Vintage Love (273 page)

Staring at the azure surface of the swimming pool with its shining tile steps and its high diving board Nita realized that she had indulged in more speculations about Dr. Phillip Watters than she ever had about Billy Bowers. She had looked on the star as merely a family friend. Now it seemed his interest in her might go deeper.

She knew she would have to watch and wait and be careful not to encourage him until she knew her own feelings. Once again, as she had many times before, she wished that Marty was at her side, holding her hand, cracking jokes and yet making plain his love for her. Drunk or sober, she believed he’d really cared. Now that part of her life was at an end. She must continue alone.

But Marty had taught her how to sing and dance and had given her the chance to learn about the trying profession in which she meant to make her name. Also through Marty she had the friendship and help of Billy Bowers. Things surely were looking better for her. Her arm had healed rapidly and she had recovered completely from her head injuries. She had much to be thankful for.

Nita sat and wrote letters that afternoon. And when time came for the evening meal Mrs. Case brought her a tray of delicious food. She did not mind eating alone in her room, finding it a pleasant change from the cheap atmosphere and bad food of the small town restaurants which she’d become used to on the road. When dinner was over, the housekeeper came for the empty tray.

“You shouldn’t shut yourself in your room,” Mrs. Case told her as she prepared to leave with the tray. “You have the run of the house.”

“I know,” Nita replied. “But I understand Mr. Bowers isn’t well and I wouldn’t want to disturb him.”

“Don’t worry about disturbing him,” Mrs. Case said. “He’s shut up in his own rooms at the back of the house where he can’t hear anything.”

Later Nita decided to stroll out by the pool to enjoy the balmy evening. It was near twilight when she ventured out and Murphy in white slacks and a green sweater was standing by the pool smoking a pipe and gazing at the water. He turned on hearing her footsteps on the patio tiles.

Removing his pipe from his mouth, he said, “Good evening, Mrs. Nolan.”

“It is a lovely evening,” she agreed. And then she added, “I can’t get over this house. It’s so quiet!”

“Yes,” Murphy said thoughtfully. “It is.”

“Is it like this all the time?”

The big man nodded. “A good deal of it.”

“I’m sorry about Mr. Bowers’ headache,” she said. “It’s too bad.”

“Yes,” Murphy said, gazing at the pool again.

“Isn’t there anything can be done to help him?” she asked.

The Irishman gave her another of his solemn looks. “I’m afraid not.”

“It seems such a tragedy. He has everything and yet it’s spoiled for him.”

Murphy said, “Hollywood is full of men like him.”

Feeling let down, she ventured, “I guess Hollywood isn’t all glamor and parties as the screen magazines tell us.”

“Not at all,” he said.

Nita felt uncomfortable. She sensed that Murphy didn’t want to engage in small talk with her. Rather awkwardly, she said, “I’ll be going back to my room. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

Nita went back to her room in a puzzled frame of mind. There was something strange about Murphy and in the cautious way in which he had talked with her. He seemed part of the austere quiet of the elegant Mexican style house and heightened the odd atmosphere of mystery which she felt shadowed it. She fell asleep wondering if the house held some dark secret.

Nita wakened in the middle of the night with a start. She had been dreaming wildly and suddenly her nightmare had been pierced by a loud, sobbing cry. She sat up in bed staring into the darkness of the big room, not certain whether the cry had been part of her dream or whether the sound of it had made her awake.

It was hard to be certain. Yet without question the house was silent now, just as grotesquely quiet as it had been for most of the day. She listened for other sounds and heard none. At last she lay back and after a time passed into an uneasy sleep which lasted until morning.

Mrs. Case dutifully came with her breakfast tray and the morning paper. The woman placed it on a table by a window and then lifted the window sash to allow the balmy air to come in.

The woman smiled at her and said, “I think I’ve brought you everything you mentioned.”

Nita put on her dressing gown and went to the table to study the savory contents of the tray. The sight of coffee, toast and marmalade stimulated her appetite. “It looks delicious,” she said.

“The boiled eggs are in the covered dish,” Mrs. Case indicated a silver dome.

“Thank you,” Nita said, sitting down and picking up a glass of orange juice. “Another lovely day.”

Mrs. Case glanced out the window. “We’ve had little rain lately,” she agreed.

Nita paused with her orange juice to ask, “Did you hear any strange sounds last night?”

Mrs. Case showed concern. “Strange sounds, madam?”

“Yes,” she said. “I wakened in the middle of the night and I’m almost sure it was a loud, sobbing cry which broke into my sleep.”

“Indeed, madam?” Mrs. Case stared at her with incredulity.

“You heard nothing?”

“No,” the woman said. “But then I’m a deep sleeper and my hearing is not the best.”

Nita smiled at her. “I’m sure you would have heard this cry. It was most eerie. Perhaps I dreamed it after all. I could have.”

“Yes, madam,” Mrs. Case said and lost no time in taking her leave.

In the early afternoon Nita put on her only black dress for the memorial service. She fashioned a veil to wear with her black cloche. Billy was waiting for her in the living room, also dressed in black. She noticed at once that he appeared even more tense and haggard than on the previous day and it worried her.

She asked him, “Do you feel well enough to attend the service?”

“Of course,” he said, seeming irritated that she should ask him such a question.

“It was only your headache I was worried about,” she went on to explain.

The comedian at once looked apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m still a little edgy. I didn’t mean to speak sharply.”

“It’s all right,” she said, drawing on her black gloves.

“You look amazingly well in black,” he said in admiration. “Most women find it unflattering.”

Nita shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it. I have little choice.”

Billy looked sympathetic. “Are you sure you feel up to it? You don’t have to come if it will be too much of an emotional strain.”

“No,” she said. “I’ve braced myself. Best to get it over with. It’s the least I can do for Marty.

“Brave girl,” he said warmly. “I’ll have Murphy bring the car.”

The drive to the famous Hollywood Cemetery took a half hour. Billy tried to distract her from her melancholy by pointing out famous places along the way, but Nita barely heard anything he said. Her mind was with Marty, back in those early days when she was learning about show business and what it was to be a show-business wife. It was Marty who had encouraged her ambitions and had brought her here to Hollywood. Now she was about to say her final farewell to him.

But suddenly Nita realized that this was not true. She would never truly say goodbye to the boisterous young Irishman she’d married. He would always be a part of her and, in a subtle way, would influence her. The experience, good and bad, which she had gained as Marty’s wife was the foundation on which she would have to build her future.

She broke her reverie to glance at Billy Bowers, and said, “Billy, do you honestly think Marty would have made it in films if he’d lived?”

The comedian nodded. “I do. I really do.”

She sighed. “Perhaps its just as well. I’m sure he’d never have been able to handle success. His drinking would have ruined him.”

“Marty had a big thirst,” the man at her side said. “But it’s a part of the Irish character.”

“I know,” she said ruefully. “I’ve heard it all said before. I come from a large Irish family myself. I’ve seen my share of Irish drunks.”

Billy said no more. Shortly they arrived at the chapel, a brick building in English style. An usher in full morning dress greeted them and escorted them to their seats. A thin, sad-faced priest of late middle age waited inside the small chapel.

Nita swayed a little and her eyes filled with tears as the service began. She was unable to concentrate on the priest’s words. All she could think of was that her Marty had dreamed all his short life about making the “big time,” but for him the “big time” was burial in a renowned Hollywood cemetery.

The service ended and the priest came to her with words of comfort. Billy explained to Nita that he had made arrangements for a fine memorial stone which they would come and see it when it was erected. They turned then and walked slowly out of the chapel, Nita clinging to his arm.

It was only then that she noticed they had not been the only ones present at the service for Marty. Standing together towards the rear were a large, fat man and a smaller, very thin one. They were about the same age and made a strangely contrasting pair.

As she and Billy made their way outside the two followed them and the small, hollow-cheeked man with an aquiline nose and a head of unruly hair came forward to her awkwardly and said, “I knew Marty, Mrs. Nolan. We once were on a vaudeville bill together for two weeks.”

She warmly took his hand and said, “Thank you for coming!”

“I wanted to pay my respects,” the thin little man said soberly. “I’m also a friend of Billy’s. I’m in movies myself. My name is Buster Keaton.”

Nita’s eyes widened. “Of course! I’ve seen your films!”

“I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” Keaton continued, turning to the baby-faced fat man who had been standing quietly with his cap in his hand.

Nita turned to the fat man and shook his hand, “How do you do? May I ask your name?”

The fat man hesitated, then quietly said, “Arbuckle. Roscoe Arbuckle.”

Nita was taken back. Then she said, “Of course! I’ve seen you many times as well.”

“Not lately,” the fat man said soberly.

Buster Keaton spoke up quickly, “We have to be going. I have to report on the back lot before the end of the afternoon. Good luck in Hollywood, Mrs. Nolan.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you both for coming.”

Arbuckle started away, his cap now on his head, followed by Keaton. As they walked out of the cemetery to the distant street they were indeed a unique couple.

At her side Billy Bowers said, “Buster has been a staunch friend of Arbuckle’s through all his troubles. That’s not the usual Hollywood story.” They followed the two famous actors as they went back to Billy’s car and the waiting Murphy.

It proved to be a twenty-four hours of strange contrasts for Nita. After the sadness of Marty’s memorial service, she was catapulted into the midst of a roaring Hollywood party that very night. As he had promised, Billy took her along to the gala event being held at Charles Ray’s house. Murphy drove them and on the way over the comedian seemed to regain a lot of his jovial good humor. Nita assumed that he was feeling much better.

During the drive to the Ray mansion, he warned her, “You may find Charles and his wife a little unusual.”

“In what way?” she asked.

Billy Bowers smiled, “Charlie is one of the new rich. For years he played the juvenile lead in dozens of stock companies. Then Thomas H. Ince picked him up and began starring him in movies. Now he’s making at least a half-million a year.”

“It sounds as if he came from the same background as most of the show business people out here,” she said.

“He does,” Billy agreed. “But Charlie has strange tastes. He and his wife Honey always dress formally for dinner, even if they are alone and even if they’re giving an informal party!”

She smiled. “That must become tiresome for them.”

“Charlie thinks he should, that he’s acting like high society,” Billy went on. “And if you look carefully you’ll see the gold plumbing fixtures in the bathroom and the gold doorknobs in the living room.”

“Who will be there tonight?” she asked.

“You never know,” Billy said. “But Charlie Chaplin usually comes. He thinks Ray is amusing. He pokes fun at him but they get along well.”

Nita could not help being excited at the prospect of a party where she would meet many famous people of the screen. Whatever poor taste Charles Ray might display, it seemed he had a lot of friends. She remembered him from the movies and had always thought of him as a wistful young man. She had worn her most elegant dress, a green crepe de chine with beaded trim. She hoped it wouldn’t look dowdy.

Billy pointed out the house as they drove into the circular drive before it. The house was large, white and rambling with several wings, all having peaked roofs. Before the house were a number of cars.

Billy said, “There are at least five Rolls Royces here. I see Chaplin’s.”

“I’m frightened!” she told him.

“You don’t need to be,” the comedian said, smiling at her. “You are prettier than most of the women. Don’t judge by what you see on the screen. They’re all glamorized with make-up.”

Still, Nita was trembling as he led her from the car to the front entrance of the house. The door was open and they went straight in. Most of the guests were in a huge drawing room whose walls were covered with fine paintings and tapestries. The room was crowded with men and women, all with glasses in their hands. From the midst of the chattering group there emerged a tall moon-faced man in evening dress whom she recognized at once as Charles Ray.

“Greetings!” He shook Billy’s hand warmly and bowed when he was introduced to Nita. “My place is yours!” was his sweeping invitation.

There was a bar with three busy uniformed bartenders. Seeing so much liquor in one place in these Prohibition times was a shock for Nita. But there were greater shocks in store for her. Billy pushed his way through the clusters of chattering people until he was within reaching distance of the bar. Nita had asked for rye and he came back holding her drink high so as not to have someone bump into him and spill it. He smiled at her as he handed her her glass and began sipping from his own.