War and Remembrance (69 page)

Jack Frost lit out again, darted into a steep narrow switchback trail, and thundered up the side of the canyon in a hair-raising run to the summit, where he stopped short, head down, blowing like a whale. Shaken up and exhilarated, Byron got off, tied him to a tree, and perched on a rock. After a while he heard hooves scrambling below, and Madeline came in sight coated with dust. “What’s with your horse?” she called.

“I think he wanted some exercise.”

She giggled as he helped her off her mount. “I thought maybe he had a breakfast date in San Francisco.”

They sat side by side on a wide flat rock, looking out over the canyon at sunlit wild hills. Lizards rustled on the rocks, and in the air below them vultures wheeled screaming. The horses stamped and puffed, jingling their harness. These sounds only heightened the prevailing hush.

Byron waited for her to speak. She had begged him to come on this ride, giving no reason. After a while he said, “Everything okay, Maddy?”

“Oh, Briny, I’m in a peck of trouble. But no! No!” She burst out laughing. “Your face! It’s like a
teletype,
sweetie. Christ, did I ever get off on the wrong foot
that
time! I’m not pregnant, Briny. Put down that shotgun.”

He scratched his head and managed a grin.

She shook a roguish finger at him. “Such evil thoughts about your own sister! No, it’s a question of changing jobs, and”— she quickly lit a cigarette with a gold lighter —“it’s something I can’t discuss when Mom’s around.”

“Can you smoke here? I saw a sign about fire hazard in this canyon.”

She shrugged, heavily inhaling. “You remember Lenny Spreregen?”

“I sure do.”

“Universal’s making him a producer. He wants me as an assistant.”

“What about Cleveland?”

“Furious! Having kittens.” She smiled at Byron. Her face was flushed, her eyes zestfully sparkled. “But I’ve got to consider it, don’t I? Two hundred a week is a
beeg
jump from one fifty, you know.”

“Why, that’s munificent, Mad. And getting away from Cleveland sounds great.”

Her face remained sweetly amiable, but the hard Henry note began to ring. “Oh, you’ve always underestimated Hugh, haven’t you? The public
loves
him. Of course, making films beats selling soap and laxatives, but I have a sure thing where I am. Hugh’s even given me a little stock ownership in his company. It’s a really tough choice.”

“Madeline, grab the job at Universal.”

“Tell me one thing. Did Hugh ever do something to offend you? If so, it had to be unintentional. He thinks you’re terrific.”

“He doesn’t know me.”

“You know what? I bet it’s that kiss he gave me in Janice’s house. Isn’t it?” She archly grinned. “I bet that still rankles. My God, when you told me you’d seen us, you had murder in your eye.”

It was a memory Byron still preferred to blot out: the soft plump married man clutching Madeline to him, her skirt riding up behind, uncovering pink thighs and white garters. “Look, you asked for my advice. I gave it.”

“Briny”— her voice softened—“Hugh Cleveland wants to marry me.” Byron’s face showed no reaction. She hurried on, blushing,
“That’s
the complication. That’s why I’ve got to talk to somebody. Mom’s so straitlaced, she’d just fall over dead at the idea. Anyway, she has enough problems and — my, that’s a grim silence, darling! But you don’t know Hughie. He’s
our kind,
honey, he’s really a very intelligent, vulnerable, and lonesome man.”

“Wife and three kids aren’t that much company, eh?”

Madeline bitterly laughed. “That had to come, I guess.”

“He’s proposed to you?”

“Oh, darling, people don’t
propose
nowadays.” She waved a scornful hand. “Did you propose to Natalie?”

“I did, in so many words.”

“Well, you’re a weird old-fashioned type. All us Henrys are. Hugh’s already working on his divorce.”

“He is?” Byron got up and paced on the pebbly dirt with loud crunches. “You should be talking to Dad.”

“Dad? Perish the thought. He’d visit Hugh with a horsewhip.”

“Is he divorcing his wife because of you?”

“Oh, Claire, that’s the wife, is just a horror, a total paranoid, a stupid woman he married when he was twenty-one. She’s insanely afraid of losing him, yet she treats him like dirt. She’s always running to psychoanalysts. She spends money like a duchess. Why, a year ago she was throwing fits about me, threatening I don’t know what. He had to placate her with a sable coat. She is one unholy mess, Briny, take my word for it. And of course, she’s turned his kids against him.”

“Listen to me. Call Universal today.” He halted and stood over her. “Tell the fellow you’ll go to work for him Monday.”

“I figured you’d say that.” She looked up at him solemnly and her voice faltered. “I’m just not sure I can do it.”

Feeling a wave of sickened, poignant sympathy for his sister, Byron said, “It’s serious.”

“Yes.”

He spoke low. “How serious?”

“I
told
you.” Her voice turned testy. “It’s not a matter for horsewhips and shotguns. But it’s serious.”

He scanned her face, and heavily sighed. The gentle open look of the girl was as opaque as a leather mask. “How old is he?”

“Thirty-four.” She glanced at her watch. “Honey, you have to pick up Mom and meet us in the Warner Brothers commissary at noon. Let’s finish our ride.”

“Maybe I’ll talk to him at the studio.”

The pretty leather mask faintly suggested wistful relief. “You? Whatever about?”

“About this.”

Her mouth curled. “Shotgun in hand, sweetie?”

“No. If he wants to marry you, he should be glad to talk to me.”

“I can’t stop you. Do as you please.” She put her foot in the stirrup. “Give me a leg up, Briny, we’re late.”

In the large, crowded, sunny cafeteria on the Warner Brothers lot, Rhoda gawked about, round-eyed, scarcely eating, saying things like, “Why, Maddy dear, isn’t that Humphrey
BOGART?
— My stars, and there’s Bette Davis! She looks so
YOUNG
off the screen.”

Hugh Cleveland explained that though the stars had their own posh dining
rooms, they liked to drop into the commissary now and then for a sandwich and a glass of milk. Like the stars, Cleveland was lunching in a dressing gown, his face painted up for filming. Byron disliked him again at sight, but his whimsical rumblings and chucklings clearly amused Rhoda, and his sleek happy air of success impressed her. Two radio shows — the old
Amateur Hour
and the military
Happy Hour
— were going strong, and the film shorts promised still more revenue. Madeline’s hundred fifty a week was about twice Byron’s submarine pay; and if she took the Universal offer she would be out-earning her own father, the captain of a heavy cruiser.

And for what? Watching the filming of a
Happy Hour
short after lunch, Byron was disgusted. The soldiers and sailors were the merest butts for Cleveland’s supposedly spontaneous jokes, which were held up off camera on large printed placards. There was no audience. Later, Madeline explained, the director would splice in shots of attentive, laughing, or applauding onlookers. Byron couldn’t believe that the films would be entertaining even if the fraud came off. Nothing was there but a radio announcer with I a calculated folksy manner, poking condescending fun at untalented kids in uniform. The sights and sounds of show business, however low-grade, obviously enchanted his mother, and he was glad she had this distraction from grief; but as for him, he yawned and yawned until his jaws hurt, in an agony of irritated tedium.

A break came in the filming, and Cleveland approached them, grinning, with two paper cups of coffee. “You seem to need this more than I do, Admiral.”

Madeline bustled up. “Mom, Byron! Humphrey Bogart is shooting on the next sound stage now. Want to watch?”

“Is it all right?” Rhoda asked eagerly.

“Of course.”

“I’m
DAZZLED
by all this,” Rhoda said, following her.

Cleveland said to Byron, who didn’t stir, “Not interested?”

“Mr. Cleveland, can I talk to you?”

“What’s up?”

“Madeline’s told me about the Universal offer.”

“Oh ho. Come along.” Byron went with him into a plywood dressing room, and they both sat down on chairs by a lamp-bordered mirror. “Byron, don’t let her take that job.”

“Why not? It’s more money.”

“Lenny Spreregen’s a passable screenwriter, but he’s no executive. He’s fast-talked himself into this thing. He’s a communist, what’s more, a notorious one. He’ll never last at Universal, and the day he goes — bye-bye Madeline, broke and alone in Hollywood.”

“She says you want to marry her.”

“Oh, wow!” With a warm beguiling grin, Cleveland rubbed fingers in his back hair. “By the way, call me Hugh, won’t you?” He looked at a cheap alarm clock on the dresser, swallowed coffee, and humorously rumbled as he stood up, “But let’s not open that can of peas during a coffee break, huh, Admiral? How long are you going to be here?”

“My leave
is
up tonight.” Byron rose, blocking the the narrow doorway. It was a casual act, but meanwhile Cleveland couldn’t go out. “She says you’re getting divorced.”

Cleveland made a move toward the door, with a polite little gesture that Byron ignored. To leave he would have had to shove the submarine officer aside. His puffy face went sombre, then the charming grin with arched eyebrows reappeared. He rested a haunch on the dressing table, and rubbed his chin, looking quizzically at Byron’s serious face. Rumpling his hair with both hands, he uttered a small groan. “Okay, Byron. Once over lightly, here goes. Claire, that’s my wife, is a very unhappy and unfortunate woman. I’ll say no more against her. We have three grand kids, but nothing else
is
left in common between us. Sexual interest is zero — not on my side. On hers. That’s hell on earth, and I hope you never experience it. We’ve both been talking to lawyers, but these deals are messy and long. It’s easy to get into marriage, but Christ on wheels, me lad, it’s hard to get out.”

“Do you love my sister?”

“You have a wonderful sister. She wasn’t lying to you. I believe I can work this out, but it is one bitch of a bind. Now that’s how it is, Byron.” With his warmest radio chuckle, Cleveland stood up and lightly slapped his shoulder. “Back to the salt mine. Maybe the three of us can have a drink together later. Tell her not to take that Spreregen job, Byron. It’s a stinker.”

Madeline was rushing about outside, carrying a script board and talking to people over one shoulder and the other. She came darting to Byron, who leaned against a wall near the exit amid a snarl of cables and lights.

“Well?” It was a tone of mock conspiracy.

“Well, what? Where’s Mom?”

“Oh, she won’t budge. The director invited her to stay and meet Bogart. You talked to Hugh?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Come on. What happened?” Her look was worried, excited, searching. “Did he get mad?”

“No.”

She smiled. “No shotgun, then. He’d have blown his stack at that.”

“Madeline, tell him you’re quitting. Do it today. Hang it on me. Tell him I’ve got an insane temper. Tell him any goddamn thing you want.”

Her face fell. “Did he deny that he wants to marry me?”

“He fudged. Quit, I tell you. If he’s what you want, maybe that’ll get him moving.”

“Why, Byron Henry.” Her eyes slyly narrowed. “That’s how a girl thinks. Or should.”

“And if he’s stringing you along, you’ll find that out, too.”

She tossed her head, and the lithe hips in a pleated yellow skirt swished away.

In the villa, hours later, Byron was napping when a gentle knock at the door woke him. “Briny!” Madeline’s voice, soft and excited. “Are you decent?”

Slant sunlight made big patches on the drawn red curtains: cocktail time. He sat up, stretching, naked except for shorts. “Oh, reasonably.”

She swept in, and stood with her back to the closed door. “By Christ, I did it!”

“Great. Where’s Mom?”

“I don’t know. Not here. Briny, I never
dreamed
I could. It’s incredible. I feel as though I’ve broken out of Alcatraz and swum ashore.” The red glow through the curtains exaggerated the wild animation of her face. “And the way he took it! In a hundred years, I couldn’t have predicted that. Byron, he was nice as pie! Utterly sweet! Not a harsh word! I’m in a daze. Can I have a drink?”

Byron put on a robe, and they went into the living room. He lolled on the couch, smoking, while she paced around and talked, highball in hand, yellow pleats flapping. She had done it in the dressing room, only an hour or so ago, upon finishing a review of the next day’s script. Cleveland had been gentle, understanding, and not in the least surprised. “Oh, what a clever dog he is! You know what he said first thing? ‘Well, kid, when you consulted your brother, that was it. That meant you already wanted to leave.’ But, Byron — and this may really floor you — he says you’re
right.
It’s much better for me to get out while he pushes the divorce. Otherwise Claire could make real trouble about me. Thank Christ you came here.”