The Flying Circus (27 page)

When the lights came up, he shook his head. “That wasn’t the story I read.”

“Well, things have to be adapted for the moving pictures, I’m sure.”

“If they could make a man look like Quasimodo and a cathedral look like Notre Dame, they could darn well tell the story right.”

As they walked out into the cool evening air, he explained the changes that had been made: the lustful priest Claude Frollo turned from villain into kind protector, his youthful drunkard of a brother into the villain; Esmeralda’s hanging turned into a happy ending with Captain Phoebus.

“Did Quasimodo die in the book?”

“Yes, but he starved to death, grieving at the side of Esmeralda’s body.”

“Good golly. No wonder they changed the ending.”

He looked over his shoulder. “Now you can say you’ve been to Egypt.”

She laughed. “Egypt was not the point. Adventure was the point.”

He stopped. She took another step and stopped, too, and turned to look at him. “What’s the matter?”

“Have you fulfilled that desire? Adventure?”

She reached back and took his hand, pulling him back to walk at her side. “I have a good start.”

“Where do you go from here, then?”

“Who knows? Isn’t that part of the adventure, the surprising turns—” She stopped and pointed to a poster in a storefront window. “Look! Maybe that’s what’s next.”

They stepped closer to the window. An aerobatic competition and air race at Clover Field in Santa Monica on Saturday was advertised.

“That must be it!” she said. “More speed. Why else would fate have put that there, right now, when we’re talking about it?”

“Fate didn’t put it there. Fate doesn’t use cloth adhesive tape.”

She swatted his arm. “Stop being so literal.”

He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. He didn’t like where this was heading.

“How many women fly racers?” she asked.

“You don’t even like piloting.”

“Well, racing would make it interesting! We have to go.”

“We can go. But don’t get your heart set on it. To be competitive you have to have the best machine. And that means money. Probably lots of it.”

“We’ll see, Henry. We’ll see.”

This city had plenty of movie houses to choose from. Why had they come here?

Maybe Fate did use adhesive tape.

19

“I
miss Mercury,” Cora said as she and Henry sat on the broad porch that wrapped two sides of the original section of the Hollywood Hotel. Henry was getting increasingly restless himself, and not just because he missed the dog, or the airplanes. He was worried about Gil, how things were going in Ohio. Henry didn’t think the man could take one more blow. Every day Henry prayed that Gil’s wife received him kindly, that the child gave him reason to live.

There was a more pressing problem. This hotel was expensive. Although the circus paid him more than he’d ever imagined, his pockets weren’t bottomless. With or without Cora, he was going to have to clear out after the aerobatic competition and race on Saturday.

He did have to admit she’d been right; if they were going to investigate Hollywood, this was the place to stay. Rudolph Valentino himself had lived here. Henry thought it peculiar that anyone would
live
in a hotel. Something about it was just so disconnected and temporary, lacking commitment. Henry’s life was rootless by necessity. He longed to wake up each day and make plans for the future around a single place on the map.

Even though most of them didn’t live there, film people—studio owners, producers, writers, all identified by Cora—were tucked practically in every corner of the hotel, huddled together with cigars and intense conversations. Cora had already pointed out four different moving-picture stars on the porch or in the lobby, faces that passed just like any others to Henry. But she was no gawking goose around
the wealthy and the famous. She conversed with them and remembered their names, and they remembered hers. She introduced herself to those she’d discovered to be heads of studios, producers, and directors. She charmed and beguiled and was accepted as one of them. Henry had to remind himself that she
was
one of them—or had at least been before her father lost his fortune. This world of fine clothes, expensive cars, tennis courts, and elegant dining rooms was hers, the one she’d walked away from to sleep on the ground beneath the wings of a patched-up airplane.

When he’d said something to that effect to her, she’d laughed. “Oh, Henry, this is nothing like the money I came from. This is new money. Happy, progressive money. Open air and starlight, not heavy draperies and cluttered rooms filled with Victorian ideas and archaic social rules.”

It made no sense to Henry. Money was money. Rich was rich.

He did have to admit, these people practically vibrated with urgency, as if they were trying to catch something before it traveled on and left them standing on the sidelines. Maybe that was the difference Cora was talking about. He certainly couldn’t imagine her stiff and sour mother in this laughing atmosphere.

Even though he felt the momentum rushing headlong into the future, a vague itch deep beneath Henry’s skin had started a day or so ago, uncomfortable and nagging. Of everything he’d seen in California, only the ocean and the scattered orange groves and poinsettia fields were real and true. All else worked overly hard at pretending to be places and things they were not—the overdone themes of restaurants and moving-picture theaters, diners and cafés shaped as coffee cups, airplanes, dogs, ice-cream cones, a jail. The industry fueling a good deal of what was going on here sold pretend images of pretend lives lived by pretend people.

That itch had come to the surface and demanded to be scratched. He was done with the land of pretend. He wanted grease on his hands and farm chores to tire his muscles.

“I miss the mutt, too. Ready to go home?” he asked.

“Home?” She turned to him with a raised brow.

Henry chuckled. “I guess home for us is wherever the dog and the planes are, huh?”

“I thought home was where the heart is.” The way she was looking at him, with a kind of probing invitation, made his insides turn over.

He was tempted to ask her where her heart resided, but his good sense caught the words before they left his mouth. Cora’s heart needed to be guarded from him, just as it did from Gil.

“We should get ready for the big night,” he said as he got to his feet. She’d been waiting for this night since they’d checked in three days ago. They were splurging on dining at the hotel and going to the weekly dance in the ballroom. Cora had heard it was
the
place to be seen. He wasn’t particularly interested in being seen, quite the contrary.

Yet, for the first time since he’d fled Indiana, Emmaline’s dead body seemed too far away to touch him with her cold finger of accusation.

Cora smiled and rose to her feet. “Can’t wait to see you in your dinner jacket.”

It worried him just a bit, how he was willing to do almost anything she asked. He’d wear that dinner jacket tonight and most likely pack it away for the rest of his life. At least he’d found it at a resale shop.

They headed toward their rooms on the second floor. When he stopped and waited until she unlocked her door, she looked up at him. “Just wait until you see my dress.” She winked. “See you at seven.”

He’d gone to his room with a mix of anticipation and dread. God give him strength to stand up to whatever she was going to wear tonight.

At seven on the nose, he knocked on her door. The starched new shirt, collar, and cuffs were the most uncomfortable things he’d ever worn. Already his neck felt as chafed as if he’d been following mules with a plow strap around it for a week.

When Cora opened the door, he forgot all about his own clothes. His stomach felt as it had the first time he’d lifted off the ground in Gil’s Jenny, jolted out of his body and left somewhere far behind. Her hair was done in close waves with a single curl hugging her forehead.
And that dress! No way could she be wearing anything underneath. Something about it was almost otherworldly, a mix of soft fabric, lace, and beads in earthy colors, golds and greens and coral, that split into triangular panels from the hip to below the knee, opening to flowing layers of sheer blue-gray that reached the floor. When she stepped into the hall, it looked as if she were wading in the ocean—a dress perfect for a town based on make-believe.

She spun around. “Like it?” A small, cinched bag covered in glass beads swung out from her arm.

“Hollywood had better brace itself.”

“Flatterer.”

If only it were flattery. Then he might stand a chance of surviving this evening.

W
hen they entered the ballroom, it was already full of noise and cigarette smoke. The dance floor was surrounded by round tables with short candles sitting in glass bowls on holiday greenery. A few of the chair backs had furs or feathers draped over them. Almost all of the men wore nearly identical black suits with long tails, white vests, and white bow ties. Upstairs, Henry had felt ridiculously overdressed. Now he felt like a poor relative visiting from the farm—which was pretty much what he was.

The band, made up of a piano, drums, horns, saxophones, and clarinets, was on an alcove stage framed by a line of round, white lights. The host led them from the door to a small table for two tucked in a shadowy back corner. Heads bobbed with flashing gemstones and wobbling ostrich feathers in front of the stage, where an energetic dance was in progress. The exposed skin, the movements, the abandonment of feminine morals, would make Midwestern farm wives swoon.

“Don’t you have something nearer the dance floor?” Cora asked.

“This is fine,” Henry said before the man could answer.

Cora looked at him over her shoulder. “But—”

Henry leaned close and whispered, “We can see everything from here. No neck craning.”
And no one watching us that we can’t see.
It was foolish. They were in California; he couldn’t get any farther from Indiana. Yet months of such considerations had made them habit.

She smiled at the host. “Yes, this is perfect. Thank you.”

The man pulled out her chair and she slid into it. “Someone will be by momentarily to take your drink order. Seltzer. Coca-Cola. Tea. And in addition to our regular coffee, we have some fine imported coffee that is quite popular.” He bowed slightly and left them.

“Imported coffee,” Cora scoffed.

“We are in the land of make-believe.”

She reached over and took his hand, her eyes wide. “That’s it! That’s what’s been nagging at me. I just haven’t been able to put my finger on it. Everything here is all very . . . artificial . . . isn’t it?”

“I thought you might like it.”

“Good golly, no. I just hadn’t been able to pin down what was rubbing me the wrong way. But that’s it. It’s different than the false front East Coast society likes to call civility, but it’s false just the same.” Then she looked more sharply at him. “Do you? Like it?”

“Hell, no.”

The smile that came to her face was brighter than the California sun and heated him in places long left cold. They sat there grinning at each other, her hand squeezing his, until a voice came from behind Henry. “Miss Rose? May I have the pleasure of a dance?”

Henry looked over his shoulder. The man from Warner Brothers.

Her smile stayed in place and Henry prepared to let her go. He probably wouldn’t see her again until the night was over—judging by the number of eyes that had followed her across the room when they came in.

She said, “Thank you, but I’m promised for this entire evening.”

When the man left with disappointment on his face, Henry said, “Why didn’t you go?”

“I don’t want to spend the night fending off strange hands and offers of careers I don’t have any desire to take. I want to spend it dancing
with you.” She stood and pulled him out of his seat. “I didn’t teach you how to dance for nothing. I want to cash in on my effort.”

“I’m not sure I’ll remember.” Suddenly, that night in Crawfordsville seemed a lifetime ago. He supposed it was, of this life anyway.

“Your feet will,” she assured him

“Your toes had better hope so.”

She led him by the hand to the dance floor. When she stopped and turned to face him, his breath caught, as if this were the first time he’d ever looked into those eyes. Her hand rested on his shoulder and she snuggled herself close—much too close for propriety. Dangerously close. Henry’s whole body was electrified when his hand slid around her waist. He should stop now, pull away, and go back to his dark corner.

She looked up at him, nodding her head in time with the music, and he was lost.

“Ragtime!” She beamed. “Baltimore Buzz.” She nodded encouragement. “Two steps right, tap left toe twice. Two steps left, tap right toe twice. That’ll get us started.”

Henry wasn’t sure he could count to two with her so close.

She led him. “Right-right. Tap-tap. Left-left. Tap-tap.”

Turned out he didn’t need to count, the beat of that ragtime music infused his blood—or maybe it was just Cora infusing his blood. He surprised himself as the dance flowed. Their shoulders and elbows swayed with the fast pace, and they were soon adding turns.

As they moved from song to song, as Cora’s body swayed under his hand and moved against his, his blood raced and he understood why some folks thought dancing was a sin. Everything about it made him think indecent thoughts.

The music stopped. The band announced a break. Henry imagined what would be going on in the darkest corners when the stirred-up couples cleared the dance floor.

“Let’s go outside and cool off,” she said as she turned.

He stood fixed in place, afraid to move, afraid to look Cora in the eye for fear she’d be able to read his mind.

Three steps later she noticed he wasn’t following. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled. “Coming?”

He followed her, vowing to keep his distance.

As soon as they were outside the hotel, Henry took off his jacket and hooked it over his shoulder with a finger. If only this tie and collar could come off. But he knew he’d never be able to make himself put them back on if they did. She led him away from the lights of the building, following a path through the garden, looking like a dream moving in the moonlight.

He slowed his pace to let more space gather between them.

“Henry?”

“Hmm?” Guilt rippled over him as he realized how far into impropriety his imagination had strayed.

“I want . . .” She stopped. “I . . .”

Henry stopped walking. Cora was never at a loss for words. “What?” His mind took off with a dozen unwanted possibilities.

She turned to face him. “I want you to know that Gil and I . . . that we never did more than kiss.”

Gil? She wanted to talk about Gil? He’d been watching her move in the moonlight, thinking of all of the reasons he shouldn’t kiss her, and she’d been thinking about Gil.

Henry stood looking at her, not knowing what she wanted him to say. He had no right to be jealous. None at all.

She seemed to read his expression, her eyes widening. “I just didn’t want you to think that I’m some sort of . . . floozy.”

Henry barked out a laugh. “Floozy?”

“What you think matters to me, Henry. Don’t make fun.”

“I’m not.” He took a chance and touched her shoulder. “I was just taken by surprise at your word choice.”

She patted his hand before she started walking again. “Well, there never would have even been a kiss had I known he was married.”

Henry should have been thankful for this turn in the evening. It would keep him out of trouble. “You’re sounding downright conventional, Miss Rose.”

She shot him an exasperated look. “I don’t understand why he didn’t just say it right out.”

“I thought we already agreed, he’s broken.”

She looked up at him. “Did you know—about his wife? I mean before.”

Henry shook his head.

“I really thought I could make a difference for him. That he needed me.”

He did. It was just too late for him.
At that second it became clear Cora might have healed Gil if the damage had just been done by the war. And maybe even after all that had happened before, if he’d been a different kind of man. Gil’s sense of honor and responsibility was bound to kill him. And that just seemed wrong.

“Was that all?” Henry made himself ask. “Was that all there was to it? He was in need?”