Myra Breckinridge

  “He might take physical revenge on you. Do to you what you did to him.”

  “Rape? Not very likely. He’s much too terrified. No, I’ve heard the last of him, except in connection with Mary-Ann . . .”

  Randolph listened carefully as I told him how I planned with every appearance of love and affection, to possess Mary-Ann in order that the cycle be completed.

  “What cycle?”

  “The justification of Myron’s life.” I was prompt. I have intellectualized everything, as I always do, to the despair of Randolph, who is, despite all his modish pretensions and quibbling subterfuges, entirely emotional, in many ways a dead ringer for Jean Hersholt. “By acting out what was done to him, I exalt him—the idea of him, anyway—and also avenge him . . .”

  “Avenge him? In what way? The Myron I knew was hardly a victim. Rather the contrary.”

  “No, he was victim. I know that now. But no matter what he really was . . .”

  “A marvelous man . . .”

  “How you enjoy throwing that in my face!” I was stung and deeply hurt, as I always am, by reminders that Randolph worshipped Myron and cannot, at heart, bear me.

  “Now, now you must not project. When I praise Myron, I praise him. I don’t denigrate you.”

  “You are the one projecting now. But, in any case, once I have completed my seduction, I shall be free of all guilt toward Myron and for Myron. I shall be a new woman, literally new, something unique under the sun.”

  “But who and what will you be?”

  I answered vehemently, at length, but said nothing, for, as usual, Randolph, in his blundering way, has touched upon the dilemma’s horn: I have no clear idea as to my ultimate identity once every fantasy has been acted out with living flesh. All that I do know is that I shall be freed of obsession and, in this at least, be like no one else who ever lived.

  Randolph then departed for his nap to be followed by a trip to Disneyland. So here I sit, making these notes. Suddenly ill at ease. Why? The telephone rings

  34

  That was Letitia. She came straight to the point. “Rusty’s living with me. He’s down at the beach house right now.”

  “Letitia!” That was the best I could do. Not even in my wildest dreams had I ever connected the two of them, particularly after Mary-Ann’s description of Rusty’s rudeness to Letitia on the famous night.

  “All I can say, Myra, is you sure know how to pick ’em. That is the best Grade A stud I have ever had, and as rumor hath doubtless had it here at the heart of the Industry, Letitia Van Allen has made many a trip to the old corral.”

  I could think of nothing but Rusty’s soft rose wobbling childishly in my hand. “Is he really the very best stud of all?”

  “The very best, and I’ve you to thank for it. When I saw how you had conned that girlfriend of his into bringing him to my house, I said to myself: Myra Breckinridge is a pal!”

  I was startled but delighted at being given full credit for maneuvering Rusty into Letitia’s orbit. “Of course I knew you’d enjoy meeting him.” I was neutral, not wanting to betray the fact that it was Mary-Ann I had wanted Letitia to help, not Rusty.

  “He’s everything I like!” Letitia roared into the telephone. “In fact, the moment I clapped eyes on him, I said, ‘God, Letitia, but that’s it!’ “But Mary-Ann told me he behaved abominably at your house.”

  “Natch! That’s what I like. He was sullen, sneering, raging inside . . .”

  “I’m sure he was.” I purred with secret satisfaction.

  “But I knew by the way that he insulted everybody and stormed out of the house that I’d soon be seeing him again. And I did. The next day he came to the office and apologized, still sullen, of course, but wanting to make up . . . said he’d had a fight with the girl, as if I didn’t know, and could I get him work. So I said you bet I can, and signed him to a five-year representational talent contract. Then I rang up Maddox Motors and got him a job as a mechanic. He was grateful, and showed it, right then and there, on the old four-poster. That chenille bedspread will never be the same again.”

  “And it was really marvelous?” I was genuinely curious to see how Rusty would perform after my disciplinary session.

  “I thought, Myra,” Letitia’s words were measured and awed, “that he would kill me. I have never known anyone so masterful. He threw me on the bed and struck me repeatedly. Yes, struck Letitia Van Allen who never goes that route but did this time. I’m still black and blue and totally happy, all thanks to you!”

  “You exaggerate.” Rusty’s compensation with Letitia for what he had suffered at my hands will fascinate Randolph. “But did he . . . well, say anything about leaving school, about me?”

  “Not a word, except that he was sick of being treated like a kid and wanted to get to work. He won’t talk about you at all. Did you ever lay him?”

  “Not in any classic way, no. But what does he say about Mary-Ann?”

  “That’s why I’m calling you. He feels guilty. I can tell. Now, let’s put our cards on the table. I want him all to myself as long as possible which won’t be very long, since once he starts making a living he’ll be off with the cute young chicks, leaving poor old Letitia to her Scotch and casting couch. But for now I’m hanging on to him for dear life. So what do we do to keep Miss Pieface out of our lives?”

  I told her exactly how it could be done . . . and will be done tonight! Thanking me profusely, and vowing eternal friendship, Letitia hung up.

  35

  Three in the morning again. Joy and despair, equally mixed, as I watch, hypnotized, the turning statue, and think for the first time how lonely she must be out there, ten times life-size, worshipped but not loved, like me.

  As soon as Mary-Ann returned from school, I suggested that we drive down to the beach in my rented Chrysler and watch the sunset. She seemed to like the idea. Though she was plainly fretting over Rusty, she did not mention him once, as we drove along the Pacific Highway, bumper to bumper with the rush-hour crowd as it crawled slowly between the dull sea and the brown crumbly hills of fine shifting dust, forever dropping houses into the sea. This coastal region is quite inhospitable to man. What we have done is colonize the moon, and so are lunatic.

  To amuse Mary-Ann, I acted out the entire plot of Marriage Is a Private Affair. She was very much amused, particularly when I quoted Parker Tyler to her. We both agreed that his explication of that paradigmatic wartime film is altogether wonderful.

  Just as the red-smog sun was vanishing into the olive-drab sea, I turned casually into the private road of the Malibu Beach Colony, a number of opulent beach houses jammed together between road and sea; many are occupied by stars of the first and current (if that is not a contradiction!) magnitude.

  “But this is where Miss Van Allen lives!” Until then, Mary-Ann had been indifferent to her surroundings, doubtless conducting some inner dialogue with Rusty even as I spoke of James Craig and the great days.

  “Really? Where?” In fact, I did not know which was Letitia’s house. Mary-Ann indicated a gray clapboard Provincetown-style house. “Then why don’t we drop in and say hello?”

  “Oh, no! I couldn’t. Not after last time. Not after the way Rusty talked to her. I’d be too uncomfortable.”

  “Nonsense.” I parked in front of the darkened house. The light from the sea was now very faint. “I’m sure she’s forgiven him. She’s used to artistic temperament. After all, that’s her business.”

  “But he was so awful, and I looked so silly.”

  “Don’t be a goose!” I took her hand and led her to the door and rang the bell. “Besides, this will be good for your career.” To this argument, the only response was acquiescence.

  From inside the house I could hear a Benny Goodman record (Letitia belongs in fact to the generation to which I belong in spirit). No one, however, answered the doorbell.

  “She’s out.” Mary-Ann was relieved. “Let’s go.”

  “But I hear music. Come on.” I opened the front do
or and led the reluctant Mary-Ann into a large darkened room that looked onto the sea. Silhouetted against the last light of the day, two figures were dancing, intertwined.

  According to plan, I switched on the light. Rusty and Letitia leapt apart; they wore bathing suits (marvelously reminiscent of Garfield and Crawford in Humoresque).

  “What the hell!” exclaimed Letitia, simulating anger.

  “Darling, I couldn’t be sorrier!” I simulated alarm.

  Both Rusty and Mary-Ann were genuinely shocked; but where she was hurt, he was truculent.

  It was Mary-Ann who made the first move. “Where,” she asked him in a quavering voice, “have you been?”

  But Letitia did not allow him to answer. “Come on, children, let’s all have a nice drink!” She crossed to the sanctuary of the bar at the end of the room opposite the plate-glass window, black now from the light within.

  Rusty simply stared at Mary-Ann. Not once did he look at me.

  “ . . . Then,” said Letitia comfortably, “we can sit down and discuss this like adults.” (Greer and Joan in When Ladies Meet). “Who wants what?” But no one answered her.

  Then Mary-Ann repeated, “Where have you been all this time?”

  To which Rusty responded in a clear hard voice, “What are you doing with her?” And he gave me a look of perfect hate.

  “Myra’s my friend.” Mary-Ann’s voice was faint.

  Letitia gargled some Scotch and then said hoarsely, “Rusty’s been staying here while I get him launched over at Fox with this new series. You sure you don’t want a drink, honey? Or you, Myra?”

  “Are you living with this woman?” Mary-Ann was still unable to comprehend the situation.

  “Now, dear, don’t get upset.” Letitia was soothing. “Rusty and I do have a great deal in common but neither one of us would want to hurt you for the world.” She gave Rusty a shot of whiskey which he gulped, eyes still on Mary-Ann. “In fact, he was all for telling you this morning but I thought we should wait. Anyway now that the cat’s out of the bag . . .”

  “It’s all my fault, Letitia.” I was humble. “The whole thing.”

  “No, dear. Don’t blame yourself. It’s probably for the best. Personally I like everything in the open. That’s the way I am. And that’s why I’m here to tell all the world that I’m proud to be in love with Rusty, and proud that he loves me!”

  With a wail, Mary-Ann fled back to the car. When Rusty started to follow her, Letitia’s arm darted out and held him back. “She’ll be all right. She’s got Myra.” That stopped the young man. He made no further move to follow the girl.

  Then Letitia crossed to me. She was thrilling, every inch of her a great actress on the order of Frances Dee or Ann Dvorak. She took my hands in hers and kissed my cheek. “Be kind to the girl.”

  “I will, Letitia. You know I will.”

  “When she’s older, she’ll understand how these things just happen and that we are all of us simply putty in the hands of the great potter.” The metaphor was mixed, but the delivery was bravura. “Rusty and I need each other. That’s all there is. A man, a woman . . . What else? It’s Kismet.” She let go my hands. “Good night, Myra.”

  I said good night and followed Mary-Ann into the darkness. She was in the car, weeping. I comforted her as best I could which was hardly at all since I am a nervous driver and need both hands on the wheel when driving through traffic, particularly along Sunset Boulevard at night.

  Back at the apartment, Mary-Ann recovered sufficiently to finish the bottle of gin. But her mood did not improve. She is shattered. She cannot understand why Rusty has deserted her or what he sees in Letitia. This was of course my cue to point out that for an ambitious young man like Rusty to be taken up by Letitia is a sure way to stardom.

  “But he swore he’d never do anything like that. He’s just not that kind of a boy . . .”

  “Apparently he is. I mean, let’s face it, he is living with her.” Since this brought on more tears, as I intended, I took her in my arms. She wept into my neck. Never in my life have I felt so entirely warm and contented.

  “Forget him,” I whispered into a soft pink ear that smelled of Lux toilet soap.

  Suddenly she sat up and dried her eyes. “I could murder him!” Her voice had gone cello with rage.

  “Now, now you mustn’t be angry with the boy.” I was supremely anodyne. “After all, that’s the way he is. You can’t change people. Just think how lucky you are to have learned all this now instead of after you were married, and had children.”

  “I’ll never marry! I hate men.” She got shakily to her feet (she was quite drunk), and made her way to the bedroom.

  When I helped her to undress (for once she really needed help), she was grateful for my attentions which I managed to make discreet, despite the turmoil caused in me whenever those marvelous breasts are unveiled. Then she threw herself onto the bed, and as I pulled off her stockings she pointed her feet like a ballerina. But before I could remove her panties, she pulled the sheet over herself and said, “I’m so tired. The room’s spinning around . . .” Her eyes shut.

  I turned out the light and got into bed. Shyly, I put out my hand beneath the sheet and touched the nearer breast. She sighed in her tipsy sleep. “Oh, Rusty . . .” That was chilling. I took the other breast in my hand, and she woke up. “Oh, Myra! You felt just like Rusty.” But she pushed my hand away. “He’s gentle, too.”

  “Gentle?” I recalled what Letitia had said. “I thought he was violent!”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” She mumbled, still half asleep. “It’s because he was so gentle I loved him. He never grabs you like other boys . . .”

  If nothing else, I have changed at least one young man’s sexual performance, and for the good—at least the good of Letitia. From now on Rusty will continue to take out his hatred of me on other women, never realizing to what extent he is really pleasing them. It is ironic what I have inadvertently accomplished. Wanting to tame for all time the archetypal male, I have created something ten times as masculine in the classic sense as what I started with. All in all, not the desired effect but perhaps, like Columbus, I have stumbled on a new world.

  I caressed Mary-Ann’s breasts, which she allowed but only for a moment; then she turned away from me. “You are an angel, Myra, and I really love you, I do. But I just can’t . . . you know . . .”

  “Of course I know, dear.” And I do; yet I am still profoundly hurt at being rejected.

  “If only you were a man or there was a man like you, I’d really fall, I would—but not like this, even with you.”

  This froze me, turned me to stone.

  But why should I care? After all, the silkiness of her body, the tautness of the skin, the firmness of the flesh is neither more nor less appetizing to me than Rusty’s body since, in the final analysis (where I am now marooned), a girl is neither more nor less attractive than a boy and I have, God knows, possessed the boy. Yet taking all this into account, there is something about Mary-Ann’s wholeness that excites me. There is a mystery to be plumbed, though whether or not it is in her or in myself or in us both I do not know. I did extract a certain pleasure from stroking the body that Rusty had loved, but that victory has already begun to pale. He no longer exists for me. Only the girl he loved matters.

  Fortunately, she was compassionate enough to allow me to cradle her in my arms until she fell asleep. Then, when she began softly to snore, obedient to her wishes, I got out of bed and returned to the living room where now I sit at the card table, drinking gin and tonic, writing these lines, too disturbed for sleep.

  My head is spinning with fatigue. I must have Mary-Ann but only if she wants me, and that is impossible as things are now. I’ve just tried to ring Randolph but he gave instructions to the motel operator that he was not to be awakened until morning, the bastard! He knew that I would need to talk to him tonight. Obviously Disneyland was too much for him.

  36

  Buck’s office. I sit at his desk.
Randolph sits in the big chair underneath the portrait of Elvis Presley. Buck and his lawyer have gone into the next room to take a telephone call from New York.

  As soon as they were out of the room, Randolph wanted to talk but I motioned for him to be quiet. The room is bugged, like everything out here. So Randolph now sits wheezing softly, chewing the stem of his pipe and staring out the window. I write these lines for something to do.

  We’ve shaken them, no doubt of that. But I’m still not certain whether or not they will call our bluff.

  Randolph presented them with a signed affidavit, duly notarized, swearing that he had witnessed my wedding to Myron in Monterrey, Mexico. Up until the very last moment I thought I would have trouble with Randolph. Fortunately his greed finally convinced him that he should do the right thing, despite the risk involved. Nevertheless, he is nervous as a cat. So am I.

  Buck was true to form. “It was a real nice gesture of your’n, Doc, to come out here and help out this li’l ol’ gal.” More than ever was Buck, revoltingly, the Singin’ Shootin’ Cowboy, so inferior in every way to Hoot Gibson. “Naturally we want to do the right thing by her.”

  “Then cut the cackle,” I said firmly, “and hand over the three hundred fifty G’s which all of our lawyers now agree is my adjusted share of the property.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Breckinridge,” said Charlie Flagler Junior. “Just as soon as we get final word, any minute now, from our New York office which will like clear up one final detail, it’s all yours because,” he turned to Randolph, “we are not about to question the probity of such a well-known person and author like Dr. Montag.”

  “Thank you,” I answered for Randolph, who looked gloomy as he always does when someone praises him (his father withheld all praise during Randolph’s formative years and so today he can never accept any compliment without suspecting that it is loaded, as this one of course was).

  “Right here,” said Buck, holding up a check written on the Bank of America, Beverly Hills Branch, “I’ve got the check, all made out to you and everything.”