Stars Over Sunset Boulevard (6 page)

“Oh. Like a dormitory. How long do they usually stay?”

Audrey closed her eyes for a moment as a flood of memories began to crowd in around her: The aroma of corn tortillas sizzling on outdoor brick ovens. The rapid
and beautiful language of the workers. Checked shirts drying on makeshift clotheslines and their raven black hair and straw hats. Hearing their laughter at night when the workday was done, and the sweet notes of someone playing a guitar and singing . . .

“Audrey?”

She opened her eyes. “They stay until it's time to move on.” She turned from the building. Violet took a step forward to peer through a dust-covered window, wondering what the bunkhouse rooms looked like inside.

Audrey was suddenly filled with a strange need to be understood, to have a confidant. Especially there at home. “My father sent me away because I was pregnant,” she said.

Violet turned to look at her.

“I had fallen in love with one of the pickers. His name was Rafael. I wanted to run away with him.”

Violet blinked. “What happened?”

Audrey shrugged, as if such a languid movement could ease away the weight of old sorrows. “My father found out and had Rafael deported to Mexico. He told Rafael that if he ever returned to the United States or tried to contact me again, he'd have him sent to prison for what he had done to me.”

Violet sucked in her breath. “Oh, Audrey!” she murmured.

“I never saw Rafael again. I didn't know how to even look for him. Aunt Jo said it would be best if I let him go, just like I had to let the baby go. I had a little boy, Violet. With black hair. I saw him before they took him away.”

Violet's eyelashes were now silver with tears. “I can't even imagine how hard that must have been.”

Audrey had never had anyone say such words of
consolation to her and a wave of emotion swept across her. Not even Aunt Jo had said what Violet had just spoken.

“It was terrible.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“I was young and stupid, I know. But I thought I was in love.”

Another stretch of silent seconds passed.

“And that's why you never went back home, isn't it?” Violet said after a pause. “Because of what your father did?”

Two tears began to slide down Audrey's cheeks. She let them fall as she shook her head. “In the beginning, yes, I was mad at him. But I was too young to marry and be a mother. I was little more than a child myself. And I didn't love Rafael as much as I loved the feeling of being wanted. He never would have slept with me if I hadn't encouraged him to. He was starving for affection just like I was. After a while I understood this. Having Rafael taken from me wasn't the only reason I stayed away.”

“Then . . . why did you?”

“My father didn't really want me to come back, Violet. He still doesn't.”

Violet shook her head, lost in bewilderment. “But why? Why wouldn't he want you to come home?”

Audrey looked down at the ground, peppered here and there with pickers' footprints from the last harvest. “Aside from the fact that I disappointed him, I think I remind him too much of my mother.”

“But if he loved her, how can that be a bad thing?” Violet pressed.

Audrey inhaled heavily, preparing herself to say the words she hardly ever said. “Yes. If he loved her.”

“You . . . don't think he did?”

“I think it was complicated, his love for her.”

Violet stood speechless beside her for several seconds, and Audrey felt as if she had ruined the Christmas mood. She was about to apologize when Violet filled the silence.

“But even if that's true, what does that have to do with you?”

Audrey turned from the bunkhouse. The relaxing atmosphere of the orchard was morphing into a fog of old wounds. She reentered the plum trees so that they could head back. “Anytime I came here for a visit I would ask myself that. And that's why I stay away. It's easier for us both.”

Violet fell in step with her. “You've never asked him?”

“He refuses to talk to me about my mother.”

“Make him!”

Audrey grinned at Violet's naïve vehemence. “Well. You can lead a horse to water, you know.”

“Make the horse thirsty and then he'll drink!”

The tension in the air around her seemed to dissipate and Audrey laughed despite the subject matter. She laced her arm through Violet's. “And to think I wanted you here with me so that I wouldn't have to think about any of this.”

They started to walk back through the bower of overhead branches, and the dogs raced ahead, as if they knew Christmas Eve dinner was not far off. Audrey could tell Violet was contemplating what she had told her and was ruminating on the wrongness of it, but she said nothing else and Audrey was glad for the silence as they walked. The two women emerged from the orchard as a truck was pulling into the carport next to the Cadillac. Her twin stepbrothers hopped out and the dogs ran to meet them. Her father got out on the driver's side.

“That him?” Violet asked.

“Yes.”

Leon Kluge had started to reach into the back of the truck, but then he caught a glimpse of Audrey and Violet moving toward him. He stopped for a moment, and pulled out two lengths of pipe as long as his arm from the truck bed. The twins also saw her and Violet. They stood up straight from patting the dogs to watch them approach.

Sam and Gordon both said hello when the two women were close enough to speak. Of the two fraternal twins, Sam looked the most like Cora. Gordon was very much the image of Audrey's father. At twelve the boys already stood a head taller than her. They seemed glad to see her.

She greeted them both and then turned to her father. He stood near the back of the truck with the two lengths of pipe in a loose grip with one hand.

“Merry Christmas, Dad.”

He fumbled with what he carried and then he stepped forward to kiss her on the cheek, holding the tubes at an awkward angle. The metal pipes clanked against each other.

When he stepped back, Audrey introduced Violet to him.

“So good to see you, Audrey,” he said then. “How was the ride up?” He hoisted the pipes into a better grasp.

“It was very pleasant,” Audrey answered. “Thanks.”

“Nice afternoon for a walk in the orchard.” He walked forward a few steps to set the pipes against the exterior wall of a small shed next to the carport.

“It was.”

He turned back to Violet. “So. You're from Alabama, then? And what brought you all the way out to California?”

The weight of all the words Audrey and her father needed to say to each other and didn't seemed to hang between them like one of the movie sets on the back lot that pretended to be something it wasn't.

Violet began to tell Audrey's father about meeting Mr. Arnow at the audition for the role of Scarlett O'Hara as the five of them walked to the house, the dogs skipping toward the kitchen door.

Hollywood

March 9, 2012

C
hristine runs her fingertips across the hat's brim. A thin line of discoloration circles the wired fabric, evidence that the last person to wear it had done so under the exacting heat of a bright light.

“Scarlett number thirteen? Are you thinking what I am thinking?” Stella, standing next to her, gapes at the hat in Christine's hands.

“Sure looks like it.”

“How in the world did this family end up with a hat from
Gone With the Wind
? Shouldn't it be in a museum or something?”

Christine turns the hat back over, marveling at her sudden desire to eat macaroons with a glass of milk. “Old movie props get bought up all the time by private collectors.”

“But to have something as valuable as this just sitting in a hatbox, where silverfish and moths could have their way with it. Who would do that?”

“I've seen this hat before,” Christine says absently.

“Everyone who has seen
Gone With the Wind
has seen it before.”

A wave of nostalgia, hazy and undefined, falls across her and Christine brings the hat close to her face to breathe in its musky scent. “I mean, I have held this hat before.”

The memory is stronger now. In her mind's eye Christine sees the hat sitting on a chenille bedspread, along with umbrellas, stacks of books, holiday decorations, and other attic treasures. A TV is on in another room set to KTLA, and she hears the scattered dialogue between Major Nelson and Dr. Bellows. In the hallway, stairs have been lowered from a hole in the ceiling, and a man in a uniform is ascending them. She was afraid of the man because he was there to kill a nest of rats in the attic.

“I was watching a rerun of
I Dream of Jeannie
, and there was a man in the attic laying down rat poison,” Christine says.

“What?”

The memory begins to fade but not before she recalls there had been someone with her. The elderly next-door neighbor who had been her babysitter the year she was in first grade.

“Do you want to try it on, Chrissy? You can if you want. Just this once.”

And she sees her small hands reaching for it.

Mid-January 1939

V
iolet looked up from the pages of shorthand on her desk and massaged the back of her neck while sneaking in a yawn. All around her the others in the secretary pool were busily tapping away at their typewriters, including Audrey in the far corner by the window. The cacophony of hundreds of keys striking their cylinders seemed louder today. She and Audrey had stayed up too late the night before, drinking and playing Pitch with Bert, Jim, and a script girl named Louise, who won nearly every hand. Violet wasn't used to entertaining on weeknights the way Audrey was. Getting up in the mornings after crawling into bed at midnight was taking a toll. “You're only going to be young once,” Audrey had said, when Violet had commented about their eventful social calendar. If Audrey wasn't asking friends over to the bungalow, she was going out with them and taking Violet with her, partly for the camaraderie but more so for the connections
she wanted to make with industry insiders who frequented the same nightclubs and restaurants. Being visible was how a person got noticed, she said.

She and Audrey had been out on the town or entertaining at the house nearly every night since they'd returned from Christmas at the farm. And what a strange holiday it had been. There had been words between Audrey and her father; that much had been clear. Violet had awakened Christmas morning to the sound of raised voices. But by the time she had gotten out of bed and grabbed a robe, Audrey was in the kitchen alone and her father was visible through the window above the sink, striding purposefully toward a farm building outside. Audrey and she had stayed only for breakfast and presents, then left on the noon train, instead of on the four o'clock. When Violet had asked Audrey if she wanted to talk about what had happened earlier that morning, she had shaken her head.

Violet couldn't help but assume that Audrey's current busy schedule left little time for dwelling on the situation with her father back home. Who could blame her? Violet's parents didn't dote on her, but she was sure of their love and affection. They still hoped she would tire of Hollywood and return home.

Audrey had not spoken further about what she'd told Violet out by the Kluge bunkhouse, either; it seemed a thing that aspiring actress Audrey Duvall had not experienced. Violet didn't know if even Bert knew. And, truth be told, Violet had her own reasons for not wanting to bring up the bunkhouse conversation now that they were back home. She had no desire to talk about the baby Audrey had borne all those years ago and given away.

Violet pulled her hand away from her neck and
repositioned herself in her chair. She had a mountain of dictation to get through.

She'd just set her fingers to the keys when she heard the supervisor of the secretary pool call her name. Mrs. Pope was walking toward her with Miss Rabwin, David Selznick's executive assistant, whom Violet had not yet met in person. Marcella Rabwin, who looked to be about Audrey's age, moved quickly and decisively. Violet's immediate thought was that she had forgotten to attend to something important and Selznick was upset with her.

“This is Violet Mayfield,” Mrs. Pope said when they arrived at her desk. “Violet, this is Marcella Rabwin.”

Violet rose unsteadily to her feet. “How do you do, Miss Rabwin?” Her unease must have been obvious.

“Don't worry—no one is angry with you,” Mrs. Pope said. “Miss Rabwin is in need of an assistant for our new technical advisor and she wants to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

“I hear you were born and raised in the South,” Miss Rabwin said. “And you graduated from secretarial school?”

“Yes, ma'am. That's correct.”

“We need someone from the pool who can assist Miss Myrick every hour that she's at the studio, for the duration of the shooting of
Gone With the Wind
.”

“Miss Myrick?”

“Susan Myrick is a Georgia native and journalist as well as a personal friend of Peggy Marsh. She's the official technical advisor, so it's important to Mr. Selznick that she have whatever she needs.”

Peggy Marsh?
Another name Violet did not know. She would ask later who this woman was. Surely Audrey would know. “I see,” she said.

“The secretary who assists her will be following her around with a notepad and taking down all her dictation, and then typing and sending out her memoranda and correspondence. There will be some long days ahead; maybe some late nights and surely some weekends. Do you think can you manage that? You will be compensated for your overtime.”

The other secretaries in the room had all raised their heads from their typewriters. Violet felt their envy as easy as a breeze through an open window. “Uh, yes. Yes, of course.”

“Good. Very good.” Miss Rabwin seemed very relieved. “Tomorrow morning you will report to the office Miss Myrick will be using. Mrs. Pope can show you where it is later. At the end of every day you will ask Miss Myrick where she wants you to go the following morning. If she leaves the studio for a meeting or for dialogue coaching, you come back here. That will be your time to get her dictation done and her correspondence out. If you are unsure of anything, don't hesitate to ask someone, all right? Miss Myrick's being here is very important to Mr. Selznick and to Mr. Cukor, the director. We don't want there to be any problems that we could have warded off if we'd known about them. Do you have any questions, Miss Mayfield?”

“No, I don't think so. Thank you very much. I . . . I am honored.”

“Remember what I said. If you have a question, ask.”

“I will.”

Miss Rabwin turned to head back out. Mrs. Pope nodded toward Violet's stack of dictation. “Finish what you're working on and then come find me. I'll show you where Miss Myrick will be.”

“Thank you for thinking of me, Mrs. Pope.”

The supervisor tipped her head to let the compliment
slide off. “You should thank Audrey Duvall. She's the one who recommended you.”

Violet spun around to face the far wall. Audrey was sitting at her typewriter, clacking away, but a wide smile curved her lips.

Violet waited until Mrs. Pope returned to her little office and then she hurried over to Audrey's desk.

“Congratulations on your new job, Miss Mayfield,” Audrey said softly, mindful of the others in the room.

“Audrey! Why did you put my name forward? You should have asked for this job,” Violet replied in a hushed tone.

“Because you're perfect for it. You are the fastest typist in the room. You take the best dictation. You're from the South, for Pete's sake. You were meant for this job. And I will be remembered as the one who knew you were. Don't you worry about me.”

“I don't know how to thank you.”

“Well, you might want to save your thanks until you find out how busy you're going to be. It can get pretty crazy around here during filming.”

Violet looked to see if Mrs. Pope was still inside her office and then she grabbed a chair from an unclaimed desk. “So who's Peggy Marsh?”

Audrey pulled out the typed letter she had been working on and inserted a fresh piece of paper. “Peggy Marsh is Margaret Mitchell. Your Susan Myrick is chums with the author of the book, Vi.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“I hear Miss Myrick is nice, though. Funny, but doesn't take nonsense. She's probably in her forties and single.”

“Single?” The notion filled Violet with a strange mix of sadness and admiration.

“Good thing, probably, because if you ask me, she's got
her work cut out for her. I typed up her contract. She's going to have to go over every line of the script—which you and I both know is nowhere near being done—plus every prop, every set piece, every word of dialogue to make sure it rings true. She's also going to be coaching the actors on how to sound like they're from the South. You probably read in
Variety
that Mr. Gable has refused to fake a Southern accent. Flat-out refused. So she won't be coaching him much, but Leslie Howard and Vivien Leigh—whom I told you back on the night of the fire was going to play Scarlett—and Olivia de Havilland will all need hours and hours of coaching to scrub their voices of their British accents. They're going to keep Susan Myrick hopping. Which means you will be hopping, too.”

“Should . . . should I have said no?'

Audrey looked up from the typewriter. “Absolutely not! You are going to be working on the sets of
Gone With the Wind
, Vi! You are going to be right there watching it come to life. You wanted something exciting to happen to you when you came here, didn't you?”

Violet smiled and nodded.

“Well, then. Welcome to the real Hollywood.”

•   •   •

Violet stood a few yards from Selznick's Tara, a house that in the pages of
Gone With the Wind
was nearly a character unto itself but was now merely a corner on the back lot—just two walls that met at right angles. At first glance, it appeared to offer all that a house should: a wide front door to welcome visitors, windows to watch the sun rise or set, and four sides as a defense against the heat, the damp, the cold, and the enemy. But the other side of the facade was completely open, with nothing beyond the front door but Culver City dirt.

The fragmented outside of Tara stood apart from its disjointed inside. Violet had already seen what should be behind the walls—the stairway that Scarlett would descend on her way to evening prayers and also when she shot a Yankee deserter, and the parlor with the green velvet curtains that would one day make a dress—but those interiors had been constructed inside Soundstage Number 3, which she and Miss Myrick had toured earlier that day.

Violet had settled into her new job with relative ease. Miss Myrick was all that she had been rumored to be. Capable, kind, funny, and smart. She was about the same height as Violet at five foot five, neither fat nor skinny, with short curly hair just starting to turn silver. The woman had seemed amused that she'd been given a young Southerner to take down her dictation, as if to ward off homesickness. Miss Myrick had been on the job only a few days and already it seemed she chased the sun one minute and the moon the next.

As Miss Myrick now observed the look and feel of Tara's exterior, Violet dutifully recorded her comments on a steno pad so that she could later send those comments in a memo to David Selznick and the director, George Cukor.

There shouldn't be quite so many dogs on the opening scene on the porch.

Prissy ought not to go barefoot inside the house.

The dirt around the house needs to be redder.

Cotton isn't chopped while dogwoods are in bloom.

Minutes later, as she and Miss Myrick headed toward the minibus that would take them back to the Mansion, a props man with a question stopped them. This had happened at least once an hour that day and also the day before. Everyone had been told they needed to get Miss Myrick's insights on nearly everything they did. Violet
waited to see if Miss Myrick wanted her to make a notation of what was being discussed on the fly.

“You can go on back to the office, Violet, and I'll see you tomorrow. I've a coaching session with Mr. Howard after this.” Miss Myrick walked away with the props man, their heads bent over his clipboard.

Violet returned to the Mansion and spent the rest of the afternoon typing notes from the two previous days, sending out several memos, and then monitoring Miss Myrick's phone and answering what questions she could. A few minutes before five she went in search of Audrey for the commute home together.

She found her roommate sitting at her typewriter with an ample pile of dictation in front of her. Most of the other secretaries had finished for the day and were already gone. An understated, steady staccato echoed in the room as the typewriter keys hit their targets.

“Selznick is writing his own damn book on the hell of love and war,” Audrey grumbled, nodding toward the thick stack of pages.

“Want to give me some of those?” Violet took a seat at the unoccupied desk next to her.

Audrey handed over a handful of her notes. “Your Miss Myrick went home early?”

“She's off teaching Leslie Howard how to talk like a proper Georgian.”

Audrey looked up from her work, regarded Violet for a moment, and then continued tapping away. “You should offer to go with her when she does that so they can get to know you,” Audrey said quietly, mindful of the two remaining secretaries in the room. “You could coach on the Southern voice. Doesn't Miss Myrick have more important things to do?”

Violet couldn't imagine asking Miss Myrick such a thing. “The coaching
is
important. Mr. Cukor and Mr. Selznick trust Miss Myrick. I don't think they want anyone else coaching the cast.”

“What they don't want are details getting lost in the maelstrom because they've given that woman too much to do. If they trust her, then they would trust her judgment if she told them you can coach as well as she can.”

“I've never coached dialogue before!” Violet exclaimed under her breath.

“And you think she has? How hard can it be? The actors read off a line of dialog; you show them how a Southerner would say it. They practice mimicking you. Simple as that.”

“I suppose.”

“I just think you have a lot to offer, Violet,” Audrey said. “That's all. You should do what you're already good at.”

Another ten minutes had passed when Audrey suddenly yanked out the memo she had been working on and slapped it onto her desk. “Let's get out of here and do something fun. I'm tired of this.”

“But your dictation . . .”

“I'll come in early tomorrow. No one wants to read his memos, anyway. Come on. Let's go see what Bert's up to. I hear Scarlett's dress for the opening scene is finished. I want to see it.”

Violet handed the dictation sheets back to Audrey, who tossed them into the wire basket on her desk.