The Song Is You (20 page)

She knocked around from job to job, and a girlfriend in a rooming house told her about Dr. Stillman. He needed a girl, a nice, smiling Midwesterny girl, to answer phones with kindness and keep the nervous patients in his waiting room calm and comfortable. And Midge thought okay. Shoveling popcorn at the West Hollywood Bijou wasn’t paying enough to keep her in stockings. And the other girls she knew, things sometimes got bad for them. One girl sold her hair. Another used candle wax to fill in the cavities in her mouth. Others, you know. That’s what they did.

And Dr. Stillman was nice and Midge had never been squeamish, nor had she carried with her from Ohio any judgments.

But one day the doc asked her into his office and his face was sterner than she’d ever seen it. He’d noticed files missing from his cabinet on two occasions, both times after her shift had ended. Was there something she wanted to tell him? She said no, and that she’d never taken any files ever. Why would she? He looked at her for a long minute and said okay. He believed her. But he would be watching.

It made Midge feel lousy. What did he think she would want with a bunch of medical files? Sure, some of the patients were actresses and a few were pretty big. Many more, however, were girls sent by actors, directors, producers, studio honchos, politicians—the list went on and on. Sure, there were secrets. But where would that get Midge Maberley from Ada, Ohio? And yet she felt the doctor’s eyes on her all the time now, determined to catch her. Who wanted to spend each day like that, amid that dreadful, awful smell of Mercurochrome?

So when her new pal Jean Spangler said, Honey, your figure is too fetching for these corridors. Come meet the manager at Earl Carroll’s, he owes me more favors than I can count, she gave her notice.

A week before her last day, Jean took her to meet a photographer she knew who could help Midge learn to use a camera. Then she took Midge shopping. As a shutter girl, she’d wear a uniform of emerald satin with gold flocking and shiny gold stockings. Jean helped her pick out flashing necklaces, earrings, evening gloves, even garter belts to catch the eye.

Then they went to the Roosevelt Hotel for drinks. And Midge was so grateful to Jean and asked if there was anything she could do for her. And Jean dismissed her with a wave of the hand.

Three Gibsons later, however, Jean whispered, “Midgie, you have to take your shot while you still can.”

“What shot is that?”

“The doc’s office is a treasure trove, honey.”

“He doesn’t keep any money—” “You know what I mean.” And then Midge remembered Jean sitting in the waiting room one

day, a week or two before, chattering away. Watching as Midge pulled patient folders and refiled them in quick order. “What secrets they could tell,” she’d said with a wink.

“That’s not for me, Jean,” she said now, with an Ohioan’s firmness still girded to her somewhere deep inside. And she knew then that it was Jean who had taken those files. She knew it, but hell, why should she care? She had a new job at Earl Carroll’s. She was going to take pictures of Errol Flynn and Gary Cooper. And she did. And Jean began getting more movie jobs, was around less and less. They rarely saw each other. And then Midge met a handsome young reporter without two nickels but with a head full of gleaming hair and eyes full of trouble.

“But Hop,” she said to him now, her voice turning low, forlorn. “They killed her, didn’t they? They killed Jean.”

“They?”

“I don’t know. The big ‘they.’”

“Yeah, I know about the big ‘they,’” Hop said, thinking of Iolene. Of Iolene hiding. Knowing her time was marked.

“Funny. Jean was always superstitious about all that,” Midge said, stirring her still-untouched coffee. “She said she’d never make old bones.”

Hop looked at Midge’s eyes and found something in there. Something he remembered, or thought he did. Something old and pure.

“That’s why she kept that doctor’s note. I’m sure. Some kind of lucky piece, reminding her of things she’d gotten through. She never stepped on sidewalk cracks or opened fortune cookies,” she went on. “She had a four-leaf clover she kept in her purse. She’d sent away for it, mail-order, from the back of a magazine. She showed it to me a couple times. She kept it taped to the back of a postcard. I remember it was a picture postcard of a lake she’d visited once as a girl. It was way up in the San Bernardino Mountains. Fresh air, pine needles under her feet, the whole bit. What did the postcard say? Something like ‘Come back to Merry Lake’ or ‘Memories from Merry Lake.’ That lake, she said it was her idea of heaven.”

Merry Lake, Hop thought to himself. Something was shuttling around in his head. Merry Lake. “So she ever go back?” he finally said.

Midge shrugged. “It was just one of those plans you mean with all your heart when you’re on your third sidecar.”

“I might know about those plans.”

“Me too. Isn’t that how we …” “Yeah.” “Gil, one last thing,” she said, sensing he was about to go, which

he was. Which he knew he had to.

“Yeah?”

“As bad as we were together,” she said, her voice delicate. “Why …” Her eyelashes lifted and she let those eyes quake through him. She was brutal.

“Because I knew he’d take care of you,” he said quickly, glad to have the chance to say it. He’d never said it before, even to himself. “I guess I knew that somehow. And I knew it would be right for both of you. It would be something for both of you.”

“How gracious,” she said tonelessly.

“I didn’t say it was gracious. I just wanted to make things better

for all of us.”

“The fixer. Always the fixer.”

“But I did, didn’t I, Midge? Didn’t I fix things?” he said, and,

mortified that his voice was almost turning into a sob, rose to his feet.

“I missed you my whole life,” she said, looking up at him helplessly.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said, because he knew it did.

Merry Lake

He could see the words before him, typewritten on an envelope: MISS MERRY LAKE.

Yes, the abandoned mail at Iolene’s hideout on Perdida Court. The old utility bills, the Shopping Bag circular.

So what was the connection? Because there had to be a connection. Every time he thought there were no strands left to tug …

He had twelve hours max before he had to show in the office or risk losing his job. He didn’t know if he could sell. He even had to think for a long minute to remember what his last lie had been. Ah yes, a trip to Minnesota to work Barbara Payton back into the pretzel he’d sold her as.

“Lil?”

“I’ve got cold cream on my face, Hop.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Are you still in Missouri?”

“Out here, they pronounce it Minnesota.” “You know, we thought you’d be doing better with La Payton.” “What do you mean?” “Was that quote for real? It was good enough for you to have

cooked up, but only if you had a plan we didn’t know about.”

“Slow down, Lil. Pretend I’m your ole ma calling from Parsippany.”

“The quote in the Duluth … Mule Feed Picayune, whatever it’s

called. They phoned La Payton at her hotel and asked her how the honeymoon was going.”

“What’d she say?” Hop felt the receiver sliding along his jaw, damp with sweat.

“Let me see if I can remember it right: ‘I thought it would be forever. But forever is just a weekend, more or less.’”

“Fuck me. Someone muzzle that whore, for fuck’s sake.”

“Ouch,” Lil said. “Sure don’t sound like the sweet syrup that usually slides from your lips. Besides, isn’t that your job? The muzzling?”

“I’ve been a little waylaid. I’ll take care of it.”

“Well, you better. Mr. Solomon saw that quote get picked up by the wires and he wanted to take back his call of praise. Also, he said he’d been hearing some other things he wanted to talk with you about. You best tie her mouth up tight and get back to civilization.”

Hop hung up and tried to summon up the snake oil to make a call

to Barbara.

“Operator, Duluth, Minnesota. Cloquet Carriage House Inn.”

“I’ll connect you.”

After five minutes of trying to find Merry Lake on the map in his glove compartment, Hop started out, turning the radio as high as the knob would go. Three-hour drive and he didn’t want to be able to hear his own thoughts. He didn’t want to think anymore. The inside of his mouth felt like soggy burlap, he was still riddled with scotch and beer, he’d long ago forgotten his last honest shave.

He didn’t want to think at all. Not about Frannie Adair and her tentative wholesomeness, her awful dance on the edge of doom, of the bad places always just waiting. She was on pins and needles for the slick, sugar-tongued fellow who would yank her over on the pretense of a jitterbug, and he wasn’t about to be that fancy man.

And he didn’t want to think about Midge and how she could just do it to him, make him crazy, the feel of his hand tight on her neck, fingers splayed on her jaw, he was not that kind of man … and which was worse, that rage she inspired or the twitch in his chest as their heads had leaned closer and she showed him that flicker of loveliness that he’d been so sure he’d long ago snuffed out?

He didn’t even want to think about Jerry. Jerry who could still somehow rise above it, earnest and melancholy and utterly steadfast, above the rank turmoil of everyone surrounding him. After all the women Jerry had been with, all the things he’d seen on the job, how did he get off so noble, so uncontaminated and upright? Hop knew damn well why. It was the difference between them, the thing Jerry had that he himself didn’t have, never knew to want. He couldn’t name it, but it lay there between them like an old promise.

And not about Iolene, not that lost girl… and Jean.

And Jean.

The face in the background.

The far-off voice shivering in his head. A voice he’d probably invented. Could he really remember her voice at all? He just remembered it wasn’t that taffy pull of Iolene’s. No, it was the voice of someone long tired of talking.

He had no idea what he expected to find at Merry Lake. He wasn’t sure which Merry Lake—the person or the place—was the original sound and which the echo. But he had this funny feeling that he would know when he got there.

At midnight, he was rounding the mountain roads, rolling down his window to look for any sign of life. It was barely a town although the sign said, in faux Indian type, POP. 242.

The poplar trees stretched so high that Hop could barely make out the sky. Mailboxes studded the roadway, but the names on them— Gilroy, Canning, Randolph—were meaningless.

As he drove even higher, he passed a scenic overlook and could see the shimmering lake. He stopped his car and got out.

Pine needles crackled under his feet like cut glass and he was suddenly aware of a fresh, rough smell he hadn’t experienced since a summer logging job in the Adirondacks when he was fifteen. Was this a place Jean Spangler would dream of? How could he know, anyway? In his head, she was a heady, jagged mix of B girl, good girl, girl next door, victim, blackmailer, damsel in distress, dead girl, girl of broken dreams … Christ, she was one of thousands he’d met, no different. But in his head she’d become all those girls all at once— and a succubus no less, holding on tight, refusing release long after he had any reason to be in her thrall.

As he gazed across the open space, the expanse of the lake bleeding invisibly into ring after ring of wooden frame houses, seasonal tourist cabins, logger huts, he realized this was his first moment of real peace, solitude, clearheadedness in days … years? He wasn’t sure he liked it.

Maybe if Jerry were here, he thought. We could go fishing down there, rent one of those creaky rowboats, lean back and let it bobble.

Then he could straighten out his thoughts. Remind himself of what’s what. Stop letting these women …

Oh, fuck it all, fuck it all.

He lit a cigarette.

As he smoked, he found himself rocking on his heels lightly. Where was that sound coming from? The water? No, Hop, no surf on a lake. No. No. There was music coming from somewhere. Car radio? Open window?

He peered to his left. Walking forward, pushing his way through a few yards of mulchy overgrowth, he saw a cabin with a porch, windows blazing, about sixty yards down a knotty footpath. A bar, God help me. Sweet Mary, if it’s a bar, I’ll never skip Mass again, he thought. He started walking.

As he got closer, the music took on a familiar feel. Hoagy Carmichael, wasn’t it? One of those old songs that Hop remembered dancing to with dozens of women right after the war. A slow song that bands liked to whip into something hot, hectic. He remembered one brassy blonde with a voice low and throaty like Tallulah Bankhead, blowing vibrato into his ear as they pitched around the dance floor in that frenzied VJ Day style, her breasts shuddering against his chest with each twirl. “Love comes along, casting a spell,” she sang. “Will it sing you a song? Will it say a farewell?”

That’s the one he should have married.

THE HOT SPOT was painted in red letters on a small sign hanging from a nail on the front-porch rail. Hop pushed open the Wild West doors and absorbed a cloud of smoke, old beer, and something that smelled like moonshine. The place couldn’t have held more than twenty-five people, but at least forty were crushed in, sitting at the long tables, playing cards, and drinking out of glass jars, perched along the small bar on stools that looked carved out of tree trunks. The jukebox shook mercilessly in one corner. Apparently, the Hot Spot was the only spot in town.

He pressed himself up to the bar, holding on for dear life as patrons wedged in and out of every corner. After waiting two or three minutes for the sweaty, harried bartender, Hop finally reached over the bar and grabbed his own jar. He was seconds away from

reaching around to the tap when the bartender finally saw him.

“Sorry, buddy, but it ain’t self-serve.”

“You sure?” Hop said, watching carefully as the fellow drew his

beer, making sure he didn’t spit in it.

It tasted awfully nice, but not as nice as a tumbler of bourbcn.

A seat opened up at one of a handful of single tables fashioned out

of barrels. Hop took it.

Watching the throng, he wondered if there was anything he could do.

Watching the throng, he wondered how he’d lost the big picture. When he’d phoned Barbara Payton before he left, he’d done some very fancy dancing. The kind of thing that can easily backfire. She’d fessed up to talking to a reporter about her wedded woe.

“Maybe if you’d been around, Hop, I wouldn’t have felt so lonely and turned to that beetle-browed reporter for a little friendly conversation.”

“But B.P., my darling, I thought you wanted this.”

“I picked the wrong joe. I miss Tom. I liked lying in bed with him

and counting his muscles.”

“Then Tom it is.”

“For real? The big D for me and Franchot?”

“We can sell it, B.P. The rash actions of a young girl trying to be

practical. She meant it when she said those vows, but now she realizes she can’t fight her own heart.”

“My heart has a lot of opinions, Hop.”

“That it does, B.P. Give me a day and I’ll make things move like Gypsy Rose Lee.”

Recalling this conversation just a few hours later, he was very unsure how he was going to pull it off. And instead of working the Payton story on Eastern Standard Time, making the calls, cleaning things up, he was in Hicksville Central, having beer spilled on him by men in plaid shirts and suspenders.

His own mason jar long empty, he wondered if there was any chance for table service. He rose and peered above the horde. As he did, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror above the nearby hat stand. What was his old man’s face doing staring back at him instead of his own pretty mug, he wondered. Fuck me, not even the nice suit helps. His face looked ten years older than a week ago. He hoped he’d be able to wash and shave it off. But what could he do to fix that strange look in his eyes? That empty-eyed look that says, Whatever you got, I’m ready. No surprises left.

He sat down, feeling his legs creak.

From a few tables away, he heard a slurred voice shout out.

“Iolene? Iolene? How ‘bout one more round?”

Hop turned, a hard, hot tremor dragging from his feet straight up to his chest. All evidence to the contrary, he fully expected to see the lively, lovely Iolene Harper come strolling across the crowded floor, skin glowing toffee, high, tight breasts wrapped in green satin, hips turned toward him, one long arm at her side, hand angled out to him, beckoning.

But instead … instead.

A girl appeared, white shirt tucked into a full skirt, hair pulled back in a long ponytail, a long gold scarf tied around her neck, two large jars of foamy beer sloshing over her hands. A white girl, a tall girl, a very, very pretty girl with a walk like a showgirl. Boom-chicaboom. A girl waiting tables in a place like this shouldn’t have that walk.

As she moved closer … as she moved closer .. .

Like the glossy photograph in his jacket pocket come to life.

Come to life.

Jean Spangler back from the dead.

He was suddenly sure he’d lost his mind.

His hand on his mason jar jerked off the edge of the table and the

jar hit the floor, rolling without breaking.

He felt like the whole joint could hear his thudding heart.

He tried to speak, but nothing came out.

She placed the beers on the nearby table with a whisper of a smile.

This dead girl did.

And then, as if sensing his attention, her eyes lifted and she looked

over at Hop. Walking toward him, a voice spilled forward from her and slithered straight into Hop’s ear, drowning out everything else.

“You want some more, fella?”

He tried to speak again, but nothing came out.

Jean Spangler. Without all the spangles.

That pearly skin a little less pearly. The posture a little less bright, less on, less ready to skate around and see what she could start up. But still without question Jean Spangler. Creamy face. Fringed, flashing eyes and pouty lip. That thick tangle of chestnut hair. The legs began where they should and ended in forever.

His whole world collapsing from within and she’s handing out drinks, Lazarus-like, in a bar seventy miles away.

Yes, I want some more. A lot more. Goddammit. Goddammit.

‘You,” Hop snarled, rising to meet her at eye level. “What the fuck are you doing here? What are you doing aboveground?”

He had lost his mind. He knew it. His mind, it was gone.

He saw her hands grip her tray tightly. He saw her face go white.

“Who sent you?” she uttered, so low he could barely hear her above the din.

“No one sent me,” he said, aware that this all felt more and more like a dream. He was talking to Jean Spangler. In the flesh. He half expected snakes to burst from her head.

She leaned close to him so she could whisper. “Please leave me. I don’t have anything.” She, only a few inches shy of his height, forced them both into the corner, only the tray jammed between them. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, placing his hands on her forearms, which rigidly grasped the tray. With one sharp gesture, he knocked the tray out of her grip and it clattered to the floor. He looked down at it and wondered what he thought he was doing. Fuck, Hop. Fuck.

“You’re here to finish things, then,” she said, her voice shaking. “To finish everything.” Her face was so close to his now he felt like he was looking straight inside her, inside those dark, depthless eyes wide with fright. And he could smell bergamot on her skin, almost taste it.

“No, no. Don’t you … don’t you remember me?” He found himself whispering. Against all reason, he felt the anger and aggression slip from him. Maybe it was the perfume. The gleamy skin. The way he could feel her body trembling against him.

He felt suddenly desperate and eerily aroused. He felt he had only seconds to make everything fall together right. How could he possibly make her understand what had happened to him and how close they were now? How intimate. And how Iolene… and everything.