Busy gathering my things together, I had my back to her, then I heard her voice: low, sultry, movie-Claire. “Hey, take a look, baby.” I turned to see her leaning provocatively against the jamb, with the fold of her housecoat pulled back, showing off her leg in the classic show-biz stance. “Not bad pins for seventy-one, huh?” she growled.
“You better believe it,” I replied with a show of enthusiasm. “In fact, damn good.” True, those underpinnings were indestructible.
She laughed sardonically. “Before long, I won’t be needing them anymore.”
“Well, you can always have them bronzed and leave them to a museum.”
“I may just do that,” she said. I smiled and turned to go, but her next words halted me. “Wait a minute, laddie. Before you get out of here, there’s something else I’ve decided to tell you. I wasn’t going to, but what the hell, I was up all night thinking it over. I told you a lie—the same lie I’ve been telling the world for fifty years. Protecting the image, y’know? Playing goddess, all the time goddess.”
“Are you saying the goddess has feet of clay?”
“Does she ever. Do you know what I’m talking about?” I didn’t, but was all ears. “One of my movies, one of the real early ones. In fact, the earliest. And I don’t mean the one with Fedora. They didn’t make this movie at AyanBee, they shot it in a hotel in Brooklyn. Don’t look so dumb, you know what I’m talking about.”
“Maid’s Night Out?”
“That’s the one, bubbie. I thought I’d go to my grave before I admitted it, but—now you know. Do with it as you will. Claire’s famous blue movie. The old story, I needed the dough. Some girls will do a lot when they need money.”
“So will guys. Don’t sweat it.”
“At my age? Not likely. And I’ll tell you something else. I did the whole damn thing on my back, you know.”
I turned back and stared at her. She nodded slowly as if to acknowledge what she had said.
“What?”
“You heard me. I said I did it all on my back.”
“You—did…?”
“Believe it, baby. We all did it on our backs.”
“Who did?” I asked stupidly. I wasn’t catching on very quickly.
Her laugh was scornful; the chin came up defiantly. “I did. They did. We all did. —— did it on her back. And —— did it on hers and —— and —— , I mean, we all did it.”
Those blanks represent some celebrated names, household names if you will, ladies of the silver screen one scarcely associates with having succeeded in their chosen careers through lying down on their backs, yet she had said so; I heard her.
“I was a star, wasn’t I?” she asked.
If I didn’t need to say it, still she needed to hear it: “You were the brightest of them all.”
She nodded slowly. “Belinda was the better actress, but I was a bigger star. There’s a difference, you know.”
“I know.”
Brother, did I know. It took nothing from Belinda Carroll, but it enlarged Claire Regrett to the appropriate, larger-than-life scale. Yet now things like that seemed of so little importance. What was movie stardom in the face of one’s death, the end of everything?
“What about the book?” she asked. “Will you put it in? About Oscar?”
She’d said she didn’t want me to; now I wasn’t so sure. Still, it helped in painting a truer picture of the old Hollywood, the golden one she’d known and been a queen of, a Hollywood now gone. This was a verity. The Hollywood she had known was as dead as Baalbek or the rose-rock temples of Petra. Claire Regrett had stood for the Hollywood that Mrs. Wilcox had named so long ago, the Hollywood that thrived before green grass grew in the streets, before glum Jack Webb took to TV and Selznick Studios became Desilu Culver, before Louis Mayer went down into his grave and the whole world changed.
There came another spring, this being the year they reseeded the Sheep Meadow in the park, and Claire liked to walk over there and marvel at its verdancy. On these occasions she was lively and interested, pointing out provocative sights—a girl doing cartwheels, a rider trotting by on horseback, a red setter chasing behind, a man cutting out paper dolls, a woman reading a book under a tree.
Across the park, in our high-ceilinged bedroom with the wide picture window where the sun flooded in and where at night we could lie and look at the stars or at the lights of the Empire State Building, Belinda and I were merry and loving and we talked about what the future might hold for us. We had given up our country hideaway and by now Belinda had left the show; eighteen months on a strict diet of Peking Duck were six more than she’d bargained for, and she had a good movie script in hand. So, as the sun sank slowly in the east, it was fond-farewell time to New York and hello to Hollywood. I’d be following her as soon as I’d wrapped up my affairs. The day she was to leave, flowers arrived: roses, from Claire. Her card said “Bless you, darling.”
Primary among the things I had to deal with were Claire herself, as well as Claire’s book. This had been a good period for her, the last she was to enjoy. Recently I’d watched her settle even more comfortably into the groove she had cut for herself. Whatever grudges she may once have held she seemed to have forgotten by now. This isn’t to say that she’d pulled out her knitting and turned into old Aunt Kate rocking her way to the boneyard. But the mellowing process continued day by day, the grapes fermented in the old keg, vintage wine was being made. I saw her often now, and derived much pleasure from our visits. Yet the days, lovely as they were, had an impermanence to them; and though I knew what was happening, I tried to ignore the fact that the Grim Reaper was sharpening up his scythe.
Two years had elapsed since the morning Vi had called me in my tub and broached the idea of the book, slightly less long since I’d taken Claire to lunch and she’d fallen down the stairs at the Four Seasons. Now that the book was as complete as it would ever be, various parties at my publishers were reading the manuscript. I drew a long breath; it had not been exactly a labor of love, most of the time mere and sheer labor, but it was done. It was called Movie Star, and I hoped it would be out in time for the Christmas trade. Claire had read her way through the text several times and had made innumerable corrections, but the last time I’d turned up at the San Remo she at last pronounced herself satisfied—no mean accomplishment.
One early evening we were sitting in the library, she in her favorite chair, the dog curled on its cushion. The New York world outside the windows had turned blue, all the ultramarine shadows of a Monet. In the gathering dusk, amber lights pierced the blue with shades of peach and yellow.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Claire asked. Her voice sounded unusually hoarse this evening. “It’s New York at its best. Not like the Bensonhurst days, huh?” She spoke lingeringly, even hauntingly, of her life as a child in Brooklyn, “the terror of the block” who used to slug it out with the boys. “Imagine, those people never in their lives get above a fifth or sixth floor, they never are up, looking down. Never in, looking out. Just always down, always out. I guess that’s why they call it down and out.
“Well,” she went on, “there’s one thing you can do at my age. Erase it all. Just clean off the blackboard.” She chuckled into the dog’s fur. “That was sure some way to clean out the place, wasn’t it?” She was referring to that night she’d wrecked the joint. “I should have done it a long time ago, just set fire to all the junk. What a lot of useless stuff we shlep around with us, what a lot of worries we could just as well do without. But,” she took care to add, like a chastened little girl, “I was wrong to pull a tantrum like that. Tantrums are for children, not grownups.”
When I assured her that, all things considered, I thought she’d learned a hell of a lot, she accepted the homage without comment. These days she was depending more and more on the presence of Hazel Conklin. Often I’d hear them speaking in low voices about matters that didn’t concern me, I knew, but I assumed they had their heads together in an attempt to reach some deeper form of per
ception, coming to terms with things, letting Claire’s spirit, whether diminished or enlarged, circulate freely in the small space that now confined her existence.
As long as she could sit up and hold a pen, the flow of violet-tinted notes had seldom ceased from the tower penthouse. Like a never-ending river of script they’d gone into the brass mail slot, down the chute, into the canvas bag in the lobby, and from there to the four corners of the world. I found it remarkable that the woman’s legend was such that, with her being all but removed from the world, so many fans, most of them strangers, had things to communicate to her, each one telling her she was still someone of consequence among her fellow human beings.
To handle these and other minor matters, Claire had engaged a youngish woman who also did bits of shopping, who “kept the files up,” and—a more important task—who read to her. Claire’s eyes had been weak for the past few years, and so it fell to this Rosalie Spivak to sit at her bedside or with her in the library, going through newspaper gossip columns, magazine articles and stories, books, religious tracts, whatever might interest Claire.
Rosalie was a fan of the first water, had seen every available film that Claire had been in; she’d written her a letter fifteen years ago and now was resolutely serving her however she could. The author of the day happened to be Tolstoy, the book—wonder of wonders—was War and Peace.
“I always promised myself I’d read it,” Claire said. “It’s one of the things I want to accomplish before I go. Some book, huh?”
I conceded that it was indeed “some book,” then asked how it was she hadn’t read it before now.
“I’ve tried a couple of times, but I never could get past all those goddamn Russian names. And the battles and characters running around all over the place. But I know what it’s all about anyway—I read a synopsis in a book of plots.”
I said I thought that was as good a way as another to get a fix on such a daunting work.
“Perry gave me a boxed set of Proust one Christmas,” she went on, “but I couldn’t hack it, I used it for correctional posture.”
I had a picture of Claire Regrett answering the door with three volumes of Remembrance of Things Past balanced on her head.
And as the days passed, one by one, I came to share Rosalie’s fear that Claire would never reach the end of the Wars of Napoleon, or see Pierre at last win Natasha.
Still, there was no immediate hint of the end, which stole upon us suddenly. There are always “last times” for everything, and, as I’d known it must and would, there arrived an abrupt termination to this life that I’d been chronicling for so long. Again I’d come back to the city; this was about a week after Labor Day, when the place was filling up again with New Yorkers reopening their apartments after the summer’s hiatus in the country or at the beach. I flew in early one evening through a sky sultry with heat, with sizzling hints of an electrical storm in the curry-purple haze across which moved huge buffalo heads of roving clouds whose undersides were turned to bright golden fleece by a sun that had retained its noonday heat.
Once in my apartment I unpacked my bags, had a cold shower, then went and sat on the terrace, from which I could see all the way across town to that other apartment. I had no notion of the present state of affairs there, yet as I studied the building through my telescope, I had an uncanny feeling that they might not be so happy. When the lens disclosed no signs of life behind the windows, on a sudden urge I carried the telephone outside and dialed. I used our signal, then hung up and dialed again; no answer. When I repeated the action, I got the same result. I hung up again, waited, then set the phone down at my side. Puzzled at the lack of a response, I shifted my gaze to the southern view of the city, which even at sundown was throwing off heat in palpable waves. Feeling it, I took the phone back inside and started up the Casablanca fan in my bedroom. I finished putting things away; then, as I picked up the phone to make a call, it rang in my lap.
“Was that you?” asked Claire’s little-girl voice. I acknowledged that it was. She sounded glad to hear from me. She’d been on the potty. I asked how she was doing and she tried to bypass the question, declaring that she was perfectly well and there was no need to delve into her health. Even so, I gleaned certain facts. She said she was ambulatory, that she was capable of looking after herself, that Rosalie was reading to her, and that she’d like to see me. I was listening hard, trying to gauge things from her voice. She asked questions about my own situation, and though her voice had timbre, to my ear it sounded faulty and weak, as if the conversation were taxing her, but when I said something to end it, she insisted that we go on. “Why don’t we save it until I can come visit,” I said.
“They’re having fireworks with the Philharmonic tomorrow evening. If you come over, we could watch.” She laughed. “Unless you’re the kind who doesn’t like fireworks. By the way—it’s my birthday, in case you’ve forgotten.”
I hadn’t forgotten, I just hadn’t realized it. But I assured her of a longstanding fondness for fireworks and accepted the date. Then I rang up Hazel to double-check.
“Not good,” I was told. “Not good at all.” I could tell she was worried. The pancreatic inflammation had worsened, exocrine was secreting into the stomach, she was weakening and could go at any time. To satisfy my anxiety, Hazel went into some detail, and when I asked if I should go over, she said no, let her rest.
That night she had a violent upset, but since Hazel had promised no hospital she sent for Dr. Sadikichi again. By then Claire had slipped into unconsciousness, and while she was comatose he gave her a couple of hefty shots of insulin. When I called next morning, she had rallied. “The party’s still on,” Ivarene told me. “She talked the doctor into it. But don’t stay late.”
I left my apartment on the stroke of seven. As I cabbed my way across Central Park, to my bland California eye the evening seemed pleasantly rife with promise; one of those rare New York evenings filled with the super-glamour and heightened air of excitement that only a large city offers, the idea of wonderful things happening or about to happen. Couples strolled along under the dark trees, came into the glow of a streetlamp, then half disappeared among the shadows, while the hum of traffic lulled around the curves of the road. Horses’ hoofs clopped nimbly as a pair of hackney coaches passed by. Out on the lawn the final inning of a Softball game was just breaking up, the players’ white T-shirts glimmering as the dusk came on.
At the San Remo the elevator operator greeted me in a friendly way as I stepped into the waiting car and we started up. It was Ivarene who answered my buzz. “How is she?” I whispered as she ushered me in.
“Somewhat better. I thought we’d lost her there, but—” Her look was eloquent. “She doesn’t know the doctor shot her up.” I got the picture.
From up ahead I could hear the sounds of conversation. We came onto the terrace to find Claire ensconced on a chaise. I was shocked to see how wasted she looked, but I pretended not to notice.
“How’s the birthday girl?” I asked, bending down to her.
Stretching out her arms, she gave me a hug and kissed both my cheeks. “Now the party can start.” How tired she sounded, how un-Claire. The high-tech was all gone, this was lavender and old lace.
When I’d added my gift to the small arrangement on the table, I shook hands with Dr. Sadikichi and his wife, then the Steins, and finally with Hazel Conklin, who sat to one side, a light sweater over her shoulders, her glasses twinkling in the light reflected from the east. On a glass-topped table was spread an array of fruit juices and soft drinks, as well as wine and several platters of hors d’oeuvres.
Ivarene came out again, accompanied by Rosalie Spivak, who also wore a party dress and had brought a gift.
Accepting a soda pop from Ivarene, I looked down at the park. Already the broad Sheep Meadow was jam-packed, and I could make out figures on the bandstand tinkering with the sound equipment. The orchestra chairs were all arranged in a semicircle, but only a few were occupied as yet.
“Claire, why not open your presents now, while it’s still light enough to see?” the doctor suggested. She smiled and shook her head; she wanted to wait until after the concert. I caught Hazel’s quick glance; if she managed to stay awake until the end, she meant.
We sat talking companionably, Claire and this loosely constructed “family” she had gathered around her. There were intense currents abroad in the air; I definitely felt them—currents composed of warm spirits and bonhomie and the clink of ice in glasses, of Claire’s festive appearance, as well as the fact of her birthday and the small pile of gifts.
As the sun dropped from sight and the twilight turned to full dark, the lights came on and down in the park we could see the musicians moving onto the stage. They tuned their instruments, and presently Zubin Mehta appeared in his white coat, coming center stage to bow in the spotlight. Then, addressing the podium, he raised his baton and gave the downbeat. Two seconds later the music reached our ears as he began the Beethoven Pastorale, a fitting selection on so beautiful an evening. We settled back in our chairs to enjoy the concert.
The orchestra was only partway through the first movement when the telephone rang.
“Don’t answer it,” Claire said as Ivarene moved to pick up the receiver.
“You’d better,” I said apologetically. Ivarene was permitted to see who it was; then with a look to her mistress she waved the receiver at me. It was Felix Pass calling from Los Angeles about the film negotiations we were currently involved in. I ducked into the library and shut the door; Ivarene hung up outside. It was nearly closing time in Los Angeles and Felix came on the phone with a lot of legal mumbojumbo. I had to jot down notes and figures and pay close attention to every word, and all the while, through the closed terrace door I could hear the distant strains of the concert.
The phone call, while of considerable importance, irked me because I missed almost all of the last movement of the Pastorale. A twenty-minute intermission followed, during which Claire’s guests chatted amiably, agreeing that she was looking very well for her birthday celebration. While Ivarene and Rosalie passed plates of food, Dr. Sadikichi told a bad joke and was admonished by Mrs. Sadikichi, Rosalie reported something amusing that Liz Smith had written in her column, which made us all laugh, and everyone seemed to have reached a tacit agreement to make the most of the evening; who knew when another like it might come?