II. SUE HARVEY

I WAS a fool to have let him—but it was done. Done, done, done, done....

That word kept drumming in my ears like a funeral march all the way home in the car. I was trying to coax myself to calm down, to forget it, and never to let such a thing happen again. But it didn't calm me and I couldn't forget it and I felt miserable and even worse than that.

I wanted to cry, and it was all I could do to hold myself in. Why give him the satisfaction of seeing me shed tears, I told myself, proving it had made a difference? He might begin to think I was in love with him, or perhaps that I was having a crying jag. Men can't understand women—at least regarding things like that.

When a man gets finished, he's through; his appetite's been satisfied, except that now he wants a plate of ham and eggs. We girls are quite another story. We have emotions and what not. We feel things. Any woman will know what I'm talking about. So I felt terrible.

Oh, I had made slips before—who hasn't?—but this one wasn't quite the same, because I'd known all along what he was planning to do and what to expect.

Good heavens, his manners were obvious enough, and the technique he employed had whiskers on it so long it would have fallen flat in the Middle Ages. Then, too, I hadn't been so drunk I wasn't able to see whatever there was to look at.

Yet, without being taken by surprise, and with every chance in the world to stop him, he got what he wanted. Oh, I struggled all right, told him I didn't like him that much, that I hardly knew him, that I was in love with someone else, and anyway, pu-lease, I was not that kind of a girl; I even slapped him once or twice, hard. But after saying “No!” about a dozen times, something happened, something that had never happened to me before. Although I still did not want him to have me, I found my “No!” getting just a trifle weaker; and then, curiously, all fight drained out of me and I gave up struggling entirely.

In the end, I didn't exactly give myself to him.

He took me.

Don't ask me why or how or when. I asked myself the same thing until my head spun. I didn't love the man—that much I was certain—nor did I even like him, when it came to that. He was very handsome and an actor and all the rest of it, but he was also the vainest, most self-centered individual I had ever run across.

When he finally won the argument about going to his apartment, did he show me etchings, a picture of his mother, or the customary rare something or other bachelors always have in their apartments? He did not.

He brought out his scrapbook. And after all the build-up he had been giving himself I was a little surprised to discover that although he had plenty of press notices, most of them were no larger than a postage stamp.

But I didn't hate him, even after it was all over. If I hated anyone, it was myself for having been so foolish. It made my cheeks burn when I realized what he must think of me: a little tramp, just another Hollywood pushover. What else could he think?

In my shame I almost wished I was in love with the man. Then I could ease my conscience by telling myself it had been foreordained—even if he didn't know it, the conceited thing.

I sat silently in the car, angry with myself and with him, at the same time trying to solve the problem of how it had happened.

I had never set eyes on him before seven o'clock when he drove in and ate dinner, tipping me a little too liberally. When he came back at eleven we began talking. Then, at twelve, when he asked to drive me home because it was raining, I began to suspect something. At first I refused, of course; but later, when I began to think of the long ride home on the bus, and how the buses were usually irregular at that hour, and how harmless he looked... Well, never again, I told myself.

While these reflections were further upsetting me he drove along the deserted streets whistling contentedly. Men are lucky that way. They can quickly forget things they prefer not to remember, and no matter what it is they have done, there are scarcely any distasteful after effects, recriminations or—worse yet—abortions. Then they wonder why a girl thinks it over a long time before she gives in! He pulled into the drive-in stand on Melrose where I worked and tooted the horn. Inside, I could see Mr. Bloomberg poke Selma into activity. She snatched up her trays, water, napkins and menu-cards and came running out through the drizzle. When she recognized the car she doubled her speed.

“Hello, Raoul,” she said breathlessly. “Where're you been keeping yourself? We haven't seen you around here in a month.” Then she glanced over and spied me. The smile on her face faded a little.

“Why, Sue! What are you doing up at this hour? I thought you said you were going straight home.”

“Hello, Selma. I thought so, too.” Selma shot a sharp look at Raoul, who pretended to be occupied with the menu. “I get it,” she murmured. “You missed Gwen, you know.”

“What do you mean, I missed her?”

“Oh, didn't you know she was fired?”

“Fired!” That came as a shock. Gwen had worked for Bloomberg longer than any of us.

“Well,” explained Selma, “the boss found out today that she was married, and you know the rule. Gee, I hated to see her go-”

“I'll take coffee and a barbecued beef sandwich,” announced Raoul. “Save the chatter until later.”

“White, rye or wheat?”

“On a roll.”

“And you?”

“I don't know.”

“How about the same, Sue?”

“I'm not hungry.”

I was beginning to wonder about Selma. Was Raoul one of her old boy friends? She was acting strangely. Although I didn't know Selma any too well, this much I did know: she didn't say much and she controlled her temper. One night when a drunk tried to kiss her she had acted much as she was acting now—friendly in her speech, but cold in her stare. Now, as she leaned against the door of the car waiting for our orders, there was something about her that made me think she was jealous.

“Oh, come now. You've got to eat something. The panic isn't on, you know.”

“Really, Raoul, I'm not hungry in the least.”

To tell the truth, I was feeling a little uneasy in my stomach. While the liquor I had put away was all good stuff, there had been too many kinds of it.

“Well, have some coffee. It'll sober you up.”

That remark rubbed me the wrong way, but I let it go. When Selma brought the coffee I sipped it slowly, still thinking what an idiot I'd been ever to have allowed him to take me home—which he hadn't, as yet. The man was entirely without tact. The least he could have done was select another place to eat. Especially if Selma was one of his ex-girl friends. What was he trying to do? Give the help something to talk about? Parade his conquest of me before the late shift? Show them it had only taken him from midnight when I got of work, until... whatever time it was now?

“You might have picked another place to come,” I told him.

He turned to look at me blankly, every inch the fake Englishman. “What's the matter with this? The food's good. At any rate, there aren't many places open at this hour, you know.” He took out a package of imported cigarettes, tapped one of them on his thumb-nail and lighted it.

“There are plenty of places open along the Boulevard and on Vine,” I retorted sharply. “We could have gone to the Coco Tree.” It rankled me because he hadn't offered me a cigarette before lighting one himself. I didn't really want one, but who wouldn't be irritated to think that once somebody had you he was taking you for granted? Especially a person like Raoul Kildare, with his Hollywood-British accent and his installment plan Cadillac. A bit-player in the bargain. Ye gods, what was this town doing to me? With my looks I should have been working in the studios, not hopping cars in a Melrose Avenue hot-dog stand; going around with directors and producers and even stars, not with nobodies like Mr. Kildare. As jealous as girls usually are, even the ones I worked with agreed on that point. But what was there to do if the studios refused to test me? Two of them had promised they would, but, as I soon found out, in Hollywood promises don't count. The only person in town I could count on to get me in was Mr. Fleishmeyer, who was an agent, and fat, and old, but not too old. However, as anxious as I was to break in, I was not ready for Mr. Fleishmeyer.

Raoul had nothing more to say to me. When he finished eating he just sat there with the empty tray clamped to the door over his lap, running his fingers through his silky blond hair. He was only too well aware of the fact that he was handsome, so he affected this gesture of mussing himself up as though he didn't give a hang about his appearance. Nevertheless, I noticed that he was always careful not to ruin the part. Oh, I was on to him from the first and not one of his little tricks escaped me. The man was Hollywood personified; from the open-necked polo shirt and tweed sports jacket to the silk scarf knotted around his throat. There were thousands like him in town, each one trying terribly hard to be different, each one a Greek god, walking around and spilling glamour all over the streets for the benefit of the tourists.

It seemed scarcely believable, but only a few months before I too had thought Hollywood a glamorous place. I had arrived so thoroughly read-up on the misinformation of the fan magazines that it took me a full week before I realized that the “Mecca” was no more than a jerkwater suburb which publicity had sliced from Los Angeles—a suburb peopled chiefly by out and out hicks (the kind of dumbbells who think they are being wild and sophisticated if they stay up all night) or by Minnesota farmers and Brooklyn smart alecks who think they know it all. I soon saw that there were only two classes of society: the suckers, like myself, who had come to take the town; and the slickers who had come to take the suckers. Both groups were plotters and schemers and both on the verge of starvation.

There was also a third group which I'd heard about and read about but never seemed to come in contact with: those who were actually under contract. From what I understood, these fortunates barricade themselves in their magnificent Beverly Hills or Bel-Air estates for fear someone might want to borrow a dollar.

And Vine Street at Hollywood Boulevard, the so-called Times Square of the West, reminded me of the outside of an Eighth Avenue poolroom. There were more well-dressed young men (who obviously were bums) hanging around in front of the Owl Drug Store, the barber shop and the Brown Derby than any place I had ever been before. They made themselves obnoxious by whistling at the girls and passing crude, audible remarks. Also, they seemed to have X-ray eyes focused on strangers' pockets to count their change. I honestly believe that if somebody were foolish enough to drop a quarter on the pavement, twenty or thirty Esquire fashion plates would be trampled to death in the rush.

And where, I asked myself, were all the beautiful women the fan magazines raved about? I had expected to have very tough competition, but, frankly, most of the girls were nothing extraordinary. The ones I passed on the streets wore old slacks, cheap little sweaters and flat heeled shoes. Either they had too much make-up on their faces or none whatever. Nine-tenths of them ran around with bandannas tied over their heads, like immigrants stepping off Ellis Island, or as if they'd just finished with the hairdresser. A person could almost read Kansas, Iowa and Nebraska on their flat, countrified faces.

All told, the town was a disappointment. There was no glamour that I could see—unless twenty thousand or so kids scrambling for a dollar is glamorous.

Then that wave came over me, that sudden suspicion it was all a hoax, a frame-up plotted by the publicity-greedy studios and the Chamber of Commerce to lure people out here, away from their regular jobs, their families and friends. The lies of the movie magazine's, the lush literature of railroad companies and the exaggerated salaries the press agents announced, all combined to bait one of the foulest traps imaginable. And I was only one of the little mice it had captured. It hadn't taken very long. In less than six weeks time I was whipped and broke, ready to work as a waitress and darned lucky to get the chance. Oh, I still made the rounds, whenever possible; but it was without much hope, and each time with less confidence.

I sat there in the car, staring at the steady fall of rain, at the flimsily constructed drive-in, at the dark windows of a squat apartment house and at the illuminated Paramount Pictures water-tower in the distance. There was a heaviness in me which wasn't caused by the drinks I'd put away, a pressure that swelled up in my throat and threatened to burst. I was sick of it all, thwarted. What was the use?

I tried to pull myself together. Lately these spells were coming over me more and more often, making me wish I was back in New York, working at the club and living with Alex. I had been happy then—only I didn't know it. Back east something like this never would have happened. Alex would have been there. I turned to Raoul, trying to keep my thoughts in the present. I didn't want to think of New York; I didn't want to admit to myself that I was homesick; and I couldn't bear to think of Alex, especially so soon after I'd... “Come on. Please take me home,” I said to Raoul. “I've got an appointment tomorrow afternoon at three.”

“You mean today, don't you?”

“Today, then. What time is it, anyway?” He pulled up his sleeve and made sure I noticed his elegant gold wrist-watch.

“Five-ten.”

“Let's go home,” I moaned. “I'll never make it.”

“All right. But first I want another cup of coffee.” When Raoul brought the car to a stop in front of the bungalow he surprised me. He actually made a move to get out and see me to the door!

“Never mind, Raoul,” I said. “I can find my way in all right by myself. It's raining and there's no sense you getting drenched too. Good night.”

I reached for the door-handle quickly, lest he try to kiss me good night. I didn't feel like being kissed. The mood I was in, I could cheerfully have murdered someone—I didn't care who. I felt common and unclean.

Raoul caught me by the arm. “Wait a moment, Sue. We haven't made any arrangements about seeing each other again. I don't even know your phone number.”

I hesitated. I didn't want to start any arguments at that hour; I wasn't up to it. If I told him I never wished to see him again, that tonight was all a mistake and I didn't care pins for him, he would demand that I tell him why not, what had he done to deserve this treatment and so forth. On the other hand, if I gave him my phone number and said good night as though everything was quite all right and as it should be, the chances were he'd plague me to death in the future. I didn't want that to happen. I'd had quite enough of Mr. Raoul Kildare.

While I was trying to decide which was the better course to pursue, he was taking out his address book and a fountain-pen. He seemed so cocksure of himself, so confident I would want to go out with him again, that my temper was aroused and I brought him up short. I wanted to hurt him, to puncture and deflate that enormous ego of his. Thank God, I thought, there is one weapon a woman can employ, more effective than biting or scratching or any other form of violence.

“I'm sorry, Raoul. I didn't like you,” I said, swiftly. “I didn't like you and I don't particularly care to see you again, ever.”

“What was that? What...?”

Then it began to dawn on him and he was so flabbergasted that the pen with which he was writing my name slipped out of his hand and rolled away in the dark. “Why... why, what do you mean, Sue? I'm afraid I don't quite get you.”

“You get me, all right.” He started to open his mouth to say something but evidently found nothing he could say. By his expression I saw that he was trying to persuade himself he had misunderstood the implication.

“You're not a good lover,” I went on quietly, fully aware of the wound my words were inflicting.

“I don't have to make it any plainer, do I?”

There was a jubilance in me for the first time in ages. I watched him flinch and I knew I had struck home, into the most vulnerable spot in the man's armor. Most men, of course, think they are incomparable when it comes to making love; but Raoul even more so. The arrogant way he carried his head and the condescending air he had with me proved that only too conclusively. Honestly, I believe the man had actually considered he had done me a favor! Well, this would take some of the wind out of his sails for a long time. While I was conscious that it wasn't exactly ladylike for me to come out with bold statements of that nature, I couldn't resist the urge. In a way it helped to avenge poor Alex.

Raoul couldn't find his tongue. His mouth hung open and he stared blankly at me with perhaps the most astonished look on his handsome face I had ever seen. He appeared so forlorn that I felt a momentary touch of pity for him. What I had said, of course, was untrue, so absolutely false that I could scarcely believe he had swallowed it.

“Good night, Raoul,” I said sweetly, perversely driving in the nail deeper. “At least I enjoyed looking at your scrapbook.”

“Good night.” He breathed the words so mournfully that I almost relented and kissed him good night. He was dazed, like a prizefighter who has just been dealt one below the belt. I stood outside the door of the bungalow fishing in my purse for the latch-key and watched the violet tail-lights of Raoul's Cadillac disappear down the winding, rain-swept street. I could hear the musical note of his horn when he sounded it at the Beachwood corner. It was a gay sound, so out-of-place in the gloom of early morning, reflecting nobody's feelings at that hour, especially not my own.

It was rotten of me, I decided, to have said that to him. Certainly it was the last word in cruelty. Why, something on that order, coming from a girl, was enough to ruin a man for life—to instill a complex, a fixation, or whatever the psycho-analysts chose to label it. Yes, the man did need taking down; but not to that extent. Probably that superior air of his was not his nature, but merely a defense. In Hollywood a person has to think highly of himself—because if he doesn't, who will? In any event it wasn't Raoul's fault I had been weak or crazy...

What on earth had possessed me to give myself to a stranger when I was in love with Alex? It hadn't been sheer need. My physical make-up doesn't require much attention. Oh, I'm not emotionally cold, by any means, but... well, good lord, not with anyone!

The heavy fog that usually accompanies the California dawns was gradually lifting and the rain for the moment had stopped. I could barely make out the Hollywood sign erected on the mountain at the far end of Beachwood canyon. I remembered the story of the number of girls who had committed suicide from that sign and the legend of the onetime silent-picture star who had climbed to the top of the letter “W” and thrown herself off. A dramatic death, stagy yet suitable. It was a source of wonder to me that there weren't many more suicides, what with so many people coming out, burning their bridges behind them—only to find disillusionment and failure.

My slight hangover was making me morbid. I shivered and unlocked the door. I'm usually not a brooding type, but five-thirty in the morning with rain and fog and a guilty conscience as props is not exactly a musical-comedy setting. Without switching on the lights, I tiptoed into the living-room.

The girl with whom I shared the bungalow worked days in the Columbia wardrobe department. She had to get up at seven each morning in order to punch in on time. For that reason she always crabbed about my late hours. She was a sweet kid and I'd known her for a long time, but when her sleep was interrupted she raised the roof. Without fail, almost every night when I arrived home she'd sit up in bed, all cold-creamed and kit-careered, and mutter: “Why don't you ask your boss to change your shift? For the love of Mike, here I am trying to catch a little sleep so I can get up at seven, and you... Now don't you dare cut off that alarm, Sue Harvey! You remember what I told you last time! I'm sorry it wakes you up when it goes off, but I've got a good job and I intend to keep it.” Then she would roll over, pound the pillow viciously with her fist and be asleep again in less than two minutes. Poor Ewy. She had to put up with plenty.

We lived in a bungalow-court, our unit consisting of a small living-room, a smaller bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a bath so infinitesimal that the sink overhung the tub. Ewy claimed you could brush your teeth at the same time you took a bath. Perhaps you could; I never tried it. The place was furnished with the customary cheap brand of over-stuffed furniture, faded carpets and the odds and ends of about five different sets of dishes. The rent was thirty-two dollars a month, with gas and lights extra—which wouldn't have been bad when it was divided by two. Unfortunately, very often Ewy would succumb to her weakness for gambling and lose her entire week's wages in a phone room during lunch-hour. She could pick them, but usually wrong. Like the Hollywood population in general, we were always behind with the landlord. But the place itself, while neat and inexpensive, had, like every other apartment in Hollywood, an air of impermanency. You felt that if you stood in the center of the living-room and shouted: “Strike it, boys!” the whole place would fold up and disappear like a set in a very few seconds.

It was small wonder there were so many cases of homesickness in town.

My customary way of entering was to slip off my shoes and try to creep into the bathroom to undress. Once or twice I had successfully accomplished this, but this time I heard Ewy sit up in bed and fumble for the light cord. Since there was no longer any point in trying to be stealthy, I stomped into the bedroom.

“Did I wake you, Ewy? I tried to be as quiet as I could. ”

Ewy found the little string and the lights went on. Still half-asleep, she felt around on the floor by her bed until she found the alarm clock. It was twenty minutes to six. She gave me a look which said: a-fine-time-to-be-coming-in and flopped back on to her pillow with a martyr's sigh.

“I'm sorry, Ewy. I couldn't help it. I was on a party. Why don't you stuff cotton in your ears at night like I suggested?”

“And how would I hear the alarm when it goes off?” She grumbled and pounded her pillow. “Call the Fleishmeyer Agency tomorrow morning before noon. He's been wearing out the phone all evening. God, that man's persistent. ”

“You didn't tell him what I was doing, did you?”

“Naturally not.”

“Fine. It wouldn't do me much good having people know I'm hopping cars. Someday I might need Manny Fleishmeyer.”

“Well, if you play around with him, you ought to have your head examined. He reminds me of a toad, and not a handsome toad at that. And yes, I almost forgot. There's a letter for you. Came in the afternoon mail. I stuck it in the bathroom on top of your cold-cream jar—or my cold-cream jar, to be exact, if you'll pardon the implication—so you'd be sure to find it.”

“Alex?”

“How should I know? I didn't open it.”

I began to pray it would be from Alex. He hadn't written for such a long time—months and it worried me. I was so used to hearing from him regularly once a week. Of course it was my own fault. I hadn't kept up my end of the correspondence because there really was nothing to write about. I didn't have the cheek to write lies to him like I did to mother, saying that I was doing splendidly, that the studios would soon be fighting for me, etc. Alex would know better.

As I hurried into the bathroom and felt around in the dark for the envelope, I had his name on my lips. I needed Alex that night more than I had ever needed him before. Just his familiar scrawl would help me to get out of the rotten mood I was in, would surely aid in forgetting the impossible thing I'd done. Alex was a dear. He was a clumsy old thing, bashful as a schoolboy, and, except for his music, a dummy; but I adored him. Although he was occasionally annoying, he alone had the power to quiet my nerves whenever they might be on edge. Sometimes his solicitousness would make things worse, but soon I couldn't help but love him for his clumsy attempts to please me. It was practically impossible to stay angry with him for any length of time. If I spoke harshly to him I was always instantly sorry, for he hurt easily.

Reviewing our affair, I decided it must have been one of those everyday cases of love at first sight. I had first taken notice of him during a chorus rehearsal when he stood up and asked Bellman's permission to leave the room. He wasn't trying to be funny, either. He really had to go. Of course everyone laughed and he blushed like a child. Then, when one of the girls offered him her hat, he got so flustered and looked so pathetic up there on the stand, that it went to my heart. I felt like running up and kissing him, the boob. Yes, he was a boob. I had to work on him all of three weeks before the poor fish even asked to take me out. I threw myself in his path at every opportunity and flashed him my prettiest smiles; I asked him the time and would he give me a cigarette and match. Finally, after a siege, when I kissed him good night for the first time, he didn't even make a move to follow it up. Perhaps he was frightened or bashful or something, I don't know. Men are funny, sometimes. A girl can semaphore every signal in the book before the fellow wakes up and finds the war is over. Now Raoul....

The letter was not from Alex. When I carried it into the bedroom I saw it was from my mother, with the usual sob story and broad hint. She could use this; she could use that. Mother could always use something, the old parasite. If only she knew how tough it was for me to lay my hands on a few dollars! I don't suppose it is very nice for a daughter to talk about her mother that way but what had she ever done for me? Bear me, that's all. And probably she would have avoided that if she hadn't been such a rabid Catholic. Just the way she talked to Alex that day when he tried to reinstate me alone was enough to sour me on her for life. We had done nothing wrong. We were having an affair, yes. But we loved each other and Alex would have married me in a minute if I'd said the word. Anyway, what right had she to complain? She wasn't the one who had to worry...

Which reminded me.

I couldn't afford to waste another minute.

Glancing through the letter to satisfy my curiosity, I discovered that it was some lighter clothes this time. New York was hot and she was running around in a fall suit. I ripped the letter up and flung the pieces into the trash-basket by the writing-desk. The next day was pay-day. I'd send her five dollars. Oh, I knew it was foolish. The chances were she'd drop half of it into the collection-plate.

“For the love of Pete,” Ewy groaned, “turnout the light and get into bed! Or go into the living-room.”

“All right. Good night, Ewy.”

“Good night hell! Good morning!”

I scooped up a nightie and went into the bathroom, locking the door after me. I had things to do and it would be a good half-hour before I was ready to hit the pillow. I undressed rapidly, at the same time looking at my face in the medicine chest mirror. My eyes were a little bloodshot from staying up so late, but still lovely. I had been told many times that my eyes are the nicest part of my anatomy—tie score with my breasts—because they are an unusual shade of green; not a jade green, a much darker color. I pressed my face as close as I could get it to the glass and examined them. There were tears glistening in them now as I thought of Alex. The gleam was an improvement because it covered up the redness. Where was Alex? Had he moved from the old apartment?

He must have; because unless he was working again , how could he pay the rent? That was probably why he had never answered the post card I sent him.

“I love you, Alex,” I whispered into the mirror—playing a little scene. “I'll always love you.”

It was a trifle overdone. In movie parlance, I was mugging it. I felt the emotion all right, only reality on the screen always photographs funny. To be any good you have to underplay everything. A casting director told me that. I tried it again, this time changing the inflection, expressing as much as I could just with my eyes and keeping my voice as flat as possible. “I love you, Alex. I'll always love you. And no matter what happens, I'll always be waiting.” Once more. God, I felt it surge all through me. At that moment I loved Alex more than ever. I did, I did. It was intense. It pulled at me and brought more tears into my eyes. Soon they were rolling down my cheeks. “I'll always love you. And no matter what happens, I'll always be waiting....”

It was great, a natural. Who said I couldn't act? Of course it wasn't all acting. I repeated the scene two or three times more, experimenting with tone, quality and diction. Then I ran hot water and looked around for the douche.