All That Glitters (46 page)

Maudie Fagan would in time become Maude Antrim, one of the great silent-screen stars, and when she successfully made the transition to sound, she went on—as few others did—to even greater triumphs. Mary Pickford might fall by the wayside, and all her sisters, but Maude was like the Santa Fe Railroad, she went on and on.

Off the screen, for many of those years she reigned side by side with her husband, Crispin, acting as the chatelaine of that famous and magical Hollywood domicile called “Sunnyside,” like the equally famous “Pickfair” one of the town’s landmark show-places, although Maude was the first to tell you that she was never a pillar of the Hollywood Establishment. When Crispin died, she laid to rest all the social fa-fa-ra, the big parties he’d loved, the entertaining of visiting firemen, the hoity-toity dukes and duchesses, the renowned authors in tweeds and kiltie shoes, the politicians belching behind their cigars. Bernard Shaw, Richard Halliburton, Lowell Thomas, Mary and Doug, Hearst and Marion, Mrs. Pat Campbell, even Churchill, they all dined there. Perry Antrim, Maude’s son, once sat on the lap of Queen Marie of Romania—indeed, Perry’s elbows were always well worn from rubbing them with the famous names of this century, for few folk of any consequence weren’t invited to partake of the hospitality of Sunnyside. And, not so incidentally, it remains one of my greatest joys that during a period of personal domestic upheaval, I was permitted to know the rooftree of that house; and to come to know the lady herself.

It all came about in this manner:

Jenny’s and my problems didn’t go away, and when I came back from New York in 1972, to ease domestic matters I’d gone to stay at the Villa Lorraine, on Sunset, that home of New York actors-away-from-home, a place I hadn’t set foot inside of for almost twenty years. I dined solo at indifferent restaurants and spent lots of time working out at my gym, pretending I didn’t care; but I did, and after nearly two weeks of this miserable existence I called Jenny and said I wanted to come home. She said she needed more time “to think things out”; I agreed to give it to her. Then I found out she’d been seeing a TV producer, “dating him” on the sly two or three times a week, sometimes more. Why is it the husband is always the last to know? I saw red and told her she knew what she could do with her producer; I wasn’t coming home after all.

How sorry I felt for myself may be measured by the number of nights I spent on the town, falling off the wagon regularly and drinking the nights away, boring my friends with my troubles and seeking the solace of several young ladies whose vocation was the solacing of unhappy husbands like myself. I was more melancholy than Hamlet, gloomy and depressed, while life at the Villa was deadly boring. Should I chuck it all, head for New York, or just stick my head in the oven?

Then one day came the first break in the clouds. I’d put my car on the rack at the Santa-Palm Car Wash and was idly examining the celebrity pictures along the wall, when up ahead, in the small concession area where they sell printed T-shirts and the like, I caught sight of someone I hadn’t seen in some time: Frankie Adonis.

There he was, standing before me, hands outspread in welcome, smiling that 24-carat smile. “What’s new, kiddo?” We walked over to the Orange Julius stand on the corner, where I had a chili dog and a Julius, my immutable car-wash fare; Frank had coffee. Since I’d changed careers and he was no longer my agent, it had really been a long time since we’d talked, and, needless to say, soon I was telling him how Jenny and I were having difficulties.

“Yeah,” he said, relighting his cigar, “I heard.” It could only have been from Vi—Viola Ueberroth, still the latter-day Tattler, the Paul Revere of all the Hollywoods: one if by land, two if by sea, and keep the lantern burning in the Old North Church. “Want to tell me about it?” Frank asked.

I began to spin my tale, gripe by gripe, and he listened with his usual patience and commented with his usual acumen, managing to sympathize without betraying his friendship with Jenny, then asked where I was hanging my hat these days. I told him and he whistled. “That place’ll depress a married man faster than a cell at San Quentin. Wait a second, kiddo, I’ve got to hit the can.”

He went off and I sat there thinking how in Hollywood you could go for years without seeing somebody and in a flash there you were, just the way things had always been, old wine in old kegs. He’d turned sixty-four that July, the gray had sneaked into his dark hair, he’d even put on a little weight. But some silver in a man’s hair can look good, a healthy tan never hurts, and he’d quit drinking at the same time Belinda joined A.A.; he hadn’t smoked much since his early forties, he didn’t gallivant but went to bed early, more often than not alone. He was living at the Shoreham Towers at this time, in an apartment he’d kept on and off for years, a quiet, elegant pad furnished with good Biedermeier and French antiques and his small collection of pictures—the little Renoir nude, the Modigliani.

Pretty soon I saw his car rolling off the washrack—a maroon station wagon. A careless attendant spun the wheel as he ran it to the edge of the tarmac for wiping down.

“Hey,
patchouko
!” Frank shouted, coming out of the men’s room. “Take it easy on the rubber, huh?”

“Where’s Blindy?” I asked as he sat down.

“I’m a golf widower. She’s on the tournament circuit. She and Gravel Gertrude (his name for his old flame, Angie Brown). I’m trying to set something up for her at Fox. A biggy.”

I’d seen it in the trades that she was up for an important film,
The Light in the Window
, from the best-selling novel, and Frank was counting on Belinda landing the part. These days they were an item, had been for two years. Their burgeoning relationship was part of the new Hollywood legend, a throwback to the old days, but very
au courant
and greatly applauded. Looking at him, it was hard to believe that he was now in his sixties, or that Belinda was almost fifty, with a grown daughter.

A lapse of some fourteen years hadn’t let me forget that Belinda and I had once also been an item, and as I’d cared about her then, I cared about her still. I was pleased to hear that she was finding some measure of happiness at last—and with Frank. I wished them both well, and though we didn’t discuss it, I hoped they’d get married; somehow it struck me as the perfect solution. I knew that Belinda’s daughter, Faun, was still a problem—what I’d personally observed could easily attest to that—and I wondered if having Frank around mightn’t have some good effect on her.

“Listen, kiddo,” Frank said, after filling me in on Belinda’s career, “I was just thinking—maybe Belinda might be a good way out for you, y’know?”

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, for a change of scenery. I was thinking—how’d you like to be living up in Benedict Canyon in a little cottage all your own? Lovely gardens, tennis court, pool, garage, maid, private entrance, the works?”

I knew he had to be talking about the guesthouse at Sunnyside, oft talked about but seldom seen. “Yeah? For which arm and which leg?” I asked.

“No—I’m serious. I’ll talk to Blindy. They’d rent it to someone nice—simpatico, know what I mean?” Frank, Agent Supreme, was hard at work.

“And what do I have to do to live in this lap of luxury?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just… well, you know. Talk to her a little, try to build up her confidence. She’s really in the best shape she’s been in a long time.”

“Does she ever fall off the waterwagon?”

“Nary a drop.”

Suddenly I was longing to see Belinda again and yearning to drop my bags in the guesthouse at Sunnyside. Home sweet home with Maude Antrim—Maude the Great.

I accepted and Frank clapped me between the shoulder blades as we headed for our cars. “I’ll catch you at the hotel tonight. Good seeing you, kiddo.”

That evening my phone rang; Frank had fixed everything. It was fine with Belinda; I could have the guesthouse by tomorrow afternoon, to give them the morning to have it cleaned up; it had been empty for some time.

“When’s she coming up?” I asked. “Soon, I hope.”

“Afraid not. She’ll be away till some time in February. I’m meeting her in Acapulco for the holidays. Then she and Angie are playing a tournament in Scottsdale in January.”

“Busy little bee. What’s her handicap?” When he told me I whistled.

“Well, so long, kiddo, gotta go. Don’t let the bastards getcha….”

“Wait a minute—what do I do, just drive out there?”

“Around two should do it. You’ll be expected. Use the lower gate.”

“I guess I’ll have the place to myself, then.”

“Guess you will. Nobody there except the servants.”

“And—Maude…?”

“She’ll be along after New Year’s. You’ll see her—maybe. S’long.”

He hung up before I could squeeze in further questions, and that night I dreamed about Mrs. Fingerhutt, my first landlady in New York. That harpy used to climb five flights every Friday morning and stand at my door with her hand out: five bucks and all the cold water you could use. Mrs. Fingerhutt was a character straight out of Dickens—while Maude, as I was shortly to discover, was one straight out of Hollywood; only Hollywood.

What did she look like? How would she behave? Would she invite me up for
intime
little suppers
à deux?
I knew that she owned a collection of jewels that could only be labeled “fabulous,” all given her by Crispin as love tokens; she’d been married to the great actor for nearly forty years, with never a whisper of divorce, never a quarrel to hear tell of, never a breath of scandal. What skeletons there were in that family closet had come from the next generation, from their errant son, Perry, the playboy. Maude had published her autobiography years ago, during what she believed at that time to be the end of her career. I was suddenly taken with the desire to reread her book,
Girl of the Golden East
, but all my books were at home. There was also Crispin Antrim’s memoir, modestly titled
An Actor’s Life
, and I knew just where they were—side by side in the middle bookshelf—and I wanted them.

When I called the house, there was no answer, and I decided Jenny was probably out for dinner—with her TV producer. I had my key. I hopped into the car, buzzed along the Strip, up Sunset Plaza, and pulled into my driveway. There were a couple of lights on inside, but when I rang there was no reply. I let myself in and Bones the Wonder Dog came leaping joyfully out of the dark.

“Hey, boy—hey, boy!” Our joy was mutual and complete. I petted him while he frantically licked and crooned and otherwise behaved as if he hadn’t seen me in months.

I wasn’t keen on being in the house without Jen’s having been warned, since we’d already had some heavy drama on the phone, so I made a quick stab at finding the two books I was after. But Bones was so crazy out of his mind at seeing me that he wouldn’t stop yelping. I suddenly heard a male voice thunder, “
Bones
!
Shut the hell up
!” and turned to find a total stranger standing in the doorway of the hallway off the bedroom, silhouetted by the light behind. He was naked, with a towel barely covering his loins, and looked bleary-eyed. It seemed that a romantic interlude of sorts was in progress in the bedroom.

“Who the hell are you?” I demanded.

“Who the hell are
you
?” he countered.

“I happen to live here. The lady you’re in bed with happens to be my wife.” The towel, I noticed, had
my
monogram on it.

“Holy shit!” he said, stumbling toward me, blinking. I backed up. He wasn’t bigger but he was a lot younger, and I knew he played tennis with Chuck Heston. He shoved his paw at me. “How the hell are ya? Always wanted to meetcha.” And—get this: “I’ve read all your books.”

Sure, I thought, they’re on the bedside table. Only you haven’t been reading today, I’ll bet.

“Randy-o, what the hell’s going on out there?” This was Jenny’s voice, and immediately my back went up. Randy—the TV producer,
Jen’s
TV producer. She entered via the same doorway, wearing the satin teddy I’d given her. Apricot ice with ivory lace, and matching panties.

“Oh. It’s you,” she said. “Why don’t you call first, or did you forget Don Ameche invented the telephone?”

“I called. You didn’t answer. Now we know why. I came by for these.” I held up the two books in my hand.

“What do you want them for?”

“That’s for me to know.” I started out, the dog at my heels. “I’m taking Bones with me.”

“You are like hell! They don’t allow dogs at the Villa.”

“I know, but I’m not living at the Villa anymore,” I said, feeling my pulse race with a perverse joy, about to make the announcement. “I’m living at Sunnyside.”

She popped her eyes. “
Sunnyside
?” You’d have thought I’d said Buckingham Palace. “With Belinda Carroll?”

“Something wrong with that?”

“I suppose next thing you’ll be telling me is that you and Belinda are going to be married.”

“No, I’m not going to tell you. Because it’s a secret. We don’t want anyone to know. Ta ta, kiddies. You can get back to your labors now.” I took a step and she put out a hand.

“Wait a minute. The Crispin Antrim book,
that
one’s mine.”

“Fine, keep it. My book, your book. Your towel, my towel.” With a quick slick move I detoweled Randy. Now he was wearing nothing but a condom over his shriveled member. “Awww, too bad, Randy-o,” I said, going out, “your turtle died.”

A vase crashed near my head as I reached the door and I knew it was one of the pair of antiques her Aunt Nancy had given us. I laughed as I went through the gate, with Bones far ahead of me, bounding for joy.

Back at the Villa I sneaked him up the fire escape and in through the window, which I knew was unlocked, because the lock hadn’t worked since sound came in. I told him to be quiet or we’d both be thrown out. I packed my scattered belongings, then, with Bones curled on the bed beside me, I began reading
Girl of the Golden East
, remembering the profound pleasure I’d felt reading it back in my first winter in New York, in the fall of 1949. Much of what it contained I recalled, in a general sense. Certain passages reappeared like old friends, others turned up like newly discovered ones. Maude Antrim wrote with a keen, clear, and objective eye, with wit and perception. If this was what she was like, I was going to enjoy being the star boarder at Sunnyside.