The Bette Davis Club (26 page)

I had at last let fall a bombshell capable of silencing Dottie. She lifted the wooden spoon off the counter and stuck it back in the pan. She traced a pattern in the sauce.

“It’s your decision,” she finally said. “People do sometimes. Elsa Lanchester and Charles Laughton. Judy Garland and Vincent Minnelli. For that matter, Liza Minnelli and Peter Allen—bit of a family tradition there. But, darling, do you think you could be happy in a sexless marriage?”

“Finn and I have sex,” I said.

“Not often, I’m sure. And there’ll be even less
après les enfants
. After Oscar Wilde’s second son was born, Wilde gave up relations with his wife altogether.”

I gazed at the pan. Everything in it had gone cold and oily.

Dottie stood there, watching me. “I’m not trying to scare you,” she said, “or rain on your parade.”

“Then don’t,” I said.

“But I hope you know none of this is your fault. And you’re not the first woman it ever happened to. It just means you’ve joined The Bette Davis Club.”

“Sorry?”

“The Bette Davis Club,” she said. “You’ve joined, you’re a member. It’s my metaphor for any female—and there’ve been zillions—who gets a crush on a gay fellow, dates a gay fellow, or heaven help us, marries a gay fellow. Do any of that, and you’re in the club.”

“Was Bette Davis in love with a gay man?” I said.

“I have no idea. But if you look at her early films, the best ones are all about Bette wanting a male she can’t have:
Dangerous
.
All This, and Heaven Too
.
Jezebel
.
The Letter
.
Now, Voyager
. They’re all about the unattainable. They’re all about a woman desiring a man she can never possess.”

“I’ve seen
Now, Voyager
,” I said. “At the end, Bette Davis sort of ends up with Paul Henreid.”

“You are
such
an innocent,” Dottie said. She stabbed at the sauce. “Margo, ‘sort of’ is not a prescription for happiness. It means settling for something less than a satisfying union. In
Now, Voyager
, it means Bette Davis’s character is offered lifelong companionship with the man she adores—the only problem is the relationship will be platonic and sexless. Is that what you want with Finn?”

I didn’t reply. I drank more wine.

“The Bette Davis Club,” I eventually said. I stared over at the ruined sauce. “You think I’m a member?”

“One of millions of misguided maidens, marching down through history,” Dottie said. “In the time we’ve been standing here, two or three more probably signed on in this neighborhood alone.” She took the sauce and dumped it in the garbage. “I’ve decided Gerard and I are going out for dinner.”

I finished my glass of wine.

“Your official Bette Davis Club hat, pin, and membership card should arrive in next week’s mail,” Dottie said.

I looked at her.

“Just kidding,” she said.

After that, I didn’t stay long. Dottie invited me to come along to dinner, but I told her I wanted to be alone for a while.

“Chin up,” she said, walking me to her front door. “
La vie continue
. You’ll survive this. After all, we’re each the star of our own movie.”

“You told me,” I said.
“
Now, Voyager
.”

“Actually, chérie, I think in your case it’s been
La Grande Illusion
.”

We stood at the doorway a moment.

“If it’s any consolation,” Dottie said, “I understand why you’re attracted to Finn. He’s erudite, witty, generous.” She sighed. “I don’t know why so many interesting men are homosexual. They say it’s ten percent of the population, but in my experience, it’s half the fellows worth knowing.”

I left Dottie’s in an utter state. Dazed, I began walking crosstown from her place to mine. As I drifted east, the architecture changed from the genteel nineteenth-century buildings of Greenwich Village to the faded tenements of the East Village. Usually, I enjoyed observing the contrast between the two neighborhoods.

But that day I didn’t see my surroundings. I barely noticed passersby. Once or twice, I bumped into strangers. All I could think about was Finn.

Everything Dottie had said about him was true. I knew that. Sort of. But she hadn’t told the whole story.

So Finn was gay. Call it bisexual. So he wasn’t terribly interested in women. So what? Nothing could break the spell he had over me.

I was Titania. Finn was my midsummer night’s dream. Never mind that it was winter, and there was no Oberon in my life to rescue me. I was enchanted—not with a donkey, but with a magical man like no one I’d ever known.

I was immensely attracted to Finn. I adored him beyond all explanation, beyond all reason. Being with him was the thing I wanted most in the world. For nearly ten years, the entire second half of my childhood, I had belonged nowhere and to no one. Yes, Finn was old enough to be my father—but perhaps that was part of why he attracted me so. Finn was smart and wise and worldly. He could give me the home and family I longed for. And the more I pictured the two of us living together as husband and wife, the more I wanted to marry him.

Of course, this is how starving people talk themselves into peeling off the wallpaper and eating it. I rationalized my hunger for Finn. I didn’t care if he was bisexual. On some level—despite everything Dottie had said—I didn’t even believe it. What I did believe was that he would make me happy.

Dottie had told me I was a member of The Bette Davis Club. But that day, walking along, convincing myself I should marry Finn, I became more than a rank-and-file member. I think you’d have to say I graduated to club secretary, maybe even president. No, more than that. I was
empress
of The Bette Davis Club.

And no matter what Dottie or anyone else thought, I was determined to keep my crown.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I’M NO ANGEL

I
t takes Tully and me two days to travel the back roads from Chicago to New York. We don’t encounter Boone.

At last, we pass through the Holland Tunnel and arrive in Manhattan. It’s a lovely spring evening. The city air is like a tonic to me, my veins pulse with carbon dioxide and diesel fumes.

Earlier in the day, I called Dottie and told her we were coming. I also explained about the Orson Welles script, our encounter with Boone, everything. She knows I’m hoping she can help me find out more about
An Innocent Lamb
.

Now that we’re in town, I fish the cell phone from my bag and again dial Dottie.

“I’m out of my league with your Orson Welles
mystère
,” she says. “So I did what you asked—I’ve brought in reinforcements. Meet me at Ronnie’s as soon as you can.”

Ronnie—otherwise known as Veronica—is a friend of Dottie’s. She owns a shop in Greenwich Village called I’m No Angel. It’s filled with movie posters and books, photographs of film stars, vintage Hollywood props and memorabilia—some of it worth many thousands of dollars.

Veronica herself is a real character. She marcels her platinum-blonde hair, wears shimmering retro gowns worthy of Jean Harlow or Carole Lombard, and has a tendency to lapse into 1930s and ’40s slang. In other words, she’s a lot of fun.

By the time Tully and I arrive at I’m No Angel, it’s eight o’clock, and the shop is closing. We slip inside as Veronica sees out her last customer of the day.

“Dollface!” Veronica says when she spots me. She has a high-pitched, breathy voice. “What’s tickin’, chicken?”

“I’m well, thanks,” I say.

“And how. Dottie says you’re getting nowhere fast on your own niece’s honeymoon. Talk about your screwball comedy!”

Tully reddens, but I laugh and introduce him to Veronica.

Near the sales counter, there’s a reading area outfitted with some overstuffed furniture and mismatched tables. Dottie’s there, parked in a velvet armchair and browsing through a book about silent films. When Tully and I come over, she whips off her readers and jumps up and hugs me.
“
Mon amie
!”
she says. “Welcome back. I’ve missed you.”

I introduce Tully to Dottie. Then Veronica opens up the after-hours minibar she keeps tucked inside a mahogany armoire. She makes martinis and passes them round to everyone except Tully, who requests a glass of water. Tully, Dottie, and I sit down. Veronica positions herself at the end of the counter. She stands there, hand on hip, sipping her martini.

The four of us exchange a few pleasantries. There’s a flurry of excitement when I tell Veronica about Palm Springs, Mommie Dearest, and the existence of Marilyn Monroe’s undergarments. Then, because time is short, I work her round to the subject of Orson Welles.

“I’m a real Welles fan,” Veronica says, “but it’s true he had a hard time finishing projects. Some say that was self-sabotage, others swear it was the fault of certain studio bigwigs.”

She sets her drink on the counter and picks up a loose-leaf notebook filled with black-and-white glossy photographs of 1940s movie stars. She flips through the pictures. “Here ya go,” she says, stopping on one. “Here’s the ball of fire himself.”

She holds up a photo of a youthful, clean-shaven Welles. “Pudgy, self-conscious—but kind of dreamy,” Veronica says. “Sexy.” Her eyes flick from the Welles picture over to Tully, then back to the photo, then over to Tully again. “Hmm!”

“Ever meet him, Ronnie?” Dottie says.

“Welles? No such luck. But I heard he was something. A storyteller, a real charmer. Marlene Dietrich said—and I love this—she said whenever she’d been with him, she felt like a plant that had been watered.” She puts aside the notebook and retrieves her drink. “Anyhoo,” she says, “tell me, Margo, about this screenplay Dottie says you glommed on to.”

I tell her—about my father, my stepmother, the sanctum sanctorum, all of it.

“Wait a minute,” she says. “Are you kidding me? Arthur Just was your old man? Cheese and crackers, Dottie, how come you never set me straight on that before?”

“I was saving it for your birthday surprise,” Dottie says.

“Right. Well, Arthur Just was quite the screenwriter. At the end though, like so many of them, he worked in television.”

I know all about my father’s career, thank you very much. And I ignore Veronica’s remark about television, thinking if she only knew that’s what killed him.

“Have you read the screenplay?” she asks me.

I feel a rush of excitement that we’re finally doing it, finally discussing
An Innocent Lamb
. “Not really,” I say. “Remember, I’ve only had it for two days. Since Chicago. And everything’s been so . . . hectic.”

I don’t add that last night, when I got into bed, I tried reading the complex historical drama and fell asleep after only a few pages.

“But I looked at it,” I say. “There’s a note on the first page, addressed to my dad. It says something like, ‘Arthur, we’re getting closer. I’ve made a few suggestions.’ It’s signed ‘Orson,’ and that signature matches the handwriting throughout the script.”

“A
few
suggestions,” Veronica repeats. “And how many suggestions did Mr. Welles make?”

“Hundreds,” I say. “He scribbled all over the thing. The margins are crammed with dialogue, notes on Shakespeare, directions for costumes and lighting.”

She laughs. “Sounds like Welles. So how’s about letting me take a look?”

I reach into my tote bag and produce
An Innocent Lamb
.

“I know you have to study it to be certain,” I say, getting up and handing the script to Veronica. “But do you think there’s much chance it’s genuine? That it was written—cowritten—by Orson Welles?”

Veronica opens the binder and begins leafing through it. “Yeah,” she says, peering at a page. “I do.”

This is excellent news, so good I can hardly believe it. When I return to my seat, I have to catch my breath and down a large portion of my drink.

“But hold the phone,” Veronica says. “When Dottie called and told me what you had, I did some research. One thing I found is a list of unproduced films written by Welles. Most of the time he worked solo, but there’s at least one unproduced screenplay that was cowritten like yours. So that gives us what you’d call precedent. And when you look at the few flicks he completed, his most famous one—
Citizen Kane
—was cowritten with Herman J. Mankiewicz.”

I know, I think.

Veronica waggles her index finger at the three of us. “Please note, cat and kittens, Welles and Mankiewicz each took home an Academy Award for writing that one.”

“There’s an actual list?” I say. “Of his unproduced films?”

“You bet,” Veronica says. “I made a copy.” She reaches for a piece of paper on the counter. “Get these titles:
The Smiler with a Knife
,
Don’t Catch Me
,
The Sacred Beasts
. . .”

“I’ve never heard of any of them,” I say.

“By this I’m not surprised.”

“How many are there altogether?” Tully says.

“No one knows for cert,” Veronica says. “Manuscripts keep popping up. Lemme see.” She runs a finger down the list, counting. “This shows twenty-eight. Twenty-nine if you throw in the one Margo’s got.”

“Twenty-nine unproduced films?” I say. “That seems like . . .”

“A lot?” Veronica says. “Yeah, it is. It’s an all-you-can-eat buffet of half-baked projects.”

“But the scripts—the stories—are they worth anything?” I say.

“Oh, sure. They have value.”

“I
knew
it. I knew—”

“Strictly as collectibles, you understand.” Veronica laughs. “We all know nobody’s going to green light an Orson Welles story in today’s market.”

Through all this, Cary Grant stands near me, looking on with amusement. So does Bette Davis. They’re life-size cardboard cutouts for sale in Veronica’s shop. Silent film star Buster Keaton is there, too, wearing a forlorn expression. When I put a hand to my face, trying to process what Veronica’s telling me, I must exhibit the same lost look as Buster.

“Sister, you should see your puss,” Veronica says.

“You do look let down,” Dottie says.

“But I thought studios would kill to get this script,” I say. “I thought Orson Welles was a genius.”

“He was,” Veronica says. “But that doesn’t make him box office, does it? Doesn’t make him bankable. Not nowadays. Today it’s all fart jokes, misogyny, and drug humor. Excuse my French.”

“Hold it,” Tully says. “This Welles script must be worth something. People want it.”

“Yes!” I say. “Tully and I chased halfway across the country to get it, and now we’re being chased and threatened, and I don’t even know why.”

“Hmm,” muses Veronica. “I’ll have to go over it, consult with some of my dealer pals, before I can give you a final appraisal. But if everything checks out, I could feature it here in the shop for you. I’d put it on my Internet site, too; some collector’s bound to want it. Meaning, depending on how the cookie crumbles, I could maybe get you seven or eight thousand.”

“Is that all?” I say.

“Afraid so. But let’s switch gears a sec. You say you’ve been chased by people who want this screenplay. Kiddo, that doesn’t add up. There’s not a fan or collector I know of who’s that gaga over Orson Welles. You sure you’re not packing something else? Like blind Audrey Hepburn in
Wait Until Dark
when she unknowingly has that heroin-filled doll. Boy, does she end up with some company.”

“There’s nothing,” I say. “I guarantee we’re not carrying any white powder. My drug of choice is a dry martini.”

Dottie raises her glass.

“Mine too,” Tully says.

“You don’t drink,” I say.

He shrugs.

“What I mean,” Veronica says, “any chance you been blind to something? Your niece didn’t boost some other item from your pop’s sanctum whatchamacallit?”

“Nothing. Except . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Well, when I sneaked into her room in Chicago, I took a couple of magazines—but you could get those anywhere. Oh, and I picked up a flyer for the Tribeca Film Festival, and an old script from
Spy Team
.”

“
Spy Team
?” Veronica says. “The TV show? I love
Spy Team
! Loads of fun, way ahead of its time. Did you know they’re rereleasing the entire series in a specially restored high-definition collector’s set?”

“No, I didn’t,” I say. I’m only half listening. I can’t get over the fact that
An Innocent Lamb
is worth so little.

“Well, they are, and like everybody, I’m on pins and needles. I already own
Spy Team
on old-style DVD. Way back, I had it on Betamax. Then LaserDisc. VHS, of course. These days, you can also get it on digital download. But I can’t wait for the Blu-ray high-def twenty-four-disc ultimate collector’s edition. It’s going to have pop-up packaging.”

“Pop-up packaging,” Dottie repeats to no one in particular.

“You betcha. They’re going all out with the marketing. Oodles of bonus material.”

“I didn’t think anyone cared about that old show,” I say. “Why would people even want to watch it?”