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“I’m embarrassed,” said Jonathan, and the words were like lead. “That’s someone’s house. I can’t just go up and start snapping pictures. Go on, go on!”

There was a hum as the car accelerated. “I’ll tell you one thing,” said Ira, “you’ll never be a photo-realist journalist.”

“Drive round the block,” said Jonathan. He switched baseball hats.

“Hey, master of disguise. Do you really think they won’t recognize you in a different baseball hat?”

“You’re a lawyer,” accused Jonathan.

“Whenever I think straight, you tell me that.”

Jonathan looked afraid. Ira chuckled and slapped his leg. “You’re nuts,” he said.

“I know,” said Jonathan very seriously.

The fake-Spanish bungalows, the tiny 1920s frame houses with porches and tile roofs, slipped past. Consistency was not Jonathan’s strong point. It ruined his career. He would sometimes freeze like this on a part. Something about it wouldn’t be right, and Jonathan would have to stop. No amount of ambition, or gratitude to the people who had worked so hard to get him the part, could force a performance out of him. “I’m sorry,” Jonathan would say, helpless. “I’m not being funny. I want to do it, I wish I could, but if I tried now there would be nothing. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” And implacable, he would walk away from money, from opportunity, from reputation. And it isn’t even artistic integrity, thought Ira. I mean, he does those terrible monster movies. There’s just something in those that he can grab hold of.

“Go by there again, and just park,” said Jonathan quietly.

And then sometimes, when it all came right, Jonathan would step into the lights of the stage of a little theater, and his friends would not know him, and there would be a hush or even a gasp from the small and scattered audience. It would be like a dagger coming out of a sheath. Jonathan could take people’s breath away.

“Too close, back up,” whispered Jonathan.

So they parked a few doors down, across the street, and Jonathan peered in silence across Ira’s lap, through the window.

It was a two-story house, painted the dull green that desert dwellers felt made their homes more Arcadian. It was a strange shape. A long, low bungalow running north to south and, perched on top of it, very narrow like the deckhouse of a ship, a second floor that ran east to west. There was a low front porch, with funny pillars that each split into two thin, green columns. There were extensions added onto the sides and frames for climbing plants. There were trees and lawns and shade.

Jonathan was all angles, knees, elbows and wide hunched shoulders. He went more and more still. Ira looked at him.

“You’re beginning to look like the house,” Ira said. Talent was spooky.

“We better go,” whispered Jonathan.

“Get out. Take a walk around it. Take pictures, ask if you have to. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

“Take it for me?” Jonathan asked, holding out the camera. Ira sighed, suddenly unwilling. Ira did everything else.

“You’re right,” said Jonathan, and took back the camera. He shrugged and stretched his way out of the house shape and twisted around to get out of the car. He stepped into sunlight.

The curtain seemed to go up. As he got out, Jonathan began to blaze with excitement. “It’s all just like it was Back Then. Looks, there’s a child’s tricycle on the porch!” This seemed to be very meaningful to him.

Surreptitiously, grinning like an elf, he started to snap and snap and snap.

“Is it in focus?” Ira asked.

“Yeah. I reckon that extension there is the kitchen, but it looks more recent, maybe thirties, so my guess is the kitchen was out back, probably on the right not the left, and the central staircase would go up just a bit behind the front door there, and maybe two bedrooms upstairs, or possibly the bathroom, ’cause they might have pumped the water up to roof tanks, to heat it, to store it. Come on.”

He skittered nervously around the back, into the alley. “See, they still reckoned on some people having a horse and buggy even in the twenties. That’s what this is for, bring the horses around to the back. Like mews in London.”

There were bicycles and baskets and larger colored plastic objects. “Toys,” whispered Jonathan. There were large old leafless trees and a crisscrossing of heavy wiring in midair. The rear extension had windows that seemed too large. “That was a door,” said Jonathan. The camera kept making a noise like it was chewing gum. Jonathan was not even looking through the viewfinder.

“Okay, okay,” said Jonathan, breathless. “Come on.”

They went down Oldfield and turned left onto the Sierra Highway again. “Go slow,” begged Jonathan, but he was disappointed. There was hardly anything left from Back Then. Everything was huge and flat and spread out, a car lot, a Swedish smorgasbord, an empty stretch of bare brown earth alongside the train tracks. MICHAELS COACHWORKS, boasted a sign, SINCE 1974. “Slow,” said Jonathan. They passed a brick building with mildly Art Deco decoration along the roof.

“What are we looking for?” Ira asked.

“An old movie theater. It was made out of brick. It burned down.” They both looked, but saw nothing like it. They came to Lancaster Boulevard—Tenth Street as it had once been. “Might as well turn,” sighed Jonathan. As they did, a movie house with huge, decrepit, late fifties, early sixties lettering slipped past. “No, that’s not it, and it wouldn’t be here anyway,” said Jonathan. He looked disgruntled.

Lancaster Boulevard looked left behind by the postmodern world. The flat-roofed, flat-fronted storefronts tasted of the early sixties. There were cars parked, but no people walking, and a hush. The shadows were long. Ira was about to say, as if it were his fault, that he was sorry.

And then Jonathan sat up. “Oh wow!” he said, like the old hippie he secretly was. “Pull over.”

They did. There was plenty of parking space. “Will you look at that!” said Jonathan.

An old wooden building, scarred in a line where a porch had been torn away from its frontage, stood perched absurdly on stilts. It looked like a woman afraid of a mouse, holding up her skirts.

“I reckon I know what that is,” said Jonathan, his grin fierce. He grabbed the Lancaster book and flipped through the pages and turned a page of photographs around. “Yup,” he said. “Look, see these photographs? They were taken in ’36 from the water tower, so you see about half the town. Now the water tower was on Cedar. And look!”

Jonathan pointed. Ira waited for an explanation.

Jonathan read the caption, “‘Far left is the Western Hotel.’ See the two palm trees?”

By the sidewalk, on the other side of the chain-link fence from the old building, there were two tall palm trees. In the photograph, taken from high up, the palm trees were smaller, below roof height. They shaded the doorway.

“What they’ve done is hoist the whole building up and move it back,” said Jonathan, and grinned. “They’re saving it!” He was pleased.

He sat still for a moment. Then suddenly he said, in a gathering voice, “Oh boy!” He jumped out of the car. Ira turned to look.

On the corner of Cedar Street, there was a theater. Behind the large white plastic sign, there was another, smaller one. The letters were slotted into bars of metal, Art Deco, three-dimensional:

LOS ANGELES COUNTY

OFFICES AND ASSEMBLY HALL

On either side of the entrance were two Art Deco lamps and beside them a long, narrow, frosted window with a kind of trelliswork of metal holding in the glass. On the wall, clumsily hand-painted in black, was another sign, with an arrow:

MENTAL

HEALTH

UPSTAIRS

Ira sat in the car and looked at Lancaster Boulevard. There was a shop called Windsor, and a J. C. Penney Co. It couldn’t have been more ordinary. But it interested him now.

Ira began to look at the book again, the photographs from the water tower first. It was a shock to see just how much of the old town had gone, with its dust, its trees and its wide, wide spaces. He flipped back a few pages and saw a photograph of three sisters on the steps of an airplane. Ira read the caption. Ira covered his face.

Of course! That’s why they were here. It was because of Jonathan’s play! He was playing the Scarecrow in
The Wizard of Oz
.

“Jonathan,” Ira said aloud in a joke schoolmistress voice. “This is unbelievably tacky.”

Ira had only seen the film once, when he was seventeen, and had not thought much of it. The songs were mediocre, the dialogue silly, and the sentiment—
There’s no place like home
—was nauseating. It was all right for kids, but why adults?

Jonathan was loping back to the car. He was carrying a handbill, smiling with anticipation. Jonathan looked sweet and goofy and he could dance. Perfect casting for a scarecrow, Ira thought. Ira looked at the man he loved but did not desire.

“A theater on Cedar Street!” called Jonathan, as if something had been vindicated. “They’re still doing it. They’re still putting shows on for each other just as if L.A. were a thousand miles away.”

“Jonathan,” Ira said. “
Judy Garland?
”

Lancaster, California

1927

Where is Vaudeville?

—Confused child to Jack Haley

In 1894, Horace Henderson Wilcox, a Kansas prohibitionist, bought 120 acres near Los Angeles for his country home. His wife called the place Hollywood . . .

The fine weather was certainly a major incentive for many companies to move their entire organizations to the West Coast, but Hollywood offered another advantage. An industrial dispute, known as the Patents War and fought with weapons and violence enough to justify the term, had forced several producers to flee . . . These producers had infringed the Edison patents by making equipment built from pirated designs . . . Hollywood offered an ideal sanctuary for refugees of the Patents War, for should trouble appear, the Mexican border was a mere hundred-mile drive away.

—Kevin Brownlow

The Parade’s Gone By . . .

It was cool inside the movie house. Daddy kept it cool. There was a beautiful woman in the movie and Frances knew why it was so dark around her eyes. It was the black that you put on your eyelashes when you sing. Only people couldn’t sing in movies because there was no sound. That was why people needed Frances and Jinny and Mary Jane. You could only sing on stage.

It was Daddy’s movie house and everybody in town knew him and everybody in town knew Frances. They had come here from Grand Rapids, where Granny lived, but that was a long time ago, almost before Frances could remember, though it must have been nice, because everybody, Mom and Jinny and Daddy, they all said so, because Grand Rapids was cool and green. Lancaster was flat and hot. Hot enough to fry an egg.

In the movie a man had been running along the tops of the skyscrapers and had fallen off and now he was hanging on to the hands of a big clock. Frances laughed, ha ha, very forcefully and kicked her legs and looked to make sure her sisters were laughing. If her sisters were laughing, it would mean the movie was meant to be funny, and Frances wouldn’t have to be afraid for the man. Virginia and Mary Jane were laughing and looking at her, to make sure she was okay, so she grinned very hard, to make sure they could see she was happy.

Daddy’s movie house. Frances said it to herself. They were all together in Daddy’s movie house. They were all part of the show together. Mom played the piano and Daddy sang, and Jinny and Mary Jane sang. Baby Frances sang. And everybody came to see them.

The man in the movie was swinging from a rope now. It was caught around his ankle. He swung between skyscrapers, up and onto a roof and suddenly he was safe, and his girlfriend was there and hugged him and everybody clapped. Frances clapped too, though she always found the endings of movies a mystery. Why end there, when it could have ended anywhere? Why end there when he could have gone on running for as long as he liked? But Frances cheered. “Yayyyyyy!” She cheered because it was Daddy’s movie, because they always cheered each other.

“You like that, Baby?” Mary Jane asked, as the lights went up.

“I surely did,” said Frances, with a sideways wobble of her head that she had learned from her father. Frances liked Mary Jane just a bit better than Jinny, her middle sister. Mary Jane was older and kinder. And she had a huge, wide smile. Frances wanted to have a smile like hers when she grew up. Everybody always said that Jinny was pretty and they never said that about Mary Jane, but Frances thought different.

“We’re going home now,” Frances announced, and slid down from her seat, her pretty white dress riding up. “It’s time,” she explained. Her sisters smiled and shook their heads and followed as Frances stomped up the aisle in round-toed buckle shoes. One strap flapped.

Frances generally did whatever she liked, expecting people to like what she did. She went to Harriet, who wore a red kind of suit and a red hat. “Have you seen my daddy?” she demanded.

“He’ll be out front, Baby,” the usherette said. “Good movie, wasn’t it?”

“Oh yes, it surely was,” said Baby. “But movies can’t sing.” She didn’t really like movies. “Can you buckle my shoe for me?” She stuck out her foot, toes curled down like at ballet class. “It came unbuckled.”

“That’s okay, Harriet, one of us will do it,” said Jinny echoed by her older, shyer sister. It was her older, shyer sister who crouched down to do up the buckle, quickly, almost furtively.

“You don’t have to buckle my shoe now,” Frances reassured Harriet. She didn’t want Harriet to feel she had missed out. “You coming along to the show tonight?”

“Um,” said Harriet.

Jinny laughed. “She’s probably already seen it a hundred times, Baby.” Jinny did not always make Frances look good.

Frances knew how to deal with that. “That’s why we do it different each time. We do different songs, don’t we, Harriet?”

To Frances’s great pleasure, Harriet agreed. The shoe was buckled. “Goodbye, Harriet!” called Frances as they were leaving. Then Frances ran up the aisle to find her daddy.

She found him in what her mother and no one else called the foyer. Daddy was there talking to some men, and Frances ran up to him, shouting, “Daddy, Daddy, it was good!”

Her father laughed and scooped her up and swung her around. “You bet it was!” he said and gave her a shake. “I was thinking of you when I booked it!” He turned toward the two men. “Hey, boys, this is my little girl. This is Frances.”