I Confess (7 page)

Drinks were served, and somehow nobody seemed able to leave the projection room. It was always like that, especially in the case of a picture where everybody felt things weren't quite right. One wandered from group to group, exchanging pleasantries. It was a modest luxury. One got to hear plenty of unpleasant things outside, and it's an old story: the entertainer Uves more on applause than on bread.

Jack Warner walked back and forth, smiling like a father talking to his children. I did my best to keep him away from Margaret. She was seated in the center of a group of minor actresses, who were standing around her, but in the end it wasn't possible. Warner walked over to her. Respectfully room was made for him to pass through, then the little circle closed again, tighter than before, and I was separated from Margaret.

"Well, Mrs. Chandler," said Warner, kissing Margaret's hand in a droll but sincere little show of gallantry. "And how did you like the picture?"

The beads of perspiration stood out on my forehead. There was silence, and into this silence Margaret said loud and clear, "I think it stinks!"

Oh God, I thought, oh my God, not that!

I closed my eyes. I could hear Dore Thompson laugh genially. (Was he laughing genially?) Then I heard Jack Warner's voice. "But Mrs. Chandler, we all think it's great!"

I Opened my eyes again. I could see my wife, her cheeks hectically red, her hands on her rounded stomach, sit up and slowly shake her head. "I think it's terrible."

"But our Dorothy. . . .''

"It's not Dorothy's fault," said Margaret. "It's that lousy script. If you'd had any sense, Mr. Warner, and had kept my husband's script, you'd have a picture that was worth a fortune." She looked at Dore. "I'm sorry, Mr. Thompson, but that's the way I feel." And to Jack Warner, "You're going to lose money on this one."

God bless her, she was right. The company lost a lot of money on The Death of a Lady but at that moment nobody knew this and nobody wanted to know it.

Margaret got up. Obviously alienated, they made room for her coolly. She carried her shapeless stomach ahead of her with dignity and came up to me, her madonna smile on her lips. "Roy, I want to go home."

8

But that wasn't the real catastrophe. The real catastrophe took place on the first of March. That was the day Warners sent out the letter informing their employees that their contracts were renewed for another year. It was an eerie, fearful day, this first of March. I was sitting in my office, working, when the messenger came and brought me the sealed yellow envelope. I finished typing my sentence, then I tore it open as I walked to the door. It was my intention to go down to the canteen and have lunch. It was one o'clock.

I didn't go to the canteen. I got as far as the corridor

wten I realized what was in the letter. Warners was not renewing my contract,

I walked slowly down into the 3^rd and passed Studio 3, carrying the letter in my hand. Warners was not renewing my contract, I sat down on a pale blue Louis XTV bed which stood outside the studio door in the spring sunshine and lighted a cigarette. Warners was not renewing my contract. I lifted my legs and lay down on the bed and began to think. Vd been fired. The baby was on its way. I'd saved a little money. It would see us through a few months. Also I had a couple of ideas I could sell. Just the same—^Warners was not renewing my contract. I was now a freelance writer. There were a lot of freelance writers who were better off than those under contract. But then there were a lot who were worse off. There were a lot who were a lot worse off. And the baby was coming. And Warners was not renewing ^^' ""^^tract. Why? Why not?

I rose and went over to the main building. I wanted to speak to Jack Warner. Or to one of his colleagues. I wanted to know why they weren't renewing my contract Wanted to know exactly, dammit all!

The entrance to the main building was one gigantic glass door. In a glass cubicle sat a platinum blonde beauty. Fd known her for seven years. Her name was Mabel Dermott and she was married to a traveling salesman. She had two children and you couldn't date her. The trick of the glass door was that it opened only when Mabel pressed a button. That's what she was there for. She was supposed to know everybody and to pass on everyone allowed to enter the main building and those who were not. She knew me. For seven years she'd been pressing that button for me when I had business in the main building. I nodded; so did she. Next thing I knew, I'd bumped into the glass door.

I shook the handle. The glass door didn't move. Mabel hadn't pressed the button. Now she stuck her head out of

the little window. "Hello, Mabel," I said. My stomach was all cramped up.

"Hello, Mr. Chandler," she said politely. "Do you have an appointment?" So she already knew. I was one of those for whom she no longer pressed the button. Fast work!

"No," I said, "I don't."

"Do you want me to announce you?"

"Thanks," I said. "No."

"Have a nice day, Mr. Chandler."

"Thanks," I said again. Then I went back to my oflSce to get my typewriter and pipe.

Margaret was knitting when I got home. We had rented a place on Northwood Drive, a pretty little house with a hall and a wide, steep wooden staircase that led up to the second floor. She heard me close the front door and called out to me.

"Yes, Margaret," I said. I put down the typewriter and went upstairs to her. She was wearing a white housecoat and was smiling at me. "Look," she said proudly, holding up her knitting.

"Pretty," I said.

She suspected something. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Yes, there is. Tell me what happened?"

I walked over to the window and looked out. Two strange dogs were chasing each other across the lawn. "Whose dogs are those?"

"Where?"

"In our garden. I don't know them."

She got up and came over to me awkwardly and drew me away from the window. "Roy, tell me what happened."

I looked at her. Then I told her.

She turned around and went back to her chair. She sat down again, looked at her knitting, let it fall. Her hair was straggling in her face, her complexion showed the typical yellow pigmentation of pregnancy and she had on

no make-up. "And it's my fault, isn't it?" she said tone-

lessly.

^'Nonsense!" I wheeled around. Of course it was her fault. But could I prove it to her? "What a ridiculous idea! How could it possibly be your fault?"

"Because I told Jack Warner that the picture was terrible.''

"Nonsense!" T said again. I was still watching the dogs. They were digging a wide hole in the rosebed. "It has nothing to do with that."

"But it does. Believe me, Roy. I know it does. Dore is a personal friend of Jack Warner's. That's how he got the contract to rewrite your script." She got up and began to pace up and down. Her Ions robe got in her way and she stumbled once or twice. "Of course. That's what did it. Dore went to Warner and started all this. Because you're too talented."

"I am not talented."

"You're a thousand times more talented than Dore.** ^ **No, Margaret, I'm not."

**You are! You are! Dore is afraid of you. He knows you can write rings around him and that's why he wants to get rid of you."

I went to her and laid my hands on her shoulders. "Now listen to me, Margaret. I am not a better writer than Dore Thompson. I am a very average writer and I've told you that often enough and now I beg you urgently to start believing it"

"Wait! I know if one is ambitious it would be much more exciting to be married to Paul Osbom or John Steinbeck. But I am not Paul Osborn, and I am not John Steinbeck, and I insist that you finally resign yourself to the fact."

"I shall not resign myself to the fact," she cried excitedly. '1 shall not resign myself to the fact because it isn't true! You underestimate yourself."

"I do not underestimate myself; you overestimate me. And that's got to stop."

"Why?"

"Because it's robbing me of my chance to get wort Because I am losing my friends, my connections. ..."

"And your contract with Warners," she said slowly. Her eyes were boring holes into me. I met her gaze silently. All right, I thought, if you must hear it. . . "and my contract with Warners."

"So it is my fault."

I didn't want to say it but I did. "Yes, Margaret.'*

"So..."

"I'm sorry, but the answer is yes. What you said at the preview was unpardonable. I love you, you are my wife, but I can't excuse it."

"So ... you can't excuse it."

"No."

"It was unpardonable."

"Yes."

"You were ashamed of me.'*

"Yes, Margaret."

"And because of me, because of this incident at the preview, Mr. Warner didn't renew your contract."

I didn't want to speak but I did. "It isn't such a disaster," I said, "although of course it isn't exactly pleasant. But I must make one thing absolutely clear to you— you've simply got to control yourself. In the future things are going to have to be different. Otherwise . . •"

She jumped to her feet. "Otherwise?"

"Otherwise I'll be out of work."

She laughed harshly. "So I'm the cause of your unemployment. I. I of all people. That's great! That's just great!" She began to stumble around the room again.

"Sit down, Margaret. Think of the child."

"Now I'm to think of the child. All of a sudden I'm to think of the child "

"Margaret, please!"

"Leave me alone. Who do you think you are? You

have the nerve to reproach me. I try to help you, to further you, and you reproach me. . . ."

"All I'm begging you is to ..."

"I'm loyal. I stand up for you. I tell Jack Warner the truth—and you reproach me. So what the hell do you want? Some Uttle whore who doesn't stand up for you when people are treating you unfairly? Who smiles and makes up to Dore Thompson? Are you dissatisfied with me? Am I a bad wife? Does it embarrass you that I'm loyal to you? Would you prefer it if I played along with aJl those phonies? 'Yes, Mr. Warner . . . Wonderful, Miss McGuire . . . You're a genius, Mr. Thompson. . . .' Is that what you want?"

She stopped in front of me. She was panting. "So tell me what you want! Tell me!"

"I want peace and quiet," I screamed, *1 want peace and quiet to work in."

"And I'm a disturbing element.''

I didn't want to say it. As God is my witness, T didn't want to say it, but I did. "Yes. You are a disturbing element."

She looked at me. The tears welled up in her eyes. "And that's your thanks," she said. "Your thanks for everything Fve done for you."

She turned around and stumbled to the door. "Margaret, please!"

The door fell shut. I could hear her heels click-clacking in the passage. Before I got there I heard her scream. It was a terrible scream, like the scream of an animal. There was nothing human about it. "Margaret!" I cried.

She lay in the hall below, her body curled up, deathly fear in her face, her hands pressed against her stomach. She looked at me with horror-filled eyes as I ran down the stairs to her. Her wide robe was spread around her like a fan. "Get the doctor," she groaned. "Quick."

She had fallen down the entire flight of stairs.

Dear God, don't let anything happen to her, let it turn out all right, dear God, Please, please, please. It was my fault, I upset her. Because she was excited she ran to the stairs.. .. Please, dear God, don't let anything happen to her. Don't let anything happen to the baby, I won't ever want to write a good script, dear God, if you'll just let her pull through, I swear. I don't even want to be happy again, but please, please, please, let her live. And let the baby live. Amen.

It was three hours later. I was standing in one of the countless white halls of Beverly Glen Hospital, waiting. My hands were wet, my shirt was sweaty. I was sweating with fear.

The doctor had come and called an. ambulance. Margaret had started to bleed. Then she had lost consciousness. I sat at her side as the ambulance tore through the streets, sirens waihng, and I could see the doctor watching me with a side-glance of disgust.

They took her straight to the operating room; they had already given her the necessary injections in the ambulance. The doctor pushed me back when I wanted to follow him. "You stay here," he said coldly. He hated me. I hated myself. I stayed behind. The light above the door to the operating room went on. "No admittance," said the lettering on the light.

I sat on a bench and prayed. For Margaret. For her life. For the life of the baby. I prayed for three-quarters of an hour. Then the doors opened and- they roUed Margaret out. She was unconscious and looked dead.

"How did it go?" I asked the doctor,

"It's too early to tell."

"And the baby?"

"Dead."

"And she,.."

"It's too early to teH," he repeated. "Come back in an hour," and he left me standing there. He knew it was my fault

I left. I found a bar that was open and drank whiskey. The bar was near the hospital. The bartender nodded, smiled. "Gotta wait?"

"Yes."

"They all have to wait," he said.

I said nothing. After a while he came back to me and without another word put a second whiskey in front of me. He did this several times. Then I went back to the hospital. The nurse outside Margaret's room said it was still too early to tell. I should come back in an hour.

The bartender nodded when he saw me. He put a mug of coffee in front of me. "Still waiting?"

"Yes."

"Drink it. They aU drink it when they have to go on waiting."

I drank the black coffee. It was bitter and very strong. Then I drank whiskey again. After a while another man came in. He was sweating and he ordered a beer. The bartender shook his head and gave him a double whiskey.

"You're kept busy here," I said.

"Not bad," he replied. "In the evening things ease off."

At last the hour was up and I went back to the hospital. It was a warm day, warm for March. The nurse said it would take a few minutes and I could wait in the hall.

I waited.

I had drunk a lot, but I didn't feel it. The whiskey had tasted like water. I prayed some more. Then the doctor came. He lighted a cigarette and looked at me inimically. "May I Ro in?"