Shortly after Fritzi’s return to Los Angeles, Mrs. Hong knocked on her door. “There’s a gentleman asking for you.”
Could it be Loy, back from Arizona? She’d been missing him terribly. She tore downstairs to the front parlor.
“Hobart!”
“Marry, it is I,” he said with a sweeping bow. “Holes in my shoes, railway soot in my hair, hope in my heart.”
After they embraced, she inspected him. His appearance dismayed her. His cheap green suit bagged at the knees. Shaggy gray hair straggled over his collar. Illness had pared at least twenty pounds off his portly frame and left him with a pallor. Both latches of his scarred valise were gone; he’d tied the grip with twine.
“Despite what I said in my note, I really didn’t expect to see you in California.”
“Reversal of fortune, dear heart. I have come humbly, to seek employment in pictures.”
“Good Lord. Let me get a shawl, and we’ll go for a walk while I digest this.”
They strolled to the Venice fishing pier. It was Sunday and crowded. The Ferris wheel calliope pumped out “Moonlight Bay.” She found that Hobart was perfectly serious, indeed, desperate.
She asked about his heart attack.
“The only word for it is epiphany. Convalescing amid drooling rustics and charity cases in that flyblown metropolis, Terre Haute—which, quite understandably, the author Theodore Dreiser, a native, fled from while still in possession of his sanity—lying there, might I say, I examined my life situation with a new clarity. It is ridiculous to imagine that the king of England will ever confer knighthood on an old poofter such as myself. What is left as a goal? To live in comfort. Which requires money. In London my personal reputation follows me like a mongrel dog. Vehicles suited to my talent are scarce in New York. The road is an unmitigated disaster, and producing is nothing but gambling against staggering odds. Why not, then, take a flyer in something popular? ’Twas your very sweet note with the posies that put me on to it. You know I’ve always found the flickers amusing—what is there to lose? May I buy you a bag of peanuts? I’ve twenty cents left.”
They sat on a bench on the pier, cracking the shells. She loved the vain old actor, who could be so silly and pretentious, yet innocent and vulnerable as a child. Munching a peanut, she thought aloud:
“Photoplays of Shakespeare have done well for some producers. Mr. Pelzer might be persuaded to try one, he’s high on culture. I’ll speak to him first thing tomorrow.”
“Ever the angel of mercy.”
Inevitably the conversation turned to the war. Hobart said, “My dear, I know your German background, so kindly don’t take it amiss when I express my opinion. I am an Englishman, with an inbred distaste for the German people. I believe they love war. They are certainly controlled by the military clique, men who trample anything in their path, no matter how fragile or defenseless. They must be stopped. Had I my youth, and the price of a steamship ticket, I’d sail home and enlist. Alas, I have neither. I shall find some other way to help my country. Young fellows like that Charlie Chaplin, though, had better hie over and do their duty.”
Fritzi pleaded eloquently. B.B. signed Hobart to play the title role in a two-reel version of Macbeth. Kelly didn’t like hiring an English actor but curbed his hostility when he computed the picture’s relatively modest cost (all costumes to be rented at a discount, Birnam Wood coming to Dunsinane to be kept off screen). Hobart was no longer a top-rank tragedian, but he still had a certain cachet. B.B. insisted his name would add luster to Liberty’s roster of players. When Hobart brought up the curse of the play, B.B. scoffed:
“Who believes that old stuff? You said yourself, it’s superstition in the theater. This is movies! New, modern. Anybody comes around trying to hoodoo your picture, Hobie, B.B. Pelzer personally will fix his wagon.” Eager to work, Hobart acquiesced without further protest.
The director in charge of the picture was new at Liberty. He was a stubby Viennese named Polo Werfels. Past careers to which he would admit included motorcycle racer, fireworks salesman, and circus knife thrower. He wore a black eye patch, called everyone “dollink,” and smoked more cigars than cousin Paul. He flogged his actors and crew mercilessly, always with the same charge: “Shake your ass, dollink, you’re costing us money.”
Kelly loved him.
Eddie took Fritzi into his office and presented a typed scenario for Paper Hanger Nell, to start filming the following Monday. Eddie beamed like a proud papa while Fritzi glanced over the two pages.
She tossed the scenario back to him. “So this time I’ll step in buckets of paste and wrap myself in sticky paper like a mummy. Swell.”
“Hey, Fritz, what is this? You’re not yourself.”
“Oh, Eddie, I don’t know. Everything’s going wrong.”
The day took another sudden and unexpected turn when B.B.’s typewriter, Miss Levy, tapped on Eddie’s door. “There’s a gent out front asking for you, Fritzi. Real slick fella,” Miss Levy added with an envious roll of her eyes.
Fritzi’s brief rush of excitement didn’t last; slick was not a word people would apply to Loy. Feeling grumpy and put upon, she trudged to the front porch. At the doorway she saw a shiny red Reo parked in front but no visitor. Not until she stepped outside did she see him, peering toward the back of the lot from the end of the porch.
“Harry? Is that you?”
“Yes, indeed. How are you, Fritzi?”
“What brings you to Los Angeles?” As if she had no inkling.
“Sightseeing. I’ve been to San Francisco and along the wild coast of Big Sur. Now I’d like to see your town, and how these pictures are made. I have one more day before I must go back.”
Fritzi wasn’t sure slick was the right word to describe Harry’s appearance either. Smart would be better—smart and rich. His three-piece suit of subtly striped gray wool was cut in the latest English style, buttoning high in front. His trousers had sharp center creases. His patent leather shoes shone, and a splashy yellow hanky bloomed in his breast pocket like an exotic flower. His hat was a trilby, appropriately rakish.
“It’s grand to see you,” she said with forced enthusiasm; no man but one could hold her interest just now. “I’ll be glad to give you a tour around—”
She stopped, stunned. Harry had been standing in a way that presented his left side but hid his right. As he turned toward her, she saw a wide band of black crape.
“Oh, no. Your wife?” she said instantly. Gravely, Harry nodded.
“It was inevitable, but no easier for that. Flavia passed in her sleep five weeks ago. I’m just now settling her affairs.”
“I’m so sorry to hear about it, Harry.”
“Thank you. I couldn’t bury Flavia in a Catholic grave, as she would have wished. We were married in a civil ceremony, and because I’m a Jew, she was automatically excommunicated. In the eyes of her church she lived scandalously, in mortal sin. Any God who imposes that kind of stigma on a woman as fine as Flavia is not a God for sane and compassionate people.”
He sighed. “Forgive me, I do get angry. Flavia’s faith meant a great deal to her, but she was denied its comforts. We did find a priest who felt that was wrong. Father Pius was something of a renegade—willing to hear Flavia’s confession secretly.”
After a pause he went on, “In many ways the last few weeks have been trying. My doctor suggested a change of scene, so I’m doing what I said I would—seeing the Pacific for the first time.” He tilted his head toward her, the emotion in his eyes unmistakable.
“Also seeing you again.”
“Harry—um, let’s go this way for our tour.”
“Grand. Will you have supper? Perhaps show me the sights tomorrow?”
“Of course.” She would feel too guilty if she said no.
She introduced him to people on the lot, many of whom greeted him enthusiastically, if not worshipfully; they knew his songs. Harry laughed and charmed them. But standing off to one side, Fritzi saw clearly that his eyes we
re marked by fatigue, and his step was less lively than she remembered.
He seemed to brighten at supper. They chatted about Paul’s book and his growing family, Harry’s newfound success writing scores for Broadway, the war. When he drove her home in the little rented Reo, he escorted her to the front door. There he remained a perfect gentleman, making no move to touch her, though she sensed that he wanted that. She’d vowed not to mention Loy; it would only hurt him.
“Tomorrow morning, then?”
“Yes, I’ve asked for the day off.”
“I can’t tell you what a tonic you are, Fritzi. I feel better than I have for months.”
On tiptoe, she kissed him quickly on the cheek. “I’m glad. Rest well.”
It was a whirlwind day: they rode the 10¢ Trackless Trolley to the heights in Laurel Canyon for a sunlit panorama of the distant downtown and the expanding residential suburbs, the gardens and citrus groves running all the way to the shining ocean.
At the Los Angeles central market they wandered among the stalls and produce wagons, bought juicy oranges, cut them open and laughed when the juice squirted them. They sipped sodas in an ice cream parlor and visited the great hall of the Chamber of Commerce building, whose most famous agricultural exhibit was a tusked elephant nine feet high, made entirely of California walnuts.
At the end of the day they repaired to another fine restaurant. There Fritzi asked a question that had occurred to her earlier:
“Do you wear that armband all the time?”
“Father Pius said it was appropriate. I’m determined to mourn Flavia properly.”
“For how long?”
Harry’s blue eyes locked with hers. “One year. Afterward I’ll be a completely free man.”
Tell him about Loy!
She knew she should, to save him false hope and, later, disappointment. Somehow it seemed cruel in light of his loss.
Light rain was whispering down when he returned her to Venice. “I do give you my condolences,” she said as they sheltered on the porch. Lily’s lively swearing drifted from the dormer window above them; no doubt she was in the throes of composition again. “You’ve become a dear friend, Harry.”
“Is that all?”
“For the present, yes. Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
The light falling through the screen door from the hall showed the disappointment lurking behind his smile. He was a wonderful man in many ways; he just wasn’t Loy. She felt intensely guilty about sending him away with a rebuff.
That was why she went up on tiptoe, pressed his face between her hands, and kissed the corner of his mouth. He started to throw his arm around her—his right arm, with the mourning band. He didn’t do it.
“Take care of yourself, Harry, please.”
“I shall. Goodbye until we meet again.” He settled the trilby on his head at a dashing angle, turned, and rushed down the steps as the rain fell harder.
The skies continued to pour. Rainy season’s early, she thought as she wearily dragged herself out of Eddie’s auto the following night. They’d spent a long and trouble-plagued day shooting the new Nell picture. Aware of her low spirits, Eddie insisted on going out of his way to drive her home. She was grateful.
He urged her to take a sleeping powder and not worry about the new picture. Fritzi squeezed his hand, said good night. Mrs. Hong told her Lily had dressed and gone out about six o’clock. “I leave now,” Mrs. Hong said. “Noodles on the stove. Eat some. Good for you.”
Fritzi thanked her and wandered into the parlor. She sprawled on the horsehair love seat, too weary to drag upstairs and change clothes right away. In her reticule she had a copy of the Times. She rubbed her eyes to clear them, tried to catch up on the news.
It was more of the same: Belgians starving, the German general Hindenburg taking command on the Russian front, a ten-million-dollar war loan approved for France. Secretary of State Bryan, the peace apostle, insisted the U.S. must supply all warring powers equally. She knew she should care about all of it, but at the moment she didn’t. She sat low on her spine, legs spread like a tomboy, trying to think nothing, feel nothing. She sat that way for twenty minutes while the rain hammered the roof and darkness fell.
Her head came up suddenly. She’d dozed. She noticed an auto parked outside, acetylene headlamps lighting the silvery raindrops. Its arrival must have wakened her.
Was it the police? Had something happened to Lily? She ran to the front door, stood inside the screen, trying to see. The rain blew onto the porch, flowed off the eaves, flooded across the walk.
The car door opened and shut. The driver splashed through mud, passed through the beams of the headlights, lit from the waist down. Then she saw his sugarloaf hat. “Oh, my God. Loy?”
She threw the door open, dashed to the edge of the porch. He bounded up the steps. She clasped his hand. “It’s really you, where’ve you been?”
“Working. Ince’s chapter play took longer than anybody expected.”
Overwhelmed with emotion, and too tired to dissemble, she flung her arms around his neck. With her head tilted back she gazed at him. “I thought you were never coming back.” She kissed him lightly. He smelled of tobacco and faintly of whiskey.
She leaned back, reluctant to let go of him. The wind blew rain onto the porch and over the two of them. “We should go inside.”
She felt his arm slip around her waist, pulling her gently. He laughed, a soft laugh deep in his throat, almost a cat’s purr. “Sure. But that was a real fine welcome to a weary traveler. Wouldn’t mind repeating it.”
Fritzi almost swooned. She locked her hands at the nape of his neck and kissed him hard while her heart pounded.
His other arm circled her waist. He held her close and she felt him harden against her leg. She tugged his hand, drawing him to the front door, where less rain reached them. Their clothes were already drenched, their faces dripping. Westward over the ocean, thunder pealed. Loy turned his head, looking into the house.
“Who’s at home?”
“No one.”
He kissed her throat, the lobe of her ear. “I sure did miss your company. Can we go upstairs?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. And no strings, Loy, I promise,” she cried, carried away by the feel of him, his hands, his mouth, the stormy darkness, all her months of yearning. She kissed him ardently, her lips open, sliding on his. When she broke away to open the screen door, she was trembling. Loy shook water from his hat and set it on his head.
“I read this in a book once,” he said, stepping forward. “Got to do it right.” She let herself go limp, surrendering without fear or regret as he picked her up in his arms and plunged into the darkened house.
73. Revelations
What she felt with him first was anxiety, but that soon melted and fused into urgency. A rising passion blanked her mind to everything but raw sensation and did away with her fears of inadequacy. The passion set her brain and hands on fire, her mouth and her skin and her clasping legs. It lifted and shook her with a sweet fury that surpassed anything she’d experienced before.
Afterward, in the hot and rumpled bed, Fritzi caressed him, smoothing down the long, damp hair at the nape of his neck. Rain fell past the window, shining like golden beads. She studied it a moment, then exclaimed, “You forgot the headlights.”
He rolled toward the window. “Damn if I didn’t. Got carried away. Too late now.” He bent over to kiss the corner of her mouth.
“How did you know when I’d be home?”
“Didn’t. Windy told me you’d come around lookin’ for me, so I came by once before. Talked to your friend Lily then.”
“Did you speak to Mrs. Hong?”
“Never saw her.” He touched her bare breast. His palm had a hard, callused feel, but he was gentle. “Didn’t plan for this to happen, you have to believe that.”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly uncooperative,” she said with a nervous little laugh.
He laughed too. He kissed the warm curve of her neck. “Going t
o cause you any problems with the landlady, us being up here like this?”
“The Hongs won’t be back until very late. They clean up after the restaurant closes. If Lily comes home, it won’t faze her. If I let her, she’d stand in the doorway and applaud. She thinks I’m sort of a stick.”
“I don’t remember you that way anytime in the last half hour.” It was true; she’d felt the joy and release of giving herself wholly without expecting anything of him beyond the moment. Still, she fretted:
“Was it really all right?”
“Perfect. Couldn’t be better.”
Rain hit the windows in stormy gusts. Fritzi pulled the starched sheet over them, shivering as her body cooled.
“You’re sure? I worry that my mouth’s too thin and my hips too big. Up here”—she brought his hand to her breast—“it’s nothing to boast about either.”
“Listen, do I have to go to some courthouse and swear on a Bible? You’re just fine.”
He slid his hand under his head to reflect. “Can’t say as I know anybody who’s altogether happy with themselves. Take me. I hate the name my mama handed me. Loyal, what kind of name’s that? It was her grandpa’s name. To me it sounds sissy.”
“It’s a fine name. Strong.”
“I don’t know. I wish they’d named me something common like Jim or Bill. Loyal got me into plenty of fights when I was a youngster, I’ll tell you.”
He was quiet a while before going on. “I don’t know how to say this exactly right, but I want you to know I didn’t come into bed with you just for sport. I like you, a lot. But I wouldn’t want you to expect—”
She pressed her fingers to his mouth. “You don’t need to say any more. I tried to tell you, there are no strings on this. I understand how you feel about settling down.”
He leaned his cheek on her shoulder. “Wandering’s in my blood, I guess. But there’s more to it. My sister Clara.”
“In the institution.”
“Yep. You’re entitled to know the story.”
“Loy, I’m not asking—”