The Seamstress of Hollywood Boulevard (36 page)

In the living room, George brandished the
Examiner,
not putting it down when I sat on the chesterfield beside him. "I was thinking," I said.

"Can it wait, Nell? I'd like to have ten minutes."

"I want to talk about the house."

When he lowered the newspaper, his face was careful. "What."

"I overheard some men talking at the streetcar stop. They said that interest rates are bound to go up before the end of the month. One of them said he was glad he'd secured his mortgage now." I tried to keep my voice ordinary—ordinarily excited, the voice of a new homeowner-to-be. "He said he was saving two hundred a year. Two hundred!"

"I imagine he is."

"Don't you think we should pay attention?"

"Two hundred dollars isn't going to help if we still wind up with a house too small for our family." He was struggling for ordinariness himself, and I wondered if I was failing as badly as he. His face glowed—his eyes brilliant, his mouth quivering. Even his hair crackling messily over his forehead seemed excited. It would make no difference if I learned that he and Lisette had stayed on different sides of the street for their walk. When he said her name, his lips curved. "Lisette says the girls are willing to pitch in around here," he said.

"What are you talking about?"

"Mary, and cooking. That should make you happy. Lisette says that Aimée has quite a hand in the kitchen."

"Now, George. They didn't come out here to get housemaid's knee, helping Sister Nell."

"But they can help Madame Annelle. They're very excited about that." His eyes blazed just a bit brighter as he gestured toward my sewing machine. "Don't you have some work to do? Lisette said you brought home work from the studio."

"No, I don't have a thing in the world." I could creep out of bed to sew after George fell asleep, as I had done before, and he would never know. For now, I held out my hand. "Give me some of that newspaper. I need to catch up."

I kept my hand outstretched until he handed over the sporting page, which he cared about and I did not. I read every word.

Right after Vision, Mr. Mirliton had taught us, came Clarification. It was the easiest of the steps to want to skip as we hurtled toward Plan and Helpmeets. Those who skipped it always regretted it, Mr. Mirliton warned. Clarification was essential.

I took my time, refining my Vision until it was clear from every angle and shadow. In Hollywood, it was little matter to be Madame Annelle, the great
modiste.
The moment I mentioned "My sister," as soon as I said "Screen test," the second I mentioned "Just arrived," the director or set designer or lighting man or grip would look into the distance and remember a meeting for which he was—
sorry!
—already late. I could not afford to lose opportunities. I clarified until my plan was clear as air.

On sets or behind cameras, on the lots where Mrs. Hoyt and I had been called out to repair a sleeve, I found ways to linger. Stitching up a ripped seam with the actor's arm still inside of it, I talked about Gertrude Ederle swimming the English Channel. My sister, I remarked, loved the ocean; her face looked beautiful in outdoor light. A screen test would show that. I murmured so as not to be overheard by Mrs. Hoyt, and the actor had to put his ear close to my mouth. I knew what the conversation looked like, and I blushed but kept whispering.

Two weeks passed before an assistant to a director met my eye and said, "You're asking a lot." His finger under my chin, he tipped up my face so that I could not look away from his eyes, gray as gun barrels. "What are you going to give me in return?" This was not the tickling pleasure of talk with Franklin Coston. This was cash on the barrelhead.

"A pair of trousers," I said.

"Flannels," he said. "Two pair."

I used cheap fabric that he would think costly because it had a nap, and I made the legs fashionably wide. He would not notice the unfinished seams. Even though they ballooned clownishly at the cuffs, they were nicer than he deserved, and I entertained the thought of making a pair for George, though he had no occasion to wear them, and they were nicer than he deserved, too.

The assistant was wearing the trousers, filthy at the hems, the day he came to the designer's shop; Mrs. Hoyt was needed, he said, on the set of
Broken Arrow.
Usually boys were sent out to deliver messages, and I wondered whether this young man, now brushing dust from his argyle vest, actually wielded the power he had suggested to me. I picked up my bag as Mrs. Hoyt pulled her hat from the corner rack. "We don't need you on this," she said. "It's a lighting question."

"In assessing any scene, another pair of eyes can be useful." I had been letting the Madame Annelle manner slip when Mrs. Hoyt and I were alone, but just now a hint of the French was useful. The assistant brightened. Like most men, he liked a little ooh-la-la. "And what a pair," he said.

Mrs. Hoyt raised her eyebrows, which she had lately plucked to dark scythes. "Madame is quite sure of herself today."

"I am good at seeing things," I said. "Details easily overlooked. The mere corner of a billboard can ruin an entire setup."

"That's true," said the assistant.

"It is heartwarming to see an employee so dedicated to her company's well-being," Mrs. Hoyt said.

"I have never before had the opportunity, Mrs. Hoyt."

"You learn very swiftly, Madame."

"You two should sell tickets," the assistant said. "You're like a Broadway play."

"And what do you suppose the play is about?" Mrs. Hoyt said, the remains of her eyebrows looking as if they longed to flee into her hairline.

"Two women fighting? Gotta be love." His hands were jammed into his trouser pockets up to his wrists. Yokel. What had I been thinking, putting my faith in him? He was nothing more than a farm boy.

"You will know when we're fighting," she said. Tucking her hair under a brown cloche, she clattered down the pine steps to the street, leaving me to follow or not. She did not speak to me on the walk or once we arrived.

An indoor scene had been set up. In front of the blocky camera that rested on spindly legs stretched a wooden bar; six inches above the floor a wooden rod was tacked up, so cowboys could prop up a boot while ordering their whiskey. No actors were in sight, but the close room was crowded with men in shirtsleeves, girls wearing sweater dresses and carrying steno pads, and the usual flock of boys carrying things: chairs, lanterns, bottles of brown liquid labeled "XXX." "Where is the difficulty?" said Mrs. Hoyt.

Someone flicked on the big lights behind the camera, and the room suddenly glittered. Dust rose from the unpaved street and unfinished wood, and in the brilliance, the motes glinted as if someone had thrown handfuls of crushed diamonds into the air. No wonder actresses looked so wide-eyed on screen. No wonder they cried so often.

An actress walked before the camera wearing a barmaid dress that I had designed the week before. The costume featured a complicated corset-style bodice with many seams, and now I saw my error. Every one of those tiny, tucked lines caught and threw back light until the actress's face was obscured—a dazzling flower atop a stalk, a radiant bloom with no eyes, no mouth. Rigid, I waited for Mrs. Hoyt to point out the authoress of the design.

"We cannot possibly remake the costume if you want to finish the picture this week," Mrs. Hoyt said.

"We can't shoot this," said a man who emerged from behind the camera. He actually carried a megaphone.

"You're blasting ten million watts into the poor girl's face. She could come out in black velvet and her head would still look like an onion." Mrs. Hoyt didn't even lean in my direction. Sweat ran in frank rivulets down my sides.

The assistant whispered to me, "She's fighting now, all right."

"You have no idea what she's doing."

"We can sneak away. Get someplace safe."

I glanced at him crossly. His hands were rammed into his pockets again. He wore a grin so loose that I wondered whether he had been drinking, and his brown hair did not look clean. Mrs. Hoyt was saying something about how no one could expect a
modiste
to work without certain basic pieces of information. I needed to hear her, but before me stood this fop, the star I had hitched my wagon to. From a deep, grudging storage place, I found my old shoppie smile and put it on. "What do you know about safety?" I said.

"That there's never any of it when directors start shouting." Taking my hand, he pulled me to the back of the set, which was as deeply shadowed as the front was overbright. "And if you knew how to light a set with something less than a klieg light, your actors wouldn't all look like they've been dredged in flour," said Mrs. Hoyt. Her voice betrayed nothing except indignation. I could not see her from where I stood, but it was easy to imagine the director wilting before her. I would have to find a way to say thank you, though I did not know how a girl might thank her employer.

I sneezed. The boy before me tipped up my chin with his finger, apparently the only gesture of seduction he knew. "Gesundheit," he said, moving his face closer to mine.

"Is this your idea of safety?" I dodged his lips. "Goodness! Not on the set. This is an after-work activity."

"Can I see you after work?"

"No. But you can see my sisters. You'll like them."

"Will I?" His hand at my waist, his breath in my ear keeping me from hearing Mrs. Hoyt. "Why is that?"

"They are modern girls."

As I seemed to have become a modern mother. I turned my ear away from him and murmured more about my daughters' charms; they were go-getters, I told him. He grinned, so I told him they were red hot. When the rush of shame blasted over me, I said, "Oo-la-la." I was doing what they had asked for. I was beyond reproach. I was beyond forgiveness.

"Hubba-hubba," said the boy. What a loose mouth he had—sloppy and careless like the rest of him. He was so stupid I wanted to slap him, but there was nothing I needed right now so much as a stupid boy.

"They put the
hubba
in
hubba-hubba
" I said.

"Unrealistic," Mrs. Hoyt said, and then something else.

"Dauntless Delores had better watch out," he said, moving in on me again. Delores was the latest serial actress, a dimpled brunette who was able to lasso fence posts and cacti. I dodged his lips and said, "Delores is old-fashioned. I told you: my sisters are modern girls. The director who discovers them is going to be glad he did."

"And how is that going to happen?" the boy said. His warm breath settled on my cheek.

"Same as always. A screen test." I thought I heard Mrs. Hoyt say something about mind-reading, although her voice wasn't so loud now. "You told me you know how to arrange that. You said it was simple."

He tapped his cheek, pretending to coyness. "The things I say. It's never simple."

"My sisters know how to work."

"They all say that." Before I could interrupt again, he shrugged. "As long as nobody expects much, all right? There are an awful lot of girls."

"Not like my sisters," I said, and he laughed. Who knows what he thought I was telling him.

He stepped away from me, and I realized that the voices from the front of the set had stopped; the negotiations between the director and Mrs. Hoyt must have concluded. She was waiting for me just behind the camera, her arms heaped with white cotton. "Are you finished?" she said.

"I see I will be redesigning a costume," I said.

"I will be redesigning a costume, and I will bear in mind the lesson I have just received in the properties of light. It was quite informative. A shame that you were not able to attend."

"It did not seem my place."

"Particularly not when you were arranging a screen test for your sisters. Perhaps you thought a new job for them necessary, since anyone can see that your sisters are not well suited to seam-stressing." I didn't think it necessary for her speak so loudly.

"Nothing more than a screen test."

Mrs. Hoyt pushed the cotton into my arms. "I'm surprised I have to explain rules of exclusivity to you, Madame Annelle." I had not seen her look so distant since the day I had knocked on her door and admired her cotton dress. I hadn't believed that we could go back to that day.

"You do not have to explain anything," I said.

"Let me make this clearer for you: if I see you interfering with studio personnel again, you will lose your position."

"I will not—"

"You design costumes. That's all. I have held this position a long time and will not be compromised."

"They would not—"

"
C'est criant?
"

The floor, where I fixed my gaze, was very dirty. "I do not understand you," I said.

"Is that clear?"

"Yes," I muttered. My eyes had been hot ever since we walked into this dusty barn of a room.

"Tell me again," she said.

I caught her meaning this time and said, "
Oui.
" It came out too softly, though, and she made me say it again.

I did not speak on the ride home, and not much that evening. In the morning, I found that I had little to say. George woke as soon as he felt me stir, and Mary generally rose before me and waited at the table for her cup of milk. She spread her napkin, and I poured the milk. No one was urging me to talk.

The next day was the same, and the one after. I could measure out my words like some Indian swami from a Pathé news-reel, existing on three beans a day. After a week of this, George said, "You all right?" I shrugged. He nodded. We went to bed.

Every time I opened my mouth, I felt the humiliating
oui
that Mrs. Hoyt had placed there like a stone. Behind it, other words welled up, crested, and seeped away; it turned out that my words were less necessary than I had thought. Mrs. Hoyt handed me assignments, I drew them and pinned the patterns, and sometimes she changed them. There was no call for discussion. At home it was the girls and George who talked, their words running through the house like a river. I was a rock in the river. Everybody knows what happens to stones that sit in the way of moving water.