Detour (17 page)

I am not trying to excuse myself for this cold blooded attitude by reminding you that in the four or five months I had been separated from him he had gone out of my life entirely. Nevertheless, such was the case. Hollywood is a peculiar spot. Once you're here, everything and everyone outside seems to be at the other end of the world. Live in Hollywood for a short while and then try to go home. You'll never be contented again. A week here will find you infected with that curious unrest that is so much a part of everyone in the colony. I could understand now why I seldom wrote letters to him. I had imagined that this was because I had nothing of interest to report, little dreaming that we were in the act of drifting apart and approaching permanent estrangement. His own letters to me, while always welcome, I now realized meant no more than a temporary escape from my problems.

So Alex was dead, poor lamb. And murdered. Well, this was not surprising. A violent death was quite in keeping since all his life Alex had been a pugnacious sort, picking fights with people upon the slightest provocation. I remembered the time he had been fired from his job for just such antics. Imagine hitting a customer—and on the dance-floor, of all places. Oh, he thought he was doing me a favor, of course, upholding my honor and all that sort of rubbish. In reality, if he'd only known it, it caused nothing but trouble. Bellman warned me that if I had any more admirers with tempers like that he'd have to dispense with my services. Why
do
men persist in the belief that women relish brutality? That type of thing went out with the Stone Age.

And that he should have died in Arizona also was not very surprising. Without a doubt he had been on his way out to see me, as I had begged him to do many times. From the looks of things, he had met up with bad company, become involved in a brawl on the road and someone had blackjacked him.

My motto has and always will be: What is done is done. Therefore, after several minutes allotted to getting over the shock, I dabbed at my eyes and ceased thinking of him. He had been very sweet and considerate; but people die every day and, no matter how much they may have meant, life, like the show, must go on.

Now I would have to concentrate on Raoul, whom I loved. If he in turn loved me—as I was positive he did—he must marry me before leaving for New York. Hollywood was more sickening than ever. The studios were still impregnable fortresses, so near and yet so far beyond reach. Then, too, I suddenly remembered I no longer had a job. Damn Selma.

Well, I mused, maybe it was for the best. Back East I could land something in a minute, and with Raoul appearing in the new Harris production we'd be doing fine. But no more ruining my arches for Bellman. I'd wait until something decent turned up—a show job, or even a spot in the Paradise Restaurant chorus. This decided, and with my mind made up to be gone from Hollywood in a week, I began contemplating married life as Mrs. Kildare. But would he be willing to marry me? That was a dubious point. For some reason people in the profession regard marriage as a snare which is set to trap and extract their various personalities. The very thought of sacred bonds west of Vermont Avenue is abhorrent.

Well, abhorrent or not, Raoul would marry me or I'd know the reason why. I'd think of angles. I patted Ewy on the head, pushed her away gently and rose from the divan.

“Get me up in the morning, honey,” I said softly. “Before you leave for the studio be sure I'm out of bed. And now we'd better turn in. It's after three.”

As I led her into the bedroom, still weeping, she turned towards me. “God, you're taking it bravely,” she choked.

There are various ruses a girl may employ in wooing a man to the point of proposal. These are not new innovations, despite the hypocrisy of our grandmothers. Women have chosen and pursued their men since the beginning of time although they have graciously permitted the victim the misconception that they merely submitted.

On my way to the hospital the next afternoon I considered these methods, discarding the most effective at once because it is nasty. Not only that, it defeats its own purpose. Sooner or later the man is bound to discover he has been duped and will see to it that life is made miserable for the girl—unless, of course, she really
has
a baby.

The second of these is purely psychological: play up to the fellow's ego (they all have them); make him conscious how weak and helpless you are to battle life alone; paint a grim picture of your present surroundings, taking pains of course, to hide your new fur coat; and make the future look exceedingly black—at the same time insisting that you thoroughly
dislike
the idea of marriage. But, by all means, never let him suspect you are leading him on.

And, lastly, is complete frankness—disarming if inadvisable, however a great time-saver. I decided that since the time element was so important to me—not having a job or even the remotest prospect of one—I'd come right out and tell him bluntly I wanted him to marry me. If he loved me he wouldn't find this objectionable. If he didn't—well, plenty of time to think of that later.

Still, in all I was a little timid about proposing cold. I was brought up in the crinoline tradition. Ladies, to my mother's way of thinking, should be little more than animated dishcloths, tea-pourer's and bridge-fiends. Even on Leap Year she would have committed
hara-kiri
before asking an old friend to dance with her. Her instructions were that I take what I want only when it was formally offered to me, replete with red tape and Emily Post. Consequently, you can understand, it was a mighty nervous girl who stood beside Raoul's wheel-chair on the hospital sunroof.

“Why, what is it, darling?” he asked. “You're jumpy as a cat. Is something troubling you?”

Knowing now that I loved him, he had regained much of his poise, his sense of humor and his phony English accent. However, now he had a sincerity about him and the overbearing manner to which I objected before was missing.

“No-o-o,” I replied.

What was the sense, trying to kid myself. I couldn't do it. Each time I came to the point I stopped. It wasn't that I was bashful, exactly; it was just that I knew I couldn't make it sound right. Putting a hand on his arm, looking him squarely in the eye and saying: “Will you marry me?” was a speech for a man or for a Lesbian.

“That's good, sweetheart. Everything's going to be all right from now on. Once we get to New York....”

A good sign. Knock wood. I was going to New York with him.

“... and I land that part in the Harris show, we'll be sitting on top of the world.”

“Won't we though?” I sighed, loud enough for him to hear me. “It'll be swell, being together.”

“Scrumptious. ”

“We've got to make plans.”

“Yes. Oh, I've made some already. I'll have to get two new tires for the Caddy before we leave. Retreads. And say, I'm short a suitcase. Have you room in your luggage for my tennis and riding kit?”

“Of course. I'm going to throw out a lot of my junk. I need new clothes and plenty of them. Oh, Raoul, isn't it wonderful! Just think how seldom two people who love each other come together. It's so lucky our paths crossed. Why, if I hadn't taken that temporary job at Bloomberg's—as I almost didn't—and you hadn't driven in...”

“I would never have met you.”

“Wouldn't it have been awful?”

“I can't conceive of it.”

“We should be so grateful, darling. And I know everything's going to turn out fine for us. Just think—only the two of us.”

He bit his lip absently. “Yes, the two of us...”

“You and I...” I murmured, lowering my eyes
a la
Merle Oberon and squeezing his hand. Hope, at the moment, was strong. I took note of his furrowed brows indicating deep thought, and of his mouth which he opened and shut several times as if he was starting to say something.

“Sue,” he said at last, after a few minutes of silence, “I'd like to ask you—”

“Yes?” Breathlessly, breathlessly, breathlessly. Surely now he was about to pop that welcome question. Or wasn't he?

“I'd like to ask you if you think it's wise paying my back Guild dues, seeing that I'm leaving for New York?”

I dropped his hand and turned to face him squarely. That was all I needed. “Raoul. Are you or are you not going to marry me?” I demanded.

He gaped at me speechlessly for a minute, his face registering perfectly all the emotions necessary to an actor: surprise, horror, pathos, humor. He didn't seem to know what to say, whether to laugh, cry, or both.

“Do... do you mean it?” he managed to get out.

“Of course I mean it!”

“Yes, yes. I... I rather thought you did. Well...” He paused, fumbling for words. His face was pale and drawn. But I was in no mood for evasion. He was on the spot and I intended to keep him there until I got a definite answer. “Well what? Are you or not?”

“Why... why, yes. Yes, of course, Sue. Only...”

I kissed him on the mouth. “Oh, Raoul you've made me so happy. I never knew I could love anyone like this.”

“I love you, too. Only Sue...”

“We can go down-town as soon as you're discharged from here and get the license. It takes three days, you know.”

“Yes. I know.”

I kissed him again and this time I really enjoyed it. However, I noticed that he was pulling away from me slightly.

“Now wait a minute, Sue. There's something you don't understand. We can't get married immediately.”

“Of course we can't, silly. In California you have to wait....

“Anywhere we'd have to wait. You're forgetting, aren't you?”

“Forgetting what?”

“Selma. We were never divorced.”

The world came up and hit me on the chin. Selma. Selma, of all people. She was his
wife.

“We're only separated, you know.”

“Oh.”

“Now you understand, don't you?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I understand perfectly.”

“But I'll speak to her before we leave. She's not a bad sort. As long as I pay for it, she'll file suit. ”

“Yes.”

“I knew you'd understand.”

And pulling me down to my knees beside his chair, he stroked my forehead and made pretty speeches, all about how beautiful I was, and how sweet, and how I affected him. The dialogue might have been by Shakespeare, for all I cared. I wasn't even listening.

No one will ever live to see the day that Sue Harvey takes anyone else's left-overs—especially Selma's. I don't like second-fiddle, even in a symphony orchestra. Therefore, before I came out of the hospital, my mind was made up to forget Raoul Kildare. Whatever I had lost in pursuing my career, at least I still had my pride.

But I was hurt, for I loved him. Isn't it always the case? Things you don't care about are offered to you by the dozen; something you really want is denied you. This is a very nasty world we live in.

I walked all the way home, completely ignoring the fact that I still was required to finish up the week at Bloomberg's. I think better while walking, you see, and I was racking my brain to find some way to even up the score with that low, good-for-nothing Selma. But it didn't take much thinking. Fortunately, by the time I reached Western Avenue, I had the inspiration. The beauty of it was it would only cost a penny to do hundreds of dollar's worth of damage.

I went into the drugstore at the corner of Western and Franklin and bought a post-card.

Dear Mr. Bloomberg (I wrote).
I believe you have a strict rule about employing married women. You discharged Gwen Fisher the other evening for this reason, if you recall. Yet you still keep Selma Nicholson, who is the wife of an actor by the name of Kildare. Is that what you consider fair play?

Leaving it unsigned, I dropped it into a mailbox. That took care of that.

Feeling much better about everything now, I continued to walk home. Was it wrong to do such a thing? Should I, as in the Bible, have turned the other cheek? Only a fanatic like my mother would practice that. I'm no angel.... Besides, Selma
was
married, wasn't she? There are too many single, unsupported girls out of work as it is. Bloomberg was absolutely right in not hiring married help. It was my duty to... Oh, hell. Of course, duty had nothing to do with it. I just wanted to get back at her and this was the only way that presented itself.

Ewy must have arrived home from work and gone out again before I came in, because there were three notes for me: one on the bed, one in the middle of the living-room rug, and one in the bathroom. The first one requested that I be very quiet coming in that night; number two was to the effect that Mr. Fleishmeyer of the Fleishmeyer Agency had phoned and left a message that I call him whenever I came in; while number three stated that Ewy had won $57.40 on a horse called Paradisaical which had nosed out one called Easy Cash back in New York. It went on to say that she would pay me what she owed in the morning. There was a five-dollar bill pinned to the note which, Ewy said, I might need in the meanwhile. I put the money in my purse and decided to go down to the Boulevard. The bungalow was getting on my nerves. If I stayed in I would only begin brooding about Raoul. In any event, there were some slacks I wanted to buy at the Sport Shoppe.

But before I left the bungalow, I went to the telephone and dialed a number.

“Hello. Mr. Fleishmeyer, please. Miss Harvey calling.” A wait. “Hello, Manny. How are you? What? Oh, nothing much, really. Just been in a rut. Something came up that's kept me busy for a week. Oh no. Nothing like that. Just some personal business. Unimportant. What's new with you? Yes... yes... yes... yes. No! Really! At Selznick? Do you think you can? Oh, Manny, that's wonderful! When? On Thursday? Sure, I will. Wait, I want to jot that down. Thursday morning—ten o'clock report to wardrobe—test on Stage 4—what? Oh, will you pick me up? Fine. That's sweet of you, Manny. Thanks. What's that? Tonight? Surely, I'd love to. It's been ages, hasn't it? But that's Hollywood for you. You lose track of everyone. Come about eight-thirty, dear. I'll promise to be ready by then. Oh, all right. Make it seven-thirty if you insist on buying my dinner. O.K. Until seven-thirty then, Manny. Good-bye.”