palms, then stopped again, staring at the rows of cars, gleaming with reflected sun. “You know what’s the worst? I didn’t know he was unhappy. Isn’t that terrible, not to know that about someone? Maybe the woman was part of all that, I don’t know. So maybe it’s my fault, too.”
“No. It’s nobody’s fault.”
“I didn’t even notice,” she said, not hearing him. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. One day, one thing, the next—” She put a hand up to her forehead, covering her glasses. “I’m sorry. I must sound like a crazy woman. Talking like this. You’re here five minutes—”
“It’s all right. I don’t know how to feel, either.”
She turned, dropping her hand. “Yes. I forget. It’s not just me, is it?”
He followed her to a convertible with the canvas roof down, shining with chrome, the metal handle already hot to the touch. She opened the door, then stood still for a second, looking at him.
“What?”
“Just then, with the bag, you were like him. Not the looks. You don’t look alike. But the gesture.”
He got in, flustered, and watched her start the car.
“I know it’s hard, but—tell me what happened. I want to know. The papers. I mean, dizzy spells.”
“That was their idea. I said, why not a stroke? Anybody can have a stroke. Even young. But they said a doctor could tell, if he looked. A fall, it doesn’t matter.”
“Who said?”
“The studio. They’re superstitious. Bad things. Maybe they stick . They’re not supposed to happen.” She glanced up at the bright sky. “Just sunshine.”
“But how? Through a window?” he said, still trying to picture it.
“There was a balcony. Just enough to step on. You know the kind?”
“A Juliet,” he said automatically.
“Yes? Like the play? So if you got dizzy, you could fall.”
“If you got dizzy.”
She looked at him, then up at the rearview mirror, backing out, physically moving away.
“Look,” she said, nodding toward the station doors as Polly came out with Carole Landis, arms linked. She waved and moved the car forward in the line to the exit. “Did you really meet Paulette Goddard on the train?” Not wanting to talk about it. “What was she like?”
“Nice,” he said, forced to go along.
“Maybe you are.”
“No, she was.”
“She won’t be after Polly’s through with her.”
“What was that about? With Chaplin?”
“Polly hates Chaplin. So he must be a Communist. Everyone she hates is a Communist. She hated Daniel, too, when he was in the union. She thinks they’re all Communists in the union.”
“Then why is she doing him a favor? Covering.”
“It’s for Yates. Daniel was important to him. Partners made money. So he was giving him a big picture to do. You know at Metro you have to wait years for that. That’s why he left there. You know what he’s like. Everything today. A skating picture, but still. A good budget.”
Not failing, on his way up.
“Skating. Like Sonja Henie?”
“Vera Hruba Ralston,” she said, drawing out the name. “You know her? Yates is in love with her. So it was a good job for Daniel. They paid him while they fixed the script.”
“Hruba?”
“‘She skated out of Czechoslovakia and into the hearts of America.’“
Ben did a double take, then smiled. “Really?”
She nodded. “On the posters,” she said, lighting another cigarette at the stop sign.
“Who’s Mr. Ralston?”
“She got it off a cereal box.”
“You’re making it up.”
“You don’t have to, not here.” She looked up at the sky again. “The fog’s burning off early. Sometimes it takes all morning. Shall we go to the hospital first?”
She pulled out of the lot, looking straight ahead. Smoke curled up from the cigarette between her fingers on the steering wheel, then flew back in the breeze as they sped up, mixing with loose wisps of hair. What California was supposed to be like—a girl in a convertible. But not the way he expected.
Across
“No. It’s nobody’s fault.”
“I didn’t even notice,” she said, not hearing him. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. One day, one thing, the next—” She put a hand up to her forehead, covering her glasses. “I’m sorry. I must sound like a crazy woman. Talking like this. You’re here five minutes—”
“It’s all right. I don’t know how to feel, either.”
She turned, dropping her hand. “Yes. I forget. It’s not just me, is it?”
He followed her to a convertible with the canvas roof down, shining with chrome, the metal handle already hot to the touch. She opened the door, then stood still for a second, looking at him.
“What?”
“Just then, with the bag, you were like him. Not the looks. You don’t look alike. But the gesture.”
He got in, flustered, and watched her start the car.
“I know it’s hard, but—tell me what happened. I want to know. The papers. I mean, dizzy spells.”
“That was their idea. I said, why not a stroke? Anybody can have a stroke. Even young. But they said a doctor could tell, if he looked. A fall, it doesn’t matter.”
“Who said?”
“The studio. They’re superstitious. Bad things. Maybe they stick . They’re not supposed to happen.” She glanced up at the bright sky. “Just sunshine.”
“But how? Through a window?” he said, still trying to picture it.
“There was a balcony. Just enough to step on. You know the kind?”
“A Juliet,” he said automatically.
“Yes? Like the play? So if you got dizzy, you could fall.”
“If you got dizzy.”
She looked at him, then up at the rearview mirror, backing out, physically moving away.
“Look,” she said, nodding toward the station doors as Polly came out with Carole Landis, arms linked. She waved and moved the car forward in the line to the exit. “Did you really meet Paulette Goddard on the train?” Not wanting to talk about it. “What was she like?”
“Nice,” he said, forced to go along.
“Maybe you are.”
“No, she was.”
“She won’t be after Polly’s through with her.”
“What was that about? With Chaplin?”
“Polly hates Chaplin. So he must be a Communist. Everyone she hates is a Communist. She hated Daniel, too, when he was in the union. She thinks they’re all Communists in the union.”
“Then why is she doing him a favor? Covering.”
“It’s for Yates. Daniel was important to him. Partners made money. So he was giving him a big picture to do. You know at Metro you have to wait years for that. That’s why he left there. You know what he’s like. Everything today. A skating picture, but still. A good budget.”
Not failing, on his way up.
“Skating. Like Sonja Henie?”
“Vera Hruba Ralston,” she said, drawing out the name. “You know her? Yates is in love with her. So it was a good job for Daniel. They paid him while they fixed the script.”
“Hruba?”
“‘She skated out of Czechoslovakia and into the hearts of America.’“
Ben did a double take, then smiled. “Really?”
She nodded. “On the posters,” she said, lighting another cigarette at the stop sign.
“Who’s Mr. Ralston?”
“She got it off a cereal box.”
“You’re making it up.”
“You don’t have to, not here.” She looked up at the sky again. “The fog’s burning off early. Sometimes it takes all morning. Shall we go to the hospital first?”
She pulled out of the lot, looking straight ahead. Smoke curled up from the cigarette between her fingers on the steering wheel, then flew back in the breeze as they sped up, mixing with loose wisps of hair. What California was supposed to be like—a girl in a convertible. But not the way he expected.
Across
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