Where the Truth Lies (41 page)

Nita smiled. “There you go. I’ll see if I can fix it. Just be nice, okay? Neuman and Newberry had to fork out a thousand dollars for the table we’re at.”

It was an otherwise empty table. Nita and I sat there watching the proceedings alongside the three steps up to the temporary stage. It was silly for me to be nervous, but anytime I have to speak before more than five people, I get the jitters. The luncheon wasn’t exactly star-studded, but Richard Benjamin and Paula Prentiss as hosts were charming and sly. Shari Lewis presented the Best Children’s Book award to a lavish Disney edition ofLady and the Tramp, which was accepted by Dean Jones. Roger Vadim presented Best Book on Foreign Film. He said that up until recently, he’d thought that California champagne was imported and his ex-wife Jane Fonda was a foreign film star. They’d divorced only a few months earlier, and he added that now she was foreign to him all over again.

I was getting anxious that Rona Barrett would be a no-show. We were only one category away from our presentation, which was for Best Critical Book on Cinema. But as a round of applause went up for Best Song Folio from a Motion Picture, Rona Barrett slid into the chair next to Nita. She had clearly just come from taping because she had on the heavy makeup required for TV. Or maybe she always looked that way. As she took note of any celebrities who might be in the room, I leaned over to her and extended my hand.

“Hello,” I whispered. “I’m presenting the next award with you.”

Rona looked at me. “You’re not Jim Bouton.”

I nodded my head glumly. “I know. I’ve tried to be throughout my life, but as you see … a dismal failure.” Ah. So I’d been summoned in relief, as it were, for the pitcher-author ofBall Four.

Rona’s reaction was reasonable, intelligent, and proved me not insane. She gestured to the file card in her hand. “Well, then, what they have us saying makes no sense.”

“I know.”

“No sense at all. Typical.”

Richard Benjamin was introducing us. “Our next award will be presented by two women from parallel tracks of reportage. One is the first lady of TV gossip and the editor of three, count them, three magazines featuring all the showbiz news that’s fit to ooze.” Richard looked at the card in his hand with mild dismay. “Your turn, darling,” he said to his wife, Paula, murmuring, “and not a moment too soon.”

Paula took over. “And with her, a young woman whose questions of the famous have sometimes resulted in answers we never thought we’d hear. She also writes a lot about sports.” This was news to me. I looked at Nita, who winked as if to say, “Told you I’d fix things.” Oh thanks so much. Paula continued, “And her first book about, and written in collaboration with, Vince Collins will be published by Neuman and Newberry this spring.”

She proclaimed our names. Rona and I stood and headed toward the podium. Rona stopped to talk to about three people on the way to the temporary stage, so I was left up there alone for a good ten seconds with nothing to do but wonder what I was going to say. Rona arrived at the mike. The first line was mine, and I decided to not read what was written. Instead, I somberly intoned: “Ladies and gentlemen, the lovely Ms. Barrett here was originally scheduled to present this next award with Jim Bouton, former major-league pitcher and author of the best-selling bookBall Four. She was, of course, surprised to be told thatI would be presenting the award with her.” I let mild anguish register on my face. “However, I’d like to make it clear to all of you …” (dramatic pause as I summoned the courage) “that I actuallyam Jim Bouton.” I put this across with solemnity. There was a moment in which I wondered what had made me think that was funny, and then there came a good-sized laugh across the room. “I hope you appreciate how hard it was for me to come up here and let you see me for who I truly am, and how hard it has been for me to keep my proclivities a secret shared only by my very closest teammates …” By now there was quite a lot of laughter, including the encouraging howls of Rona. I added, “And if you thought my previous book contained some shocking revelations, wait till the next one.” I looked down toward the general area of my crotch and looked back up. “Its title will beBalls None. ”

Hilarity ensued. The great thing about this setup, which Rona instantly realized, was that we could then do the Barrett-Bouton repartee as written, me in a slightly butch voice, she as her usual self, and it played very humorously in this context. Oh, I was an old pro at this now. Yes, yes. Carson would no doubt be having me fill in for him onThe Tonight Show one of these days, especially if he cut back to four nights a week, as was rumored.

Like every serious actress who’s ever found herself in an out-and-out stage farce, I instantly, shamelessly became a slut for laughs, a camp follower for a guffaw. Yes, this was what I’d always wanted. How lonely it had been, never hearing the laughter of my readers. I’d finish up my silly book about Vince and then head straight into stand-up work. College concerts more than nightclubs, I thought.

But before I did that, there was the little matter of announcing the Scotty award. Ho hum. Well, we’d soon dispatch that assignment. I had the envelope with the nominees and Rona had the envelope with the winner. I read:

“In the category of Best Critical Book on Cinema, the nominees are:Howard Hawks: The Vanishing Breed by Karl Thompson;Hitchcock and the Gaumont Studio by Robin Wood;Lelouch on Lelouch by Claude Lelouch;The Shy Genius of Harry Langdon by the late Arthur Conklin; andVal Lewton at RKO by Daniel Gerstein and Michael Croft.”

I stepped back and relinquished the microphone to Rona. My chum. She might want me to cohost her gossip show with her. I went back to get a Scotty award from a five-foot-eleven waif whose job it was to take the awards from the shelf and give them to the presenters.

“And the Scotty goes to …” Rona tore open her envelope and announced,“The Shy Genius of Harry Langdon by the late Arthur Conklin!”

There was applause that hopefully Arthur could hear somewhere. Paula Prentiss stepped over to Rona and whispered something in her ear. Rona nodded eagerly and proclaimed into the microphone:

“Ladies and gentlemen, accepting the award is Mr. Lanny Morris!”

I heard this as I took the Scotty award from the model, heard the crowd start applauding at their loudest level of the afternoon, heard the sound of the Scotty hitting the Lucite base of the display shelves, where it had fallen after I’d let it pass through my hands.

The model picked it up and handed it to me again.

I had to run before he saw me—oh but of course he’s seen me already, I’m on a goddamn stage, I was just prattling away thinking I was being funny. Funny!!! That’s right, God, fuckme. Fuckme !!

More applause for Lanny.

Mom, please save me. I saw him moving quickly up the steps to the stage, looking dashing in a tuxedo.

Mom wasn’t going to save me. And Rona was too busy applauding Lanny to save me from this man who had taken me to Shea Stadium, taken me for Chinese food, taken me to the Drive-In, taken me to the Plaza, taken me. Lanny was now on the stage. With a big smile on his face, he pointed a finger at Rona, who hugged him.

He never took his eyes from mine, not even for a second. And he never stopped smiling. It was a big painted circus poster of a smile that had no mirth. His television technique served him well. He had always been able to cheat his angles so that when he seemed to be talking with Vince or a stooge at his side, he was actually looking past their shoulder at the cue cards. He would read the cue cards, but millions of viewers would buy that he was looking straight at Vince. Suddenly, Rona was Vince and I was a cue card. He could read me like I wasHop on Pop.

I had made love with this strange man now wearing this immense, motionless smile. I had held my body against his, surrounded him with my mouth, and drawn him into me gladly, angling myself to help take him deeper, encouraging him to slam his body against and into me. Now he looked at me with his big smile of hatred. I was so afraid of him.

I walked the Scotty award over to Rona, to hand it to her, but he let go of Rona and took the award directly from my unsteady hands. I felt so ashamed, as if I were five years old and had wet myself while sitting at my parents’ dinner party and now everyone getting up from the table would see the wet all over my pale yellow skirt.

I thought, Maybe there might be an earthquake. Oh God, if you ever did something for me, an earthquake now. Structural damage, yes, but no deaths. And if there have to be deaths, all right, but at least not children. Maybe I could just yell, “Earthquake!” But the audience wouldn’t take my word for that; they’d have to feel the room moving beneath them, the way it was moving for me this very moment.

Maybe he doesn’t quite recognize me. Maybe he’s smiling at me because he’s uncertain. Itis possible for two people on two different coasts to look alike.

He plucked the award from me, took my left hand in his right hand, and spoke into my left ear: “Hello, Bonnie Trout, you cute little piece-of-shit liar.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled even bigger at me, as if I should find this funny. “Laugh at what I just said, you fucking little fraud,” he said, his back to the audience. I laughed out of fear, trying not to vomit at the same time.

Lanny stepped over to the podium mike, never relinquishing my hand. I had to walk there with him. I’m sure to the audience it was as if he’d simply forgotten to let go.

Lanny fell into the public style I’d not heard much when I’d been in his company, the voice he’d used to calm the woman on the airplane.

“Uhm, I thought it would be I should let you know I offered to accept this Scotty award for whomsoever because with it all being so very with the decorations and the nice ladies …” The audience laughed, just from recognition, and his voice got a little less nasal. “And I just want to say to Mr. Jim Bouton …” He nodded at me amid pleasant laughter. “And boy, she sure could have fooled me, huh? I thought she was somebody else entirely other.”

He gave my hand a squeeze. It hurt. I remembered from the Plaza how strong he could be.

“And to Miss Rhonda-Rhoda-Rina-Rona Barrett of Wimpole Street.” He beamed at her and she laughed good-naturedly. “You know I love you, sweetheart, and don’t say anything too not nice about the Lanny-Man, okaaaay?” Rona nodded an okay.

He leaned his lithe body into the podium and intoned, “Folks, Harry Langdon was one of motion pictures’ greatest comics. He possessed the sweetness of Laurel and Hardy, the stoicism of Buster Keaton, and the timing of Chaplin and Lloyd. I am overjoyed that this fine book by Artie Conklin has received the Scotty award, and I hope it will heighten awareness in the years to come of the profound contributions Harry Langdon made to American film comedy. I’m honored to accept this award for both Arthur and Harry. Thank you so much.”

He gave Rona another hug, which was difficult since he still hadn’t let go of my hand. I waved a good-bye to Rona the way my grandmother had waved good-bye to me as they’d wheeled her in for surgery that she did not survive. Lanny walked us off the stage, where Nita had six cameramen prepared to assault us. The flash guns fired and fired at us. (“Lanny, look over here—What’s your name, miss?—Lanny, you ever talk to Vince? Lanny, this way please—What’s the spelling on that name, miss?”) I was truly blinded by their flashbulbs. No wonder celebrities arriving at opening nights look harassed and terrified. I was relieved when Lanny said “That’s it, fellas” and stepped us through the service doors into the kitchen—relieved until I realized I was alone with Lanny.

“We’re going to have a little private talk, you devious bitch,” he said. “That all right with you? Because if it isn’t, I’ll turn right around and tell your publicist from your precious Neuman and Newberry about the huge deception you put over on me. So you okay with a little private talk?”

Without waiting for an answer, gripping my arm, he hurried us down a service corridor and a flight of steps. “You know this hotel, ‘Bonnie’? I know it real well.”

Frightened as I was, I protested, “Listen, you can’t just abduct me like this—”

“No complaints, Bonnie. I still haven’t decided whether I blow the whistle on you. Be nice now.”

We emerged into an enclosed cabana area attached to the hotel. “You like? Right in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard. Two stories of rooms surrounding all four sides of the pool. Very private.” Still moving at a fast clip, he walked us up a flight of steps and unlocked a blue door on the second level of the cabanas. “My room. Marilyn liked to stay here.” He gestured for me to enter. “She told me the first modeling job she had in Hollywood was lying on the diving board out there, wearing a terry-cloth swimsuit. She loved coming back years later, knowing she’d never have to pose for another cheesecake picture if she didn’t want to, that she could just stay in her room and fuck whoever she felt like fucking or, even better, nobody at all. That was her idea of success. Fucking nobody at all.” He drew the curtains in the room.

I sat on the bed, rubbing my arm. “You hurt me. You’re not above the law.”

“Sorry, but when you’re famous, you actuallyare above some laws. And you get a better shake on others. You don’t get executed if you’re convicted of murder, for example. You get life. It’s an understanding the courts have with the Screen Actors Guild.” He pulled out the room’s desk chair and sat, positioned opposite me. Behind him were color prints of Sacré-Coeur and Montparnasse. “And let me remind you that within the limits of our relationship, you are the lawbreaker, Bonnie Fucking Trout, falsely assuming another person’s identity, representingher home as your home, all for the purpose of eliciting confidential information from a business competitor. That’s what was going on, right?”

He got up restlessly, went to the small refrigerator, and got out a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. “Mouth a little dry, Bonnie?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I’d expect so.” He shut the refrigerator door, pulled the tab on the beer, and drank.

“Now look, wait a second,” I said in the strongest voice I could summon. “Obviously, I lied to you about who I was. I’m sorry. It was a huge untruth. It wasn’t planned, I was freaked out by suddenly being on the plane with you, having read your memoirs, having tried to get you involved in my book and been rejected—and once I was in the lie, I couldn’t get out. I know I would have told you eventually.”