Land of Dreams: A Novel (16 page)

Nonetheless her tone was soft, and she eased her stockinged feet out of her shoes and curled and twisted them delightedly in the warm Californian breeze.

After a pleasant half hour or so I saw the red-haired actress Gloria pause at the top of the steps, as if trying to find a way past our noisy family gathering without being seen. As I was raising my hand to greet her, from the corner of my eye I noticed Tom at the side of the pool.

“Maaaa-aaam—LOOK!”

He whipped off his soaking pants and waved them in the air, before plunging naked into the water.

Gloria’s eyes had followed mine, and I smiled at her weakly and shrugged an apology. As she scuttled past I heard Bridie huff behind me, “Well—
that
’s a wig,” and I knew that, first thing in the morning, I would have to find us all somewhere more suitable to live.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

I found us a house on Franklin Avenue in the Los Feliz district of Hollywood. Near Paramount Studios, Los Feliz had more character than the sprawling Sunset Boulevard, which, despite its name, I had found strangely cold. Freddie had tried to persuade me to rent a house in the mountains above Sunset, where many of the stars lived in vast balconied haciendas looking down into the valley. Although the properties were spacious and I could afford them, I did not warm to the idea. The hills seemed an impractical place to live. One had to get into a car in order to do everything, even something simple like buying a pint of milk required effort. Even when I had been living in the back of beyond in Kilmoy in Ireland, there would always be a cow on hand if you ran out of milk, and eggs in the henhouse if you were stuck for food.

Los Feliz, while certainly Californian in architecture and mood—all skinny palm trees and low houses—was nonetheless the closest thing I could find in scale and convenience to New York, in that it had a “village” area. Our house was two minutes’ walk away from a long strip of shops, including a cinema and several restaurants set along both sides of Vermont Avenue, which was narrow enough to cross on foot without taking your life entirely in your hands. At the edge of the strip was Hollywood Boulevard and, if you walked down to the right, rising up from the wide, dusty road was Olive Hill, where Hollyhock House—the empty home of the eccentric heiress Aline Barnsdall—was tucked flat into the shallow, sun-scorched grasslands. The peculiarly designed, squat building was just visible from the road and although it was only twenty or so years old, it had been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and, for that reason, with my foolish New York snobbery, I felt it gave the area some history and gravitas.

Our new home was an airy bungalow with four bedrooms and an open kitchen-living area facing out onto a large lawn in the back. To the front were two ludicrously grand Roman pillars—a nod to the pretension evident almost everywhere in this crazy town—but there were also ornate filigree screens on every door and window to keep the house cool, and a wide front porch that opened onto another generous lawn in the front. There were enough beds for us all, plus an extra room that I planned to use as a studio. Ironically, the decision to commit to signing a six-month lease had little to do with Leo’s movie aspirations, but was based on the needs of the two people who were least involved in our being there: Bridie and Tom. Having survived one long journey, Bridie was not ready to embark on the return one yet; and then Tom announced over dinner in the Chateau one evening, in front of everyone, that he wanted to “stay here and be with us all in the same place again.” The table was silenced by this awkward pronouncement, so he took that as an invitation to continue, saying that he was “sick of being with Mammy all the time” and would like to try going to school “like a normal boy.”

Bridie snapped at him, “Don’t be such a cheeky pup, or there’ll be no cake!” but she gave me a look that left me in no doubt that it was something she herself had been thinking for a long time.

The rental came with basic furnishings, including sheets and towels, and I did not send home for any of our belongings. While I agreed to relinquish my artist’s isolation by keeping the family together in this one place for a while, I was not looking to create anything fancy from it. We just needed somewhere comfortable to lay our heads while Leo played out this idea of his, which, I hoped, would not last much beyond this first film. We could then return to New York to resume both boys’ schooling and my art.

One of the best things about living in Los Feliz was that we were relatively close to the Paramount lot. There was a good bus service to the studios, although, more often than not, Freddie or I would drive Leo there. The roads here were wide and seldom clogged with traffic, the way New York’s streets were, so that the journey—almost an hour on foot—took only a few minutes by car.

In my case the “car” was a dusty blue pickup truck that I had bought from our Mexican neighbor a few days after we moved in. For no reason that I could logically discern (my farming roots perhaps?), I had always hankered after pickup trucks. I associated them with good weather and sunshine—in truth, they were one of the few things about living outside the city (New York being the only “real” American city) that appealed to me. However, they were not vehicles suitable for New York, as they required year-round good weather. Actually they were not vehicles for Los Angeles, either—because they were associated with hillbillies. By the time I discovered how deeply unfashionable they were, it was too late, and I was already witnessing the open surprise on the faces of my neighbors at my eccentric choice. Nonetheless, I drove the truck everywhere and found it to be extremely practical. There was room in the front cab for Bridie and one other, squeezed between us. However, Tom adored sitting in the back on a wooden crate and gripping onto the sides to stop being slung around.

Leo, of course, was mortified at being driven around in such a hillbilly vehicle, which made me all the more determined to keep him grounded—and meant that Freddie was a regular visitor with his car.

Leo had signed a standard contract with Paramount. Freddie explained to me that it was unusual for him to have been cast at all, given that he was not attached to any particular studio. He said that young actors were signed up as studio workers before being sent for castings. Leo was in a unique position, he told me, because he had not been found by a studio scout, but by Freddie, “an outside agent.”

Nonetheless, Leo would have to undergo voice coaching, grooming and acting lessons in the employ of the studio, before filming started in January. There was no need for me to even see the contract, Freddie assured me—it was a given that Leo would be looked after.

“This is his big break, Mrs. H. This film could make Leo into a big star.”

I groaned inside whenever Freddie spoke like that, but the poor young man seemed so enthusiastic, and had looked after Leo so well, that I could not crush his dreams, any more than I would have crushed Leo’s.

“What do you get out of this, Freddie?” I asked him one morning when he came to collect Leo to take him across to the studio. I could not see where Freddie was making his money and it made me nervous. All this time and effort he was putting into my son, and for what? How was he paying for the Chateau and the car?

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Mrs. H. I’ve got this whole studio thing all worked out. Things are changing. Things are happening, Mrs. H. Soon the studios won’t have the control they have now. I’ve got the inside track.” He dramatically looked around to check that nobody was listening—in my empty kitchen. Was there anyone in this town who wasn’t an actor at heart?

“Between you and me, all the big actors in the Screen Actors Guild are sick of the studios having complete control of their careers, and they are muscling in with a bunch of big lawyers. We’re talking names”—he counted them off on his fingers—“Olivia de Havilland, Paul Harvey, Jean Hersholt, Gene Lockhart, Bela Lugosi, George Murphy, Gloria Stuart, Irving Pichel, Franchot Tone.” Then he opened his hands to allow me to collapse at his feet, which I didn’t, before continuing, “In a few months, my friend the lawyer says, once this big case goes through, all these stars’ contracts can be revoked, and what are the studios going to do without all their big names?”

Find new ones,
I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud.

“The studios
need
their stars, right? So that’s where I come in:
BAM!
I already have a dozen big names, Mrs. H., big—and I’m talking
big
—names, ready to sign up as soon as the case comes clear. The old system, it’s gone; so now I come in and negotiate on the stars’ behalf and then take a percentage. The studios will have to pay me for the talent—it’s called ‘agenting,’ Mrs. H.—and that’s the way it’s going to be from now on. I’ll be the hottest agent in town. Hell, I’ll be the
only
agent in town!”

Unions. Big ideas. I’d been there before, with Charles. Except that Charles had been motivated by the morals of social justice, so at least he had right on his side. What poor, optimistic Freddie was hoping for was beyond impossible. The kid was just following another improbable Hollywood dream—with all that greedy talk about paydays, he just wanted to play the bigshot in his own Hollywood fantasy.

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“I have a friend—a lawyer. Well, he’s not exactly a lawyer himself, but he
works
for this lawyer, anyhow. And they have this big case with the Department of Justice—something to do with movie theaters.”

I looked at him blankly.

“It’s too complicated to explain,” he said, “but when it comes off, everything is going to come tumbling down with the studios, and yours truly will be on hand to mop up all that talent!”

He seemed so certain that I was inclined to believe him; or rather I
wanted
to believe him. This madcap scheme was Freddie’s dream, and while he was doing his level best to make it sound feasible, it was probably as likely as Crystal being the next Olivia de Havilland, and as grounded in reality as the Chateau guest Gloria’s magnificent red wig.

“Well, I hope Paramount will at least pay you a finder’s fee for Leo, Freddie?”

“Don’t you worry,” he said enigmatically. “The studio knows me. They’re always hassling to take me on as a scout, but I’ve got it covered, Mrs. H. I’m holding out for the big time. Me and Billy Wilder? We’re like that . . .” and he crossed his fingers. “I know all the big names. It’s only a matter of time, Mrs. H., before the big time rolls in for Freddie Hickey,” he finished, tapping his nose and winking.

“I thought your name was Dubois,” said Bridie, who had been half listening while working her way through a pile of ironing.

He smiled a wide, white-toothed grin and said, “Sure it is, Bridie,” and she flicked a creased pillowcase at him disparagingly.

I couldn’t help but like the young man—despite all his silly talk and big ideas.

One of the things that contributed to the village atmosphere in Los Feliz was that, while Paramount stars and studio heads lived in the hills close to Sunset, the technicians, set designers, electricians, carpenters, cooks, costume makers, makeup girls, hairdressers—the everyday workers in the movie industry—mostly lived and worked around here. There were a few grand houses and some smart apartment buildings, so every now and again I would pass a face that I recognized on my way into a local restaurant favored by movie stars and producers, but all in all the atmosphere was that of an ordinary, pleasant neighborhood.

This was one of the few places in Los Angeles where you could do your everyday business—shopping, posting letters, collecting laundry—without having to get in a car.

One day I decided to clear my head and walk to the studios to collect Leo. His acting class finished at three that afternoon, and I needed to get out of the house. I had started to feel that this new house was becoming a kind of prison. Fixing up houses had always been something of a passion of mine. I liked nice things—good crockery, starched table linens, polished wood—and it seemed now, looking back, that I had spent a large part of my early life setting up homes, from modernizing our cottage in Ireland with my first husband, John, to the community home I set up in Yonkers, the apartment in Chelsea and finally the cabin in Fire Island. I had always taken pride in my surroundings and was careful and creative in the way I presented everything in my home, from a simple table setting to the way the cushions were set on a chair. Floral arrangements—be they in a cut-glass vase or a jam jar—were always tastefully displayed. I took pleasure in the simple tasks of housewifery. When I made my fortune in business as a young woman, and time for household tasks was scarce, I seemed to enjoy them even more.

Now, however, since I had moved into this rental apartment, that had all changed. I did not feel like fixing it up. The very idea of turning this house into any kind of a home bored me. While Bridie fussed about cleaning, she deferred to me on purchasing new linens, a few pieces of smarter crockery, new table napkins, encouraging me to prettify some corner with shop-bought flowers, but I found myself responding with uncharacteristic indifference.

Bridie had been like a whirlwind since her arrival, and attacked each meal and each pile of washing with a vigor I had not seen in her for years. Los Angeles had given her a new lease on life, which was great, but it made me even more redundant.

Although I could not say so to Bridie, who had given her whole life to the domestic service of both herself and others, I had come to feel that, at forty-two, I had earned the right not to waste another moment of my life on domestic fripperies or chores. I did not include in this feeding my family or spending time with Tom, ministering over baths or doing his lessons, but when it came to arranging his room—painting little sailboats on the wall above his bed, as I had done in the cabin on Fire Island—I had no interest whatsoever.

I was, in truth, preoccupied with the fact that I had not been painting. Aside from that day sketching Crystal, I had not picked up charcoal or a brush since leaving Fire Island. I made excuses, the greatest one being all that I had to do in the house, but the weeks rounded into a month and I began to fear that my art had deserted me. The artist in me—the Ellie who could lose herself in the flurry of paint on canvas, the spirit who existed through the color and shape she could see in the world—had deserted me already. Perhaps it was because I had allowed her life to take second place, or had ignored her pleas to paint, in deference to the drama of Leo’s disappearance. Whatever the reason, I made excuses to myself that I didn’t have the right tools, that I had yet to get my bearings and find where to buy canvas and paints, that I was waiting for Conor to box up some essentials from the studio and have them sent over to me; but the truth was that the compulsion to create had left me.