All That Glitters (60 page)

I went home, to Sunnyside, to Maude. We sat there in the Snuggery, accepting facts, swallowing cold, hard, unpalatable facts. Frank was dead, Belinda was under sedation, Faun was—acting strange. I must say, Maude took things well, but, then, didn’t Maude always? I went about the arrangements for the funeral, and with Minnie’s help we got things set up—not at Forest Lawn, but at Hollywood Memorial Park Cemetery.

We delayed the services until Belinda was well enough to attend. Ling drove Maude and me down to the Springs and we brought her home with us. She seemed fine, bearing up. She picked out a dress Frank had liked, the shoes and bag to go with it, and had her hair done. Such preparations hardly mattered, since, like any self-respecting Hollywood funeral, Frank’s took place on a gray rainy morning, which only added to the chill bleakness of the occasion, and there were black umbrellas galore.

The same priest who had buried Maxine Fargo was intoning the service when, as I stood with Angie, Belinda, and Faun—Maude wasn’t present—she’d stayed home, taking care of the cold that had bedded her for a week—doing my best to listen, I noticed another limousine pull up in an empty space at the curb. The driver helped the passenger out onto the wet grass, holding an umbrella over her. Taking the umbrella, she headed for our group, disappearing behind the sea of other umbrellas. I nudged Angie and we were able to follow the latecomer’s route as she made her way among the mourners, causing considerable agitation, forcing people to give way until she emerged at the front, nearer the grave than where we were standing. She wore a large black hat with a veil, and black gloves, and as she stood there slipping a white handkerchief up under the veil to dab at her eyes I heard Angie say, “My God, it’s Claire.”

Claire it was. She stood there, ramrod-straight, face hidden behind that veil that was right out of studio wardrobe, until the priest terminated his remarks. As he dropped in his three shovelfuls of the wet earth piled beside the coffin, we saw Claire break from her surroundings to throw herself sobbing on the flower-bedecked casket. At this the crowd stirred and a murmur of sympathy ran through it. I could see that Claire was about to slip in the mud and I went to help her to her feet. She staggered a little, getting her footing—she was on those spike heels of hers and the heels
would
sink into the damp sod. Finally two attendants came to my rescue and led her away to her car, where the driver waited, refusing to dirty his shoes, while she picked her way across the grass, her heels sinking three inches into the greensward and causing her to stop and pull out every half dozen feet or so.

Comical? You bet. It seemed to add just the touch of comedy Frank would have wanted, and I laughed to myself, imagining that he was looking down on the scene and saying, “Atta girl, Claire.”

Humor was our only refuge. And I had to give Claire credit, she really saved the day. Even Belinda later agreed that Claire’s performance had helped to dry her own tears. But when we told her about it, she laughed, too. So hats off to Claire—she’d really hit the right bizarre note, though the effect she’d made wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind.

And before leaving again for New York, Claire availed herself of the opportunity to press a call at Sunnyside, where she’d not set foot in some thirty-five years. Having kept her widow’s weeds on, including the veil, she had herself driven up by Viola, and only through the latter’s intercession was she admitted into Maude’s presence. Explaining that she’d come to condole with the bereaved Belinda, only to be informed that Belinda had left town that morning and wouldn’t be back until after the weekend, Claire then turned her attentions on Maude. No mention was even made of the fact that the woman shedding crocodile tears for Belinda had once been Maude’s daughter-in-law—both women seemed eager to forget that fact—nor did either of them stop to weigh the love that was not lost between them. When Claire commented that the old place didn’t appear to have changed much, Maude smiled as she replied that the whole house had been redone since Claire’s time. Twice, in fact. Claire recovered by saying she sincerely believed that Maude’s taste in glazed chintz was nonpareil.

Since there were others waiting to have a word with Maude about the tragedy, Claire didn’t stick around very long, but she was able to display herself to advantage before the cameras stationed outside the gates, where she autographed the books of a busload of tourists who’d been waiting to glimpse her—or anyone else coming or going. Throwing back her black veil to declare herself to be “the best friend Frank Adonis ever had,” she signed every last book, down to the tiniest tot’s, before she would consent to get into Viola’s waiting car. “Bless you, darlings,” she called to them, crossing herself as they drove away, thus mystifying Viola, who knew she wasn’t Catholic but Jewish.

Next chapter. No—final chapter.

I had to fly home to Connecticut; there was an illness in the family. I was gone a month and when I got back to Los Angeles in late March it had been raining for eleven straight days and the world was drenched; people were building arks and loading them up, two lions, two zebras, two giraffes, even a partridge in a pear tree. Under a sky of tin the soaked earth tried desperately to shed the moisture it could no longer absorb; houses slid into infinity while freshets of rainwater red as Tara’s earth came sluicing down the narrow shoulders of the roadway as I proceeded cautiously up the winding canyon. Whole chunks of sodden embankments had broken away and lay in heaps, and here and there large trees lay uprooted, leaving their root systems exposed.

The Cottage, however, was gauged for a warm welcome when I let myself in. A fire crackled cheerily in the grate and there were fresh-cut flowers arranged in a bowl. “Welcome home,” said Maude’s note. “
Après nous
,
le déluge
. Isn’t our weather beastly? Bones is fine. Call me soonest. Love, M.”

Some things never change, I thought. It was good to know that there were people in this world whom you could depend on utterly. I put on my oldest, baggiest cords and the moth-eaten maroon cashmere pullover Jenny had given me about two lifetimes ago. As I was putting socks away in the drawer, my eye fell on one of the photographs on the bureau-top. A Kodachrome shot taken up at the pool—my grinning face, Angie on one side, Belinda on the other, Maude directly in front. We were all tanned and redolent of good health and high spirits. I calculated that picture had been taken only eight months ago, yet how long ago it seemed now. Now everything had changed, and nothing would ever bring back those happy times again. They were gone forever, and my eyes stung at the thought.

I’d seen Belinda only three days before. The last thing I’d done prior to leaving the East was to drive up to Easton again, to that place where she’d been staying since her breakdown. Granted, she was far from those closest to her, but it seemed the logical move since it was there that she’d been cured the first time.

Belinda was going to be fine, and thus I reported when Maude and I were sitting by the fire in the Snuggery, that well-named room; and how I’d missed it. It seemed to me that nothing, not flood or fire or the Four Apocalyptic Horsemen, could disturb its intrinsic peace and harmony, the sturdy, tradition-bound look of the place with its fine old furniture, the gleam of silver and crystal, the handsome pleated drapery at the mullioned windows, the twin portraits of Maude and Crispin facing each other on the walls, Bones spread across the oval rug close to the hearth, his eyes never leaving me. Hey, boy, good boy…

I feared for Maude, bless her—she was showing the strain. I’d noticed it the minute I walked in and we embraced; she was thinner, she had circles under the eyes, cheeks were drawn. We sat close to the warmth of the fire, listening to the rain rattling like pebbles in the downspouts, the wind soughing through the dripping branches of the trees. Now and then a limb would brush against one of the windows. It was a scene out of Hitchcock; she was Joan Fontaine waiting to be murdered—it was something he’d put in the milk—I was the stranger out of the storm; was there a beetle-browed Mrs. Danvers sniffing about?

I went on with my account of Belinda’s present circumstances. She’d taken a nosedive, a bad one. Now her liver was involved and, as the doctors had warned, if it happened again, if she went back on the booze yet another time, it could prove fatal. When she came home again, there must be no more disturbances, no more violent upsets. She was still strong, she had hidden resources, but how often could she hope to rely on those? Resources dry up. How many times could she make the trip to the well before she found it empty? And how many more times could she make the big slip and still hope to retrieve herself? Sure, you always get a little help from your friends, but in the end you damn well do it yourself. One thing was certain: she mustn’t come home if her darling daughter was going to be on hand.

“How’s Faun doing in New York? Wasn’t she supposed to be staying at Claire’s?”

Maude moved the tea table closer and began pouring. “She
was.
However…” She stiffened and the tea spout clicked against the porcelain rim. Dot-dot-dot.

“Was.”

“Was. But it seems the blush is now off the rose so far as Faun is concerned.”

“
Persona non grata
?”

“Precisely. Don’t ask what they quarreled about, I couldn’t say. But Faun isn’t having any more New York just now.”

“What’s she going to do?”

“I believe she intends having some more Sunnyside. For the nonce, at least.” She used the silver tongs and carefully slipped three cubes into my cup. “Says she can’t take the pace, has the jitters. I suppose the big city
can
do that to one.” I saw her hand tremble as she passed the cup and saucer. She saw that I saw. “Anyway, she’s—back,” she finished softly.

Back. Little Orphan Annie was back home again, and Mommy Warbucks was going to be shelling out again (wasn’t she?). “What’s she been up to in the big city, then?” I inquired casually, glancing around as if I expected to see her pop out of a corner somewhere.

Maude’s brow furrowed. “I don’t really know. She… says she’s tired. Very tired.”

“Of what?”

“Who knows?”

Living, maybe, I thought. This mortal coil.

“Do you mean to let her stay?”

“If she behaves herself.”

“Will she?”

She gave me a look filled with bewilderment and indignation and her lip trembled. Tears sprang into her eyes and the drops trickled down her cheeks.

“What is it?” I asked. “What’s she done this time?”

“Not what she’s
done
,” Maude replied. “What she intends
to do
.”

I felt my gut contract. I moved closer. “What is it? You don’t mean—not that damn book?”

Her head moved slowly up and down. She kept her eyes averted while she dabbed at them.

“Are you telling me she’s threatening you again with this nonsense? Holding it over your head?”

“She is.”

“Why, that’s a lot of you-know-what.”

She half-laughed. “It’s all right, you can say the word.”

“Bullshit. It’s pure unadulterated bullshit.” But I knew better even as I tried to comfort her. Good Maude, kind Maude, innocent and deluded Maude. In her wildest imaginings did she think Faun was going to “behave herself,” as she’d so naively put it? I doubted it. Some things were just too much to hope for. But I wasn’t there to try and disabuse her of whatever consoling notions she was currently harboring, I was there to do whatever she wanted me to do. Putting myself in her place, I could understand how hard it would be to turn someone from her door—turn
Faun
from her door, Faun, her only child’s only child. Even after the terrible thing she’d done—but of course Maude had refused to acknowledge that. And maybe that was just as well.

She asked me to stay to dinner, but I had to decline; there was a business obligation I was forced to honor. She suggested I stop in later and I said I’d try.

I was back at Sunnyside as early as I could manage, and found Maude where I’d left her, in the Snuggery. Hadn’t touched her meal and was being scolded by Ling. I got rid of him and the food, and had him bring in tea; she would always drink tea and maybe have a biscuit with it.

When I sat down opposite her, she looked me directly in the eye, but said nothing. When I raised my brows questioningly, she raised hers in reply.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“We—are—go—ing to have a vis—
it
—
torr
,” she said with strict enunciation, then sat back with a so-there! attitude. She didn’t have to say the name; I knew who our visitor would be, I felt tired, too tired to sit and talk with Faun, but there it was; I couldn’t get up and walk out. Presently there was a rap on a pane of the terrace door and through the glass I saw her figure. I got up to let her in. She put her face up to mine and when I didn’t kiss her she drew quickly away. I stepped back, taking her in as she passed me, thinking she looked considerably different, hair, makeup, clothes—even attitude. For the first time ever she looked grown up to me.

“Come in, Faun,” Maude said, making like a hostess. “Will you take a cup of tea?”

“Nothing, thank you, Nana.” Was her voice different, too, or did I only imagine it? She slipped into a chair in what struck me as a more mature way, sliding her hand under the back of her thigh to smooth her skirt and crossing her legs in that inimitable way some women have, smart and chic. I realized later she’d probably picked it up from Maude herself. “Nana, we have to talk,” she began, and when I got up to go she said no, she preferred I stay. “I want you to hear this, too,” she said, so I sat down next to Maude and waited.

“Nana, the fact is—I need some money. I know—don’t say it—I always need it, but this time I
really
do.”

“Didn’t you get your first-of-the-month check?”

Faun acknowledged that her monthly stipend had come through on schedule.

“Very well,” Maude replied, avoiding argument if it was to be avoided, “if you’re feeling the pinch, I’ll be happy to lend you some. What shall it be, three or four thousand dollars?”