Land of Dreams: A Novel (23 page)

“The Plaza,” he said. “I have booked a suite.” I smiled weakly and he hastily added, “A suite, with separate sleeping quarters.”

Finally he read me.

“You’re not pleased,” he said. “I should have known this. It was presumptuous of me. Stupid, stupid old man. I am sorry, Ellie . . .” He leaned over and took the tickets from where I held them loosely in my hands. “Forget I ever did this stupid thing, please—forgive an old fool for thinking . . . for trying . . .”

“No,” I said, reaching my hands across and taking his, “no, it was a lovely gesture. Really.”

I felt an urgent compulsion to say that I would go, just to make my good friend happy again. I sensed I had humiliated him terribly and wanted, above all, for him to stop asking for my forgiveness. But before I could find the words to make good, he looked at the window behind my head and said, “Is that your son’s friend Frederick outside? He seems to be in trouble.”

I turned around just in time to see Freddie being manhandled out of his car by two very large, tough-looking police officers. Frantically I banged on the window. Freddie looked initially surprised, then gathered himself and smiled across, waving to me that everything was fine, when it clearly was not. He looked so slim and vulnerable next to the big policemen that I immediately clambered out of the booth and ran outside, with Stan following me.

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

“Hey, Ellie—looking good!” Freddie said, trying to maintain his poise as his collar was being fingered by the large, burly, red-haired cop. Irish. All the biggest, meanest-looking cops were. “I’m fine,” he said, “just having a chat with my buddies here—go on inside, Ellie, finish your lunch. Hey, Stanley!” Freddie hadn’t shaved. His collar seemed loose and a little grubby. His face was sunburned. I realized I hadn’t seen him for a few weeks. I cast my eye over to his car. There were a bunch of shirts and a suit hanging up in the back seat. On the floor of the front was a carefully folded woolen blanket and on top of it a towel with the Chateau Marmont logo. Freddie was sleeping in his car.

“What seems to be the problem, Officer?” I asked, polite now that I knew what was going on. Despite my addressing him directly, the policeman started to maneuver Freddie into a paddy wagon. “Go back inside, ma’am. We are arresting this young man for vagrancy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “Freddie, go back to your car.” And I walked over and stepped between him and the wagon.

“Ma’am, could you please step aside,” the red-haired cop said.

“Certainly not,” I replied, “until you explain to me why you are manhandling my friend.”

I was shocked to see that Freddie had sunk so low in his circumstances, but not entirely surprised. Common sense had long since told me that his sojourn at the Chateau could not have lasted much longer, but while I hadn’t seen the kid for a few weeks, I had no idea he was living in his car. He had been continuing to pick up Leo for the studio run most days, but I had been so caught up with my own life that I had not bothered to inquire after Freddie’s welfare. Male pride—probably on my son’s part as well—would have prevented either of them from asking for my help.

“There have been complaints about this man parking his car illegally overnight in various places, and we believe he is living in his car, which is . . .”

“Well, that’s impossible,” I said, “because he lives with me.” And I reached over and grabbed Freddie’s hand. “Kindly let him go,” I said to the cop, who refused. “Look,” I said, “this young man no more lives in his car than you or I.”

The cop looked over at the vehicle loaded up with blankets and clothes, then back at me. He had loosened his grip of Freddie, but still had his fingers around the back of his shirt. “Those clothes in the back of the car belong to my son, who is a friend of this young man, and he was taking them to the laundry for me. I can assure you, he is perfectly respectable.”

The cop looked doubtful, but I wasn’t letting this go. Freddie was now shuffling and raising his brows at Stan in an embarrassed, apologetic stance. Neither man said anything. They could see that I had this under control.

“So he had a few drinks and fell asleep in his car one night, Officer. You know how it is yourself, surely?”

He shrugged. With his bit of Irish brogue, I could tell he wanted to help me, but he took me aside and said, “He’s been in the car lot here for nearly a week, lady. The management said he’d been seen rifling through their garbage.”

I was horrified. The poor kid. I couldn’t let the cop see that, so I just said, “Look, I’ll be honest with you. The kid—he’s a bit wild and I was worried about the influence he was having on my son. I kicked him out, but I regret it now. Let him come home with me.”

“I dunno,” the cop said. “Vagrancy is a serious offense—and stealing food? Even from garbage cans, lady, that’s an offense too. Add littering and . . .”

Jesus, but these people were stupid bureaucrats at heart. People gunning each other down on the streets of LA, and big, strong cops out hunting down homeless souls like young Freddie—there was no way I was going to let it go.

“Look, Officer, the kid had a few too many, and I kicked him out and he slept in his car for a few nights. That’s all. But he’s learned his lesson now, Officer—no small thanks to you. There’s no need to arrest him. I’ll take him home and let him stew on it. This has been punishment enough. You can consider you’ve done your day’s work.”

He was shuffling now, balking, and I realized that he was expecting me to grease his palm. I looked over at Stan and gave him a wink and, cool as a cucumber, my friend wandered over and casually slipped a five-dollar bill into the officer’s palm while commenting on the weather.

The cop finally smiled, then wandered over to Freddie.

“You can go, son, but only because this fine lady and gentleman vouch for you. If I ever see you again . . .”

“You won’t, Officer,” I assured him.

By this time Freddie’s head was bowed. He looked mortified as well as slightly unkempt, which seemed to me a far more pitiful state than if he were completely torn up. He had been trying to put on a show, pretend everything was all right. The poor lad. I walked over to him and put my arm around his shoulder.

“You’re coming home with me,” I said. “No arguments.”

“I’ll meet you back at your house,” Stan said.

I wanted to tell him not to bother, but Stan had already gone back inside the restaurant to settle the bill. In any case, I didn’t like to be rude, especially since he had paid off the cop.

As soon as we got into the car I said, “What happened, Freddie? The
real
version, please—not the Hollywood one.”

He was broke and unable to pay any of his Chateau Marmont bill, which amounted, at this stage, to more than he could ever hope to afford. They had kicked him out, and had put out an order against him for the full amount. He had been sleeping in his car and “eating out”—not very often, and from garbage cans, by the cut of him. He was clean out of cash, and there was just enough gas in the car to get us back to Los Feliz. On the plus side, the bailiffs had not caught up with him yet because they didn’t know where he was. As I had given my name and address to the cop, doubtless they’d be calling soon.

“What about Crystal?” I asked.

“Oh, there wasn’t room for her in the car, so she went to stay with a friend. A producer she knows. Brad. Nice guy.”

Crystal had not struck me as the type who would stick around when times got tough, but I was nonetheless disappointed on Freddie’s behalf that I was right.

“Well, you can stay here as long as you like,” I said, “you are very welcome, and really you ought to have called me as soon as you got kicked out of—I mean,
left
—the Chateau.”

“Thanks, Mrs. H. I’ll stay for a night or two anyhow, but I’ll be back on my feet before you know it. There’s just been a delay—you know, with the studio sorting me out with my agent’s fee for Leo. I made it clear to them that he was signing a contract on the proviso that I get a stipend, but the message doesn’t seem to have filtered through to the right department. These studios are big places—lots of departments.”

Freddie was, surely, the most naive young man I had ever met. He was never going to get paid by the studio. There was no such thing as an actor’s agent. He needed to go back into the business of selling door to door, like he had before this crazy idea of being in Hollywood took hold of him. Perhaps I would be the one who had to tell him that—but not today.

Bridie didn’t bat an eyelid when I told her that we were making up the bed in my studio for Freddie. “Another stray,” she said, but she was well used to it.

Stan arrived straight after us, and when I explained that our lunch had been cut short, Bridie raised her eyebrows and said, “Good enough for you—throwing money away on restaurant food. Did you see Louella Parsons?”

“No,” I said. “We were busy.”

“Useless, the pair of you,” she muttered as she put the brisket of beef and cabbage into the pot, so that it was ready for us all to eat when Tom came in from school.

An hour after we had eaten, Leo came back unexpectedly early in a studio car. They didn’t need him for a couple of days, so he was on holiday. Both he and Tom were delighted, and unquestioning, about Freddie’s presence.

After all the excitement, Stan and I found ourselves alone on the front porch. Stan poured me a glass of wine from a bottle that he had at his feet, handed it over to me, then lit two cigarettes and handed one across to me, too. The light had faded and, as the neighbor who lived opposite us went inside, he waved across and Stan waved back.

Stan always made a lively contribution to the household when he was around. He was friendly and open, and although he wasn’t the kind of man inclined to kick a ball around, the boys liked him. He was a vivacious storyteller and entertained them (and Bridie) with wild tales about Hollywood stars, his meetings with Laurel and Hardy and the Marx brothers, as well as myths and—probably—mostly made-up war stories about Poland. He was interested in the boys, and although Leo was the “artistic one,” Stan saw something in Tom too and bought the delighted child a tin whistle and showed him how to play it. Without my having intended it, or without his having announced it, Stan was becoming a part of our family. This was not something I had noticed before that particular moment when he wished our neighbor goodnight. Perhaps it was the act of inviting young Freddie to live with us that highlighted to me that afternoon the role that Stan was starting to play in my life—in our lives. It was not what I intended. I had been married twice, had loved and lost two good men. I did not want, or need, to love another one.

Stan’s lavish invitation to the Met was still hanging over us. While he had apologized for pushing it on me, he had not retracted it entirely; the door was still ajar.

“I won’t come to the Met, Stan—you understand, don’t you?”

“Of course,” he said. “I am sorry for imposing my—”

“I don’t want us to get close, Stan. While I value your friendship . . .”

“. . . you don’t want us to become lovers.”

“Yes,” I said, “that’s right.”

“I don’t mind, Ellie, really. You are a beautiful woman—you know I think this—but I am happy for us to stay as we are: to be good friends.”

He picked up the wine and topped his own glass up before offering it to me, then threw his cigarette out onto the lawn and said, “Really, I prefer a cigar. I must stop smoking these things. Perhaps I shall take up the pipe.”

I don’t know why I had not expected this rational, reasonable response from a man who had never shown himself to be anything other; nor did I know why I should be feeling angry and humiliated by his perfectly charming reply to my brush-off. The truth was that I felt suddenly, irrationally angry that Stan was not prostrate on the floor of my porch, begging to be my lover. Not that love was what I wanted, but, even so, it should have been what he wanted.

“I think you should go,” I said.

There must have been a shake in my voice, some evidence of anger or accusation, because Stan immediately turned and looked at me. He put his hand to his mouth in a fist and furrowed his brows, as he always did when he was thinking carefully about something.

“Of course,” he said and stood up.

He did not object, or ask why I wanted him to leave. He simply picked up his jacket from the back of the chair, walked across my front yard to where his car was parked, opened the door and, without turning back, got in and drove away.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
WO

Five Graves to Cairo
finished shooting in April, a few weeks behind schedule, and we were all invited to attend the cast and crew wrap party at the studio.

Bridie took some persuading. Bridie never went anywhere—in all the years I had known her, this was the first big event that she had agreed to come along to. She had been a housekeeper all her life, living behind the scenes in the kitchen—never front of house, even in her own life. She was certainly more family member than servant in my life, and yet she was uncomfortable elevating herself beyond the role of minder and cook. She would dress up to go to Mass, and on occasion had entertained ladies from the church—and even once or twice the parish priest—in our “good room” in Yonkers, but this was the first time I had known her to go to an event or party outside the house. To be honest, I thought it uncharacteristic that she allowed herself to be persuaded in the first place—by Freddie. Leo and I had not even bothered to ask, because we had been convinced she would say no. However, once she agreed to come I was thrilled, although in the week leading up to the big night Bridie became almost overwhelmed with excitement.

“Anne Baxter—will
she
be there?”

Bridie was completely star-struck; although going to the cinema was a new thing for her, she was an avid reader of the gossip pages.

“Yes, Nan,” Leo said. Both of my boys called Bridie “Nan,” even though she was not officially family. Bridie had been married, but in domestic service, all of her life and had never had children of her own. We all knew how much she relished the status of being a “nan” to the boys and, as a result, no matter how grown up Leo got, he would always honor her with that name.