand under my skirt tugging at my panties while his other hand whips it out. Is this how I’m going to lose my virginity? Pinned on top of a bunch of snow-soggy overcoats? I’m trying to protest about the lack of romance, not to mention the potential embarrassment if someone opens the door, but then as Billy presses his boner against my inner thigh I feel it dissolve, I mean it just melts away, and I hear Billy whimper like a stricken creature and then he begins to softly cry.

  “It’s all right,” I tell him, not knowing if it is or not. But I hug him because he obviously needs hugging and I whisper in his ear, “What’s wrong, Billy?”

  He gasps for breath and stops crying. “Remember when we were in the doorway at the Sherry? And you were pretending I was Monty Clift?” I tell him I remember. “Well, I was pretending the same thing—that you were Monty Clift.” That’s how I found out that Charming Billy was queer and, I guess, it was when he found out for sure, too.

  So he zipped up and I pulled up my knickers and as inconspicuously as we could we came out of the closet, although Tillie spotted us and grinned and made the shame-shame gesture with her fingers. Pam O’Mara had her tiny black-and-white TV set on and they were showing the crowds in Times Square and doing the countdown, and at midnight Billy and I kissed, but it was like brother and sister. Everyone in the room kissed everyone that way, mostly on the cheek, because it was the start of a New Year. Out with the old.

  When I think back on that night, this is the worst part. The word that went through my mind. Queer. What a harsh, ugly way to describe anyone. I looked it up in the dictionary once and the first definition was “Strange from a conventional point of view; singular or odd.” That doesn’t sound too bad. I mean, “strange” is a little off-putting, but it could mean “interesting” or even “mysterious.” And “singular” is pretty good. “Odd,” well, I can live with that. In fact, I’ve learned that I have to. Using the dictionary definition, I suppose all us collectors were queer. I’m not talking sexually, just emotionally, the kind of people who didn’t fit in. Maybe that’s been the real common bond, not just the movie stars. No matter how weird we were, we accepted each other’s weirdness.

  After what happened in the clothes closet I was afraid that I’d never see Charming Billy again, that he’d feel he could never face me. But he continued to come around and we still would talk about everything else as we waited outside Sardi’s or wherever. We were still friends. But he never wore his sailor suit anymore when he came collecting.

  • • •

  Okay, okay, I know you’re thinking, Nice going, Reva, you sailed right past that uncomfortable stuff about Roy. Him coming out of the Sherry Netherland with a wet head, or him strolling off into the night with Grace Kelly. I kept that sort of thing under my hat, never called attention to it, not even to my best pals in the Secret Six. Why? I guess because it played into my favorite fantasy which was that I knew that something terrible was going to happen to Roy and I’d imagine that I was the only one in the world who could keep him safe.

  Of course, nothing got in the newspapers back then when Roy was fooling around because he was just another barely known actor, but I have to admit what he was probably doing. Cheating. His marriage to Addie wasn’t all a fairy-tale romance. I mean, I don’t know what, if anything, Addie was up to at the time, maybe they had some kind of understanding, but two wrongs don’t make a right. And…well, maybe this sounds like making excuses for him, but it occurs to me that Addie must have known Roy was occasionally stepping out on her. He wasn’t being all that careful—the Sherry Netherland, for god’s sake—so while you can blame him, it also brings up a big question—after all this time, what made her file for divorce now?

  I try to stop thinking about all these things I’ll never really know the answers to because it just makes my stomach feel upset again.

  10

  Roy

  “The fuckers framed me, Nate. They tried for weeks, maybe months to catch me cheating. But I was walking the straight and narrow. Had nothing going on the side. They got tired of waiting. So they hired a ringer, manufactured a situation. Not only to create grounds for a divorce, but also to ensure that they’d be able to murder me financially—with the royalties. Isn’t that entrapment and fraud and—you tell me what?”

  I should have been a lawyer. But Nate is the judge here.

  He’s ensconced in his jumbo-size desk chair. Fingers laced over his paunch. Buddha-like. I’m waiting for him to rub his hands gleefully and tell me how we’re going annihilate Addie. Pulverize her with the legal system.

  “You’ve got nothing,” Nate pronounces. “Even if you can prove they set out the bait, you didn’t have to bite. So you’re back where you started. The divorce agreement already is entered with the court, final decree pending, and it’s—”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Why can’t we jump in now? Call the attention of the judge to all of Addie’s manipulative crap, I bet we can improve the settlement terms! At least split the royalties.”

  “It’s a done deal, Roy.”

  “But it’s a phony, put-up job!” Why isn’t he as outraged as I am? “It’s not fair—”

  I stop. He’s chortling. “Fair? Look, laddie, it’s a game. You played around, got away with it more times than you can remember. This time you got caught. You lose. Think of it as a poker game. She won the pot—okay, so she bought t
he pot. But it’s hers anyway. So just calm down.”

  I realize the tendons in my neck are standing at attention.

  “Look at it this way,” Nate says. “In a way, she did you a huge favor. If she’d waited until later to play her little game, she would’ve been eligible to share in the giant jackpot. Your movie deal.”

  That’s a good point. I didn’t think of that. Maybe because of the ache in my gut since Kim told me how Addie ambushed me.

  “You’ve got to stay focused, laddie. We’ve got much bigger fish to fry. Has anyone from Warner Brothers attempted to contact you? Since we filed our lawsuit?”

  “No, nobody. Wait. Except—” I snicker, “—my answering service said Jack Warner phoned. Figured it was one of my wiseass pals.”

  “So you didn’t return the call.”

  “Just told you, it’s a practical joke. The Colonel has never called me directly.” Jack Warner had been handed a colonel’s commission during World War II and assigned to duty at the Brown Derby. But he still liked to be addressed by his rank. “Why would he phone me now?”

  “To go around me. And try to negotiate directly with you. To get you to say something that will undercut our position. Which is total surrender from them—and complete freedom for you. Under no circumstances are you to have any conversations with anyone from Warners. Understood?”

  “Yessir!” It’s my Major against their Colonel. I’m betting on Nate.

  • • •

  Despite Nate’s instructions, I can’t let go of the thing with Addie.

  Maybe it’s the mountain of bullshit that I’ve ignored over the years. Certainly I don’t need a Scanlon chortle to realize it’s childish to measure matters on a standard of “That’s not fair.” But it galls me anyway. I’ve been hit below the belt. Been hit and can’t hit back. So familiar. Just like all those times in our marriage. She can slap me or kick me or try to claw me. But I’ve got to be a gentleman and just carefully fend her off. Have I ever been tempted to haul off and belt her one? Oh yeah. What always stopped me? I’m not my father! And a part of me knew that if I ever hit her, even once, I might not be able to stop.

  Besides, in a way I figured it was my payback. No, I’m not a masochist. But I read something profound on the wall of a men’s room once. Amid all those messages about, “For A Good Time Call Mitzi,” someone had scrawled, “Guilt is the price you pay for doing the things you want to do.” That definitely sounds like me.

  Actually, Addie wasn’t physical that often. Words were her favorite weapon. She got to play offense, I was always on the defense. Not quiet little jabs. Her specialty was huge vicious verbal wallops. Right off the bat. Faced with opposition or criticism of any sort, even the tiniest, she’d immediately escalate to atomic weapons. Nothing in between. Didn’t have to be about me ogling another broad. Could be anything. You don’t like the color of my new shoes? Then fuck you, go take a hike! Go to Mexico and get a divorce! These were the choices: Heads, I win, tails, I win. Life with Addie.

  Now it’s gagging me. Can’t swallow it, can’t spit it out.

  I drive past the store on Rodeo Drive. Catch a glimpse of her inside, kissing up to a wealthy blue-nosed, blue-haired customer. I can go in, make a scene. Embarrass her. Get tossed out again. Be fun. But wouldn’t make it better. There’s only one thing that would make it better. Don’t even think it! Not even to savor the idea as a hypothetical. Except sometimes it seeps into my consciousness. Briefly, before I banish the thought. What if…? What if there was no Addie…I mean, what would Jack Havoc do?

  Forget it! he’d probably say. Water under the bridge.

  Can’t forget it. Keep trying. But I can’t.

  Listen to good advice, man, Jack’d say. Scanlon says we got bigger fish to fry.

  Yeah, but why should she be allowed to flim-flam the court?

  So what are you gonna do—sit down and cry? Tried that already!

  But she’s fucking me over big time and I have to smile while she gets away with it!

  Uh-huh. Smart money says that’s exactly what you gotta do, Roy.

  Bet you could figure a way to have it both ways, couldn’t you, Jack? Couldn’t you?

  A truck’s air horn blasts in my ear. I jump. Look around. I’m on the Strip. Light’s green. I’m blocking traffic. So I move forward. Notice the Hamburger Hamlet across the street.

  I’m not hungry. But I might find a friendly face there.

  • • •

  “Did you come for the onion rings—or me?” Kim Rafferty asks.

  “Well, they make awfully good onion rings, but—what time do you get off work?”

  “Would you believe—” glance at the clock, 7:45 “—in fifteen minutes?”

  “I think I can wait that long.”

  “Roy, I’m meeting a friend for a movie. At the Academy.”

  “Oh. Special friend?”

  “My drama coach. I’d invite you along, but she can only get two of us in on her card.”

  “Hey, I’ve got an Academy card, too.” But haven’t gone to the screenings for years now.

  “They’re playing a pair of old Hitchcock pictures. What do you say?”

  I’d’ve said yes even if it was a Troy Donohue festival. I sip an iced tea. She goes about her business. Winding up her shift. She’s a pro. No wasted motion. Tuned in to who needs what. Friendly smile, but she keeps moving. This is the original Hamlet. The place is decorated in dark wood with low-key lighting like an English tavern. Framed old Playbills and photos on the walls of the great ones playing Hamlet: Barrymore, Gielgud, Olivier. A thriving joint. Started by an actor named Harry Lewis, who played baby-faced gangsters for a while. Guess this is one way for an actor to make sure he knows where his next meal is coming from.

  Kim’s closing out her register now, taking off her apron, going into the back. I’m not sure why I’m here. Breaking my standing rule about one night only. Assuming I get lucky. She emerges from the back room looking fresh and eager. I offer my arm. She takes it.

  “This almost feels like a date,” she says.

  We take my T-Bird for the short ride over.

  • • •

  The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, yeah, the Oscar people, own a private theater to screen new and old movies for their members. You’d expect a palace, but it’s an inconspicuous neighborhood theater with no marquee located on a quiet block on Melrose in West Hollywood. Carl’s Market is on the corner, there’s an Italian joint down the street. Most of the neighborhood is residential, small one-family houses. The theater parking lot is full, but I luck into a space on the street around the corner on Doheny. Kim and I walk together toward the entrance. We’re holding hands. It’s kind of nice.

  The ritual in front of the theater before show time hasn’t changed. Much milling around on the sidewalk. Meet and greet. See and be seen. Maybe even pick up a tip on a potential job. The editors and cameramen and other technicians usually go right inside, but the actors work the pavement. They all know each other from years of performing together. Or waiting together anxiously in outer offices to compete against each other at cattle-call auditions.

  When I first came to town, a friend brought me here. It was such a kick seeing those faces I had known all my life but never met. The actors who play the bellhops and the bank clerks, the doormen and the taxi drivers, the gum-chewing telephone operators and the sexy stenographers, the flatfoot cops and the bent-nose crooks. That’s who turns out for the screenings. The character actors. The bit players. A star may make twenty or thirty movies during a career. These people have been in maybe three hundred pictures, usually for just a scene or two. Outside the trade, hardly anyone knows their names. Some are regulars with certain directors, comprising a virtual stock company for the likes of John Ford, Frank Capra, William Wellman, or Preston Sturges in the old days. Most just scramble for a living.

&n
bsp; I look around the crowd and spot some supporting players. They’re the ones who play parts that have names, rather than just “Fireman #2.” And there’s also a smattering of used-to-be or almost-were stars. Dressed in California casual. Quite a number of ascots and Gucci scarves to cover turkey necks. Lots of laughing. It’s a weekly family reunion.

  Kim introduces me to her elderly acting coach, who looks and sounds like Maria Ouspenskaya. “Vee study toget’er in Muscow,” she tells me, “Maria and I. Everyone t’ought vee are sisters.” I feel stares on the back of my neck. Several actors who’ve been on my show ease over to say hello. It doesn’t feel like the old days now. I’m not one of them, I’m one of those who can hire them. The hunger is palpable. Remember me? Hoping this glancing social contact may turn into work. Remember me! Even if it’s just for a day’s work. I recall why I stopped coming to these screenings.

  The autograph collectors lurk on the fringes and case the crowd. Delighting those they ask to sign their albums or pose for a picture. Making them the envy of the others. I see Reva standing at the curb, watching me. On a whim, I gesture her over. Introduce her to Kim and her acting coach.

  “You’re so pretty,” Reva blurts to Kim, who blushes.

  “She’s an actress,” I tell Reva.

  “Oh, then can I have your autograph?”

  Kim shrugs. Starts to sign.

  “Could you write, ‘To Reva,’ with something nice, like ‘best wishes’?”

  Kim writes what she’s told. Self-conscious. Because other actors are nudging each other and asking who she is. Kim thanks Reva, who asks if she can snap a picture of Kim with me. Kim waits for my response. Which is to put my arm around her waist and smile for the camera. Flash! More people stare curiously at us. Reva hopes we’ll enjoy the movies. She disappears into the crowd.