Dreams from Bunker Hill (11 page)

Home was a good place. I slept well. I ate well. The first few days I lounged about the house, showing off my wardrobe. The stuff in my bulging suitcases fascinated my mother—my suits, my sportscoats, my slacks. She sewed buttons and darned socks, pressed and cleaned my suits, and hung them up. With every change of wardrobe my mother was awed. She touched the fabrics, she gloated over me. I was two characters. When I wore corduroys and a T-shirt I was her boy, but when I put on my splendidly draped suits I was a prince.

“God has been good to me,” she would sigh. “You look so important.”

As time passed I tired of loafing about the house, and began to spend my days in town, visiting old haunts: Benny’s poolhall on Pearl Street, the bowling alley on Walnut. I went to the library and found again the books that had changed my life: Sherwood Anderson, Jack London, Knut Hamsun, Dostoevsky, D’Annunzio, Pirandello, Flaubert, de Maupassant. The welcome they gave me was much warmer than the cold curiosity of old friends I met in the town.

One day I ran into Joe Kelly, the reporter for the
Boulder Times
. We shook hands and were glad to see one another. In high school Kelly and I used to hitchhike to Denver to watch Western League baseball. Joe took me to the office of the
Times
, had my picture taken, and interviewed me. It was not a flattering interview, nor was it unkind, but there was a challenging quality to it, as if many questions about myself and my work needed more answers. My father
bought twenty-five copies of the interview when it appeared, and everyone in the family sat at the dining-room table reading his copy.

The next day Agnes Lawson telephoned. We were old members of the Red Pencil, a literary society sponsored by the church. I had not seen her in two years. She was a haughty, spoiled girl with wealthy parents, and when she invited me to a party at her house, my first impulse was to refuse. The same nasal twang was in her voice, the same snobbish reserve.

“A lot of Red Pencil alumni are coming,” she said. “We want to see you now that you’re famous.”

“I’ll try to make it,” I said. “I’m supposed to go to another party, but I can drop in at your place for a while.”

The invitation thrilled my mother, for Agnes was the daughter of one of Boulder’s leading citizens, as well as owner of its best known clothing store.

The next night I dressed carefully for Agnes’s party. Gray tweed suit, red necktie, gray shirt. My mother beamed.

“What an honor!” she said. “Isn’t it nice, going into those lovely houses! I’m so proud of you.”

My brother Mario swept the snow from his Overland, covered the front seat with a tarp, and drove me to the three-story Lawson house on University Hill. I looked at that house with unpleasant memories, a house that had been forbidden before. I remembered many summers when Agnes threw parties that always excluded me, nor could I forget the large clothing bill my family owed the Lawson store. Mr. Lawson never spoke of the bill, but he always managed a look of annoyance whenever he saw me.

I rang the doorbell, and Agnes answered. Standing beside her, his arm around her waist, was Biff Newhouse, a star fullback on the Colorado University football team. Biff sported a letterman’s sweater, with a gold “C” across his chest. Agnes held out her hand and said “Hi.”

“Hello, Agnes.”

She was a small girl, with bobbed hair, fashionably dres
sed in a black frock.

“This is Biff Newhouse.”

Biff and I shook hands. His grip was unnecessarily harsh.

“What do you say?” he grinned.

“Hello, Biff,” I said.

There were a dozen people gathered in the living room. I had known all of them through grade school and high school. They looked at me without expression, as if to deny me even the slightest hint of warmth or reunion. Only Joe Kelly stepped up and shook my hand.

“I liked what you wrote about me,” I said.

“Good. I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

“What about a drink?” Agnes said.

“Fine. I’ll have a Scotch and soda.”

She moved to the bar and mixed the drink. A tall girl wearing glasses walked up.

“I hear you’re a screenwriter,” she said.

“Best in Hollywood.”

She smiled faintly. “I knew you’d say something like that. Are you still writing that miserable poetry?”

“What’s miserable about it? I sold one to the
New Yorker
.”

Agnes brought my drink. I gulped it down quickly. We sat on divans and big chairs in front of the fireplace. Agnes mixed another drink for me.

“How are things in tinsel town?” she asked.

“Fabulous,” I said. “You should come out some time.”

She laughed. “Me in Hollywood? That’s funny.”

“What kinda money you screenwriters make?” Biff asked.

“I started modestly,” I said. “Three hundred a week. My current salary is a thousand a week.”

Biff smiled doubtfully. “Bullshit,” he said.

“Maybe bullshit to you, but it’s good money to me.”

“Do you know Joel McCrea?” the tall poetess asked.

“I not only know him, he happens to be one of my best friends.”

Agnes gave me another drink, and I sipped it.

“How about Ginger Rogers?” Agnes coaxed. “Tell us about Ginger Rogers, Arturo.”

I looked into her mocking eyes.

“Ginger Rogers is a superior person. She has charm and beauty and talent. I regard her as one of the great artists of our time. However, my favorite star is Norma Shearer. Her beauty is breathtaking. Her eyes are marvellous, and she has a figure that’s ravishing. I know lots of actresses with ravishing figures—Bette Davis, Hedy Lamarr, Claudette Colbert, Jean Harlow, Katharine Hepburn, Carole Lombard, Maureen O’Sullivan, Myrna Loy, Janet Gaynor, Alice Faye, Irene Dunne, Mary Astor, Gloria Swanson, Margaret Lindsay, Dolores del Rio. I know them all. They’re part of my life. I’ve dined with them, danced with them, made love with them, and I’ll tell you this—I never disappointed any of them. You go among them, ask them questions about Arturo Bandini, ask them if they were ever turned away in disappointment.”

I paused and drained off another Scotch highball. Then I stood up.

“What’s the matter with you people?” I crossed to the bar and leaned against it. “How can you live such dull lives? Is there no romance? Is there no beauty among you?” I looked straight at Biff Newhouse. “Can’t you think of anything else but football? Not me, buster. I live a different life. And without your fucking snow. I play in the sun. I play golf with Bing Crosby and Warner Baxter and Edmund Lowe. I play tennis with Nils Asther and George Brent and William Powell and Pat O’Brien and Paul Muni. I play by day, I fuck in the twilight, and I work by night. I swim with Johnny Weismuller and Esther Williams and Buster Crabbe. Everybody loves me. Understand? Everybody.”

I swung around in a grand gesture, and my heels slipped out from under me, and I sat on the floor, my glass splattering. I heard their laughter, and tried to get to my feet, but I slipped again and fell. Biff Newhouse lifted me to a standing position. Suddenly I loathed him, and swung at him, and hit him in the jaw. His eyes boiled in fury and he let me have
it—one short punch, squarely in the nose, and I was down on the floor again, blood coursing from my nose, down my chest, on to my pants, the sleeve of my coat. In a daze I saw the others swirling, walking around me, walking out of the house. Then Joe Kelly hoisted me to my feet, pushed a bar towel under my nose and steadied me as I wiped the blood away.

“I’ll take you home,” he said. He held me up as we walked outside and down the porch steps. Cars were starting up and leaving. Joe helped me to his Ford. The blood was still pouring. I pressed the towel into my nose as we drove away.

We got to my house and I stepped out, careful not to slam the car door. Kelly drove off and I stopped to gather snow in my two hands and press it against my nose until the bleeding stopped. Quietly I walked through the snow to my brother’s window and tapped on the glass. He came to the side door. Choking in alarm, he looked at my bloody face.

“What happened?” he said.

“I fell down and cracked my nose. Be quiet. I don’t want Mama to hear. Is the old man home?”

“He’s in bed.”

“I’m leaving here,” I whispered. “I’m getting out—tonight, right now. Be quiet.”

We entered the side door. I opened my suitcases on the bed and quietly transferred my clothes from the dresser and closet to the luggage. Mario dressed and watched me wash the blood from my face and hands. I changed clothes, and bundled my bloodstained suit and shirt and put them in the suitcase.

“Let’s go,” I whispered. He hefted one suitcase and I took the other. Without a sound we stepped out into the snow, and walked to his old car. Mario’s voice trembled.

“What’ll I tell Mama?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Are you sure you fell down?” he asked. “Are you sure somebody didn’t pop you?”

“Absolutely.”

We threw the luggage into the car and drove to the bus depot. The Denver bus was parked in front, panting like an animal. I bought a ticket to Los Angeles and climbed aboard. Mario stood beneath my window, looking up at me with tears in his eyes. I rushed out of the bus and stepped down and threw my arms around him.

“Thanks, Mario. I won’t forget this.”

He sobbed and put his head on my shoulder. “Be careful,” he said. “Don’t fight, Arturo.”

“I can take care of myself.”

I turned and got aboard the bus. That was Wednesday night. We drove through snow most of the way and arrived in Los Angeles on a sunburst Saturday morning.

So I was back again, back to LA, with two suitcases and seventeen dollars. I liked it, the sweep of blue skies, the sun in my face, the endearing streets, tempting, beckoning, the concrete and cobblestones, soft and comforting as old shoes. I picked up my grips and walked along Fifth Street. Purposefully I walked, wondering why I could almost never bring myself to call her Helen. I had to break the habit. I would walk to the top of Bunker Hill and open my arms to her and say, “Helen, I love you.”

We would start over again. Maybe we’d buy a little house in Woodland Hills, the Kansas type, with a chickenyard and a dog. Oh, Helen, I’ve missed you so, and now I know what I want. Maybe she wouldn’t like Woodland Hills. Maybe she preferred the hotel. It had aged so well, like an aristocrat, like Helen herself. I would choose a room for writing and we would complete our days together. Oh, Helen. Forgive me for ever leaving you. It will never happen again.

I rode on the trolley to the crest of Bunker Hill, and looked at the hotel in the distance. It was magic, like a castle in a book of fairy tales. I knew she would have me this time. I felt the strength of my years, and I knew I was stronger than she, and that she would melt in my arms. I entered the hotel and lowered my suitcases against the wall. She was not behind the desk. I had to smile as I crossed to the desk and rang the bell. When there was no answer I struck the bell again, harder. The door opened slightly. There stood the man I had seen before, the man who said he was her brother. He did not come forward, and spoke in a
whisper.

“Yes?”

“I’m looking for Helen.”

“She’s not here,” he said, and closed the door. I walked around the desk and knocked. He opened the door and stood there crying.

“She’s gone. She’s dead.”

“How?” I said. “When?”

“A week ago. She died of a stroke.”

I felt myself weakening, as I staggered toward an armchair at the window. I didn’t want to cry. Something deep and abiding had caved in, swallowing me up. I felt my chest heaving. The brother came over and stood beside me, crying.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I got up, hefted my suitcase, and walked out. At the little depot on Angel’s Flight I saw on a park bench and let my grief have its way. For two hours I was there, griefstricken and bewildered. I had thought of many things since knowing her, but never her death. For all her years, she nourished a love in me. Now it was gone. Now that she was dead I could think of her no longer. I had sobbed and whimpered and wept until it was all gone, all of it, and as always I found myself alone in the world.

The manager of the Filipino hotel was glad to see me. It was no surprise when he said that my room was unoccupied. It was my kind of room. I deserved it—the smallest, most uninviting room in Los Angeles. I started up the stairs and pushed opend the door to the dreadful hole.

“You forgot something,” the manager said. He stood in the doorway holding my portable typewriter. It startled me, not because it was there, but because I had completely forgotten it. He placed it on the table and I thanked him. Closing the door, I opened a suitcase and took out a copy of Knut Hamsun’s
Hunger
. It was a treasured piece, constantly with me since the day I stole it from the Boulder library. I had read it so many times that I could recite it. But
it did not matter now. Nothing mattered.

I stretched out on the bed and slept. It was twilight when I awakened and turned on the light. I felt better, no longer tired. I went to the typewriter and sat before it. My thought was to write a sentence, a single perfect sentence. If I could write one good sentence I could write two and if I could write two I could write three, and if I could write three I could write forever. But suppose I failed? Suppose I had lost all of my beautiful talent? Suppose it had burned up in the fire of Biff Newhouse smashing my nose or Helen Brownell dead forever? What would happen to me? Would I go to Abe Marx and become a busboy again? I had seventeen dollars in my wallet. Seventeen dollars and the fear of writing. I sat erect before the typewriter and blew on my fingers. Please God, please Knut Hamsun, don’t desert me now. I started to write and I wrote:

I looked at it and wet my lips. It wasn’t mine, but what the hell, a man had to start someplace.