“She threatened to tell? She wouldn’t dare!”
I said I thought she might.
“But I won’t have you doing it—it’s nonsense. Besides, you’ve enough to do with rewrites for me.”
I said yes, I knew. “But I’m doing this for you, too. And the first thing you’ve got to do is pay her a visit. A sort of conciliatory thing. They want photographs—you can autograph her cast, right under Walter Cronkite.”
Upsetting her coffee, Belinda dove for the bathroom and slammed the door. A minute later she bounded out, flying into my arms, crying, “Greater love hath no man….”
Two days later, I met Belinda after her exercise class and we walked from Columbus Circle up to the San Remo, where we found the publicity man and several representatives of People magazine on hand. I knew she was entering into this meeting warily, but it quickly appeared that she had nothing to fear. Claire merely wanted to shine, and if Belinda was to shine as well, it would be a matter of reflection.
A neat-looking, calm-eyed black woman in skirt and blouse let us in. As we milled around in the foyer, I thought about the democratic principles at work here: in the old days any maid of Claire’s would have been in uniform with cap and apron, looking like Louise Beavers and drippin’ molasses. The sizable living room was a mix of weird antique pieces and contemporary kitsch. Yellow had been used liberally, along with white and green, and accented with black. Though the effect was crisp and bright, it was somehow tacky; the antiques seemed to abhor the flashy colors. Some decorator must have talked her into it. To cap the outri effect, the upholstered pieces all were covered in clear plastic vinyl! I’d heard but never really believed it. Belinda and I looked at each other, then looked away before we started to snicker.
Claire greeted us in the “library,” a room that revealed a distinct absence of books. She was grandly ensconced on a chaise longue, well bolstered by pillows, a cane prominently displayed, the medical corset she wore artfully covered by her arm. On her lap was her toy poodle. The chaise, she claimed, had once belonged to the Spanish Ambassador, though no explanation was forthcoming about how it had fallen into her hands.
“Darling!” she cried, throwing her arms wide and forcing Belinda to lean to do ladies’ kiss-kiss. But not before the photographer had his cameras ready, four of them dangling from his neck. Claire’s hands were on Belinda’s upper arms and I could see how she held her there in the awkward position, managing to stick her face full into the lens.
“But isn’t this all thrilling!” she went on, releasing Belinda. “Charles dear, take the lady’s coat. And, Belinda, do sit down, you must be exhausted; Viola’s been telling me about your schedule. They’re relentless, aren’t they? Bless you, darling, for coming here like this; I’m afraid I’m still a bit shaky on my feet. But I’ll be on deck on the night, never you fear. What color do you plan on wearing?”
“My gown’s green,” Belinda ventured, sitting up in the awkward straightback chair placed beside Claire’s chaise, and I noticed Belinda trying to cover her knees against the camera.
“Green?” screeched Claire, making a terrible face which the camera caught. “I’m wearing red. We’ll look like fucking Christmas.”
“You always look so good in red,” Belinda said, playing Melanie as only she could.
“Not cherry red, not fireman’s red, but a scarlet. As a matter of fact, I had the material dyed to match the Cardinal’s robes. I invited His Grace, but he has another engagement. But he said he’d be there in spirit. I want you to meet him, darling, he’s the most divine man and he’s seen some of your movies, one or two. I told him you weren’t Catholic, but he’s very open-minded; after all, neither am I.”
I admired Belinda’s example of studied calm as she sat smiling, listening to Claire run on in grand style. All the time she talked she gestured with one hand, petting the dog with the other or holding him up and encouraging him to lick her cheek. “Now now, Doodoo, don’t you be such a ham,” she cautioned, smiling radiantly. “Honestly, the minute he sees a camera he’s up to his tricks. Naughty naughty, Momma ’pank.”
When the photographer asked if Claire could stand for a couple of shots, she put on one of her acts, a touch of dubiety as to whether she could possibly manage, then a brief cloud of heavy thought, followed by determination, some teeth-clenching, finally the summoning of the necessary effort.
“No no, don’t help me, anyone,” she commanded again, “just—let—me—do—this by myself.” Belinda still had the good sense to assist her, for the flashes kept going off, and when they stood side by side Claire put out her palm. “My mirror, please, someone”—and we waited while she gave the Face a critical review in the glass. She touched her hair in several places, scrutinized an angle, and handed away the mirror. “All right, now, quickly, let’s get the photos done, while I can still stand.”
She linked arms with her guest and the two ex-beauties smiled for the birdie. In the brief flash of light Claire’s face looked old and sallow, and her drooping chin showed, while, nearly fifteen years younger, Belinda gave off a natural radiance and health that Claire could never hope to match. Claire herself must have been feeling something of the kind, because, when the photographer let go of one camera and took up another, she waved her hand and said in a tired voice, “That’s enough, I think. I’m a bit tuckered.” Grimacing, she lowered herself onto the chaise, making another show of gameness, then took up the dog and gave it the old kootchie-koo while People recorded the event for posterity. When they were satisfied, Belinda swung away from the group to have a look at Claire’s art collection.
“You have a lot of pictures, don’t you?” she said brightly. “Who does the cute little tykes with the big goo-goo eyes?” Claire pronounced the name of the artist. “Oh yes, of course, I’ve heard of her.”
Claire seemed mollified. She adored these lemur-eyed monstrosities. “I may not know much about art, but I do know what I like. And I adore my little orphans, as I call them. It’s the eyes that do it for me. The eyes are the windows of the soul, aren’t they?” Belinda’s expression told me these were awfully big windows. Claire sighed. “If I had a little girl I’d want her to look just like those. I could just gobble up the one in the blue hair ribbon.”
She reached for her cigarettes and lit one, then offered the pack to Belinda, who thanked her but didn’t smoke. Claire looked at the clock. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t get up again; this chaise is so cozy. It came from the Spanish Ambassador’s house right over there across the park. One hundred percent down.”
Our producers had gone all-out on Belinda’s welcoming party, and the press turned out in Roman phalanxes. There were easily 150 of New York’s most famous faces in attendance; name them, they were there. Happily, the weather proved agreeable, and we were able to be out on the decks of the romantically decorated river vessel. Claire made a show of being prompt—I was already on board—and she engineered her usual star entrance dressed in a fire-engine-red satin sheath and a clever evening hat bound to cause comment. Belinda hurried forward, they kissed air, hugged, and obligingly posed for the cameras. I caught the adroit way in which Claire disengaged herself and went to pose solo at the rail, looking off and up, giving them the Roman-coin profile.
For a while, in the heat of things, I lost track of her, but from time to time I’d glimpse her, glass in hand, the focus of one group or another. She was playing the hostess bit to the hilt, this was her party, and I found myself thinking: Blindy, beware. But there was no need to fear. It all went smooth as glass, bubbly like one huge Alka-Seltzer. I divided my time, eating a part of my supper with Belinda, the other half with Claire, and at no time did the one mention the other.
Claire was too busy displaying her sensitivity. “Simply enchanting,” she breathed with an ecstatic tremor as I joined her at the ship’s rail. “How I adore it. New York’s the heart of the world, it always was.” She preempted my arm and put it around her shoulder, then snuggled up against me intimately, clingin
g to my wrist with both hands as we walked along the deck, a little as if she were trying to wear me. “I’m so glad I came,” she crooned huskily. “I’m just awfully glad I said I’d do it. It was worth it, every bit. And you were so kind to ask me. You really are a nice friend and I’m terribly proud to see the way you’ve developed over the years. I know I can depend on you. I can—can’t I?” She all but threw her eyes at me.
After a while she released her hold on me, then looked up; I could see those long long Hollywood lashes, the exaggerated Max Factored mouth, and I knew that seventy-year-old ladies were capable of longing. When she shivered, I took the opportunity to suggest that she must be getting cold and we’d best join the others. (I also knew Belinda would be wondering where I was.) As I took her arm, Claire came tiptoe to press her lips to mine.
“That’s for being so nice,” she whispered. As we went through the doorway, I blotted my lips with my handkerchief. “Wait, let me,” she said, taking over the job. “Later,” she added, “when we get home, we’ll talk some more.” Subtlety was never Claire’s long suit and I got the picture. I was to pay the pound of flesh, the blood as well.
When we docked, there must have been fifty to a hundred limousines jammed at crazy angles, waiting for their passengers. Amid the noisy pandemonium of farewells I glimpsed Claire coming off, escorted by our publicity man. He took her to her car, then came looking for me.
“She wants you to drive home with her.”
“I can’t. I promised to take Belinda back to her hotel.”
He shrugged. The ball was in my court. I went to Belinda and explained; she was understanding and said she could get home on her own hook. Belinda was a big girl. Not so Claire, whom I found curled up in the back of her limousine, one big throbbing pout cradled in all that plush.
“Boy, have you got some nerve,” she began as I got in beside her and we drove off. “And I tried so hard for you,” she sniffed. “You have to admit that. Don’t you? You thought I was going to get pissed, fall on my face, didn’t you? I told you I wouldn’t and I didn’t.”
“That’s right, you didn’t,” I replied, thinking “Gott sei danke.” I thanked her warmly and profusely for her efforts; she really had done a terrific job and I wanted her to realize it. “I know you didn’t and I thank you.”
She began to sob, like a little girl who’s been kept from going to the circus or something. She dug out a handkerchief and wept into it, her furred shoulders quivering.
I was desperate and saw the driver looking at us in the rear-view mirror. “I’m really sorry.”
“People always say they’re sorry, but it doesn’t help when you hurt people. Oh, what’s the use—I guess I should be used to being hurt by now. People are so thoughtless, so inconsiderate. This was a mistake, I shouldn’t have attempted it; much better if I’d stayed home by myself and you got Lana Turner or someone to do it. I’m no use to anyone anymore. I should just shut myself up like a witch in a castle and not bother.”
When we arrived at Central Park West, she was really a mess; her eyes were like a raccoon’s from smudged liner and mascara, and her face had gone pistachio; the lipstick was all bitten off. She wouldn’t get out until she’d made emergency repairs; then she wouldn’t let me go, but dragged me in, insisting I must see her to her door. As we stepped off the elevator and stood in the vestibule, she handed me her keys, suggesting that I open the door like the gentleman she knew me to be. She then insisted I come in “for a little nightcap.” I knew what a little nightcap with Claire was going to mean. We sat in the library, where she splashed vodka over ice and curled up in a chair while I checked my phone service. I gave her perhaps fifteen minutes, then said I had to get home, there were things I needed to take care of. When I bent over to peck her cheek and thanked her again, she pulled away.
“I didn’t do it for you, damn it, and I certainly didn’t do it for her. But I kept my part of the bargain. Now, my man, you can keep yours. You do intend keeping our bargain?” she added.
I hastened to assure her that I did and started on my getaway, but no. “I’ll pick you up for lunch tomorrow. Around noon. There’s something I want to show you, I think it will help you get a better perspective on me.”
When I said I couldn’t have lunch, her lips clenched. “I’ve got rehearsal,” I explained. “I can’t just not be on deck. It’s the first day.”
To get myself out of there I rashly agreed to lunch on Saturday. When I stepped into the elevator, she ordered me to wait, hurried inside, and reappeared with a manila envelope.
“The first ten chapters. Read them and we’ll speak.”
I nodded, the door closed, I sagged against the wall as the car began its descent. “Bless you, darling.” I heard the charm float down to me through the elevator shaft.
“She’s a real honey of a dame, isn’t she?” said the beaming elevator man.
“Yes,” I said, “a real honey of a dame.”
Next morning, when I went to bring the paper in, I found Claire’s material still on the hall table. I made coffee, then stepped out on the terrace and, eschewing the Times, I opened the manila envelope and took out what amounted to about seventy pages, cleanly typed on expensive paper. I thumbed through it, glimpsed words like “enchanting” and “divine” and “very, very” all over the place. But I tackled the job.
I read slowly to begin with, to “get the flow,” then when I’d got it I read faster, then faster, then skimmed, then threw the pile of pages down in a heap. Even while I was lying there wondering what kind of ass I was to have got involved in such a thing, the phone rang: Vi.
“She says she gave you the chapters. Have you read them yet? What do you think?” I told her what I thought. “But that’s exactly what I’ve been telling you, sweetie, she needs you to straighten her out.”
“Sweetie, it’s the biggest carload of bullshit I ever read. And in her own words, ‘Just whom is kidding whom?’ That’s not writing, that’s barbarism.” Viola made pigeon coos and said there never was a word put on paper that couldn’t be fixed. I was inclined to disagree; nothing could fix what I’d been reading.
But I was committed, not only to the book but to a mysterious excursion. Therefore, on Saturday morning, when they rang from downstairs to say Miss Regrett’s car was waiting, I slung on a jacket and went down. She was lounging in that negligent, modelly way of hers (I’ll say one thing for Claire: she always knew how to sit a limousine), wearing one of her jumpsuits and her fur coat, though the day was fair and warmish. We drove east to Second Avenue and then downtown. She asked me how rehearsals were going, was interested to hear my comments about her rival’s performance.
“I hear tell you’re not happy with my work,” she began, having lighted her prop cigarette. From the corner of my eye I could see the Fabulous Profile inviting my attention; obviously she didn’t care to look straight at me. “Now, before you start in, let me say this. I know what you’re going to say, I know it’s not what we’re after, but it’s a start, isn’t it? I knew you weren’t going to like it anyway, so I’m glad we’re through that. But I think I have a new approach on things. Is that fair?”
I said yes, it seemed so; but where were we going? She gave me a cryptic look, and when I saw us turn onto the approach to the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, I became more puzzled than ever. Pretty soon we were winding through the mazes of Astoria, and eventually we found ourselves in Brooklyn. Then I got the idea: she was making a sentimental pilgrimage.
“We wouldn’t be going to the ancestral homestead, would we?”
She darted me a frown. “Very clever of you. That’s exactly where we’re going. You are about to gaze upon one of the rare sights of the world, the birthplace of Cora Sue Brodsky.”
When we’d traveled another dozen blocks into the teeming warrens of Brooklyn, giving crisp directions to her driver, she eventually ordered him to pull over and we got out.
Here we stood on a corner, staring up at a grimy windowed, tired-looking building of
some six stories, every inch of which looked its century of age. We crossed the street and came up on the near corner, close to a red brick tenement building. An old woman sat on the stoop eating an apple while she addressed another woman leaning on a pillow over a windowsill.
“She could be Ma,” Claire said in an emotionless voice. “Look. Up there,” she said, pointing to a window. “That’s the one, right there.”
“That was your room?”
“Uh uh, that was the front room. Come on.” She guided me to the alley that ran beside the building, separating it from its neighbor. “That’s my room, up there. Hasn’t changed a bit. Some things never do, I guess.”
The solitary window at the rear was small and begrimed with soot; I wondered what light could come through those forlorn-looking panes to light the life of a five-year-old child who slept there with her sister.
“See the fire escape?” she asked. “That’s where I used to keep my flowers and plants. In the summer I used to sleep out there. Or up on the roof. Some nights you could hardly find a spot to put your bedding: it was so hot the whole building would empty out. Like people sleeping in air-raid shelters.”
I saw the woman on the steps giving us the eye and taking in every word. As she munched on her apple she inspected the core after every bite.
Claire stepped back to the curb, gave the doleful sight a long look, then turned on her heel and stalked off. As we passed her, the woman on the steps said to her companion at the window, “Why would she wanta come back here?”
“Just taking a walk down Memory Lane, Mrs. Beller,” said Claire over her shoulder. Her car appeared and as we got in the woman pitched her apple core after us.
I knew she’d lured me to Brooklyn to demonstrate in a visual and hence dramatic manner the deprived background she’d come from and how hard she’d had to struggle to climb the ladder. To show up almost sixty years later in a mink coat and diamonds outside the door of her old tenement house was the sort of theatrical gesture she doted on.