He

  So he drives, though he does not find negotiating these streets conducive to relaxation or contemplation, until he spies an empty lot off Ventura Boulevard, and there he parks in the shade and thinks that it was not meant to be this way.

  He speaks with Ben Shipman.

  Why are you waiting? asks Ben Shipman. If the marriage is over, it’s over. Don’t get me wrong: I like Lois a lot, and I gain no pleasure from handling divorces. I find them depressing. I find many professional duties depressing, but divorces more than most. It seems to me that you want your wife to be the first to sever the bond, yet she doesn’t care to do so. But if you continue on this path, suddenly you’re sixty years old, still married to the same woman, and still not getting along with her. She’s told you that she wants a divorce, right?

  —Yes. Or a separation, for a while.

  —So separate. You like it, you get a divorce. You don’t like it, you go back to being unhappy together. That’s how it works.

  He examines his hat. He tries to remember if it is one purchased for him by Lois.

  How do we go about it? he asks.

  —You tell Lois, then you tell the studio. The studio tells the newspapers, and it’s out in the open.

  —What if we don’t tell the newspapers?

  —Then you tell Lois, you tell a few close friends, one of the few close friends tells the newspapers, and it’s out in the open.

  Or, says Ben Shipman, you could just save some time and tell the newspapers yourself.

  He issues a statement. Under the terms of the agreement, Lois will keep their home, and he will be compelled to invest in two life trusts for her and their daughter. Ending his marriage, Ben Shipman estimates, will cost him more than $200,000.

  It’ll be worth it, he replies.

  Ben Shipman elects not to comment.

  He tells the newspapers that it is “just one of those things.” He tells the newspapers that he and Lois “got on each other’s nerves.” When he sees his own statements in black and white, he marvels at the blankness of them, their poverty of meaning, yet still they are printed.

  We’re separating because I’m sleeping with other women.

  We’re separating because I cannot hold my wife and permit her to speak of her grief.

  We’re separating because we consigned a child to the flames.

  110

  He and Babe make Their First Mistake.

  They make Towed in a Hole.

  They make Twice Two.

  They make The Devil’s Brother.

  They make Me and My Pal.

  They make The Midnight Patrol.

  They make Busy Bodies.

  They have never been more popular. They are now the longest running comedy team in talking pictures.

  And still Henry Ginsberg hates them.

  Henry Ginsberg is convinced that he and Babe are deliberately wasting time and money, that they are slackers and spendthrifts. Henry Ginsberg spies on them, and when Henry Ginsberg is not spying on them Henry Ginsberg recruits others to spy in his stead. Henry Ginsberg drives everyone crazy. Some, like Beanie Walker, choose to leave rather than deal with Henry Ginsberg any longer, which suits Henry Ginsberg as then the studio doesn’t have to pay them a salary. And when Henry Ginsberg is not busy spying, or driving writers to quit, Henry Ginsberg is busy firing people.

  Soon, the only person left on the lot will be Henry Ginsberg.

  He goes to see Henry Ginsberg. A secretary in Hal Roach’s business office has given him some figures to work with, as long as he never reveals the source. The studio estimates that it will gross over a million dollars on The Devil’s Brother, and potentially even half as much again. The Devil’s Brother costs $200,000 to make. Hal Roach stands to turn a profit of anywhere between $300,000 and $600,000 on the picture.

  So why, he asks Henry Ginsberg, won’t you let us make our pictures in peace?

  Because you’re losing money, says Henry Ginsberg. Last year, your pictures posted a loss of—Henry Ginsberg opens a file, and finds the page he seeks—one hundred and sixty-six thousand, four hundred and forty seven dollars.

  And eighty-eight cents, Henry Ginsberg adds.

  —How can we be losing money if the studio is making profits like this on one picture?

  —I don’t know where you got those figures, so I can’t possibly comment. But not all of your pictures make a profit. Mostly, though, I believe you’re losing us money because we pay you too much.

  And this is the best he can get out of Henry Ginsberg.

  He tries speaking with Hal Roach, but Hal Roach does not enjoy discussing money with actors. It makes Hal Roach feel faint.

  He spends the rest of the day working on a script. As he is waiting to be picked up by his driver, Henry Ginsberg appears. From the expression on his face, he can tell that Henry Ginsberg has been stewing all afternoon. Henry Ginsberg does not like being braced by the help.

  Do you know what the average annual salary is in this country? Henry Ginsberg asks.

  —I do not.

  —It’s fifteen hundred dollars. You made seventy times that last year, and you’re still complaining.

  —I wasn’t complaining. I was asking how Babe and I could be posting a loss when we’re actually turning a profit.

  His temper is rising. He curbs it. If he starts shouting at Henry Ginsberg, he may never stop.

  —You’re not turning a profit. That’s what you don’t seem to understand.

  —You’re right. I don’t understand.

  Henry Ginsberg appears satisfied with this admission. Henry Ginsberg begins to walk away, then pauses.

  One more thing, says Henry Ginsberg.

  —Yes?

  —I don’t think you’re so funny.

  And with that, Henry Ginsberg leaves the stage.

  111

  MR HARDY: I never realized such a terrible condition existed in your family. You should pattern your life after mine.

  (from Sons of the Desert)

  Ben Shipman asks him to drop by the office for a talk.

  No good can come of this, he thinks. Lately any time Ben Shipman calls, it is to have a conversation about money, but it is never the kind of conversation from which he emerges with the prospect of being richer than he was when it started.

  When he arrives at Ben Shipman’s office, Ben Shipman has a blue bottle of Bromo-Seltzer sitting on the desk. Ben Shipman invites him to take a seat.

  You see that bottle? says Ben Shipman.

  —I do.

  —You’re the reason I need that bottle. Now, tell me: just what the hell do you think you’re doing?

  This is what he has been doing:

  The dance with Lois is nearing its end, but still the partners cannot break. They have begun sleeping together again, but their lovemaking resembles the final burst of clarity given to the dying. For all this, these moments of intimacy have a tenderness to them that has been lacking since the death of their son. They are saying farewell, but the acknowledgment of it causes them to err and mistake a conclusion for a new beginning, or the possibility of one. He and Lois embark on a motoring holiday to British Columbia: four weeks to rediscover what it was that first brought them together, only to preside, isolated from home, over their final partition.

  On May 25th, 1933, her bags barely unpacked from the trip, Lois files for divorce. In the suit, Lois accuses him of telling her that he no longer loves her, of demanding a divorce from her as quickly as possible, and of ignoring her at parties.

  All of which is true, although the detail about the parties is peculiar.

  Why did you ignore her at parties? asks Teddy, his younger brother.

  Teddy has emigrated from England and now lives in Los Angeles with a wife and children. Teddy has no interest in acting or pictures, which makes Teddy a welcome anomaly in this town. Teddy drives a car for the manager of the Ambassador Hotel.

  But Teddy will be dead by the end of the year. Teddy will take to a dentist’s chair and expire from a
n overdose of laughing gas.

  —I guess they were those kinds of parties.

  He moves out of the family home to join Teddy’s brood in a rental unit on South Palm Drive. If he is miserable—and he is, because although he now has what he wished for, he is enduring the desolation of the bereaved—then he has company in his misery.

  He has Babe.

  Ben Shipman is also Babe’s attorney. Ben Shipman stores a separate bottle of Bromo-Seltzer in a drawer next to Babe’s file. This way, Ben Shipman can keep track of which of his clients is giving him the greater dyspepsia, and bill accordingly.

  So far, Babe is winning.

  Or losing, depending upon how Babe views the size of Ben Shipman’s bill.

  While the ink is still drying on his partner’s divorce papers, Babe files for divorce from Myrtle, alleging mental cruelty and claiming that Myrtle’s alcoholism is turning him into a pauper.

  What follows is a disaster.

  Babe is attempting to keep out of the public eye by residing at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. He arranges for a car to collect Babe and bring him to South Palm Drive, where Teddy’s wife Betty cooks a meal of steak and potatoes, and Babe, even in this darkest of moods, amuses the children. Then, when the meal is over, Teddy and his family depart to take the kids for ice cream, leaving him alone with Babe.

  I got a call from Hal, says Babe.

  They are not currently at the studio together. He is still working on the script for Busy Bodies, their next picture, and filming is not scheduled to commence for another ten days. Busy Bodies, he has decided, will barely have a plot at all. Busy Bodies will be a stream of gags, because that is what he needs right now.

  —What did Hal say?

  —Hal said a woman being clocked is only funny in pictures, and Hal wasn’t even sure about that.

  —And did you hit Myrtle’s sister?

  —It was an accident. I went to the house to talk with Myrtle, and Mary was there. She said she wouldn’t let me see Myrtle unless she could also be present, so I told her that whatever I had to say to my wife was a private matter. Next thing I know, Mary is waving papers at me, right in my face, so I took them from her and waved them right back, except her face wasn’t as far from my fist as I thought, and I bopped her one, right on the nose.

  Babe sips his coffee. Babe isn’t in the correct frame of mind to drink anything stronger, or not without consequences. Anyway, Ben Shipman has advised Babe to stay away from liquor in case Babe takes it into his head to do something silly, like trying to reason with Myrtle and her sister, and ends up bopping someone else on the nose.

  I never hit a woman in my life before, says Babe. But if I’m to be sued for hitting a woman, I’m very glad it’s Myrtle’s sister.

  —Have you spoken with Viola?

  Under the circumstances, he judges it permissible to mention Viola Morse to Babe, especially as the newspapers are reporting the fact of her existence, even if she has not yet been named.

  —She’s worried. I don’t want to see her reputation damaged by this. Ben is also worried. Ben doesn’t want a scandal. It’ll hurt me when it comes to alimony.

  The mention of the word “scandal” causes him to tense in his chair. It is not only Viola Morse’s reputation that is at stake here. The Audience does not want as its comic heroes men who have been branded adulterers and beaters of women. Even Chaplin has been damaged by the allegations made by Lita Grey during their divorce, and Chaplin is the biggest star in the world. No one is invulnerable.

  And neither Babe nor Ben Shipman is aware of all that has been happening in his own private life. He is hoping to keep the nature of his activities unrevealed until the divorce is finalized, but he knows that he may have to open up to Ben Shipman if reporters come sniffing—reporters, or worse, because there is to be considered the manner in which Myrtle discovers the truth about Viola Morse: the unnamed operatives who sleuth on Myrtle’s behalf. If Lois were to take the same approach, and hire investigators, his difficulties could multiply very rapidly.

  And you and Lois are definitely done? says Babe.

  —We are.

  —Funny that we’re in this together.

  If it must be, he says, then I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  112

  No reconciliation, and no hope of one.

  He tells everyone that asks. He tells Hal Roach in Hal Roach’s office, his feet resting on the head of the dead bear. He tells friends and family. He even tells Henry Ginsberg, who appears to be showing disturbing signs of humanity, although Henry Ginsberg may simply be trying to assess the potential damage to Bank of America’s investment caused by the marital woes of the studio’s two biggest stars, and is wondering if it might be used to justify a reduction in salary.

  No reconciliation, and no hope of one.

  On August 3rd, 1933, an announcement is made that he and Lois are to be reconciled.

  And that Babe and Myrtle are also to be reconciled.

  Which is when Ben Shipman summons him to the office.

  Sitting in Ben Shipman’s office, he notices that Ben Shipman’s hair is turning gray. He decides not to comment on this out of concern that Ben Shipman may then feel compelled to explain the cause of his premature canities, and take this into account when billing him.

  He tells Ben Shipman that Lois requested his company when he went to collect his daughter. They sat. They talked. They had a drink. They were civil to each other, which was something.

  And now you’re moving back in with her? says Ben Shipman. What was in that drink—laudanum?

  —I’m not moving back in with her.

  Ben Shipman thinks that it may be necessary to call the Bromo-Seltzer people and advise them to start manufacturing bigger bottles.

  —But it says so here, in the newspaper.

  He has not seen the newspaper yet. He takes Ben Shipman’s copy and reads the story. It talks about doves of peace hovering, and his daughter being responsible for leading Lois and him back into the old paths of happiness. If it were any more cloying, it could be used to make treacle.

  It stinks of Hal Roach.

  —I never said any of this.

  —So you didn’t intimate anything about Babe and his wife also getting back together?

  This, too, is in the story, which is Hal Roach over-egging the pudding. Hal Roach is trying to protect his assets. Having his two biggest stars simultaneously involved in messy divorces is probably giving Hal Roach sleepless nights.

  —If they are, Babe hasn’t told me. You know what they’re like. They prefer to live their lives behind closed doors. I suppose they might be reconciling, and Babe and Myrtle are still working out the details.

  But, says Ben Shipman, I’m working out the details of the property settlement for their divorce with David Cannon.

  David Cannon is Myrtle’s lawyer. David Cannon is probably also Myrtle’s sister’s lawyer. He does not know David Cannon, but David Cannon has his sympathies.

  How, continues Ben Shipman, can we both be working on divorces for people who aren’t getting divorced?

  —Look, I’m getting divorced. I can’t speak for Babe and Myrtle. You could try asking them.

  —I would, if I could find them. Babe has checked out of the Beverly Wilshire, and there’s no answer at the house.

  Ben Shipman sits back and ruminates. It is a marvel to Ben Shipman that two apparently sensible men can lead such convoluted personal lives, especially this one who appears, in every other regard, so meticulous and regimented. The only positive aspect, as far as Ben Shipman can tell, is that his clients’ personal problems are emerging at a time of general marital disharmony in Hollywood.

  Douglas Fairbanks leaves Mary Pickford.

  Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. divorces Joan Crawford.

  Lottie Pickford, Mary’s sister, divorces Russel Gillard.

  Mae Murray divorces Prince Dave Mdivani, who claims to be the son of a Georgian czar, except there are no Georgian czars, so the story is that Princ
e Dave Mdivani is a fraudster who has left Mae Murray penniless. Meanwhile, Prince Serge Mdivani, Prince Dave’s brother, is being sued for maintenance by the opera singer Mary McCormick. Prince Serge Mdivani is previously married to Pola Negri, but drops Pola Negri like a rotten apple after she loses her money in the stock market crash, then marries Mary McCormick and starts spending Mary McCormick’s money instead. A third Mdivani brother, Prince Alexis, is romancing the Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton, circling her like a shark.

  The Mdivanis marry and divorce so often that they are known as the Marrying Mdivanis.

  Eleanor Boardman divorces King Vidor.

  Janet Gaynor divorces Lydell Peck.

  Maurice Chevalier divorces Yvonne Vallée.

  Alice Joyce divorces James B. Regan.

  Lola Lane divorces Lew Ayers.

  Marian Nixon divorces Edward Hillman, Jr.

  Chester Conklin divorces Minnie Conklin.

  And that’s not even half of them. Being a divorce lawyer is good business in Hollywood in 1933.

  So if Ben Shipman’s clients can manage not to sock any more women on the nose, and avoid fake reconciliations, and quietly go about the business of divesting themselves of their respective spouses, it may just be possible for them to emerge with their reputations intact.

  I know you’ll work it all out, he informs Ben Shipman.

  —I admire your optimism. In the meantime, look unhappy, especially in front of reporters. The unhappier you appear, the less alimony you’ll have to pay. And keep away from women. I don’t even want to see a picture of you helping a nun cross the street.

  113

  He enjoys fishing. He has always fished, ever since he was a boy. He finds a kind of peace in it.

  It is Hal Roach who suggests that maybe he should take a break from his troubles by going fishing.

  —It will do you good. Bill Seiter has a boat. You two ought to get to know each other.