But he would be trouble, she knew, if she did what Douglas desired. Owen Moore wouldn’t go quietly. And then, what about her public—hers, she’d worked hard for them, she’d sacrificed so much! Her childhood, her privacy. Every ounce of cake she did not eat; every night when she would have liked to stay up late to read, but couldn’t because of her early call the next day. Every grown-up gown she desired, only to have to don a pinafore before the camera, and stick an enormous ribbon in her hair, and become the girl that Frances wrote for her, the girl the public loved.
The one constant in her life was her career. She had always put her career first. She might be able to live without Douglas—although at the moment even the thought made her want to lock herself in a room and howl until she had no voice. But she’d never be able to live without her career. And Douglas wasn’t asking that of her, not like Owen had. But would he ever have been attracted to her in the first place, if she hadn’t been Mary Pickford?
Had Fran been right about that, too?
Even if she had, however, it had progressed far beyond usefulness, this thing between her and Douglas. What Mary didn’t yet know was if it was too enormous, propelled by too much momentum already. Could it be stopped?
Did she want it to be?
“We have to go now,” Mary insisted, pulling herself together as she always had—squaring her shoulders, thrusting out her chin, remembering, as Mama had said so long ago, that she needed her audience more than they needed her, and that it could all vanish in an instant. Remembering what was expected of her as the eldest, as the first, as the one and only—as the only girl, the artist, the producer, the true head of the family.
“Go home to Beth,” Mary told him, once more. “We can’t afford to do anything yet.”
“I can,” Douglas said solemnly.
“I can’t,” Mary said, just as solemnly.
She kissed him on his dusky cheek, then turned away as he quickly—furtively—slid out of the compartment. She pulled on her gloves, arranged her curls, looked into a mirror and despaired of swollen eyes, flaming cheeks, bruised lips. Anyone with a grain of sense would look at her and know she was in love, and suffering for it.
But as she stepped off the platform, following Douglas and Charlie, who were up to their usual antics, clowning and doing gymnastics, even as she blew kisses to the throngs who called out, “We love you, Mary! Our Mary,” she knew no one really could suspect the truth.
Because when the public looked at Mary Pickford, they saw only what they wanted to see. If they ever perceived who she really was, they’d turn their backs on her forever. Wouldn’t they?
She didn’t glance at Douglas as he finally pushed his way through the crowd. As he finally made his way back to his wife and son.
Except, as she was to learn very soon, he didn’t.
—
“Miss Pickford, what is your comment on the recent separation between Douglas Fairbanks and his wife? Apparently, he hasn’t seen her in weeks, and today she held a press conference. We were told—by Mrs. Fairbanks—that you might have some insight on the situation.”
Mary nearly dropped her spoon in her soup; across the table, Charlotte gasped so loudly, other diners—who weren’t already staring at the two of them in a quiet corner of the hotel restaurant—gaped.
She had said goodbye to Douglas three days ago; he had gone to his wife, as far as she knew. Then he had taken off for his solo leg of the Liberty Loans tour; he must be somewhere in Michigan right about now.
“Mrs. Fairbanks, er, hinted that you might have something to say about what has transpired,” the reporter continued as he sheepishly consulted a notepad. Mary was grateful that there was no photographer accompanying him, but she still made a mental note to speak to the hotel concierge about this gross invasion of her privacy.
“I’m sorry to hear about this,” she began, after first sipping some water so that she could perhaps, somehow, manage to speak without a tremor in her voice. “But if Mr. and Mrs. Fairbanks have separated, it’s no concern of mine.”
“But you and Mr. Fairbanks—”
“Mr. Fairbanks and I are associated in business, and we’ve been working together on this Liberty Loans drive, because every bond bought is a nail in the Kaiser’s coffin!” She pounded the table; the reporter jumped, but grinned appreciatively, then saluted and took his leave.
“Mary—”
“Mama, not now.” Mary couldn’t look at Charlotte; her heart was pounding too loudly, her head was throbbing. How many of the diners nearby had overheard? So she concentrated on eating the rest of her meal, even though her stomach was clenching so that she thought it might all come back up again, treating the public to even more of a spectacle. But she wouldn’t allow that, nor would she get up and rush back to her hotel room to try to understand what had just happened. She would remain eating, placidly, until her meal was through.
Charlotte seemed to have understood, for she didn’t say another word, and even ordered dessert although normally Mary never ate it. But tonight, both Mary and Charlotte ate their ice cream sundaes with apparent relish, then rose and went back to their hotel suite amiably, arm in arm, smiling at one and all.
But when the door shut behind them, Mary gritted her teeth and faced her mother’s fury.
“What in the name of the Blessed Virgin have you gotten yourself into?” Charlotte was pacing, wringing her hands, looking everywhere—out the window, then tugging down the blinds as if someone could see inside even though they were on the twelfth floor; frowning at an invisible stain in the rug, and stubbing her toe at it. She looked everywhere, in fact, except at Mary.
“Mama, please—”
“Don’t ‘Mama, please’ me, young lady! This woman has obviously named you to that reporter, who was too polite, or too cowardly, to come right out and say it. And you’ll probably be given a pass for a while; no one could ever suspect their innocent little Mary of adultery. And you’ve been good to the press, you’ve given them lots of exclusives, and they love you. For now. But that won’t last. If you keep being associated with that Fairbanks, the press won’t be able to ignore it—where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Now tell me, what did this bastard do?”
“Mama, I don’t know. I said goodbye to him on the train and he was supposed to go home to Beth—”
“Which, it appears, he did not.”
“I didn’t know that!”
“The entire world knows it now!”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen, Mama. Not now. Not yet—or maybe not ever, I don’t know—”
“Mary, I’ve held my tongue for weeks. I’ve known what you were up to, and you were so happy I couldn’t speak my piece. I know he was in your hotel room in Washington—heavens, child, I know everything there is about you! And you’re no more of a saint than I am, so who am I to tell you to stop? Except—you are a saint, to all those millions of people who love your movies, who pay to see them, who depend on you to brighten their days, who are buying bonds left and right because you tell them to, because you’re America’s Sweetheart, the Little Patriot. And you can’t let those people down.”
“Because why, Mama? Because if I do, all this will go away?” And Mary flung her arms out, acknowledging their opulent hotel suite with its oriental carpets and antique furniture and state-of-the-art bathroom with brass taps and a deep tub and plush towels; the beds with the fine linens; the silk gown Charlotte was wearing, the dazzling rubies at her throat that Mary had given her for her birthday; piles of hatboxes full of the latest millinery, some with precious ostrich and peacock feathers; glove boxes stacked like dominoes; outside, a car always waiting for whenever Charlotte wanted it, even if it was to get another bottle of gin. “And if it all goes away, where will you be? Back in Toronto living with Aunt Lizzie, taking in boarders or laundry to pay your way?”
“Mary—”
“Without me, you’d have nothing! Without me, Jack and Lottie would actually have to work! And you’re terrified of losi
ng it all, so you’ll get in the way of my happiness to keep it, just like you’ve always done! Well, I’m tired of it, Mama! Tired of being your meal ticket, all of you! When do I get to be happy? When do I get to love and be loved?”
Charlotte was across the room in two strides; she raised her hand and Mary felt her cheek sting, saw stars, and was so astonished she sat right down in the middle of the oriental rug, her legs in front of her, and she wondered what on earth had just happened.
“You’re no better than Owen, Mama,” she whispered. She couldn’t look up at her mother; her eyes were streaming tears and the entire world looked unfamiliar and wrong.
“I am better than Owen. I’m your mother, and I love you, but I’ll never let you talk to me like that, missy. You’re not the only one in this family who can hold down a job. You’re not the only one in this family with talent. You are, however, the only one in this family with a discipline I’ve admired ever since you were a tyke, and a sense of right and wrong that would make the pope envious.” Charlotte—with a loud groan that made Mary want to laugh, so unpredictable were her emotions at the moment—settled down on the rug next to her. And then her arms—her warm, soft arms—were around Mary, pulling her to her expansive bosom. Mary did giggle, despite her hurt tears; Mama was resembling Marie Dressler more and more every year.
“Now, shhh, you dearie, you child. Shhhh, and close your eyes, and forget everything. You’re tired, and you’re high-strung, which is why you’re an actress in the first place. You’re my precious daughter, and you need to rest right now, and we’ll figure it all out tomorrow. Or maybe not, maybe it will be the day after, or the day after that, I can’t predict the future. But I can promise you that I love you now and forever, and so does your public, and, Lord help me, so does that Fairbanks—Jesus, the way that man looks at you—and we’ll come up with a way to make it all work out.”
“Oh, Mama, do you promise?”
“I promise,” Charlotte cooed as she—again groaning loudly, her joints popping—rose to her feet, gently pulling Mary along with her. And Mary allowed herself to be ushered into her bedroom, Charlotte’s arms about her.
“I’m sorry I said those things, Mama. I never want to let you or Jack or Lottie down. I never want you to have to take in laundry.”
“I know, dearie, I know.”
“I wish Fran was here,” Mary said between yawns, realizing with a guilty little start that this was the first time she’d thought of Fran since she’d left on the bond tour. Was that what a man did? Made you forget about the other women in your life? “Fran would know what to do. She always does.”
“Fran has her own life to live,” Mama said, strangely.
“But she’d know what to do. She’d want to help me.”
But Fran wasn’t here, she was getting ready to go over there. Over there. Over there—and Mary couldn’t help herself. She began to sing the song, softly this time, and it was almost like a lullaby.
Strange, that one song could be two entirely different things. And so, perhaps one person—one actress—could be, too.
Perhaps.
I was thoroughly sick and tired of hearing “Over There!”
A military band was playing it when I boarded the troop ship, the Rochambeau, in New York. At least once a day as I strolled the deck of the ship, shivering and imagining a German submarine, like the one that sunk the Lusitania, every time I saw a dark spot on the horizon, someone was humming or singing the tune. Twice, a well-intentioned Red Cross nurse got up a little talent show to raise money for the troops and what song was sung at least three times each show? Why, “Over There!” of course.
If I never heard “Over There!” again, I would be happy.
If I ever saw Fred again after this was all over, I would be delirious. Or would I?
Because, of course, I might not see him again. I might not see anyone I knew, ever again, and that included Mary, and thinking of Mary made me think of Hollywood and everything I’d left behind; everything I’d worked so hard to achieve only to leave it all with no more thought than a bee gives to a flower.
Alone on this ship, alone in the enormous ocean, so far from either shore, my bravado had drained away, leaving me feeling foolish and absurd. What in the hell are you doing, Frances?
What in the hell are you doing, leaving behind your snug little home in the Hollywood hills to sleep three to a room on a creaky, leaking transport ship? Leaving behind a spectacular career to show up on a battlefield unwanted, most likely. To be shot at, perhaps. To be shelled at, dropped bombs upon, live in mud, never change my clothes. Already on this voyage we’d had three submarine false alarms that made my heart forget how to beat and my hands shake so that I couldn’t even tie my life vest as I tried to remember what boat I’d been assigned to, pushed my way through panicked crowds only to hear the piercing whistle of the “all clear” and want to collapse in relief and get a good strong drink at some lively restaurant with music playing. But on ship, the only booze was shots of whiskey begged from one of the Army doctors.
What I should have been doing, instead of brooding and panicking and questioning every decision I’d ever made in my life, was studying my fellow passengers, sketching them, writing down my observations. I was only dimly aware of them, all these young men so full of bravado but terrified underneath. I could see it in their eyes; I could tell by how much time they spent writing letters home—I was always coming across a young soldier huddled over a table, pen in hand. They—and I—were hurtling toward something none of us had ever experienced, could never have imagined. And that unknown was looming, like a great yawning mouth ready to devour us at the end of this journey.
Unknown. That was the only constant in my life now and I had only myself to blame for that, didn’t I? Oh, why was I always making my life harder than it had to be?
And Fred. There was another example. Why on earth did I have to fall in love with a God-fearing minister? Fred was everything I should have run from: Pious. Intractable. From a family predisposed to dislike a woman who worked—let alone a woman who worked in the Gomorrah that was Hollywood. A widower—when would the ghost of his dead wife pop up? How often? Oh—and someone who viewed sex before marriage as a sin.
There were only obstacles ahead with Fred, and if I had a lick of sense I’d disappear into France and never see him again. But then, the thought of never seeing him again made my heart seize up. And if he were killed? The very thought made me wretchedly ill. How on earth had this happened? How had this man I’d known for such a short time so colored my world that the thought of life without him was unimaginable? This beautiful, terrible earth would no longer spin on its axis if there was no Fred Thomson in it.
“Hey, miss!”
I looked up; a soldier was leaning on the railing next to me, his boyish face a little green from the roiling motion of the ship. “Do you worry about them submarines? Them Hun submarines?”
I had to smile; funny, how thinking about Fred had pushed even the ever-present terror from my mind. “Yes, I do. We all do. It’s normal.”
“Good.” The young man let out a breath. “Seems like there’s no relief, is there? Submarines in the ocean, bombs or worse—have you heard about that gas they’re using now?—on land. If one doesn’t get us, the other will. Makes you want to hold on to something, doesn’t it? Something good?”
And in that moment, I knew the one thing I wanted to hold on to, more than anything. The one person. But what I didn’t know—and this was the thing, wasn’t it? The crux of the matter, the turn of the plot—was if I deserved him. And I hadn’t thought of it that way before; the shock of this enormous truth hit me right in the solar plexus so that I had to grip the cold, wet rail even harder. Ocean spray stung my face as I turned away from the boy.
“Yes, it does,” I whispered. But when I turned back, the soldier was gone and I had to wonder if I’d made him up.
—
By the time the ship reached France—far off-course, so instead
of docking in Bordeaux as scheduled, we landed in Brest—I had made up my mind to give Fred up.
I didn’t deserve him. Plain and simple. I had made a mess of my personal life with my two marriages: now I had to pay the price. I deserved success in my professional life but not happiness in love—that was what I had come to realize on those endless walks on the freezing, slippery deck while I sped toward the unknown. And in making this decision, I was finally ready to go to war; I was ready to accept my fate with a clean conscience, purged of my past. I might die. I might—I most certainly would—see sights that would haunt me the rest of my life. When I thought of those ridiculous photos I’d posed for in my uniform, back in Hollywood, I cringed, and hoped for forgiveness from someone—not God, because I didn’t believe in God, and of course that was one more reason why I was no good for Fred, one more reason that I should nobly set him free. As soon as I reached Paris, where I was to meet up with my unit, I would write him. And end it.
Brest was gray, the clouds ominous, the docks full of ships painted dull colors, camouflage, I guessed, from the stalking U-boats. Ours was the only ship that was vomiting out troops of men, all in uniform, all torn between wonder at being across the ocean and terror of what might await. Relief, too, at having crossed the deadly ocean without harm; it was as if the entire ship had released an enormous sigh when we reached port.
I struggled with my duffel bag—remembering my last trip to New York with Mary, and the trunks upon trunks, hatboxes, handbags, that we brought with us, all ferried by eager porters. Now everything I would need for the next few months, maybe beyond, was crammed into one Army-issued duffel bag of olive green. And there were no porters in sight; over here, we few women would have to fend for ourselves. No, “Over There!”