Authors: Thomas Tryon
That tiny catch was the capper. She really choked up big and swallowed her quavery voice so all I got was the impression of gallant farewell. I’d seen the same bit in countless of her films—her “Valiant is the word for Carrie” act. She was trying to suck me in, but I still wasn’t about to be sucked. Though I really didn’t know her, I really knew her so damn well. She wanted to attach me. Like a salary, a used car. She wanted me as an appendage, part of her entourage: her husband, her secretary, her agent, her manager, her maid, her hairdresser, her furrier, her liquor dealer—her biographer. I was to be her scribe, running around with a stylus and a stack of cuneiform tablets, recording the Life of Our Lady of the Anecdotes, artifacts to be placed in locked receptacles for archeologists to find some three thousand years hence, like King Tut’s tomb.
Yet the sob in her voice had got to me, no doubt of it. The familiar little movie-throb that by now was a Claire-cliché. My mind played tricks on me. I pictured her alone, at the end of her life, damsel in distress—that kind of thing. And who knew? Maybe she
did
have something interesting or original to say. Maybe she did need help. Maybe—even—I was the right guy. Oh shit. I fought down the urge to call her back.
I was hard at work when the phone rang, and I grabbed it without thinking. It wasn’t she, however; it was old Vi. “Dear, you’ve hurt her terribly,” she said, getting right to it. “She thinks you hate her. You’ve made her feel worthless. She has no self-esteem.”
“Look, Vi, honey, cut the crap, will you? Her lack of self-esteem isn’t my fault. I just won’t be made an accessory before the fact. If she wants to commit this heinous crime, let her do it on her own. I’ve got my play—I wouldn’t have time, anyway, so the whole thing’s purely academic. Let her fry her fish and I’ll fry mine, okay?”
“Yes, dear, of course, you’re perfectly right, and I know exactly how you feel. And, dear,
you
don’t have to tell
me. I
know what she’s like if anybody does.” She lowered her voice. “But look, dear, there’s something you don’t know.”
“What?”
“She’d absolutely kill me if she finds out I told, but Belinda was right on the Awards show—Claire’s really not well at all.”
I was trying to keep from swallowing the hook. “What’s wrong?” I asked in a bored tone.
“They don’t know. And of course Claire doesn’t say. But she doesn’t want anyone to know the truth. Or face it herself.”
“That’s the trouble with her, she never does,” I said.
“I think it has something to do with all that Christian Science stuff she practices,” Vi went on. “But really, dear, I think it’s only a matter of time. She’s known of it a month or so. That’s why I invited her last night, I feel so sorry for the poor thing—she’s really being awfully courageous about it, don’t you think? Lots of people couldn’t bear up that way.”
“How long has she?”
“
Quien sabe
, dear?” Vi replied in a hallowed voice. “So far as she’s concerned her health is a closed subject. I shouldn’t think it’d be too long, though. Now, look, sweetie. It wouldn’t take so much time just to read through the material, would it? Then maybe you could sit down with her and tell her—in a perfectly nice way, of course—what’s wrong with it.”
“Good God, Vi, are you saying you want me to sit down with Claire Regrett and criticize her work? You must be off your rocker. You know how she loathes to have anyone criticize her.”
“In a
nice
way, I said. Then maybe you could just knock off a few chapters yourself, to sort of show her the kind of style it needs—in your own write, as they say.”
“Vi, we’re talking about the life of one of the most famous movie stars in the world and you think it can be tossed off like an Erma Bombeck column?”
“No, no, of course not, they’re not in the same league. We’re talking major book here, big stuff! And it means so much to her, it really does. Look, do me a favor, just this one favor. For me, sweetie, your old Aunt Vi, will you? Just take her to lunch. Take her to lunch and talk to her. An hour and a half—two hours, that’s all. Let her tell you her ideas. And the pictures. Sweetie, she’s got photos no one knows ever existed. Really intimate shots with the Prince of Wales, with Mahatma Gandhi, with Haile Selassie.”
“Terrific! What about Hitler? Bruno Hauptmann? Judge Crater?”
“Don’t joke, dear, she’s moribund. Be
kind.
Show your human side. Just
see
her. Take her to lunch—I’ll pay. I’ll even make the reservation. You still like the Four Seasons?”
So it was that by dangling lunch at one of New York’s posher and better victualed restaurants Auntie Vi got me to swallow the bait. Four Seasons it was, and it marked the beginning of the winter of my discontent.
Naturally Madame was late. At the bar I ran into an acquaintance, an actor I’d known on the Coast, and I was surprised when, looking at my watch, I realized thirty minutes had elapsed in movie chitchat. I glanced over to the reception desk, where Tom Margittai, one of the owners, grinned and shrugged. I shrugged back. Claire, who usually made a business of promptness—it seemed to fit her image—was late and I suspected it was so she could make the best possible entrance. A moment later I noticed some of the bar crowd leaning over the railing into the stairwell and in seconds there was an audible buzz. Tom gave me the high-sign: Madame had arrived.
I was at the head of the stairs, from which vantage point I could observe the royal entrance. She was in smart black, a dish-sized hat with a cunning veil, the fur stole the Black Magic Fur Company had given her for posing, and her trademark ankle-straps. With those huge eyes and scarlet slash of a mouth, graciously smiling and dispensing favor, she ascended, dripping her ten fingers at me. In the grill, prominent heads were craning, some people were on their feet applauding. It was the Star of Stars. Claire Regrett had arrived.
She pulled her Little Match Girl number again, the eyes wide as Christmas morning, the mouth a little O. “For me?” her look seemed to say. “Little
me
?” She kissed my cheeks, both, bestowing her patronage, then turned to beam upon our host. “Tom, how
nice
to see you. My absolute favorite restaurant in all the world. Bless you, darling. I hope you have some lovely veal, my mouth is absolutely watering.”
She was breathless and lit with some inner glow that seemed to transform her into a woman much younger, vital and alive, ready to war on the whole wide world. Directing a glance toward the grill as luncheon-goers returned to their squab and sole veronique, she bent to give a wavette to a face she may have recognized; then Tom conducted us back to the Fountain Room. I had a good view of the heads as they turned upward to gawk. Her progress through the bustling room was an enviable and palpable demonstration of Star Power. And she hadn’t made a picture in ten years.
Since I was behind her in this royal progress I couldn’t see her face, but I knew what it looked like, the great eyes shining, the red mouth in a half smile, the chin held high, Hollywood royalty showing that
noblesse
does indeed
oblige.
She tossed her furs off her shoulder with a studied casualness, and I noticed how firmly her feet moved on those high heels. When we arrived at our table and Tom set down the drinks, she thanked him effusively for his attentions, allowing her diamond to glint in the light. She draped her stole over the back of her chair and initiated the process of removing her gloves a finger at a time, truly an artful piece of stage business.
“Isn’t this the
most
fun?” she exclaimed vivaciously when she’d made herself comfortable. She’d no sooner handed me her lighter to light her cigarette than two young girls in party dresses came shyly up in their maryjanes, asking her to autograph their napkins.
“We haven’t got a pen,” one explained.
“That’s all right, you darling little thing, I never go anywhere without a pen.” At the same moment, “Did you see Walter in the other room?” she muttered to me as she signed each napkin with flourishes.
“Walter who?” I muttered back.
“Cronkite. He’s usually at ‘21.’ There you are. And bless you, darlings,” she said in her most queenly manner, her smile a yard wide.
“Thank you, Miss Regrett,” the children chorused and trooped off with their treasures.
“Bless you… bless you, darlings,
mizpaw
.”
“
Mizpaw
?” I’d drawn a blank on that.
She grew this soulful look as she explained. “It’s an old Indian word. It means ‘May the Lord watch between thee and me while we are absent one from the other.’ I read it in this book
Ten Simple Ways to a Happier and Brighter Life
, by A. F. Loveteague. Ever read him? Divine. Lives in a cabin somewhere near Missoula, commutes with nature. I think a word like
mizpaw
has a lot of meaning in this busy world. And such enchanting little girls,” she said, raising her voice so others could overhear. “Darling, you’ll never know how much I mourn not having had children of my own. Alas, my womb is barren.”
“But mink-lined,” I said to myself, taking the overscaled menu from the waiter.
Claire had already accepted hers and put on her glasses, tortoiseshell, about the size of a pair of snorkeling goggles. Looking up from her card, she smiled and gave me the benefit of her eyes. “How very very nice you look! Don’t you just love New York in the spring? I think it’s the most enchanting place in the world, I simply adore getting out and walking, seeing the real down-to-earth people. My telephone’s been absolutely ringing off the hook.
So
many people called to say—well, you know. Radie Harris is agog. I told her I couldn’t believe my ears. Imagine Belinda saying all those nice things about
me.
She has a generous soul, I always knew it. And what a terrible life—tragedy, darling, Belinda Carroll has been simply stalked by tragedy, hasn’t she? Oh, look, veal, goodie, and milk-fed, too. I’m simply ravishingly hungry. How
can
they say I’m ill, when I eat the way I do? Oh, people, people, and those malicious little tongues of theirs. But they’ll get it all back, darling, I promise you, they’ll get it all back, if not in this world, then the next. Do you believe in reincarnation, Charles? People coming back as baby elephants or trained fleas? I’m not actually sure I’d want to come back; what if I reincarnated as a giraffe or baboon?”
We ordered, the scallopini for her, the lobster ravioli for me, Caesar salad for two,
sans
wine. By now she was on her second martini, and as she sipped I witnessed a notable exercise in how to drink from a stem glass. “I love one or two martinis, they always seem to relax me so. And, darling, speaking of Belinda, is she still on the wagon? Still A.A.? Staunch girl. Many people need that kind of group support. I’m glad I don’t, I couldn’t bear going to those meetings—all those awful
people.
Right off the Bowery, aren’t they? I
mean
…” Her expression grew solemn, then downright pained. “But, you know, I’ve been giving things quite a bit of thought these past few days and I’m truly sorry she and I haven’t been better friends over the years, truly. I think if we’d actually tried, we could have bolstered each other at times of crisis, you know what I mean—oh, you’re laughing at me again. You just love laughing at me, don’t you, you miserable putz? Oh no, I didn’t mean that, only joking, darling.”
I assured her that I had not been laughing at her. “It’s just that I was never aware that you had Belinda’s interests at heart.”
“Oh, but you’re
so
wrong, darling, really. You’re
terribly
wrong. Certainly I was angry when they took away my dressing room—the dressing room that had been mine for eighteen years, it was like home to me—and gave it to her—that lousy bastard Louis Mayer—and
then
to put salt in the wounds they had it repainted that awful blue—
Belinda
blue, can there
be
such a thing?—anyway I hope I’m a forgiving person. I’ve never been one to bear a grudge, I’m sure
no
one can ever say that about me. But I was brokenhearted. I walked in the front gate and out the back. Like a subway turnstile. That’s Hollywood, I guess, here today, gone tomorrow; look at Luise Rainer—two Oscars and they send her over Niagara Falls in a barrel. I’d really like to show the real honest-to-God Hollywood, let the people know what really goes on, y’know? Paint the real picture.”
“Do you intend doing that? Tell ‘the whole truth and nothing but’?”
“Certainly I do. What the hell do you think I am, Pollyanna or something? I’m really going to get in my licks. Look out, Hollywood, here comes Momma—steamroller all the way.”
“I like that,” I prompted. “Give me a for-instance.”
“Well, I mean, it’s no secret that Hollywood was a hotcha town, is it? A girl had to get along, didn’t she? If she wanted to get somewhere. You know Sam—Sam was a pincher from way back. Not just a pincher, Sam was a terror. People will be shocked to hear what used to go on up in that big white office of his—sitting around on his knee, putting in your lap time while he went over the clauses in your contract and then gave your boobs a squeeze. Then asked you if you wanted to go to the Coconut Grove for a little rhumba session.
You
were there,
you
know nothing was sacred. I know where more bodies are buried than Vi does, don’t think I don’t. And Momma’s going to start digging them up.”
She took out a cigarette, tapped the end on her thumbnail, and handed me her lighter to do the honors. She leaned, flamed the cigarette, then tossed back her head, her nostrils streaming smoke like a Chinese dragon, scales and all.
“Another thing—I really want to pay my debt to Frank with this book. If not for Frankie Adonis I’d have never seen the inside of the Thalberg Building, I’d have been at Fox playing those Loretta Young parts with ruffles and Ty Power or—” She leaned toward me with a yearning expression. “Oh, darling, what must poor Frank think of us all? What must he think of getting killed that way—some gangster letting him have it right through the eyeballs? I hope the bastard rots in—no no no, take it back, take it back—I
mustn’t
say that, I must think beautiful thoughts, we
all
must think beautiful thoughts. Darling, I think maybe I’ll have just one more martooni, if I may. I’ve got my primal scream session this afternoon and vodka releases me.” When the waiter had brought her drink and discreetly withdrawn, she laid her hand over mine, saying: