For the troops, of course. Always for the troops.
“Mary, I’m exhausted, I’m cranky, and I’m too well paid to hold your handbag,” I complained as I followed Mary, who was marching, like the little general she was, into a ward lined on both sides with white enameled hospital beds. “I need to go back to my hotel and work on the script.” It had been a long day of location scouting for Johanna Enlists, which we were filming in San Diego, at the Army’s Camp Kearney. The 143rd Field Artillery Regiment—Mary’s own regiment; she was its honorary colonel—was training there, and we used them for all the military scenes.
A long day of walking through woods and fields and now, for some reason, Mary had insisted that I accompany her on her rounds at the military hospital, when all I really wanted to do was sit down, have some dinner, and tackle the script, this last script before I left for Europe.
“Why are we doing this?” I couldn’t keep the whine out of my voice.
“Fran, you’ll see” was all Mary would say, a twinkle in her eyes and a suspicious smirk on her face.
I shook my head, dragging my feet. Mary Pickford was the one they wanted to see.
Most of the hospital beds were empty, anyway. After all, these men hadn’t yet seen battle. No, I was irritated by Mary’s assumption that I would follow her around, no questions asked. And there was a nice hotel room with a fireplace waiting for me, as well as a typewriter. I needed to quickly finish this movie so I could get overseas before the war was over.
Sometimes I had the irrational feeling—panic, more like it—that if I didn’t do this thing, I was doomed always to be merely Mary’s scenarist. And while I loved Mary, loved writing movies for her and had, not so long ago, only allowed myself this one dream and should be grateful for it, now I wanted more. More for myself, less I had to share. I was still searching for something even as I had my immediate future mapped out—traveling overseas for the very first time as a working journalist, a war correspondent; doing good, necessary work, then coming home and resuming my career as the highest-paid scenarist in the business. Maybe I’d still write for Mary, maybe not. But it should have been enough—only a couple months ago, it was enough.
Why wasn’t it enough anymore?
“Mary, please let me go home!” Why did I need to ask Mary for permission just to go back to my room and soak my weary feet? But Mary shook her head and tilted that stubborn chin, her eyes positively snapping with excitement.
“Darling Fran,” she said firmly as she stopped, pivoted, and pushed aside one of those not-very-private privacy screens. I hesitated, curious but suddenly squeamish; what was behind this screen? Who was behind it?
Then I followed Mary; didn’t I always follow Mary?
“Here you go, Fran, dear!” She was perched on the foot of a very occupied hospital bed, grinning up at me with the most impish expression—eyes sparkling, brows raised, a flush to her cheeks. I couldn’t understand; it was as if Mary was giving me something, the way she looked both possessive and generous—making some kind of claim. And then offering it to me.
“Frances Marion, I’d like to introduce you to Lieutenant Fred Thomson of the One Hundred Forty-third Field Artillery. Lieutenant, as I am the honorary colonel of your unit, I order you to give Miss Marion your hand in greeting.” And in a flash, after one more loving—bossy—little smirk, Mary was marching down the aisle, greeting all the other patients.
Leaving me all alone with the equally startled lieutenant, who pushed himself up on his elbows to a sitting position and thrust his hand out toward me.
“Miss Marion, it’s an honor,” a rich baritone voice said, and my heart did a little somersault. The lieutenant smiled. And my heart went through an entire gymnastic routine.
Blinding blue eyes the color of cornflowers. A strong nose and jaw, cheekbones to match—he could have been carved from stone by the Greeks. Sandy blond hair cut short on the sides but the top flopping boyishly into his eyes. White, even teeth. And a hand that gripped mine, not strong as I would have suspected given his broad shoulders and muscled arms, but warmly, tenderly, as if he was terrified he’d crush it.
“Frances Marion,” I heard myself say stupidly, before I could recall that Mary had already introduced me. “I’m a friend of Mary’s,” I stammered, blushing; I hadn’t blushed since I was a teenager.
“Yes, I know.” The lieutenant smiled kindly up at me, almost as if I were a benign idiot, and gestured to a chair next to his bed. “You might be more comfortable there.”
I had no desire to pull my hand away from his, but somehow I did, and I dropped onto the chair. I clutched my handbag on my lap like a fussy old maid, but I couldn’t think of any place to put it. It was as if I’d forgotten how my limbs worked, how to do the most basic things, except breathe—that was the only action I seemed capable of doing. Just keep breathing, I commanded myself. And don’t pass out, I added, as my heart began to thud alarmingly against my bodice.
“What’s—how—are you ill?” I finally stammered, remembering that despite the unnervingly romantic aura surrounding the two of us, as if we were seated together in the back recesses of a cozy restaurant illuminated by candlelight, we were actually in a sterile military hospital, and the handsome lieutenant was in bed and wearing a hospital gown, not a uniform.
“Broke my leg playing football.” Lieutenant Thomson smiled ruefully. “But it will heal before we’re shipped out, God willing.”
“And the creek don’t rise,” I added automatically, but when the lieutenant gave me a puzzled look, I realized that he had spoken sincerely—he was actually invoking God. “Oh, I’m sorry! I—I—”
“Don’t worry.” He grinned. “I’m the chaplain of the unit, but that doesn’t mean I’m a saint.”
“Thank God,” I breathed—before my hand flew to my mouth and I could only gape at Lieutenant Thomson—pious, holy Lieutenant Thomson—horrified. I was sure I was confirming the very worst of his suspicions about Hollywood, how we were a godless, pagan bunch of sinners.
To my enormous relief, the lieutenant threw back his head and laughed. And so, blessedly, I could, too.
Finally I relaxed and placed my purse on the floor; I maneuvered around until I was comfortably sitting on the cold metal chair, because I knew I was going to be there awhile. A very long while. But how did I know?
“It was love at first sight,” I confessed to a touchingly eager Mary—who had pounded on my hotel room door almost the moment I returned—later that night. Much later, hours later; oceans and mountains later, a lifetime already planned and hoped for; a lifetime already forgotten. For I knew that from now on, this was the moment that would forever define my life; there would be a “before Fred,” and a happily ever “after.”
“I could never have written a scene like it—you know me! I hate the mushy stuff. But, Mary, it was like I was playing my first love scene, and writing it, too, and directing it and lighting it and, well—it was mine. Mine, and Fred’s, and I can’t explain it except to say that he feels that way, too, I know he does. He’s not a frivolous person; he’s the most serious man I’ve ever met, yet he made me laugh—oh, he made me laugh!”
“And he’s not too bad to look at, either!” Mary did an entirely out-of-character, suggestive little hip wag.
“No, he isn’t! He’s athletic—I mean, an actual world-class athlete in track and field. He would have competed in the Olympics, but he’s morally against competing on a Sunday.”
“He’s religious? Oh, Fran!” Mary stopped sashaying and plopped down next to me on the bed. I had to laugh, even as I understood Mary’s meaning. Me, with my two divorces, my bohemian lifestyle in sinful Hollywood—and a religious man?
“He’s a minister, actually,” I continued, unable to meet her eyes, even as I knew they must be round with horror.
Religion wasn’t very much a part of either of our lives. Even though Mary wrapped her Catholicism about her like a hair shirt whenever Owen was mentioned, I’d never once seen her go to
Mass. Although I was raised an Episcopalian, I hadn’t gone near a church since moving to Los Angeles; I didn’t much believe in God, I had to admit. He and I didn’t see eye to eye on hardly anything.
“Fred is also a widower,” I admitted further; I’d found out quite a lot about Lieutenant Thomson in a very short while.
“A widowed minister? Oh, Fran! I’m sorry I did this to you—I had no idea! I thought he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen—next to Douglas, of course—and I immediately thought to introduce you to him. He’s so tall, and I could picture the two of you together, what a pair you would make—I even framed it with my hands, like I would a camera shot! And I wanted to do this for you, Fran, dear. To give you someone who makes you as happy as Douglas makes me. But now, I’m sorry!”
“No, don’t be, Squeebee, dear! I told Fred everything, about my divorces, about my career. And do you know what? He doesn’t mind! Not at all, not about either of them. ‘I think it’s important for partners to be equal,’ he said. ‘I don’t want someone to cling to me. I want someone to stand beside me.’ ”
“Then I’m glad, Fran. So glad my little plan worked out—and that you forgive me for it!”
“There’s nothing to forgive. You know, Mary, I told you I’d scribble this screenplay and go overseas as soon as possible. But I think now—well, don’t you think it would be prudent of me to stick around during the filming? Just to make sure everything goes well?” I couldn’t repress a sly grin as Mary wagged her finger at me.
“I think that not only would it be prudent, Miss Marion, it’s actually a condition of your employment. I would have to order you to do so, if you didn’t volunteer.”
“Oh, Mary!” I flung my arms about her and we sat entwined for a long moment; long enough for me to feel Mary’s generous heart beat against my chest, to accept her joy and approval. Not that it was necessary, no, not that; I would have marched right back to that infirmary had Mary said one word against Lieutenant Fred Thomson.
But that Mary didn’t, that she approved and rejoiced in this dizzying happiness, only added to my joy. And now I understood how she’d felt that day at the stables, and how much I must have disappointed her.
“Mary, I’m so sorry for what I said about Doug, that time in Griffith Park—that he was only using you.” I released her, and grasped her hand although I couldn’t look her in the face, I was so ashamed. “I was hurt, you see. Hurt that you hadn’t told me about him, and hurt that you were using me only to see him, that you didn’t really want my company that day.”
“No, you were right, Fran. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. But I was afraid to tell anyone—I still am. You and Mama are the only ones who really know.”
“But still,” I continued, “it would devastate me if you weren’t happy for me, too. So I know how I must have hurt you. Remember, Squeebee—remember how we said we’d never let a man get between us?”
“I remember.” Mary shook her head, her eyes darkening, obviously remembering that entire fiasco with the studio and The Poor Little Rich Girl.
“That includes the men who love us. Not only studio heads and businessmen. But our lives, Mary—it has to include the men truly in our lives. Douglas, and Fred.” I almost gasped to hear myself say his name like this, so sure of him already. But I could say it; he already had taken possession of my heart, why not my vocabulary?
“Of course, Fran. Of course—we’ll always be close, but we’ll be more, because of them. Remember how we used to talk about not being able to love, because of our work? How we had to give something up in order to be loved? That’s the thing with Douglas, and I do hope with your Fred—I don’t feel as if I have to give anything up! I feel as if he’s only adding to everything, my hopes and dreams, my ambition. He doesn’t take anything away from me. How did it happen, Fran? How did we get so lucky?”
“I don’t know. I only know that we are, and I’m grateful, and now I have to get some sleep so I can look fresh as a daisy for my dashing lieutenant. He’s three years younger than I am—do you think that’s a problem? I have to admit, I didn’t quite get around to telling him that.”
“Oh, Fran!” Mary burst into laughter as she rose from the bed to go to her own room. “You told him about your divorces, but you couldn’t tell him your age?”
I shook my head, feeling as foolish as I ever had.
“Frances Marion, you are a model woman, and I mean that as a compliment in every way!”
I laughed, waving goodbye as Mary tripped out the door, then I began to unpin my long black hair, remove my earrings—I began to prepare for bed as I usually did, doing all those feminine things I ritualized. Brushing my glossy locks, patting cold cream on my face, my throat, rubbing lemon juice—a tip from Mary—on my elbows. I performed this ritual every single night, almost by rote, but tonight I savored it, drawing out every detail, lingering, caressing my skin more tenderly than I usually did.
Pete! I hadn’t thought of that old nickname at World Film in years, but tonight it popped into my head. They used to call me Pete! As if they couldn’t bear to be reminded that I was a woman, and I let them. I let them do that to me.
Not anymore, I decided, as I slipped beneath the covers, ready—impatient—to close my eyes and summon up a tall, strapping lieutenant with sandy hair and a dazzling grin. Not tonight.
Tonight, I’m a woman. And I’m going to dream a woman’s dream.
—
We had so little time. It was a cliché of monumental proportions, given the fact that the entire world was at war. A cliché I would have written into a script, then ruthlessly edited out. But it was true. So little time to get to know each other, to share our hopes and dreams, to begin to lay the first wobbly foundations of a life together.
So little time to love. But this was different, and I sensed it from the beginning; I would not sleep with Fred Thomson, not before our wedding, and if I could have written myself some kind of time-traveling scenario so that I could become a virgin again, I would have. But then, I thought—no, no, I wouldn’t. Because if I were still a virgin, I’d still be in San Francisco; whatever my previous marriages might mean now to this upright minister, they brought me to Los Angeles, to Hollywood, Mary, a career—and to him.
“You truly don’t mind?” I asked, for the fiftieth time, as Fred and I—his leg almost healed, so he was using a cane—strolled along the neat, flower-bordered paths of the Famous Players–Lasky studio. We were in the middle of filming the interior scenes for Johanna. It was only a month ago that Mary had introduced us.
A month of letters and telephone calls and frequent drives back and forth from San Diego and the military hospital to Hollywood; a month in which time had sped up. We’d met, courted, and agreed to marry—all in one dizzying, head-spinning month. Now Fred had a brief leave before departing with the 143rd for France, and the unknown.
“How can I mind your past, Frances?” Fred, entirely dashing in his putty uniform, asked. I couldn’t help but keep comparing him to the actors on set—jealous actors who glowered at the strapping young lieutenant, for they couldn’t begin to compete. Fred looked every inch a movie star. Maybe, someday…
“Your past made you who you are,” Fred said decisively. “Just as my past made me. They are two very different pasts, that’s true, but the future will be the same. Won’t it?”
I nodded, too happy for words.
“You’ll wait, for me, my love? Until after the war? I don’t want to marry before then. I’ve lost one wife. I don’t want to lose another—nor have her lose me.” Fred smiled and took my hand; it looked so fragile in his big paw. “After all, you’ll be in danger, too. Miss Brave Female War Correspondent.”
“Oh, you read it!” I snatched away my hand in dismay.
“How could I help it? When I gave your name to the receptionist here, she handed me a copy of Motion Picture World! With that enormous glamour girl photo of you on the cover in uniform—I must say, it’s quite fetching, Lieutenant Marion.” br />
“Oh!” I covered my face with my hands, mortified. “You have to understand, I didn’t ask for that kind of publicity. But the studio, well—that’s the way they do things around here. A little—a whole lot—over the top. It’s for the good of the industry, of course—it’s so young, still, and we do everything we can to publicize it, keep movies and the people who make them in the public eye, respectable; and a scenarist—a female scenarist—going over—”
“The highest paid scenarist, according to the article,” Fred interrupted, and I caught my breath, searching for any sign that he was in any way threatened by that fact. But all I saw in his handsome face was open admiration.
My assignment to the Committee of Public Information as a war correspondent, ordered to film American women behind the battle lines, had been splashed all over the trade papers by the Famous Players–Lasky publicity department. Mary had been quoted as being near tears at the thought of losing her scenarist and very best friend. Publicly, everyone congratulated me; privately, I knew they were scratching their heads at the idea of sacrificing fifty thousand dollars a year for a miserable Army paycheck. Not to mention going overseas and potentially getting bombed or shot at, wearing a drab, unbecoming uniform, and possibly even—gasp!—having to wash my own underwear and drink water out of a canteen.
But now I was so glad I’d volunteered, before I’d even known that a Fred Thomson existed. It seemed to me that this way I came to him as more of an equal; my sophisticated career may have allowed me to dine out well in Hollywood but it was frivolous, I was certain, to a man like Fred. Fred was a man of such quiet integrity that he almost radiated his own aura, although he would have abhorred that notion. Already, I understood that he was not an athlete because he enjoyed the roar of the crowd or medals, just as he was not a minister who sought public attention. Fred Thomson was an athlete because he sincerely believed God had given him an athlete’s body and so he must fulfill that promise. And he was a minister because he felt it was his mission to inspire and console those who were not as fortunate. Because he deeply believed that God spoke through him, but quietly. Not like Billy Sunday, who leapt about and screamed into a megaphone and wouldn’t appear for fewer than five hundred people.