Babe cannot think what this matter might be, and Babe is not entirely sure that any clarification will be welcome, since Babe suspects Bardy has not been in the vicinity of an unclothed woman since the moment of Bardy’s own birth. But curiosity overcomes all, and Babe follows Bardy to their mother’s room.
Mama, says Bardy, do you know what Frances did?
Miss Emmie, naturally, has no idea what Frances did, and says as much.
Babe brings Bardy a glass of water. Bardy looks at it in a manner that suggests something stronger may be required.
Babe pours Bardy something stronger.
Well, says Bardy, with glass in hand, I was in my suite, resting, and—
Bardy takes a mouthful for the revelatory strength required to continue.
—Frances came and—
Bardy closes his eyes, shudders, and unburdens himself at last of his wife’s transgression.
—she knocked on my door.
In Babe’s dressing room, there is a pause while his listeners absorb the facts of the case.
She knocked on his door? says Jimmy Finlayson.
She knocked, Babe confirms slowly, on his door.
—What was Bardy doing in there when she knocked on his door?
—I do not know, and I did not care to ask.
—So what happened then?
A private consultation with our mother ensued, says Babe, after which Bardy returned to the scene of the crime, removed his possessions from the suite, handed back the government bonds, the keys to the Cadillac, and any unsmoked cigars, and announced his intention to seek an immediate annulment of the marriage. By sundown, my brother was once again a single man.
—Where is Bardy now?
—Bardy is packing for Georgia. Bardy is of the opinion that the habits of Californian women are troubling to his disposition, and consequently intends to seek an arrangement with a lady from the Peachtree State whose sensibilities are more compatible with his own.
They finish their drinks. They depart Babe’s dressing room.
That boy’s family, Jimmy Finlayson whispers as they leave, are all crazy.
This is not quite the end of the story. Shortly after Bardy’s brief marriage, Babe goes to visit Miss Emmie at her apartment only to find that she has vanished, along with all of her belongings. Babe is informed that Miss Emmie climbed in the back of her car first thing that morning, and ordered the chauffeur to drive her home.
To Georgia.
Miss Emmie never returns. The chauffeur eventually does.
I told you, says Jimmy Finlayson. All crazy.
105
He decides to travel to England. It has been five years since his last visit. He wishes to see A.J., and he wishes to see home. He will make the voyage alone. He gives Lois the option of coming with him or remaining in Los Angeles, and Lois chooses to stay.
Why would you even want me to go? Lois asks. It’ll be easier for you if I’m out of your sight, and you’ll save the price of a ticket.
He does not bother to argue.
If you’re sure, he says.
—And while you’re away, I’m going to talk to a lawyer.
He is not surprised. He has already consulted Ben Shipman. The papers are ready, waiting for Lois to concede that their marriage is concluded. He will let Ben Shipman know that the process is about to begin.
I’m sorry, he says.
—Are you?
—Of course.
—Then tell me.
—What do you want me to tell you?
—The name of the woman you’ve been seeing. Or is it more than one?
—Don’t.
—I hear stories. They can’t all be untrue. What did I do to make you treat me this way?
—Nothing. You did nothing.
Lois folds her hands across her chest, but it is not a gesture of defiance. If he cannot embrace and console her, then Lois will console and embrace herself. She is crying now; not sobbing, for her face is motionless, and her breathing regular, but her cheeks are wet. He is not even sure if she notices her own tears. Behind her, the bed is unmade. He looks around the room and does not recognize it. It resembles an imperfect facsimile of a place he once knew.
Would it have been different, Lois asks, if our child had lived? Would you at least have stayed with me?
—I don’t know.
He has no other answer.
It is in the nature of all proceedings involving him that what is simple should inevitably become complicated. He, like Babe, feels that he has become infected by the role he plays. If Lois will not accompany him to England—and she and their daughter are already on their way to her mother in Santa Cruz—then some explanation for her absence must be provided for the press. He will not use the death of his child as an excuse, even if the studio publicity department offers to do so, discreetly, on his behalf. Instead it is left to Myrtle to communicate the official position to the newspapermen.
Lois doesn’t like crowds or long journeys, Myrtle informs them, and she is not overly strong, so preferred not to make the trip.
All of which is true, and also, under the circumstances, a lie.
Babe is planning to visit Canada with Myrtle. Babe also needs a vacation, but is worried about leaving Myrtle unchaperoned in Los Angeles, even if to do so would allow him to spend some time with Viola Morse. Babe and Viola Morse could go to Agua Caliente together, and pass their days at the racetrack and their evenings at the casinos. Instead, Babe frets about Myrtle.
Sometimes, he marvels at the many ways in which Babe can tear himself apart.
He and Babe speak over coffee. Babe is aware of his problems with Lois, just as he—and, after the events at the Balboa, the rest of the world—is aware of Babe’s difficulties with Myrtle.
They have golf courses in Scotland, says Babe.
—I believe they do.
—It’s a long way to England.
—I believe it is.
—Maybe you’d like some company.
And he would, because now he does not wish to be alone without distraction from the dissolution of his marriage. If the presence of Myrtle draws further attention to Lois’s absence, so be it.
My wife’s a drunk, says Babe.
—I know. Mr. Hardy informed me.
—Mr. Hardy did not tell a lie. My wife could dig up a bottle in the desert.
—They ought to set her looking for oases.
—It would do no good, unless the oases were fed by booze.
—Which is ultimately dehydrating.
—Which it is.
—My wife is difficult to monitor alone.
—Your wife is most adept at the concealment of liquor.
—I won’t stand for my wife being insulted by anyone but me.
—Then take a seat. If they’re all full up, take a ticket.
—You sound like Groucho.
—Never that bad.
—So?
I’d like your company, he says. And I’ll help you keep an eye on Myrtle.
—Thank you. Myrtle is okay, you know.
—I know.
—She hasn’t touched a drop, not since Rosemead.
Yet still Babe is afraid to leave Myrtle unguarded. This cannot go on. They both know it. Babe cannot be a father to his wife and a lover to another woman.
Babe takes in the setting of the sun. It is late. The crowds are gone. No one is watching them. Theirs is the only table still occupied in the commissary.
And Lois? Babe asks.
—We’re getting divorced. We’ll start proceedings as soon as I return.
In a corner, a colored janitor has begun mopping the floor. Somewhere, Henry Ginsberg is contemplating ways to deprive the janitor of a nickel.
I miss Edgar Kennedy, says Babe.
—Kennedy’ll fix it.
It is Edgar Kennedy’s catchphrase. If only Edgar Kennedy were still here. If only Edgar Kennedy could fix such predicaments as these.
Did you hear that Jimmy Finlays
on has a new girlfriend? Babe asks.
—I didn’t, but I’m glad of it. It means that there’s still hope for us, whatever happens.
—It’ll be all right, you know.
Yes, he says. In the end.
106
The arrangements are made. In July, they will travel by train to New York via Chicago, and from there will take the RMS Aquitania to Southampton. It is a vacation. They make this clear to all. They are paying for it out of their own pockets.
MGM publicizes the dates of their trip.
MGM announces a celebration of their work.
This celebration, coincidentally, will take place in Britain.
The dates of the celebration, also coincidentally, will cover the period of their vacation.
A deal is struck: ten days for publicity, and the rest to themselves. It is less time than he and Babe would have wanted for leisure, and less time than MGM might have desired of them for promotion.
Well, says Hal Roach, as long as everyone is unhappy.
Henry Ginsberg comes to the station to see them off. They have no idea why Henry Ginsberg’s presence is required except that someone in the publicity department probably thinks it a good idea to have a studio representative on the scene as the boys depart for their first big trip abroad. Babe says that being sent on their way by Henry Ginsberg is like the Titanic being waved off by an iceberg, with a promise that the iceberg will catch up with it later.
When the picture eventually appears in the newspapers, Henry Ginsberg has been excised and replaced by a cutout of Hal Roach.
Because nobody likes Henry Ginsberg.
He and Babe have rarely ventured beyond California in five years. Babe goes to Agua Caliente to gamble, and to be with Viola Morse, but Mexico is different.
He and Babe have a conception of themselves as motion picture stars, but this conception is circumscribed, and understated, and completely mistaken.
The crowd that bids them farewell as they climb on board the Los Angeles Limited is large, but familiar to them from premieres and theater appearances in the city.
The crowd that waits for them in Chicago throngs the platforms, fills the station, and spills out to the streets beyond. Thousands of people want to glimpse them, to touch their clothing, to shake their hands. He has never experienced such adulation, such need. It frightens him, and he starts to panic as he and Babe are jostled and tugged on their way to the crimson carpet of the 20th Century Limited, while police and railroad staff attempt to hold back the hordes. At last the train pulls away, and he and Babe manage to wave farewell, but their faces are strained, and when the station is behind them they can only stare at each other and wonder at what they have become.
In New York, the multitude is so great that Broadway becomes a single mass of people through which it is impossible for any individual to pass. He wonders that nobody is killed. Only by hiding in Minsky’s Music Hall do they avoid injury to themselves.
They have to be smuggled on board the Aquitania.
They did not know it until now, because nobody has told them.
Hal Roach did not tell them, because Hal Roach might have been forced to pay them more money. But even if Hal Roach had told them, they would not have believed it. They would not, and could not, have believed it until they experienced it for themselves.
He and Babe are two of the most famous men in the world.
107
The Aquitania nears the port of Southampton.
It is July 23rd, 1932. They have been at sea for one week, during which time they have rarely been left in peace. He and Babe pose for photographs with those who ask, and sign autographs, but after a few days they grow weary of the attention because there is no escape from it. They retreat to their cabins, and pass the hours in whatever pursuits they can find to occupy themselves.
Myrtle appears content, or as content as a sober drunk can be. He, by contrast, feels a sense of disquiet. He ascribes this to the problem of his marriage, although he is also troubled by this return to England. He has become famous, but only by leaving his homeland. He has turned his back on it, and he fears that it may turn its back on him in turn.
But as the Aquitania prepares to dock, he and Babe see only people at the water’s edge, and people in the windows of warehouses and offices, and people on the rooftops. And from the throng a sound arises, faint at first but growing clearer as the tugboat brings in the Aquitania, as the Hythe ferry crosses in the distance, as the gray skies press their claim on the world.
It is a ringing like the wind in the wires, or distant birdsong.
It is the thirty notes of their signature tune, repeated over and over.
It is the sound of thousands upon thousands whistling in unison.
Whistling their welcome.
108
So there is to be no vacation, or not much of one.
It takes them an hour to navigate passage from the boat to the train.
At Waterloo Station, the police and staff are unable to keep the crowds back, and so surrender to the collective force of many wills. In Leicester Square, a cordon has to be formed to funnel them from their car to the theater. Later, upon leaving, the hordes rush them and tear a door from the vehicle as they make their escape.
He meets A.J. and A.J.’s new wife, but he cannot be alone in his old haunts.
He cannot be alone anywhere but in his hotel room.
At Edinburgh, a thousand people.
At Leeds, two thousand people.
At Glasgow, eight thousand people.
At Birmingham, ten thousand people.
Babe plays one round of golf, at Gleneagles. It is, Babe says, a very good round of golf, but a long way to come for it.
Babe buys a tartan umbrella.
Babe buys tartan socks and tartan suspenders.
Babe considers a kilt, but decides that the courage to wear it may be lacking.
Mercifully, the publicity tour ends. He and Babe attempt an escape to the Continent, but if anything the attention is worse there, so they return to England and make the best of their circumstances.
Babe plays more golf.
He spends time with A.J.
Everywhere he goes, people stare and call him by name.
I don’t know what was so wrong with your old name, says A.J. It was a perfectly good name. It never did me wrong.
He has no explanation for A.J., or none that might satisfy. His old identity has been discarded, and his new identity is to be found only on the screen. In the expanse between these two poles lies the reality of the self.
By September, he and Babe are back in Los Angeles.
By October they are back on the lot.
Henry Ginsberg greets them. Henry Ginsberg invites them into his office.
For taking a vacation, Henry Ginsberg deducts $19,200 from his salary, and Henry Ginsberg deducts $15,200 from Babe’s salary.
They wipe the dust of Henry Ginsberg’s office from their feet as they leave.
I should, says Babe, have played more golf.
109
His dance with Lois continues, but each moves to a different music.
He returns from Europe expecting Ben Shipman already to be working on the details of the settlement, and has begun to consider where he might live as a single man, but Lois has evinced no progress toward divorce, has not even made the promised call to her lawyer. Instead of gratitude, he feels disappointment, and a kind of thwarted ambition. He wants to be free of this marriage, and the proximity of Lois adds another tone to the complexity of his mourning for his son. He understands the pain that Lois is enduring, but he cannot bring himself to offer comfort. He cannot acknowledge their shared grief, even if it might bring succor to each. If he does, the display of emotion may be misconstrued.
And he is still seeing Alyce Ardell.
He does not wish to leave Lois for Alyce Ardell; this is not the reason for the sundering of his marriage. He doubts that Alyce Ardell would have him, even if he offered. Alyce Ar
dell is a free spirit, and because she does not ask anything of him beyond his occasional presence in her life and her bed, he is able to forget himself when he is with her. But he does not speak of Lois when he is with Alyce Ardell, and Alyce Ardell does not ask.
In this much, at least, he shows respect for his wife.
Leaving England has been difficult.
For the brief period after their British promotional duties are completed, while Babe tramps golf courses with Myrtle and he revisits the streets of his youth, he is at ease. He has no false nostalgia for his homeland. He has almost forgotten how claustrophobic are its cities, how tightly packed their citizens; how gray the skies, how white the faces. Even in London, the fashions seem dated, the women less colorful in their dresses. It is like exchanging butterflies for moths.
But he is more of that place than California. He is more of that place than any other. All of the constructs fall away, and what remains is a boy formed of smog and stage.
A.J.’s son.
At the Glasgow Metropole, he stands on the boards and weeps.
And there is A.J. himself, stony-faced, as unflinching in his loyalty to his son as A.J. is unwilling to express it, staring out at the crowds assembled in honor of his boy, shaking his head as though unable to believe that people could be so foolish as to give up their day to catch a glimpse of men they can see ten times larger on the screen, and without having their toes trodden.
Bampots, says A.J.
Then A.J. tells the newspapers that he is a good boy.
Babe likes A.J., and A.J. likes Babe. He would never have thought it. Perhaps, he speculates, it’s because neither can quite understand what the other is saying, even when the words themselves are comprehensible. When A.J., thirsting, announces that he is spitting feathers, Babe, once the meaning is explained to him, thinks it’s just the funniest phrase that has ever been uttered.
All these moments he recalls as he drives the alien streets of Los Angeles, these sun-blanched stretches of palm and prosperity.
As he drives away from Lois.
As he drives away from Alyce Ardell.
If he stops in an effort to walk alone with his thoughts, he will be mobbed. If he goes to a restaurant, he will be mobbed. Even if he should secure a private table or booth, he will have to be polite to a stream of staff.