He

  He reads over the contract and the clause in Ben Shipman’s office.

  Hal is already prejudiced, he tells Ben Shipman.

  —Hal could be more prejudiced.

  Ben Shipman knows Hal Roach well, having acted for him in the past before devoting himself almost entirely to Babe and this man seated before him. These two, with all their predicaments, take up so much of Ben Shipman’s days that Ben Shipman barely has time for a piss.

  What if I don’t sign it? he asks Ben Shipman.

  —Then you’ll have another reason to be in the newspapers. Is that what you want?

  That is not what he wants.

  —This is demeaning.

  —It may be demeaning, but you’re not the first to have to sign one, you won’t be the last, and you’re certainly not the worst. There are men in this town who can’t trip over a crack in the sidewalk without landing with their cock inside another human being. If I weren’t a lawyer, I’d be a clap doctor.

  Listen to me: if you sign the contract, you get four more pictures, and the money that comes with them. If you don’t sign it, Hal will fire you, and you can’t afford to be fired because, unless I’m mistaken, you’re about to invest in more alimony bonds.

  He stares at Ben Shipman, then reads the morals clause again.

  —I don’t even know what all this means.

  —It means that if you fuck someone, it should be your wife. If it isn’t your wife, then make sure it isn’t someone else’s wife. If it is someone else’s wife, lock the door.

  —Well, that certainly makes things clearer.

  —I’m happy to have helped.

  He signs the contract. Ben Shipman witnesses it.

  Hal Roach steps out.

  Okay, says Ben Shipman, so that’s the good news. The bad news is that Ruth wants a thousand dollars a month, her attorney’s fees paid, half of your annual earnings, and half of the community property. She’s also seeking an injunction on the Ruth L, which she’ll have no trouble getting. Judges don’t like men who dispose of their assets during maintenance cases.

  —I love that boat.

  —Then I hope you took a picture, because you won’t even be allowed to board it again until all this is over. After that, I’d suggest renaming the boat, but it’s just an opinion.

  —Do I have to pay you for the opinion?

  No, says Ben Shipman, that one’s free.

  It is a scourge, every moment of it.

  But on the set of Way Out West, Babe sings. He hears Babe as he works on a set-up with James Horne, who is directing the picture, or directing it insofar as anyone directs these men. Walter Trask of the Avalon Boys is playing his guitar to pass the time, and Babe, who gravitates toward music, joins in.

  He stops what he’s doing. He is always happy to listen to Babe’s voice.

  What is that song? he asks.

  And Walter Trask tells him.

  Mae steps in.

  Ben Shipman requests that he come by the office. Ben Shipman prefers to break bad news away from the set. Ben Shipman knows how delicate the business of making pictures can be.

  He takes what is becoming, by now, an uncomfortably familiar seat. Ben Shipman pours him a drink.

  I don’t really want a drink, he says.

  —No, you just think you don’t want a drink, but believe me, you do.

  He accepts the glass.

  What has Ruth done now? he asks.

  —Ruth isn’t the problem. Mae is.

  —Mae who?

  —Exactly.

  Mae is using the last name she created for him, for both of them, back when they slept together in hard beds on the vaudeville circuit, back when he and Mae were just another act on a bill, and another set of initials on a pair of suitcases: S.L. and M.L.

  Mae, whom he paid off more than a decade earlier, paid to disappear from his life so that he might become a star without the burden of her. He does not know where she has been, has never cared to find out.

  Mae, his common-law wife.

  This I have learned, Ben Shipman tells him. It’s a bad idea to pay someone off, because someone who’s been paid off once will assume that the faucet can be turned on again down the line. If that were not the case, blackmailers would be out of business. So Mae has filed a maintenance action against you.

  —What does she want?

  —I appreciate that this is going to sound like a bad echo, but she wants a thousand dollars a month, her attorney’s fees paid, and half of the community property.

  He buries his face in his hands.

  You think you have troubles, says Ben Shipman. I have to go tell Hal Roach.

  Hal Roach steps in again.

  Jesus Christ, says Hal Roach, how many wives does one man need?

  Ben Shipman is trying not to stand on a dead animal. Ben Shipman is worried that it might be bad luck to do so. Ben Shipman figures that bad luck is running a surfeit right now.

  He does appear to have more wives than is strictly necessary, admits Ben Shipman. Or, indeed, than is conducive to contentment.

  —I still don’t understand why he couldn’t just have stayed with Lois.

  —Speaking within the bounds of client confidentiality, I don’t think he understands that either.

  —In all my days, I have never met a man so intent on kicking over life’s buckets.

  Hal Roach shakes his head in wonderment.

  Maybe he just secretly enjoys giving money away to women, Hal Roach suggests.

  Ben Shipman assures Hal Roach that this is not the case. Ben Shipman also advises Hal Roach that his client is not in breach of any morals clause, as he has committed no action since signing that could reasonably be construed as such a breach.

  It’s not his fault, concludes Ben Shipman, that this woman has now come out of the woodwork.

  Actually, says Hal Roach, if you look at it the right way, it is his fault. Unless he never fucked her.

  Ben Shipman admits that he almost certainly did fuck her, although Ben Shipman has not asked for confirmation of this.

  Can you get the whole mess sorted out before April? asks Hal Roach.

  April 16th, 1937 is the scheduled release date for Way Out West.

  —Possibly, as long as nothing else happens.

  —He hasn’t got any more ex-wives hidden away somewhere?

  —He assures me that he has not.

  —Because, you know, Babe Hardy I have some sympathy for. Babe Hardy’s wife is a drunk. But him, he just needs to learn to keep his prick in his pants. Who does he think he is, Errol Flynn?

  Ben Shipman has no wish to speculate, but Ben Shipman does not disagree with Hal Roach’s overall assessment of the situation.

  Hal Roach sighs.

  —We ought to have him castrated.

  And despite these tribulations, Babe is singing.

  Babe is singing “The Trail of the Lonesome Pine.” And he thinks—as Ben Shipman hovers, and Hal Roach hovers, and Ruth hovers, and Mae hovers—that they must film this. They must film Babe singing.

  Anger falls away.

  Sorrow falls away.

  Only Babe remains, Babe singing.

  On his pad, he scribbles ideas for vocals, movements. He also will sing. His voice cannot compare with Babe’s, but he perceives a gag forming as a compound of sight and sound. A song emerging from his mouth, yet not in his voice: first a man’s, very deep; then a woman’s, very high.

  But aside from all else, he and Babe will dance. They will step together, and in the face of the misery that is engulfing them they will lose themselves in joyous devices of their own creation.

  He waits for Babe to finish his song. Babe receives a spontaneous round of applause from the cast and crew. He calls Babe over, and tells him of what he wishes to concoct.

  And Babe understands, because Babe always understands.

  —It will be beautiful.

  Yes, says Babe, it will be.

  Myrtle steps in.

  Ben Shipman has warned
Babe that the death throes of his marriage will prove unpleasant, but Babe has no idea just how unpleasant until the case finally comes before a judge. Myrtle’s allegations of mental cruelty, her tales of neglect and psychological abuse, her intimations of affairs, wound Babe deeply. Yes, Babe has been unfaithful to Myrtle, and yet, in his way, Babe has been more faithful to her than anyone could have expected. Babe stands by Myrtle as she disappears for days to drink until whatever money she has gathered is gone; as she crashes cars and threatens suicide; as she drifts into and out of the sanitarium; as she screams and pisses and pukes. Even in the arms of other women, Babe has known only fleeting moments of peace. Babe carries his guilt with him always, because Babe still loves something of Myrtle, the better part of her that raises its face to him and smiles after a week of care and attention, when her hair is washed and her face is clean, when her system has briefly purged itself of toxins, when Myrtle begins to recall her better self.

  But even then the coil of Myrtle’s alcoholism is already slowly tightening, as the clock winds and the ticking starts to sound.

  And as Babe tries to explain all this in a courtroom before the committed and the curious, Babe finds himself weeping. Babe breaks down. A memory, one of recent vintage, comes to Babe unbidden: Iris Adrian, a bit-part actress in Our Relations, but beautiful and funny and clever. Babe asks Iris Adrian to dinner. Iris Adrian accepts. She dresses for him, perfumes herself, and then Babe calls. There will be no dinner.

  This is what Babe tells her:

  —You don’t want to go out with me. I am only an old fat fellow.

  This is what Babe has become. Babe is an old fat fellow, crying in court.

  The judge orders Babe to pay Myrtle a thousand dollars a month.

  A thousand dollars a month, it seems, is the going rate for misery.

  Mae steps in.

  God, but he has not seen her in so long. Now only traces of her former self remain, as though her ghost has inhabited the body of another, a revenant returned in unfamiliar flesh. Under her arm Mae carries a scrapbook of their years together: photos, playbills, reviews. She shows it to anyone who will look: the judge, the reporters, the clerks, the gawkers.

  You see, Mae says, this is what we were. This is what I was to him.

  S.L. and M.L.

  Mae displays for the reporters her fingers. They are pitted and marked. She makes her living on a federal sewing project, this woman who was formerly in pictures.

  He deserted me, she says. As soon as he became famous, he cast me adrift.

  Is this a lie? He can no longer tell. He wanted her to be gone from his life: that much is true. The rest is mere detail.

  At the same courthouse in which Babe has recently wept, he takes the stand and talks of this woman from his past, but he will not accept that they were wed, that any ceremony, conventional or otherwise, formalized their relationship.

  So why did you share a name with her? he is asked.

  Because, he replies, it was the gentlemanly thing to do.

  He leaves the courthouse with Ben Shipman.

  There’s no proof that a marital agreement existed between you, says Ben Shipman, as they drive away together. Jesus, the woman got married again after she left you, and the subject of a previous common-law bond never came up in the course of that relationship.

  He does not reply. He stares out at the streetscape but sees only Mae with her scrapbook, and the pinpricks on her fingers, and how old she has grown.

  Will we settle? he asks.

  —Only for nickels and dimes.

  —No, I want her to be looked after.

  —Because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do?

  —Because she deserved better than this.

  Hal Roach steps in once more.

  Hal Roach is not enjoying the newspapers. Hal Roach reads of stars crying on the stand, and wives alleging affairs and enforced incarceration in sanitariums, and common-law spouses claiming compensation for desertion. Hal Roach hears accounts of gambling, and drinking, and fucking around. Hal Roach has spent years protecting these men, and Hal Roach is growing weary of it.

  Hal Roach calls Ben Shipman.

  Where are we? Hal Roach asks. And don’t bullshit me.

  —The Mae business is under control. The Ruth business is under control. The Myrtle business is under control. What more can I tell you? The wheels of justice are turning. “Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small.”

  —What the hell is that?

  —That’s Longfellow.

  —And how many wives did Longfellow have?

  —Two, but I believe Longfellow waited until the first one died before marrying the second.

  —Then what the hell does Longfellow know?

  Hal Roach hangs up.

  On the set of Way Out West, he explains to James Horne how it’s going to work. He and Babe have been practicing. The music cues are ready. The routines are clear in his head, and soon they will be reproduced on the screen. James Horne does not argue. James Horne senses that these bits of business, these simple, elegant gags, have some importance for his stars that cannot adequately be explained to another.

  Let them sing. Let them dance.

  There will be beauty.

  When you’re ready, says James Horne, we’ll begin.

  So they begin.

  And it is beautiful.

  Roger Marchetti steps in.

  Ruth has retained Myrtle’s attorney to act on her behalf.

  Roger Marchetti, Mr. Thousand-Dollars-A-Month.

  He and Babe are both being persecuted by the same man.

  Madelyn steps in.

  Ben Shipman believes that Hal Roach may be about to have a stroke.

  Another wife? Hal Roach says, although Hal Roach says it very loudly.

  Ben Shipman holds the phone away from his ear. Ben Shipman knows a man with only one functioning eardrum. This man regularly falls off the sidewalk, and Ben Shipman does not wish to fall off sidewalks.

  Madelyn Saloshin is Babe’s first wife, explains Ben Shipman, once Hal Roach has calmed down. She’s turned up in New York, demanding fifteen years of alimony at thirty dollars a week. She claims to have made Babe the man Babe is.

  —Well, she ought to keep that quiet. How does Babe feel about this?

  —Aggrieved.

  —What are you going to do to rectify the situation?

  —I guess we’re going to pay her to go away.

  —Then make it fast. And by the way, you promised me: no more wives.

  —That was the other fellow. I made no claims for Babe.

  —Spoken like a true lawyer. Whatever you’re being paid, it’s not enough.

  Funny, says Ben Shipman, that’s what I tell them when it comes to their contracts with you.

  Babe has long known about Madelyn. Madelyn drifts through the backdrop of his life. Babe sees Madelyn’s name on gramophone records. Babe swears that the sound of Madelyn’s fingers on piano keys is identifiable to him even when the record label does not credit her.

  Once, while in New York, Babe hears Madelyn on the radio, accompanying a tenor named Prince Piotti. Prince Piotti sings songs with titles such as “Where’d You Get Those Eyes,” “Love Is Just A Little Bit of Heaven,” and “If You Can’t Tell The World She’s A Good Little Girl Just Say Nothing At All.” On the Saturday that Charles Lindbergh lands in Paris, Prince Piotti sings “Lucky Lindy” every half hour on WMCA in New York, which Babe regards as tantamount to torture.

  Babe cannot stand Prince Piotti.

  Madelyn still uses his surname. Madelyn remains Madelyn Hardy.

  Babe cannot stand this either.

  The twin echoes of his life and Babe’s grow louder. Madelyn is broke, just as Mae is broke. Madelyn uses a name that is no longer hers, just as Mae uses a name to which only he has a legal entitlement. Babe fucks Viola Morse, just as he fucks Alyce Ardell.

  These patterns within patterns.

  These infinite permutations of pa
in.

  He and Babe meet for a quiet drink in a hotel bar. The manager curtains off a section to ensure their privacy, although only after they consent to a photograph, and sign a menu.

  I am starting to believe, Babe says, that your existence and mine are like two balls of string that have become entangled, and now I cannot tell one from the other.

  —If we didn’t look so different, we could step into each other’s lives, and give each other a break.

  He slurs the words. He is slurring a lot of words lately. If he had the energy, and had not drunk so much, he might have called Alyce Ardell to arrange to fuck her. Instead, he is here with Babe.

  It is as it should be.

  I spoke to Ben, Babe says.

  —Every time I speak to Ben, it costs me money.

  —Ben is worried about you.

  —And you?

  —I’m worried about you as well.

  —Well, that makes three of us. Four, including the two versions of you I now see before me. I may have had one glass too many. Maybe more than one.

  His life is slipping away from him. His best pictures are behind him. His best marriage is behind him.

  And the fury. Jesus, the fury.

  He stands.

  Where are you going? Babe asks.

  —Out. Away.

  Babe does not try to stop him. He lays a hand on Babe’s shoulder.

  I’m sorry, he says.

  145

  He wakes beside Alyce Ardell. His mouth tastes sour. He has no memory of how he came to be with her, or of what they might have done together. It cannot have been much, he supposes, because he is still dressed in his underwear.

  Alyce Ardell is smoking a cigarette. Alyce Ardell is not looking at him. Alyce Ardell is staring at a patch of moisture on the wall.

  You smell bad, says Alyce Ardell.

  She passes the cigarette to him. He smokes it, and retches.

  You have to stop this, she tells him.

  —Stop what? Stop coming to you?

  —You know what I mean.

  —Maybe I should just have married you.

  —Do I look that dumb?

  No, he thinks, Alyce Ardell does not look that dumb.