The Ticket Out (41 page)

As a protégé of Irving Thalberg, I thought. As the greatest screenwriter who ever lived.

“We have to assume he murdered Stenholm and Abadi, and that he's the one who attempted to murder you. Until we can talk to Dolgin, however, all we have are assumptions.”

Doug paused. “They've operated on him—the bullet was lodged in his neck. He's in critical condition, but the doctors think he'll make it. He's the only witness left.”

Doug paused. Then: “We need a motive.”

He was silent again.

“I've got to get back to Culver City—I never should've left. I have to do a walk-through with the shooting teams. This is a very big mess.”

I opened my eyes and tears just gushed out.

Doug lost his formal tone. He said, “Please, baby, don't.”

My vision blurred. Doug leaned over and picked something off the floor. I felt a bath towel on my face. He pressed it there, and patted my cheeks and eyes.

I had no control; I tried. The tears wouldn't stop. They stopped gushing after a while, but they didn't stop. They slowed down to a steady drip. Doug dried them as they came. My nose was running. He wiped it, too.

He said, “I couldn't reach your sister and I don't want to leave you alone. Is there anyone else I can call?”

My sister. I had to adjust to remember her. She'd gone to the desert with Father today. I thought of Vivian or Mark: I couldn't picture it. There wasn't anyone who could possibly help.

Doug said, “Yes? No?”

I shook my head. My eyes were wet—Doug was a blur. He said, “Then I'll get someone to check on you. I'll leave provisions on the table, and I'll leave this. We found it in Phillips's office.”

I felt him set an object in my lap. I could see a white square, but I couldn't tell what it was. Doug leaned forward and lay the back of his hand on my cheek. His voice was quiet.

He said, “Ever since I met you, I've wondered how far you would go. Now I know.”

He stood up. I watched him walk into the kitchen to get his things, and I heard the front door open and close. His car engine started; I heard him drive away. The tears dripped, dripped. I dried them on the pillow and lay there, listening to nothing. I forgot about the object on my lap until I tried to move my legs.

I lifted my head to see what it was.

It was a bound screenplay with a white cover. The cover said GB
DREAMS BIG.

 

I
COULDN'T SIT
up, but I freed my arms from under the blanket. They moved—I wasn't sure they would. My left arm was taped stiff. My right arm was okay except for the cast on my hand. Doug had dressed me in a pair of his pajamas and rolled up the sleeves. I flexed my fingers to see if they worked. Only one knee would bend very far. I propped the script against it and opened the cover.

I read the title page.

Someone had Xed out GB
DREAMS BIG
in pencil. The same pencil retitled the script:
GEORGIE AND NANCE.

A second name was penciled in on the writing credit. It read: “by Greta Stenholm & Neil John Phillips.”

I turned the page. The script began:

 

EXT. OZEE'S AUTO COURT AND DESOLATE LANDSCAPE. EARLY EVENING.

 

A cheap motel on State Road 121 near Grapevine. Oil derricks litter the bald, churned-up, treeless land. In the background, isolated figures move around the derricks, silhouetted by the setting sun. There is the muted sound of machinery and men's voices. The sounds are carried away by the wind. Closer in, bedsheets billow on a clothesline, spattered with windblown oil.

 

A title appears over the landscape and motel:
EAST TEXAS. SPRING 1934.

 

INT. OZEE'S AUTO COURT. CABIN NUMBER 2. LIVING ROOM. EARLY EVENING.

 

A cheap, underfunished motel room—pure poverty. This and the following scene should be shot in black-and-white, or washed-out color, the way we imagine the Depression years.

 

Present are
GEORGE BAUERDORF,
a struggling wildcatter two wells away from the strike of his life, his worn-out first wife,
MOTHER,
and his two dark-haired daughters—
CONNIE,
14, and
GEORGETTE,
10. These aren't trashy people. They're a middle-class family turned into nomads as the father gambles on oil.

 

MOTHER
is cooking supper at a primitive gas burner in a curtained-off area. She looks pale, even sick.
GEORGE
sits at a table in his shirtsleeves, reading the Dallas newspaper.
CONNIE
and
GEORGETTE
sit near him, playing with toys.
GEORGETTE'S
toy is a
STUFFED RABBIT.

 

GEORGETTE
(to her rabbit)

When we grow up, Bunny, we're going to roam the world looking for oil. We'll start in Texas, and then ride a mule to Venezuela, and after we find all the oil in Venezuela, we'll fly an airplane to the Dutch East Indies and find more.

 

GEORGE

Georgette, for Christ's sake, stop your yammering! Tell her, Mother!

 

MOTHER

Your father's had a long day, Georgie.

 

CONNIE

I miss New York. When can we go home?

 

GEORGE
(warningly)

Mother...!

 

MOTHER

Will you get out the plates for me, sweetheart?

 

CONNIE
pulls a sulky face and
GEORGE
raises a threatening hand.

CONNIE
jumps up and runs to her
MOTHER.

 

GEORGETTE
(whispering)

The Dutch East Indies are really close to Russia, so we'll go there next in a sampan and a dogsled—

 

With a swift, violent gesture,
GEORGE
grabs
GEORGETTE'S STUFFED RABBIT
and throws it out the open window.

 

EXT. REAR OF OZEE'S AUTO COURT. EARLY EVENING.

 

In extreme close-up we see the
STUFFED RABBIT
lying in the mud. It should look like an injured body. A gust of wind spatters it with oil.

 

INT. OZEE'S AUTO COURT. CABIN NUMBER 2. BEDROOM. NIGHT.

 

GEORGETTE
has been sent to bed without her supper. There is a Murphy bed for the parents and two folding cots for the girls.
GEORGETTE
sits on her cot with her
STUFFED RABBIT,
which is damp from being washed. She is sewing a red velvet garment for the
STUFFED RABBIT.
The garment is trimmed in yellow fur, like the robe of a medieval queen. The garment should stand out from the bleak surroundings. The color can be enhanced in postproduction.

 

GEORGETTE

Baku, Bunny—just think, Baku. It will be cold in Russia, not like Texas. The rigs get ice on them and the roughnecks slip and hurt themselves. We'll have to dress for the elements.

 

GEORGETTE'S
voice caresses “Baku” as it caressed “Dutch East Indies”—magical and mysterious names to the little girl. She holds up the odd garment she's working on for the
STUFFED RABBIT
to see. From the next room we hear the raised voice of
GEORGE.

 

GEORGE (O.S.)

When I come home at night, I expect three things, Mother. I expect clean clothes, I expect my dinner on the table, and I expect the girls to keep their damn mouths shut!

 

The rest of the speech is unintelligible, although we hear the angry tone of his voice. We hear
MOTHER'S
apologetic tone in response. With that fading on the soundtrack,
GEORGETTE
hugs her precious
STUFFED RABBIT
and smiles to herself.

 

SLOW FADE TO:

 

EXT. THE HOLLYWOOD CANTEEN. HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA. NIGHT.

 

A master shot of an old barn on Cahuenga Boulevard.
A
sign painted above the doors says
HOLLYWOOD
CANTEEN.
There are stars-and-stripes banners, and arc lights shining crisscross beams into the night sky. Soldiers and sailors, all sorts of servicemen, mill out front. There are only men, no women, and there's a long line at the door to get in. If a hostess is checking the servicemen in, we can't see her. Cars pass, honking. Male motorists shout patriotic sentiment and bloodthirsty encouragement. The servicemen shout back.

 

A title appears:
OCTOBER N, 1944.

 

There are young men in civilian clothes lurking in the street. They are 4-Fs and dishonorable discharges. Two men in uniform get into a shoving match with two men in civvies. We hear “Coward” and “Bug case” from the soldiers. Other servicemen spectate as the civilians are chased away from the Canteen. A big-band dance tune hops on the soundtrack. It's coming from inside the Canteen.

 

INT. HOLLYWOOD CANTEEN. NIGHT.

 

A high-angle shot of a cavernous hall with a cafeteria, a stage, and tables and chairs arranged around a large dance floor. It looks like a saloon, with murals of the Old West on the walls and wagon-wheel chandeliers. The main attraction of the Canteen is the movie stars and name musical acts. Maybe Harry James and his orchestra are playing tonight, and Betty Grable is the chief hostess. The dance floor and cafeteria are packed. The hall is jumping with servicemen, and young women in bright dresses. Men outnumber women ten to one.

 

The place is loud, but the gaiety has a desperate, almost violent, edge. On the peripheries of the frame, in isolated knots, servicemen shove each other because they want food and women. But the camera doesn't focus specific attention on the violence, it's just part of the atmosphere, like the men fighting outside. The camera swoops in and picks a gold-and-diamond
RABBIT PIN
out of the crowd of dancers.

 

INT. HOLLYWOOD CANTEEN. NIGHT.

 

Extreme close-up of this obviously expensive piece of jewelry.

 

INT. HOLLYWOOD CANTEEN. NIGHT.

 

The camera pulls back from the
RABBIT PIN
to a medium shot of two people dancing. The pin is on the dress of a young, dark-haired woman, twenty years old. The pin identifies the grown-up
GEORGETTE BAUERDORF
for the audience. Her
PARTNER
is wearing an Air Force uniform.

 

GEORGETTE
(pointing to her partner's wings)

I'm learning to fly an airplane.

 

PARTNER
(laughs)

Fly an airplane? What for?

 

I turned the page.

Someone had stuck a loose piece of paper into the script. The paper was covered with penciled notes in the same handwriting as the title page. Neil John Phillips's handwriting.

Phillips had a list of comments:

“—lose Texas prologue—too depressing—creates mood audience won't shake—

“—story opens at H'wood Canteen—lose desperate atmospherics and rabbit pin. GEORGIE beautiful brunet—dancing in arms of handsome pilot her age—pilot names battles fought and Pacific islands seen (check historical accuracy)—Georgie fascinated—

“—she passes friend,
NANCE,
on dance floor—Nance star, beautiful blond (think ditzy and ballsy, think Diaz or Zellweger)—Georgie whispers she has pilot while Nance has lower form of enlisted man—a running contest between the two girls—Georgie keeps count of flyers she meets—

“—Navy pilot taps Georgies partner on shoulder. Georgie sees his wings—happy he cuts in—

“—pilot's name
JEFF STONE
—second male lead—major suspect in Georgies death until real killer caught—had good job at Metro before war—offers Georgie screen test when war over—Georgie flattered—”

Phillips's comments ended there.

I turned to the next page of the script.

The typing stopped and there was handwriting instead. The handwriting didn't belong to Phillips: it belonged to Greta. She'd printed one word over and over on the blank page. The same word, with no spaces, on line after line.

I turned the page.

She'd done the same thing again. The same word, line after line, no spaces and no margins.

I turned the page. It was the same: the same word.

I started flipping pages.

She had filled every page of the rest of the script with one word. The word was block-printed, in capital letters, in red ink, in tight lines, covering the entire page from top to bottom.

There were at least one hundred blank pages in the script, and she'd written the same word at least three hundred times on each page.

“MOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIESMOVIES”

Line after line, page after page, over and over, one single word from Greta Stenholm.

The word was:
Movies.

I
CRIED FOR
the rest of the night. I cried when I was awake, and I cried in my sleep. I cried so hard in my sleep that I woke myself up again.

I hurt my rib crying. I soaked the sheets and blankets crying, and soaked my pajamas crying. At one point I crawled off the couch to find a dry place to lie down. I thought I headed for the bedroom. Doug's neighbor came in the morning and found me on the kitchen floor. I was naked and shivering from the cold. He carried me to the bedroom, tucked me into bed, and made me swallow some pills.