Crowned Heads (38 page)

Oh, they said, they knew it all the time. Well, not all the time, but Phyllis had smelled a rat; the Ballymore emerald was in the British Museum, certainly.

“Why did you let me go on, then?” Nellie asked them.

They loved her, they said. If she wanted to pretend, why, that was all right with them. Everybody pretended something, sometime. Nobody was ever really what he seemed.

Phyllis had tears in her eyes as she kissed Nellie. “Oh, we hope you find him.”

But she did not. The messages went on, and public interest in them continued, and the
Daily News
featured a picture on its fourth page. Every day Nellie Bannister would go out to the park and look up while the message was being written, and then hurry home to wait by her telephone. Bobbitt never called. Then it occurred to her that he might have lost her unlisted telephone number, so she arranged another message with Roger: “BOBBITT CALL 649-2283.” When she got home the phone was ringing off the hook. First it was a reporter: “Say, lady, what’s the story here?” There was no story, she informed him; it was a purely private matter. Then others called—well-wishers, nosypokes, cranks. Nellie began wishing she hadn’t written her number out for all New York to see. It didn’t seem to matter anyway; there was no word from Robin. Another idea struck her and she again telephoned Roger. The next day, a beauty and not a hint of breeze, she went to the park and watched as his plane made two graceful opposing curves, and when the ends joined they formed a perfect heart. And in the center Roger spelled out: “PLUCK.” The design hung there for perhaps a quarter of an hour, while the entire city looked up wondering what it meant, a heart with “PLUCK” in the middle of it. Each evening, after waiting for the call that never came, Nellie would think out a new message: Once it said, “Bobbitt, Come Home”; another time it said, “Prissy Loves Bobbitt”; a third time it said, “Key Under Mat.” By now pictures of the messages had hit the front page of the
News,
for the editor realized he had a great story and that people were following it. Suzy Knickerbocker carried an item, also Earl Wilson.
Time
magazine picked it up, followed by
Newsweek
and
People.
Finally even
The New York Times
took notice of these messages, and printed a story. Finally a reporter from the Long Island paper,
Newsday,
tracked down the source of the skywriting, Roger himself at his flying school, and he admitted that he was the one making the messages, and that they were for his grandmother, who was trying to locate an old friend. The other papers copied, and the story grew accordingly, “
HEARTBROKEN ACTRESS SEEKS MISSING FORMER CHILD STAR,
” read the headlines, and “
BOY ACTOR MISSING; ACTRESS GRIEVES.
”

Still no word from Bobbitt, and in her heart Nellie truly was grieving. She waited and waited, but there was no reply to her skywriting appeal. Then a curious thing happened. One of the local TV station managers ran the first movie of the series,
Bobbitt,
for the station personnel. It had, they thought, a pleasant, old-fashioned appeal, so they put it on the air at five o’clock, just at the time when the kids were all home from school, waiting for supper. The reaction was instantaneous and overwhelming, a singular repetition of precisely what had happened almost twenty years before. Out of the darkness of the London blitz a small voice quavered: “’Oo put out th’ lights?” A match flared, and the same wondering face took shape on the small television screen just as it had in the great movie palaces. And people fell in love with Bobbitt all over again.
Bobbitt
was followed by
Bobbitt in the Enchanted Forest,
and the station discovered that its local rating jumped measurably; the whole series was bought as a package and they began regular weekly runs. Soon it was not only the children who were watching, but the grownups as well. In twenty years they had forgotten the charm of Bobbitt, but now, seeing the pictures again, they found they were reliving parts of their own childhood. A wave of nostalgia swept over everyone, and people rushed home from work to catch the latest on what had become known as “The Bobbitt Hour,”
Bobbitt and the Magic Castle
or
Bobbitt Royal.
They started saying, “But is it really truly true” again, and it had the same antiquated sound as if they’d said “Twenty-three skidoo” or “Hotcha.” To get a laugh, all one had to do was say “Ditto”; everyone knew that everyone else was watching Bobbitt.

The question was, and remained, what had become of Bobbitt? Where was the little tyke? Sorry—where was the man? Reporters delved, but came up with no answers. As for Nellie, she had not heard from him, and she felt surer than ever that he had left the city and had seen none of her messages. The next thing that happened was that she received a call from the talent coordinator of
Good Morning USA,
inviting her on the program. The notion of appearing live on early-morning TV made her nervous, but she thought that Bobbitt might see the show, so she went to be interviewed by Marion Walker, the hostess. Naturally Nellie couldn’t tell the truth of the matter, but she was quite adept at fielding Miss Walker’s questions and they spent a pleasant twenty-minute segment talking about the old days at Shady Lane Studios, when she was Missy Priss. The inevitable question was put by Marion Walker: Why was Nellie trying to reach Bobbitt and where was he now? The only things she could think of to say were some of the things Robin had told her about Ireland and the castle and the Galway Ball, so she used these, finding herself not even blushing as she told about Lady Farquahar and Castle Baughclammain and the Galway Race. Oh, she thought, she was such a liar—as bad as Bobbitt. Then she laughed out loud. She was in a taxi, and the driver, looking at her in the mirror, said, “Hiyuh, Missy Priss.” She was quite surprised as she listened to him tell her how his kids never missed a showing of a Bobbitt movie. Then she noticed people looking at her as she went about her daily errands, and it slowly dawned on her: she was becoming a celebrity.
Missy Priss Missy Priss,
she would hear people saying as she went by. Some of them would stop and talk to her, asking how she was, and so on, and she found these moments strangely satisfying.

It seemed the city now had one thing it shared in common, Bobbitt. Matters had not stopped with the television program. A manufacturer of printed T-shirts put out one with Bobbitt’s face on it (“Bobbitt’s smile is a yard wide”) and kids began buying them, then it became a fad and finally even the adults were wearing Bobbitt shirts. By now everybody knew about Missy Priss’s famous line “We must put pluck in our hearts,” and the emblem appeared on shirts and the backs of jackets.

Next a paperback publisher picked up the reprint rights and released the series in paperback, and you couldn’t go to a drugstore or a tobacco stand without seeing Bobbitt’s face smiling out at you from row after row of Bobbitt books. Someone else put out a comic magazine,
The Adventures of Bobbitt,
then there were
The Further Adventures of Bobbitt,
and
Bobbitt and Missy Priss,
and
Bobbitt and Alfie.
“America’s Fantasy Child” lived again.

Nellie’s new-found fame grew—along with Bobbitt’s—and she was asked to ride in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. There she was on a float, in a rocking chair, with a big Bobbitt book on her lap, surrounded by children. Her costume from the films had been copied; she wore her bombazine dress and apron, and the enormous bonnet, tied under the chin with a great black bow. They’d even found a reticule rather like the original, and lace mittens, and she wore screw curls down the sides of her face, which bobbed almost as much as the bonnet.

Then it was Christmas. Nellie was famous as Missy Priss, she was enjoying her new popularity, and her bank account was swelling, but still there was no Bobbitt to share this success with. On Christmas day she had Roger fly over the park and write: “MERRY CHRISTMAS BOBBITT FROM MISSY PRISS,” and a cheer went up from among the skaters at the Wollman rink; and at Rockefeller Center, when the carolers came to sing under the giant tree in the plaza, they sang the “Bobbitt Christmas Song.”

She spent an unhappy holiday that season. Of course she went to Garden City to visit the family, and she did her best to play Nana for the children, but in her heart she would rather have been playing Missy Priss for Bobbitt. She saw the bumper stickers Roger had put on his Ford Maverick: one side read: “Why did the good Lord put us here?” the other: “Surely not to chase rabbits.” Good advice from Missy Priss, but there was little she could do to take it. All the fame, all the money, all the love, were not enough to make up for the loss of Robin, and when she was alone she would try to tell herself that one day he would reappear, magically, out of nowhere. But the nowhere in which he existed was beyond her ken, and she realized that the tide of publicity could not possibly have passed him by; he must surely know, wherever he was, what had happened, but was rejecting it all and wanted no part of it or her. Occasionally Roger would fly over on a clear day and make the heart and put “PLUCK” in it, or write “BOBBITT
REALLY
TRULY TRUE,” but Bobbitt remained hidden and made no attempt to contact her.

It went on that way all winter. Spring came again and she returned to the bench in the park and watched the children playing around the mushroom, and she thought of Mr. Thingamabob. One of the children she recognized from the year before, and she asked, “Whatever happened to that—what was his name?” The child gave her a stare, didn’t know what she was talking about. “Mr. Thingamabob?” The child shrugged; how quickly they forget, she thought. She was resolved in her heart that she would never see Robin again. He had disappeared forever.

The school term was ending—it was now June—and the television station was planning its annual benefit, “Broadway Stars for Children,” a mammoth program in which famous performers appeared on an outdoor stage in the park’s Sheep Meadow, then donated their fees to the Children’s Orthopedic Hospital. Already the papers were full of publicity regarding the event, and one day Nellie’s telephone rang. It was the head of the program committee, asking her if she had any idea of the whereabouts of Bobby Ransome. It was hoped that since he was the performer most popular with the children, he might be persuaded to appear at the benefit in the next-to-closing spot. Nellie said she was sorry; no idea where he was. If she heard from him, would she let them know? they asked. They would be holding the spot for a long time, she wanted to tell them; Bobbitt’s act had closed years ago. But yes, she said, if she heard anything she would let them know.

Then one day she happened to be passing a shop in whose window something caught her eye and made her stop. The painted sign on the glass read
FASCINATTO’S MEMORY MARVEL SHOP,
and in the window were various advertisements for old photographs, sheet music, movie posters, books, and magazines. What had attracted her glance was a row of six green-and-gold plates, each with a small crown in the center. She could scarcely believe her eyes. She went in and spoke to the proprietor, whose name was Sam Fascinatto. Yes, he informed her, the six plates were originals, from
Bobbitt Royal,
and she was shocked to learn what he was asking for them. But she paid his price and had them wrapped. She took them home and hung them in two rows on the wall near the budgie cage. Several days later, passing the shop again, she noticed that in the window was a Bobbittmobile, one of the really old ones, but in good condition. It, too, was expensive, but she bought it. She asked Mr. Fascinatto by what chance he had come by these items. Oh, he told her, everybody was Bobbitt-crazy these days. Yes, she agreed, but these were original pieces. Had they come from someone’s attic? Mr. Fascinatto was too smart for that one; he wasn’t about to reveal his sources, not when original Bobbittiana was at such a premium. All he knew, he said, was that someone came in every week or so and gave him items to be sold on commission. He seemed in need of money.

Nellie asked Mr. Fascinatto to telephone her if anything else should turn up, she wanted first call on it, and a week later he rang her up, saying he’d come by an extraordinary piece, an original Bobbitt dollhouse, in remarkably good condition. Would she be interested? Certainly she would, and she told Mr. Fascinatto to have the man wait; she wanted to talk with him. But by the time she arrived at the store he was gone. She almost cried when she saw the dollhouse—it was perfect in every detail—and she paid for it and asked that it be delivered, since it was much too large for her to carry. The boy who worked for Mr. Fascinatto brought it to the apartment and set it on the table she had prepared for it by the window. As he was leaving, she thanked him and gave him a dollar tip. Then she flashed a ten-dollar bill under his eyes, suggesting there was a small favor he could oblige her with. He stared eagerly at the bill. All he had to do, she explained, was, the next time the man came in with something to sell, follow him and find out where he lived. She gave him the ten dollars. If he could do this, she would give him ten more. The boy pocketed the money, along with her telephone number, said, “You bet, lady,” and left.

Nellie’s heart skipped a little beat. From lying to hoaxing to bribing; it was so easy, once you got started, wasn’t it? She called the girls up for The Belle Telephone Hour and showed them the dollhouse; Naomi said she’d paid too much for it.

After they left she took all the furniture out, and the dolls, and gave the interior a good washing, shined the windows, and waxed the floors. She polished all the tables and chairs, shook out the rugs, and cleaned the dolls—Cathleen Nesbitt, Willie Marsh, Mary Astor, Dickie Haydn, etc., including herself as Missy Priss—then she arranged the figures in the various rooms and plugged in the lights so she could fully admire her new acquisition.

Robin, she thought, where are you?

It was not long before the bribe produced the desired results. The doorman called from downstairs, saying someone was there to see her, a Joseph Karmachino. She had no idea who that was, there was a consultation on the other end of the line, and the doorman informed her that Joseph Karmachino had a personal message for her. She suddenly remembered: the delivery boy. He came up, she gave him the promised ten dollars, and he left her with a matchbook cover; on the inside was scribbled a name and an address. “J. F. Harboomsteen, 451 W. 47th Street.” She got her things and hurried out, meeting Hilda going to the elevator. They rode down together. “Nellie,” Hilda asked, “what’s happened? You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”