THE CARPETBAGGERS
HAROLD ROBBINS
( INSTALMENT 13 )
ELEVEN
THREE DAYS LATER THEY WERE HAVING LUNCH ON THE TERRACE WHEN SHE SAW THE GRAY ROLLS-ROYCE COME TO A STOP IN THE DRIVEWAY. A smartly dressed chauffeur opened the door and a woman stepped out. A few minutes later, the butler appeared on the terrace. "A Mrs. Schwartz to see you, Mr. Standhurst."
Standhurst smiled. "Set another place, Judson, and ask Mrs. Schwartz if she'll join us."
The butler bowed. "Yes, Mr. Standhurst."
A moment later, a woman came through the doorway. "Charlie!" she said, unmistakable pleasure in her voice. She held her hands out toward him as she walked. "How good to see you."
"Aida." Standhurst kissed her hand. "Forgive my not getting up." He looked into her face. "You're as beautiful as ever."
"You haven't changed a bit, Charlie. You can still keep a straight face and lie like hell."
Standhurst laughed. "Aida, this is Jennie Denton."
"How do you do?" Jennie said. She saw a woman, perhaps in her middle or late fifties, quietly and expensively dressed. The woman turned, her smile warm and friendly, but Jennie suddenly had the feeling that there was little about her that the woman didn't take in.
She turned back to Standhurst. "Is this the girl you spoke to me about on the phone?"
Standhurst nodded.
The woman turned back to Jennie. This time, her eyes were openly appraising. She smiled suddenly. "You may have lost your balls, Charlie," she said in a conversational tone of voice, "but you certainly haven't lost your taste."
Jennie's mouth hung open as she stared at them. Standhurst began to laugh and the butler reappeared at the doorway, carrying a chair. He held it for Mrs. Schwartz as she sat down at the table.
"A sherry flip for Mrs. Schwartz, Judson." The butler bowed and disappeared. Standhurst turned to Jennie. "I suppose you're wondering what this is all about?"
Jennie nodded, still unable to speak.
"Twenty-five years ago, Aida Schwartz ran the best cat house west of the Everleigh sisters in Chicago."
Mrs. Schwartz reached over and patted his hand. "Charlie remembers everything," she said to Jennie. "He even remembered that I never drink anything but a sherry flip." She looked down at his glass on the table. "And I suppose you still drink champagne in a tall glass over ice?"
He nodded. "Old habits, like old friends, Aida, are hard to give up."
The butler placed a drink in front of her. She raised the glass daintily to her lips and sipped. She looked at the butler and smiled. "Thank you."
"Thank you, madam."
She raised her eyebrows in good-humored surprise. "This is very good," she said. "You don't know how hard it is to get a decent cocktail, even in the most expensive restaurants. It seems that ladies drink nothing but Martinis nowadays." She shuddered politely. "Horrible. In my time, no lady would dream of even tasting anything like that."
Standhurst looked at Jennie. "Aida would never let any of her girls drink anything but sherry."
"Whisky befuddles the brain," Aida said primly. "And my girls weren't being paid for drinking."
The old man chuckled reminiscently. "They certainly weren't. Aida, do you remember before the war when I used to come down to your house for a prostate massage?"
"I do, indeed." She smiled.
He looked across the table at Jennie. "I’d developed a bit of trouble and the doctor recommended prostate massage three times a month. The first time I went to his office. After that, I made up my mind that if I had to have massage, I’d at least enjoy it. So, three evenings a week, I showed up at Aida's for my treatment."
"What he didn't tell you," Aida added, "was that the treatments got him terribly aroused. And my girls were trained never to disappoint a guest. When Charlie went back to see the doctor two weeks later and explained, the doctor was horribly upset."
Standhurst was still laughing. "The doctor said he'd bring Aida up before the authorities on charges of practicing medicine without a license."
Mrs. Schwartz reached over and patted Standhurst's hand fondly. "And do you remember Ed Barry?"
"I certainly do." He chuckled and looked at Jennie. "Ed Barry was one of those hard-shelled Southern Baptists who look down the end of their nose at everything and immediately label it sin. Well, this was election eve and Ed was running for governor on a reform ticket. I managed to get him drinking in the excitement of it all and by midnight, he was weeping drunk. So without telling him where I was taking him, we went down to Aida's. He never forgot it."
Standhurst laughed, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Poor old Ed, he never knew what hit him. He lost the election but he never seemed to mind it. On the day Aida closed down her place, after we got into the war, he was downstairs in the bar, weeping as if the world had come to an end."
"Those were the good old days," Aida said. "We'll never see them again."
"Why did you close down?" Jennie asked curiously.
"There were several reasons," Aida said seriously, turning to Jennie. "After and during the war, there was too much free competition. It seemed as if every girl was determined to give it away. And it simply became too difficult to find girls who were interested and dedicated enough in their work to measure up to the high standards I wanted to maintain. All they were interested in was being whores. Since I didn't need the money, I closed up."
"Aida's a very wealthy woman. She put all her money into real estate and apartment houses, here and in most of the big cities around the country." Standhurst looked over at her. "Just about what are you worth right now, Aida?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "About six million dollars, give or take a little," she said casually. "Thanks to you and a few good friends like you."
Standhurst grinned. "Now are you still determined to go back to the hospital?"
Jennie didn't answer.
"Well, Jennie?" he asked.
Jennie stared at him, then at Aida. They were watching her intently. She started to speak but no words came to her lips.
Mrs. Schwartz reached over suddenly and patted her hand reassuringly. "Give her a little time to think it over, Charlie," she said gently. "It's a decision a girl has to make for herself."
There was a curiously fond look in Standhurst's eyes as he smiled at Jennie. "She'll have to make up her mind pretty soon," he said softly. "There isn't that much time left."
He didn't know it then, but there were exactly two days.
******
He turned his head to watch her as she came into his room two mornings later. "I think I’ll stay in bed today, Jennie," he said in a low voice. Drawing the drapes back from the windows, she looked at him in the light that spilled across the bed. His face was white and the skin parchment-thin over the bones. He kept his eyes partly closed, as if the light hurt them.
She crossed to the side of the bed and looked down. "Do you want me to call the doctor, Charlie?"
"What could he do?" he asked, a faint line of perspiration appearing on his forehead. She picked up a small towel from the bedside table and wiped his face. Then she pulled down the blanket and lifted his old-fashioned nightshirt. Quickly she replaced the waste pouch and saw his eyes dart to the pouch as she covered him. She picked up the waste bag and went into the bathroom.
"Pretty bad?" he asked, his eyes on her face, when she returned.
"Pretty bad."
"I know," he whispered. "I looked before you came in. It was as black as the hubs of hell."
She slipped an arm behind him and held him up as she straightened his pillow. She let him sink back gently. "I don't know. Some mornings I've seen it worse."
"Don't kid me." He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. "I got a hunch today's the day," he whispered, his eyes on her face.
"You'll feel better after I get some orange juice into you."
"The hell with that," he whispered vehemently. "Who ever heard of going to hell on orange juice? Get me some champagne!"
Silently she put down the orange juice and picked up a tall glass. She filled it with cubes from the Thermos bucket and poured the champagne over it. Putting the glass straw into the glass, she held it for him.
"I can still hold my own drink," he said.
The teletype in the corner of the room began to chatter. She walked over to look at it. "What is it?"
"Some speech Landon made at a Republican dinner last night."
"Turn it off," he said testily.
He held out the glass to her and she took it and put it back on the table. The telephone began to ring. She picked it up. "It's the feature editor in L.A.," she said. "He's returning the call you made to him yesterday."
"Tell him I want Dick Tracy for the paper out here." She nodded and repeated the message into the telephone and hung up. She turned back and saw his face was covered with perspiration again.
"Your son Charles made me promise to call him if I thought it was necessary."
"Don't," he snapped. "Who needs him here to gloat over me? The son of a bitch has been waiting around for years for me to kick off. He wants to get his hands on the papers." He chuckled soundlessly. "I’ll bet the damn fool has the papers come out for Roosevelt the day after the funeral."
A spasm of pain shot through him and he sat up suddenly, almost bolt upright, in the bed. "Oh, Jesus!" he said, clutching at his belly. Instantly, her arm was around his shoulders, supporting him, while with her other hand, she reached for a syrette of morphine. "Not yet, Jennie, please."
She looked at him for a moment, then put the syrette back on the table. "All right," she said. "Tell me when."
He sank back against the pillow and she wiped his face again. He closed his eyes and lay quietly for a moment. Then he opened them and there was a look of terror in them she had never seen before. "I feel like I'm choking!" he said, sitting up, his hand over his mouth.
Quickly, without turning around, she reached for the drain pan on the table behind her and held it under his mouth. He coughed and heaved and brought up a black brackish bile. She put down the pan and wiped his mouth and chin and let him sink to the pillow again.
He looked up at her through tear-filled eyes, trying to smile. "Christ," he whispered hoarsely. "That tasted like my own piss!"
She didn't answer and he closed his eyes wearily. She could see him shiver under the onslaught of the pain. After a few minutes, he spoke without opening his eyes. "You know, Jennie," he whispered, "I thought the sweetest agony I’d ever know was coming. But going's got it beat a million miles."
He opened his eyes and looked at her. The terror was gone from them and a deep, wise calm had taken its place. He smiled slowly. "All right, Jennie," he whispered, looking into her eyes. "Now!"
Her eyes still fastened to his, she reached behind her for a syrette. Automatically she found the sunken vein and squeezed the syrette dry. She picked up another. He smiled again as he saw it in her hand. "Thanks, Jennie," he whispered.
She bent forward and kissed the pale, damp forehead. "Good-by, Charlie."
He leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes as she plunged the second syrette into his arm. Soon there were six empty syrettes lying on the cover of the bed beside him. She sat there very quietly, her fingers on his pulse, as the beat grew fainter and fainter. At last, it stopped completely. She stared down at him for a moment, then pressed down the lids over his eyes and drew the cover over his face.
She got to her feet, putting the syrettes into her uniform pocket as she wearily crossed the room and picked up the telephone.
******
The butler met her in the hallway as she was going to her room. He had an envelope in his hand. "Mr. Standhurst asked me to give this to you, Miss Denton. He gave it to me before you came on duty this morning."
"Thank you, Judson." She closed the door behind her and tore open the envelope as she crossed the room. Enclosed were five thousand-dollar bills and a small note in his scratchy handwriting.
DEAR JENNIE,
By now you must understand the reason I wanted you to stay with me. One thing I could never understand is that false mercy so many proclaim while prolonging the agony of approaching death.
Enclosed find your severance pay. You may use it as you will—to provide for a rainy day while you continue to waste your life in the generally unrewarding care of others; or, if you've half the intelligence I give you credit for and are half the woman I think, you'll use it as tuition to Aida's school, which for the sake of a better name I shall call Standhurst College, and go on from there to a more luxurious manner of living.
With gratitude and affection, I remain,
Sincerely,
C. STANDHURST
Still holding the note in her hand, she went to the closet and took down her valise. She placed it on the bed and slowly began to pack. Less than an hour later, she left the cab and hurried up the steps into the church, adjusting the scarf she wore around her throat over her head. She genuflected at the back of the church and hurried down the aisle to the altar, turning left toward the statue of the Virgin.
She knelt and clasped her hands as she bowed her head for a moment. Then she turned and took a candle from the rack and held a burning taper to it before placing it among the other candles beneath the statue. Again she bowed her head and knelt for a moment, then turned and hurried back up the aisle. At the door, she dipped her fingers into the Holy Fount and blessed herself, then opened her purse and pressed a bill into the slot of the collection box.
That night, the rector had a very pleasant surprise. There, in the collection box, amidst all the silver and copper coins, was a neatly folded thousand-dollar bill.
******
The gray Rolls-Royce was parked in the driveway of the old house on Dalehurst Avenue in Westwood as Jennie pulled up in a cab. She got out and paid the driver, then went to the door and put her valise down as she pressed the bell.
From somewhere in the house, a chime sounded. A moment later, the door opened and a maid said, "This way, please, miss."
Aida was seated on the couch, a tray of tea and cookies on the table before her. "You can put the valise with the others, Mary."
"Yes'm," the maid said.
Jennie turned and saw the maid put her valise next to some others standing by the door. She turned back to Aida. A newspaper was open on the couch beside her, the big, black headlines staring up.
STANDHURST DEAD!
Aida got up and took her hand, gently pulling her down to the couch. "Sit down, my dear," she said softly. "I've been expecting you. We have plenty of time for a cup of tea before we go to the train."
"To the train?"
"Of course, my dear," Aida said. "We're going to Chicago. It's the only place in the United States for a girl to start her career."
TWELVE
THE BIG TWENTY-FOUR SHEET FROM THE BILLBOARD HUNG OVER THE MAKESHIFT STAGE AT THE ARMY CAMP. It was an enlargement of the famous color photograph from the cover of Life magazine. Looking up at it, Jennie remembered the photographer perching precariously on the top rung of the ladder near the ceiling, aiming his camera down toward her on the bed.
From that angle, her legs had been too long and had gone out of the frame, so he'd turned her around and placed her feet up on the white satin tufted headboard. Then the flash bulb had gone off, blinding her for a moment as they always did, and history had been made.
She'd been wearing a decorously cut black lace nightgown, which covered her completely from throat to ankles. Yet it had clung so revealingly, the soft tones of her flesh glowing in contrast to the black lace, that it left nothing to the imagination—the swollen nipples, irritated by the material across her jutting breasts, the soft curve of her stomach, and the sharply rising pubis, which couldn't be hidden because of the position of her legs. Her long blond hair spilled downward over the edge of the bed and the blinding light of the flash bulb had thrown a sensual invitation into her eyes as she smiled at the invisible onlooker, upside down, from the lower-left-hand corner.
Life had published the photograph with but one word emblazoned in white block letters beneath it:
DENTON
That had been almost a year ago, in October of 1941, about the time The Sinner was having its world première in New York. She remembered the surprise she'd felt, walking through the lobby of the Waldorf, with Jonas at her side, coming onto rows of photographs of herself hanging across the newsstand magazine racks.
"Look," she'd said, stopping in wonder. Jonas smiled at her in that particular way which, she knew by now, meant he was particularly pleased with something. He'd crossed to the newsstand and throwing a coin down picked up the magazine from the rack. He handed it to her as they went into the elevator.
She opened the magazine on the way up. The headline loomed over the text: Spirituality in Sex.
Jonas Cord, a wealthy young man, who makes airplanes, explosives, plastics and money (see Life, Oct. '39) and, when the spirit moves him, occasionally makes a motion picture (The Renegade, 1930, Devils in the Sky, 1932), has come up with a highly personalized version, in the De Mille tradition, of the story of Mary Magdalene. He calls it, with his customary frankness, The Sinner.
Without a doubt, the single most important factor contributing to the impact of this motion picture is the impressive performance of the young woman Mr. Cord selected to play the title role, Jennie Denton.
Miss Denton, without prior experience in motion pictures or at acting, has a most newsworthy effect upon audiences. With all the overtly sexual awareness that the motions of her body (37-21-36) seem to suggest, the viewer is at the same time aware of the deeply spiritual quality that always emanates from her. Perhaps this stems from her eyes, which are wide-set and gray and deep with a knowledge and wisdom of pain and love and death, far beyond her years. In some strange manner, she appears to project the paradoxical contrasts of our times—the self-seeking aggressions of man's search for physical satisfaction and his desire for spiritual values greater than himself.
The elevator door opened and she felt Jonas' hand on her arm. She closed the magazine and they walked out of the elevator. "My God, do they really believe that?"
He smiled. "I guess they do. That's one magazine you can't buy for advertising. I told you you were going to be a star," he said as they walked into his apartment.
She was to leave for the Coast immediately after the première to begin another picture. She saw the script lying on the table in front of the couch. Jonas walked over and picked it up, and riffled the pages. "I don't like it."
"I don't like it, either. But Maurice says it will make a mint."
"I don't care," he said. "I just don't like the idea of you being in it." He crossed to the telephone. "Get me Mr. Bonner at the Sherry-Netherland."
"Maurice, this is Jonas," he said curtly, a moment later. "Cancel Stareyes. I don't want Denton in it."
She heard Bonner's excited protest all the way across the room. "I don't care," Jonas said. "Get someone else to play it ... who? ... Hayworth, Sheridan. Anyone you want. And from now on, Denton isn't to be scheduled for any picture until I approve the script."
He put down the telephone and turned to her. He was smiling. "You hear that?"
She smiled back at him. "Yes, boss."
The photograph had been an instant success. Everywhere you went, it stared out at you—from walls, from display counters, from calendars and from posters. And she, too, had gone on to fame. She was a star and when she returned to the Coast, she found that Jonas had approved a new contract for her.
But a year had gone by, including the bombs at Pearl Harbor, and still she had made no other picture. Not that it mattered. The Sinner was in its second year at the big Norman Theater in New York and was still playing limited-first-run engagements wherever it opened. It was proving to be the biggest-grossing picture the company had ever made.
Her routine became rigid and unvarying. Between publicity appearances at each première, as the picture opened across the country, she remained on the Coast. Each morning, she'd go to the studio. There her day would be filled—dramatic lessons in the morning; luncheon, generally with some interviewer; voice, singing and dancing lessons in the afternoon. Her evenings were generally spent alone, unless Jonas happened to be in town. Then she was with him every night.
Occasionally, she'd have dinner with David and Rosa Woolf. She liked Rosa and their happy little baby, who just now was learning how to walk and bore the impressive name of Henry Bernard, after David's father and uncle. But most of the time she spent alone in her small house with the Mexican woman. The word was out. She was Jonas' girl. And Jonas' girl she remained.
It was only when she was with him that she did not feel the loneliness and lack of purpose that was looming larger and larger inside. She began to grow restless. It was time for her to go to work. She read scripts avidly and several times, when she thought she'd found one she might like to do, she got in touch with Jonas. As always, he'd promise to read it and then call her several days later to say he didn't think it was right for her. There was always a reason.
Once, in exasperation, she'd asked him why he kept her on the payroll if he had nothing for her to do. For a moment, he'd been silent. When he spoke, his voice was cold and final. "You're not an actress," he said. "You're a star. And stars can only shine when everything else is right."
A few days later, Al Petrocelli, the publicity man, came to her dressing room at the studio. "Bob Hope's doing a show for the boys at Camp Pendleton. He wants you on it."
She turned on the couch on which she was sitting and put down the script she'd been reading. "I can do it?" she asked, looking at him.
They both knew what she meant. "Bonner talked to Cord. They both agreed the exposure would be good for you. Di Santis will be in charge of whipping up an act for you."
"Good," she said, getting to her feet. "It will be great having something to do again."
And now, after six weeks of extensive rehearsal of a small introductory speech and one song, which had been carefully polished, phrased and orchestrated to show her low, husky voice to its greatest advantage, she stood in the wings of the makeshift stage, waiting to go on. She shivered in the cool night air despite the mink coat wrapped around her.
She peeked out from behind the wings at the audience. A roar of laughter rolled toward her from the rows upon rows of soldiers, stretching into the night as far as the eye could see. Hope had just delivered one of his famous off-color, serviceman-only kind of jokes that could never have got on the air during his coast-to-coast broadcasts. She pulled her head back, still shivering. "Nervous, eh?" Al asked. "Never worked before an audience before? Don't worry, it'll soon pass."
A sudden memory of Aida and the routine she'd made her perform before a small but select group of wealthy men in New Orleans flashed through her mind. "Oh, I've worked in front of an audience before." Then when she saw the look of surprise on his face, "When I was in college," she added dryly. She turned back to watch Bob Hope. Somehow, the memory made her feel better.
Al turned to the soldier standing next to him. "Now, you know what you got to do, Sergeant?"
"I got it down perfect, Mr. Petrocelli."
"Good," Al said. He glanced out at the stage. Hope was nearing the end of his routine. Al turned back to the soldier, a twenty-dollar bill appearing magically in his hand. "She'll be going on any minute," he said. "Now, you get down there in the front near the stage. And don't forget. Speak up loud and clear."
"Yes, Mr. Petrocelli," the soldier said, the twenty disappearing into his pocket.
"There'll be another after the show if everything goes right."
"For another twenty, Mr. Petrocelli," the soldier said, "you don't have to worry. They'll hear me clear to Alaska."
Al nodded worriedly and turned toward the stage as the soldier went out and around the wings. Hope was just beginning Jennie's introduction. "And now, men," he said into the microphone, "for the high spot of the evening— " He paused for a moment, holding up his hands to still the starting applause. "The reason we're all here. Even the entire officer's club." He waited until the laughter died away. "Girl-watching!"
"Now, men," he continued, "when I first told the War Department who was coming here tonight, they said, 'Oh, no, Mr. Hope. We just haven't enough seat belts for that many chairs.' But I reassured them. I told them you soldiers knew how to handle any situation." There was laughter again but this time, there was an expectancy in its sound. Hope held up his hands. "And so, fellers, I give you—"
The lights suddenly dimmed and a baby spot picked up Jennie's head as she peeked out past the curtain. "Fasten your seat belts, men!" Hope shouted. "Jennie Denton!"
And the stage went to black except for the spotlight on Jennie. A roar burst from the audience as she cautiously and tentatively, in the manner in which she had thoroughly rehearsed, walked out on the stage, covered completely by the full mink coat.
The noise washed over her and she felt its vibrations in the wooden floor beneath her feet as she came to a stop in front of the microphone. She stood there quietly, looking at them, her blond page-boy haircut catching and reflecting the gleaming light. The soldiers whistled and screamed and stomped.
After a few minutes had passed, during which the noise showed no signs of abatement, she leaned toward the microphone. "If you men will give me just a minute," she said in a low voice, letting her coat slip from one shoulder. "I'll take my coat off."
If possible, the noise grew even louder as she slowly and deliberately took off the coat. She let it fall to the stage behind her and stood there, revealed in a white, diamond-sequined, skin-tight evening gown. She leaned toward the microphone again and one shoulder strap slipped from her shoulder. Quickly she caught at it. "This is most embarrassing. I've never been with so many men before."
They roared enthusiastically.
"Now I don't know what to do," she said in a soft voice.
"Don't do nothin', baby," came a stentorian roar from down front, near the stage, "Jus' stand there!"
Again, pandemonium broke loose as she smiled and peered in the direction of the voice. She waited until the sound died down slightly. "I have a little song I'd like to sing for you," she said. "Would you like that?"
"Yes!" The sound came back from a thousand throats.
"O.K.," she said and moved closer to the microphone, clutching again at her falling strap. "Now, if you'll just pretend you're at home, listening to the radio, if you'll close your eyes—"
"Close our eyes?" the stentorian voice roared again. "Baby, we may be in the Army but we're not crazy!"
She smiled helplessly at the roar of laughter as the music slowly came up. Slowly the spot narrowed to just her face as silence came down on the audience. The music was the studio arranger at his best. An old torch song but done in beguine rhythm with the piano, the winds and the violins playing the melody against the rhythm of the drums and the big bass.
She came in right on cue, her eyes half closed against the spotlight, her lower lip shining. "I wanna be loved by you," she sang huskily. "And nobody else but you.
"I wanna be loved by you.
"A-low-oh-ohne."
The roar that came rolling out from the audience all but drowned out her voice and for a moment she was frightened by all the repressed sexuality she heard in it.
THIRTEEN
MAURICE BONNER WALKED INTO THE HOLLYWOOD BROWN DERBY, THE THICK BLUE-PAPER-BOUND SCRIPT UNDER HIS ARM. The headwaiter bowed. "Good afternoon, Mr. Bonner. Mr. Pierce is already here."
They walked down to a booth in the rear of the restaurant. Dan looked up from a copy of the Hollywood Reporter. He put down the paper next to his drink. "Hello, Maurice."
Bonner dropped into the seat opposite him. "Hello," he said. He looked over at the trade paper. "See the write-up our girl got?"
Dan nodded.
"That wasn't the half of it," Bonner said. "Al Petrocelli told me he never saw anything like it. They wouldn't let her get off the stage and then when it was over, they almost tore her clothes off while she was getting to the car. Hope called me first thing this morning and said he wants her any time she's available."
"More proof that I’m right," Pierce said. "I think she's bigger now than Marlowe ever was." He shot a shrewd glance at Bonner. "Still going up there one night a week?"
Bonner smiled. There were no secrets in this town. "No. After The Sinner opened in New York, Cord tore up her old contract and gave her a new one."
"I don't get it."
"It's simple," Bonner said. "The morning she got the contract, she came into my office. She borrowed my pen and signed it, then looked up at me and said, 'Now I don't have to fuck for nobody. Even you!' And she picks up the contract and walks out."
Pierce laughed. "I don't believe her. Once a cunt, always a cunt. She's got an angle."
"She has. Jonas Cord. I got a hunch she's going to marry him."
"That would serve the son of a bitch right," Pierce said harshly. "He still doesn't know she was a whore?"
"He doesn't know."
"Just shows you. No matter how smart you think you are, there's always some bint that's smarter." Pierce laughed. "How's Jonas doing?"
"Making nothing but money," Bonner said. "But you know Jonas. He still isn't happy."
"Why not?"
"He tried to get into the Air Corps and they wouldn't take him. They refused to give him a commission, saying he was too important to the war effort. So he leaves Washington in a huff and flies to New York and enlists as a private, the schmuck."
"But he still ain't in the Army," Pierce said.
"Of course not. He flunked the physical—perforated eardrums or something stupid like that. So they classify him 4-F and the next week, they take Roger Forrester back as a brigadier general."
"I hear David's going up for his physical soon," Pierce said.
"Any day now, the jerk. He could easily get a deferment. Married, with a baby; especially now the industry's got an essential rating. But he won't ask for it." He looked across the table at Pierce. "Even Nevada's taking his Wild-West show out on the road to work for free on the War Bond drives."
"It just proves that there are still some people around who think the world is flat," Dan said. He signaled the waiter for another round of drinks. "All those guys. I practically started them in the business. Today they all got it made and where am I? Still trying to make a deal."
Bonner looked at him. He didn't feel sorry for Pierce. Dan was still one of the most successful agents in Hollywood. "Yeah," he said sarcastically. "My heart bleeds for you. I already heard the story of your life, Dan. That isn't why I came to lunch."
Dan was a sharp enough agent to know he was in danger of losing his audience. He turned off the complaints and lowered his voice to a confidential tone. "You read the script?"
Bonner picked the script up from the seat beside him and placed it on the table. "I read it."
"Great, isn't it?" Pierce asked, the selling enthusiasm beginning to creep into his voice.
"It's good." Bonner nodded his head pedantically. "Needs a lot of work, though."
"What script doesn't?" Pierce asked with a smile. He leaned forward. "Now, the way I see it, this script needs a strong producer like you. Wanger, over at Universal, is nuts about it. So is Zimbalist, over at Metro. But I can't see it for them. They just ain't got the feel and showmanship you got."
"Let's skip the bullshit, Dan. We both know the script is good only if we can get a certain girl to play in it. And we both know who that is."
"Denton," Pierce said quickly. "That's my thinking, too. That's why I brought it to you. She's under contract to your studio."
"But Jonas has the final say on what pictures she makes. And he's turned thumbs down on some pretty good ones."
"What's he trying to do?" Pierce asked. "Hide her away in a closet and keep her for himself? You can't do that to a star. Sooner or later, she busts out."
Bonner shrugged. "You know Jonas. Nobody asks why."
"Maybe he'll like the script."
"Even if he did," Bonner said, "once he sees you're the agent, the whole deal goes out the window."
"What if the girl puts the pressure on and says she's got to do it?"
Bonner shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. But I’m not going to give it to her. I'm not getting into trouble over any script. No matter how good it is, there's always another."
Pierce stared at him, his fleshy lips tightening grimly. "I got an idea we can make her see it our way," he said. "I got my hands on—"
Bonner stopped him. "Don't tell me. If it happens, let it come as a pleasant surprise. I don't want to know anything about it."
Pierce stared at him for a moment, then relaxed back into his seat. He picked up the menu. "O.K., Maurice," he said, smiling. "What you going to eat?"
******
The mail was on the small desk in the living room when Jennie got back from the studio. She walked over to the desk and sat down. "We'll have dinner about eight thirty," she said. "I want to take a bath and rest up first."
"Sí, señorita," Maria answered and waddled away.
Jennie looked at the mail. There were two envelopes, one large manila one, which from experience she guessed contained a script, and a letter. She opened the letter first. The letterhead across the top read: St. Mary's College of Nursing. Her eyes flicked down the page. It was in Sister M. Christopher's precise script.
DEAR JENNIE,
This is just a short note to express the appreciation of the students and the staff of St. Mary's College for the special screening of your picture which you were kind enough to arrange for us.
The Reverend Mother and the sisters, including myself, were all most impressed by the moving expression of the faith and love for our Saviour, Jesus Christ, that you brought to your interpretation of what must have been a most exacting and difficult portrayal. It is unfortunate indeed that the makers of the motion picture thought it necessary to include certain scenes which we felt could very easily have been omitted without impairment to the story of the Magdalen. But on the whole, we were extremely pleased that in these troubled times, so noble a demonstration of the Redeeming Grace to be found in the Love of Our Lord is available for all to see.
Now I must close for I am soon due in Surgery. Since the war, all of us in the school, and in the hospital, are working double shifts due to the shortages of help. But with Our Lord's Grace, we shall redouble our poor efforts to extend His Mercy.
The Reverend Mother extends to you Her Most Gracious blessing and prays that you may continue to find success and happiness in your new career.
Sincerely yours in J. C.,
SISTER M. CHRISTOPHER
A vision of the sister's austere, observant face flashed through her mind, together with a twinge of nostalgia for the years she had spent at the college. Somehow, it seemed such a long time ago. It was as if she were a completely different person from the wide-eyed, nervous girl who first appeared in the Reverend Mother's office.
She remembered the quiet hours of study and the long hours of training and the exhausting hours of sheer drudgery in the hospital. There had been times when she'd cry out of sheer frustration at her inability to learn all that was taught her. It was during those moments that the mask of austerity would disappear from the sister's face and she would place her hand comfortingly on the girl's shoulder. "Work hard and pray hard, Jennie," she'd say gently, "and you will learn. You have the true gift of healing within you."
And she would feel comforted and her strength would be renewed as she saw how unsparingly the sister gave of herself to all, both patients and students. It seemed that no matter what hour of the day or night Jennie was on duty, Sister Christopher was always nearby.
Jennie reached for a cigarette. All of them must be working terribly hard if the sister mentioned it in a letter. Sister Christopher was never given to make much of her own efforts. A feeling of uselessness swept through Jennie as she thought of the comparatively easy life she led. She looked down at her strong, lean hands. She did so little with them now. The knowledge that was in them seemed to tingle in her fingertips. There must be something she could do to help the sisters.
There was. She reached for the telephone at the same time she had the idea and dialed quickly. "Rosa? This is Jennie."
"How are you, Jennie? David told me how you almost broke up the United States Army with the Hope show."
Jennie laughed. "The poor kids have been away from women too long."
"Don't hand me that. The trade papers said you were great."
"Don't tell me David's got you reading them?"
"Sure thing," Rosa said. "Isn't that what every wife in the business does? It's the only way they can keep track of what their husbands are doing."
"How's little Bernie?"
"Why don't you come over for dinner one night and see for yourself? It's been a long time."
"I will. Soon."
"Do you want to talk to David?"
"If he's there," Jennie said politely.
"Good-by, dear," Rosa said, "and dinner real soon? Here's David."
"How's the pride and joy of the Norman lot?"
"Fine. I’m sorry to disturb you at home, David, but I had a little problem I thought you could advise me on."
His voice became serious. "Shoot."
She cleared her throat. "I went to St. Mary's College of Nursing on a scholarship and I was wondering if I could arrange with the studio to take something out of my pay check each week and send it to them the way they do with the Motion Picture Relief Fund. It would be sort of paying them back a little for all they did for me."
"That's easy." David laughed, a kind of relief in his voice. "Just send a note to my office tomorrow morning telling me how much you want taken off and we'll do the rest. Anything else?"
"No, that's all."
"Good. Now, you come to dinner like Rosa said."
"I will, David. Good-by."
She put down the telephone and looked at the letter again. She began to feel better. At least, even if she couldn't be there herself to help, her money would do some good. She put down the letter and picking up the manila envelope, ripped it open. She had been right. It was a script, a long one.
Curiously she read the title on the blue cover. Aphrodite; a screenplay based on a novel by Pierre Louys. She opened the script to the first page and a note fell out. It was brief and to the point.
DEAR MISS DENTON:
It has been a long time since you made a motion picture and I believe you were wise to wait for the proper script with which to follow up your tremendous success in The Sinner.
Aphrodite, I believe, is that script. It is the one property I have seen that has the scope and the quality to add luster to your career. I shall be most interested in your reaction.
Sincerely,
DAN PIERCE
She folded the letter and put it back in the script. That Dan Pierce was a cutie. He knew better than to submit the script to the studio in the usual manner. She picked up the script and started upstairs to her room. She would read it in bed after dinner.
FOURTEEN
DEAR MR. PIERCE:
Thank you for sending me the enclosed script of Aphrodite, which I am returning. It is a most interesting screenplay. However, it is not one that I should particularly care to do.
JENNIE DENTON
She wondered whether she had been right in so summarily dismissing the script. She had mixed feelings about it. At night, in bed, reading it for the first time, she could not put it down. There was a fascination about the story that brought to her mind Standhurst's description of the courtesan who helped rule the world. The screenplay seemed to capture the sensual imagery and poetry of the original work and yet bring it all within the limitations and confines of the Motion Picture Code. Yet, the more she read, the less enthusiastic she became.
There was not one single line or scene that could be found objectionable. On the surface. Yet, beneath the surface, there was an acute awareness of the erotic byplay that would subtly work on an audience's subconscious. By the time she reached the end of the screenplay, she felt this was the writer's only purpose.
She fell asleep, oddly disturbed, and awoke still disturbed. At the studio, the next morning, she'd sent to the library for a copy of the original novel, then spent all of that day and part of the next reading it. After that, she again read the screenplay. It was not until then that she realized how boldly the beauty and purpose of the story had been distorted.
Still, there was no doubt in her mind that it could be made into a great motion picture. And even less doubt that the actress who played Aphrodite would become the most talked about and important actress of that season. The Aphrodite of the script was truly the goddess and woman who was all things to all men.
But that was not enough. For, nowhere in the screenplay could she find the soul of Aphrodite, the one moment of spiritual love and contemplation that would lift her out of herself and make her one truly with the gods. She was beautiful and warm and clever and loving and even moral, according to her own concept. But she was a whore, no better than any since time immemorial, no better than any Jennie had known, no better than Jennie herself had been. And something inside Jennie was appalled by what she had read. For, in another time and another place, she saw herself — what she had been and what she still remained.
She put the envelope on the dressing table and pressed the button for a messenger just as the telephone rang. She picked it up. It was not until she heard his voice that she knew how much she'd missed him. "Jonas! Where are you? When did you get in?"
"I'm at the plant in Burbank. I want to see you."
"Oh, Jonas, I want to see you, too. It will seem like such a long day."
"Why wait until tonight? Can't you come over here for lunch?"
"You know I can."
"One o'clock?"
"I’ll be there," she said, putting down the telephone.
******
"You can leave it here, John," Jonas said. "We'll help ourselves."
"Yes, Mr. Cord." The porter looked at Jennie, then back at Jonas. "Would it," he began hesitantly, "would it be all right if I troubled Miss Denton for her autograph?"
Jonas laughed. "Ask her."
The porter looked inquiringly at Jennie. She smiled and nodded. He took a pencil and paper from his pocket and quickly she scrawled her name on it. "Thank you, Miss Denton."
Jennie laughed as the door closed behind him. "Signing my autograph always makes me feel like a queen." She looked around the office. "This is nice."
"It's not mine," Jonas said, pouring coffee into two cups. "It's Forrester's. I'm just using it while he's away."
"Oh," she said curiously. "Where is yours?"
"I don't have any, except the one that used to be my father's in the old plant in Nevada. I'm never in any one place long enough to really need one." He pulled a chair around near her and sat down. He drank his coffee and looked at her quietly.
She could feel an embarrassed blush creeping over her face. "Do I look all right? Is my make-up smeared or something?"
He shook his head and smiled. "No. You look fine."
She sipped at her coffee and an awkward silence came between them. "What have you been doing?" she asked.
"Thinking, mostly. About us," he answered, looking at her steadily. "You. Me. This last time I was away from you, for the first time in my life I was lonely. Nothing was right. I wanted to see no other girls. Only you."
Her heart seemed to swell, choking her. She felt, somehow, that if she tried to move, she would faint. Jonas put his hand in his pocket and came out with a small box, which he handed to her. She stared down at it dumbly. The small gold letters stared up at her. Van Cleef & Arpels.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it. The beautifully cut heart-shaped diamond suddenly released its radiance. "I want to marry you," he said softly.
She felt the hot, grateful tears push their way into her eyes as she looked at him. Her lips trembled but she could not speak.
******
It was the headline and lead story in Louella's column the next day. The telephone had been ringing in her dressing room all morning, until finally she'd asked the switchboard to screen all her calls. The operator's voice had a new respect in it. As Jennie started to put the telephone down the operator said, "Miss Denton?"
"Yes."
"The girls on the switchboard all wish you the best of luck."
Jennie felt a sudden happy rush of warmth go through her. "Why, thank you."
Later in the afternoon, Rosa called. "I'm so happy for both of you."
"I'm in a daze," Jennie laughed, looking down at the diamond sparkling on her finger.
"You know that dinner invitation?"
"Yes."
"David and I were just thinking. How would you like to make it an engagement party? At Romanoff's with all the trimmings."
"I don't know." Jennie hesitated. "I’d better check with Jonas."
Rosa laughed. "Jonas? Who's he? Only the groom. Nobody ever asks the groom what he wants. It doesn't have to be a big party, if you don't want one."
"All right." Jennie laughed. "You've twisted my arm."
"And you'll have a chance to show off your engagement ring. I hear it's a real smasher."
Jennie held out her hand and the diamond winked at her. "It's very nice," she said.
"Bernie is yelling for his dinner. I’ll call you at home tonight and we'll make the arrangements."
"Thanks, Rosa. 'By."
******
There was a strange car parked in the driveway when she got home from the studio that night. She drove into the garage and entered the house through the back door. If it was another reporter, she didn't want to see him. The Mexican woman was in the kitchen. "A Señor Pierce is in the living room, señorita.
What could he want, she wondered. Perhaps he hadn't received the script yet and had dropped by for it. Pierce was seated in a deep chair, a copy of the script open on his lap. He got to his feet and nodded. "Miss Denton."
"Mr. Pierce. Did you get the script? I sent it out several days ago."
He smiled. "I got it. But I thought perhaps we might discuss it further. I'm hoping I can talk you into changing your mind."
She shook her head. "I don't think so."
"Before we talk about it," he said quickly, "may I offer my congratulations on your engagement?"
"Thank you. But now I must ask you to excuse me. I do have an appointment."
"I'll only take a few minutes of your time." He bent over and picked up a small carrying case that had been lying on the floor behind the chair.
"But; really, Mr. Pierce—"
"I'll only be a few minutes." There was a peculiar sureness in his voice. It was as if he knew she would not dare to refuse him. He pressed a button and the top of the carrying case popped open. "Do you know what this is, Miss Denton?" he asked.
She didn't answer. She was beginning to get angry. If this was his idea of a joke, she wasn't going to like it. "It's an eight-millimeter projector," he said in a conversational tone, as he snapped on a lens. "The kind ordinarily used for the showing of home movies."
"Very interesting. But I hardly see what it has to do with me."
"You will," he promised, looking up. His eyes were cold. He turned, looking for an electrical outlet. He found one against the wall behind the chair and swiftly plugged the cord from the projector into it.
"I think that white wall across from you will do very well for a screen, don't you?" He turned the projector toward it and flicked a switch. "I took the liberty of putting on the reel of film before I came here."
The whir of film sounded and Jennie turned to watch the picture being thrown against the wall. The scene showed two naked girls on a couch, their arms around each other, their faces hidden. A warning bell echoed in her mind. There was something curiously familiar about the scene.
"I got this film from a friend of mine in New Orleans." Pierce's voice came casually from behind her as a man walked into the scene. He, too, was nude and one of the girls turned toward him, facing directly into the camera.
Unconsciously Jennie let out a gasp. The girl was herself. Then she remembered. It had been that time in New Orleans. She turned to stare at Dan Pierce, her face white.
"You were photogenic even then. You should have made sure there was no camera."
"There wasn't any," she gasped. "Aida would never have permitted it." She stared at him silently, her mouth and throat suddenly dry.
He pressed a switch and as the film stopped, the light faded. "I can see you're not very interested in home movies."
"What do you want?" she asked.
"You." He began to close up the machine. "But not in the usual sense," he added quickly. "I want you to play Aphrodite."
"And if I don't choose to?"
"You're lovely, you're a star, you're engaged," he said casually. "You might not be any of the three if this film should happen to fall into the wrong hands. Together with a summary of your professional activities." His cold eyes flashed at her. "No man, even one as crazy as Jonas Cord, wants to marry the town whore."
"I'm under contract to Norman. My contract doesn't allow me to make any outside pictures."
"I know," Dan said calmly. "But I'm sure Cord would authorize the purchase of this script if you asked him. Bonner will make the picture."
"What if he won't? Jonas has pretty definite ideas about pictures."
A faint smile came to his lips. "Then, make him change them."
She drew in her breath slowly. "And if I do?"
"Why, then you get the film, of course."
"The negative, too?"
He nodded.
"How do I know that there are no dupes?"
His eyebrows went up approvingly. "I see you've learned," he said. "I paid five thousand dollars for that little can of film. And I wouldn't have done that if I hadn't been sure there were no other copies. Besides, why kill the goose? We may want to do business together again sometime."
He packed up the projector. "I’ll leave the script with you."
She didn't answer.
He turned, his hand on the door, and looked back. "I told you I'd only be a few minutes," he said.
FIFTEEN
DAN PIERCE GOT TO HIS FEET, RAPPING HIS CUP WITH A TINY SPOON. He surveyed the table owlishly. He was drunk, happy drunk, as much on success as on the Scotch whisky he had so generously imbibed.
He nodded his head as they all looked up at him. "Dan Pierce doesn't forget who his friends are. He does things righ'. I brought the engaged couple each a presen'." He turned, snapping his fingers.
"Yes, Mr. Pierce," the maître d' said quickly. He gestured and a waiter came up with two packages, looked down at the tag on each and deposited the large gold-wrapped box in front of Jonas, the smaller silver-wrapped package by Jennie.
"Thank you, Dan," Jonas said.
"Open it up, Jonas," Dan said drunkenly. "I wan' ev'ybody to see the presents."
Jennie felt a strange foreboding. "We'll open them later, Dan."
"No," he said insistently. "Now."
She looked around the table. They were all watching curiously. She looked at Jonas. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled at her. She started to open her gift. It was wrapped so tight, she reached for a knife to cut it just as Jonas finished taking the wrapping from his. "Hey," Jonas said, laughing, as he held it up for all to see. "A magnum of champagne!"
Her present was in a small but beautifully inlaid mahogany case. She opened it and stared down, feeling the color drain from her face. Jonas took the case from her hands and held it up for everyone to see. "It's a set of English razors," he said and grinned at Dan. "The waiter must have got the labels mixed. Thanks again, Dan."
Abruptly Pierce sat down. He was smiling.
Jennie felt them all watching her. She raised her head and looked around the table. It was as if she knew what they were thinking. Of the twelve other couples seated around the large table, she had known five of the men before she'd made the test. Irving Schwartz, Bonner, three others, who were top-ranking executives with other companies. The other seven men all knew. Some of their wives, too. She could see it in their eyes. In only two of the men could she see any sympathy. David and Nevada Smith.
David she could understand. But she did not understand why Nevada should feel sorry for her. He scarcely knew her. He had always seemed so quiet, even shy, when they met at the studio. But now there was a wild sort of anger deep in his black Indian eyes as he looked from her to Dan Pierce.
Thirteen men, she thought and all but one of them knew her for what she'd been. And the thirteenth was the unlucky one. He was going to marry her. She felt a light touch on her arm. Rosa's voice broke the silence that threatened to engulf her. "I think it's about time we went to the little girl's room."
Jennie nodded dumbly and followed her from the table silently. She could feel the eyes of other diners following her. Without even returning their glances, she recognized several other men she had known and saw their wise, knowing smiles. She began to feel sick. Rosa drew the curtain in front of the small alcove in the corner as Jennie sank silently onto the couch. Rosa lit a cigarette and handed it to her.
Jennie looked up at her, the cigarette in her fingers already forgotten. The tears started to come into her eyes. "Why?" she asked in a hurt, bewildered voice. "I don't understand. What did I ever do to him?"
She began to cry silently as Rosa sat down beside her and drew her head down to her shoulder.
******
Dan Pierce chuckled to himself as he threaded his way to his car through the dark and deserted parking lot. Wait until he told the story in the locker room at Hillcrest tomorrow morning. The men would laugh their heads off. None of them really liked Jonas, anyway.
True, they tolerated him. But they didn't accept him. There was a difference. They all respected Jonas' success but they wouldn't lift a finger to help him. Not like they would for Dan Pierce if he needed their help, which he didn't. He was one of them, he'd grown up in the business with them. They had their rules. They stuck together.
Wait until he told them how the broad looked. Like she was ready to sink through the floor, while all the time, Jonas stood there like a shmuck, smiling and thinking how nice everybody was. It would break them up.
A dark figure suddenly appeared out of the shadows in front of him. He peered anxiously through the darkness as it silently came closer. "Oh, it's you, Nevada. I didn' know who it was."
Nevada stood there silently.
Dan laughed aloud as he remembered. "Wasn' that a bitch, though?" He chortled, reaching out a hand toward Nevada to steady himself. "I thought she'd bust when she opened the case and saw the razors. An' Jonas, the jerk, he don' even know what he's gettin' into—"
Dan's voice suddenly choked off in a grunt of pain as Nevada sank his fist into his belly. He fell back against a car, clutching at it to hold himself up. He stared at Nevada. "Wha' you go an' do that for?" he asked in a hurt voice. "We're ol' buddies."
He saw Nevada's hand coming toward his face and tried to duck. He wasn't quick enough and felt the pain explode in his eyes. Again the hammer tore into his belly: He bent over, retching, and another blow on the side of his face sent him sprawling into his own vomit. He looked up at Nevada with frightened eyes.
It was not until then that Nevada spoke, and an icy fear came up and clutched at Dan's heart. "I should've done this a long time ago," Nevada said, looking down at him. "I oughta kill you. But you ain't worth goin' to the gas chamber for."
He turned his back contemptuously and walked away. Dan waited until the sound of the high-heeled boots faded away. Then he put his face down on his hands against the cold concrete. "It was only a joke," he cried drunkenly. "It was only a joke."
******
Jonas followed Jennie into the darkened house. "You're tired," he said gently, looking down at her white face. "It's been a big night. Go on up to bed. I'll see you tomorrow."
"No," she said flatly. She knew what she had to do. She turned and walked into the living room, switching on the light. He followed her curiously.
She turned, slipping the ring from her finger, and held it out to him. He looked at it, then at her. "Why?" he asked. "Is it because of anything I did tonight?"
She shook her head. "No," she said quickly. "It has nothing to do with you at all. Just take the ring, please."
"I'm entitled to know why, Jennie."
"I don't love you," she said. "Is that reason enough?"
"Not now it isn't."
"Then I have a better reason," she said tightly. "Before I made that screen test, I was the highest-priced whore in Hollywood."
He stared at her for a moment. "I don't believe you," he said slowly. "You couldn't have fooled me."
"You're a fool," she said sharply. "If you don't believe me, ask Bonner or any of the other four men at the table who laid me. Or any of a dozen other men I saw in the restaurant tonight."
"I still don't believe you," he said in a low voice.
She laughed. "Then ask Bonner why Pierce gave me that present. There wasn't any mix-up, he meant the razors for me. The story was all over Hollywood, the morning after Bonner left here. How I shaved all the hair off his body, then blew him in a bathtub filled with champagne."
He began to look sick.
"And why do you think I asked you to let me do Aphrodite?" she continued. "Not because I thought it was any good. It was to pay Pierce off for this." She walked quickly to the desk and took out two small reels of film. She spun one out at him, the film unwinding from the reel like a roll of confetti. "My first starring role," she said sarcastically. "A pornographic picture."
She took a cigarette from the box on the desk and lit it. She turned back to him. Her voice was quieter now. "Or maybe you're the kind of man who enjoys being married to that kind of woman, so that every time you meet another man, you can wonder. Did he or didn't he? When, where and how?"
He took a step toward her. "That's over now. It doesn't matter."
"It doesn't? Just because I was a fool for a moment, you don't have to be. How much of tonight do you think you'd have been able to take if you'd known what you know now?"
"But I love you!"
"You even kid yourself about that. You don't love me. You never have. You're in love with a memory. The memory of a girl who preferred your father to you. The first chance you had, you tried to make me over in her image. Even in bed—the things you wanted me to do. Did you really think I was so naive I didn't know those were the things she did to you?"
The ring was still in her hand. She put it on the table in front of him. "Here," she said.
He stared down at the ring. The diamond seemed to shoot angry sparks at him. He looked up at her, his face lined and drawn. "Keep it," he said curtly and walked out.
She stood there until she heard his car pull out of the driveway. Then she turned out the light and walked upstairs, leaving the ring on the table and the film, like confetti after a party, on the floor.
She lay wide-eyed on her bed staring up into the night. If she could only cry she would feel better. But she was empty inside, eaten away by her sins. There was nothing left for her to give anyone. She had used up her ration of love.
Once, long ago, she had loved and been loved. But Tom Denton was dead, lost forever, beyond recall.
She cried out into the darkness, "Daddy, help me! Please! I don't know what to do."
If she could only go back and begin again. Back to the familiar Sunday smell of corned beef and cabbage, to the gentle sound of a whispered morning Mass in her ears, to the sisters and the hospital, to the inner satisfaction of being a part of God's work.
Then her father's voice came whispering to her out of the gray light of the morning, "Do you really want to go, Jennie Bear?"
She lay very still for a moment thinking, remembering. Was that time forever gone? If she were to withhold from confession that part of her life which no longer seemed to belong to her it need not be. They would not know. It was her one real transgression. The rest of her life they already knew about.
To do so would be a sin. A sin of omission. It would invalidate any future confession that she might make. But she had so much to give and without giving it she was denying not only herself but others who would have need of her help. Which was the greater sin? For a moment she was frightened, then decided that this was a matter between her and her Maker. The decision was hers, and she alone could be held responsible, both now and at any future time.
Suddenly she made her mind up and she was no longer afraid.
"Yes, Daddy," she whispered.
His soft voice came echoing back on the wind. "Then get dressed, Jennie, and I'll go with you."
SIXTEEN
IT WAS ALMOST TWO YEARS FROM THE NIGHT OF THE PARTY BEFORE ROSA HEARD FROM JENNIE AGAIN. It was almost six months from the time she received the dreaded impersonal message from the War Department that David had been killed at the Anzio beachhead in May of 1944.
No more dreams, no more big deals, no more struggles and plans to build a giant monument of incorporation that would span the earth, linked by thin and gossamer strands of celluloid. They had come to a final stop for him, just as they had for a thousand others, in the crashing, thundering fire of an early Italian morning.
The dreams had stopped for her, too. The whisper of love in the night, the creaking of the floor beneath the footsteps on the other side of the bed, the excitement and warmth of shared confidences and plans for tomorrow.
For once, Rosa was grateful for her work. It used her mind and taxed her energy and consumed her with the day-to-day responsibilities. In time, the hurt was pushed back into the corner recesses of her mind, to be felt only when she was alone.
Then, bit by bit, the understanding came to her, as it always must to the survivors, that only a part of the dreams had been buried with him. His son was growing and one day, as she saw him running across the green lawn in the front of their home, she heard the birds begin to sing again. She looked up at the blue sky, at the white sun above her head, and knew that once again she was a living, breathing human being with the full, rich blood of life in her body. And the guilt that had been in her, because she had remained while he had gone, disappeared.
It all happened that day after she read Jennie's letter. It was addressed to her in a small, feminine script that she did not recognize. At first, she thought it another solicitation when she saw the imprimatur on the letterhead.
Sisters of Mercy
Burlingame, California
October 10, 1944
DEAR ROSA,
It is with some trepidation and yet with the knowledge that you will respect my confidence that I take my pen in hand to write. I do not seek to reopen wounds which by this time have already partly healed but it is only a few days ago that I learned of your loss and wanted to extend to you and little Bernie my sympathy and prayers.
David was a fine man and a genuinely kind human being. All of us who knew him will miss him. I mention him in my prayers each day and I am comforted by the words of Our Lord and Saviour: "I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me, even if he die, shall live; and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die."
Sincerely yours in J. C.
SISTER M. THOMAS
(JENNIE DENTON)
It was then, when Rosa went outside to call her son in from his play, that she heard the birds singing. The next weekend, she drove to Burlingame to visit Jennie.
There were tiny white puffballs of clouds in the blue sky as Rosa turned her car into the wide driveway that led to the Mother House. It was a Saturday afternoon and there were many automobiles parked there already. She pulled into an open space some distance from the sprawling building.
She sat in the car and lit a cigarette. She felt a doubt creeping through her. Perhaps she shouldn't have come. Jennie might not want to see her, wouldn't want to be reminded of that world she'd left behind. It was pure impulse that she had followed in driving here and she couldn't blame Jennie if she refused to see her.
She remembered the morning after the engagement party. When Jennie hadn't shown up at the studio, no one had thought very much about it. And David, who'd been trying to reach Jonas at the plant in Burbank, told her that he couldn't locate him, either.
When the next day and the day after that had passed and there was still no word from Jennie, the studio really began to worry. Jonas had finally been located in Canada at the new factory and David called him there. His voice had been very curt over the telephone as he told David that the last time he'd seen Jennie was when he left her home the night of the party.
David immediately called Rosa and suggested she run out to Jennie's house. When she got there, the Mexican servant came to the door. "Is Miss Denton in?"
"Señorita, she not in."
"Do you know where she is?" Rosa asked. "It's very important that I get in touch with her."
The servant shook her head. "The señorita go away. She not say where."
Deliberately Rosa walked past her into the house. There were packed boxes all along the hallway. On the side of one was stenciled Bekins, Moving & Storage. The servant saw the surprise on her face. "The señorita tell me to close the house and go away, too."
Rosa didn't wait until she got home, but called David from the first pay telephone she came to. He said he'd try to speak to Jonas again.
"Did you reach Jonas?" she asked, as soon as he came in the door that evening.
"Yes. He told me to close down Aphrodite and have Pierce thrown off the lot. When I said we might wind up with a lawsuit, he told me to tell Dan that if he wanted to start anything, Jonas would spend his last dollar to break him."
"But what about Jennie?"
"If she doesn't show up by the end of the week, Jonas told me to have her put on the suspended list and stop her salary."
"And their engagement?"
"Jonas didn't say, but I guess that's over, too. When I asked him if we should prepare a statement for the press, he told me to tell them nothing and hung up."
"Poor Jennie. I wonder where she is?"
Now Rosa knew. She got out of the car and started to walk slowly toward the Mother House.
******
Sister M. Thomas sat quietly in her small room, reading her Bible. A soft knock came at the door. She got to her feet, the Bible still in her hand, and opened it. The light from the window in the hall outside her room turned her white novice's veil a soft silver. "Yes, sister?"
"There's a visitor to see you, sister. A Mrs. David Woolf. She's in the visitors' room downstairs."
Sister Thomas hesitated a moment, then spoke. Her voice was calm and quiet. "Thank you, sister. Please tell Mrs. Woolf that I shall be down in a few minutes."
The nun bowed her head and started down the corridor as Sister Thomas closed the door. For a moment, she leaned her back against it, weak and breathless. She had not expected Rosa to come. She drew herself up and crossed the small room to kneel before the crucifix on the bare wall near her bed. She clasped her hands in prayer. It was as if it were only yesterday that she had come here, that she was still the frightened girl who had spent all her life trying to hide from herself her love for God.
She remembered the kind voice of the Mother Superior as she had knelt before her, weeping, her head in the soft material across the Mother Superior's lap. She felt once again the gentle touch of the stroking fingers on her head.
"Do not weep, my child. And do not fear. The path that leads to Our Lord may be most grievous and difficult but Jesus Christ, Our Saviour, refuses none who truly seeks Him."
"But, Reverend Mother, I have sinned."
"Who among us is without sin?" the Reverend Mother said softly. "If you take your sins to Him who takes all sins to Himself to share, and convince Him with your penitence, He will grant you His holy forgiveness and you will be welcome in His house."
She looked up at the Reverend Mother through her tears. "Then, I may stay?"
The Mother Superior smiled down at her. "Of course you may stay, my child."
Rosa rose from the chair as Sister Thomas came into the visitors' room. "Jennie?" she said tentatively. "Sister Thomas, I mean."
"Rosa, how good it is to see you."
Rosa looked at her. The wide-set gray eyes and lovely face belonged to Jennie, but the calm serenity that glowed beneath the novice's white veil came from Sister Thomas. Suddenly, she knew that the face she was looking at was the same face she had once seen on the screen, enlarged a thousand times and filled with the same love as when the Magdalen had stretched forth her hand to touch the hem of her Saviour's gown.
"Jennie!" she said, smiling. "Suddenly, I'm so happy that I just want to hug you."
Sister Thomas held out her arms.
Later, they strolled the quiet paths around the grounds in the afternoon sunlight and when they came to the top of a hill, they paused there, looking down into the green valley below them.
"His beauty is everywhere," Sister Thomas said softly, turning to her friend, "I have found my place in His house."
Rosa looked at her. "How long do you remain in the novitiate?"
"Two years. Until next May."
"And what do you do then?" Rosa questioned.
"If I prove worthy of His grace, I take the black veil and go forth in the path of the Founding Mother, to bring His mercy to all who may need it."
She looked into Rosa's eyes and once again Rosa saw the deep-lying pool of serenity within them. "And I am more fortunate than most," Sister Thomas added humbly. "He has already trained me in His work. My years in the hospital will help me wherever I may be sent, for it is in this area I can best serve."
JONAS — 1945
BOOK NINE
ONE
OUTSIDE, THE WHITE-HOT MID-JULY SUN BEAT DOWN ON THE NEVADA AIR STRIP, BUT HERE IN THE GENERAL'S OFFICE, THE OVERWORKED AIR-CONDITIONER WHIRRED AND KEPT THE TEMPERATURE DOWN TO AN EVEN EIGHTY DEGREES. I looked at Morrissey, then across the table to the General and his staff.
"That's the story, gentlemen," I said. "The CA-JET X.P. should reach six hundred easier than the British De Havilland-Rolls jet did the five-o-six point five they're bragging about." I smiled at them and got to my feet. "And now, if you'll step outside, gentlemen, I’ll show you."
"I have no doubt about that, Mr. Cord," the General said smoothly. "If there'd been any doubts in our minds, you never would have got the contract."
"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go."
"Just a moment, Mr. Cord," the General said quickly. "We can't allow you to demonstrate the jet."
I stared at him. "Why not?"
"You haven't been cleared for jet aircraft," he said. He looked down at a sheet of paper on his desk. "Your medical report indicates a fractional lag in your reflexes. Perfectly normal, of course, considering your age, but you'll understand why we can't let you fly her."
"That's a lot of crap, General. Who the hell do you think flew her down here to deliver her to you?"
"You had a perfect right to—then," the General replied. "It was your plane. But the moment she touched that field outside, according to the contract, she became the property of the Army. And we can't afford the risk of allowing you to take her up."
I slammed my fist into my hand angrily. Rules, nothing but rules. That was the trouble with these damn contracts. Yesterday, I could have flown her up to Alaska and back and they couldn't have stopped me. Or for that matter, even catch me. The CA-JET X.P. was two hundred odd miles an hour faster than any of the conventional aircraft the Army had in the air. Someday, I'd have to take the time to read those contracts.
The General smiled and came around the table toward me. "I know just how you feel, Mr. Cord," he said. "When the medics told me I was too old for combat flying and put me behind a desk, I wasn't any older than you are right now. And I didn't like it any more than you do. Nobody likes being told he is growing older."
What the hell was he talking about? I was only forty-one. That isn't old. I could still fly rings around most of those damp-eared kids walking around on the field outside with gold and silver bars and oak leaves on their shoulders. I looked at the General.
He must have read the surprise in my eyes, for he smiled again. "That was only a year ago. I'm forty-three now." He offered me a cigarette and I took it silently. "Lieutenant Colonel Shaw will take her up. He's on the field right now, waiting for us."
Again, he read the question in my eyes. "Don't worry about it," he said quickly. "Shaw's completely familiar with the plane. He spent the last three weeks at your plant in Burbank checking her out."
I glanced at Morrissey but he was carefully looking somewhere else at the time. He'd been in on it, too. I'd make him sweat for that one. I turned back to the General. "O.K., General. Let's go outside and watch that baby fly."
Baby was the right word and not only for the plane. Lieutenant Colonel Shaw couldn't have been more than twenty years old. I watched him take her up but somehow I couldn't stand there squinting up at the sky, watching him put her through her paces. It was like going to a lot of trouble to set yourself up with a virgin and then when you had everything warmed up and ready, you opened the bedroom door and found another guy copping the cherry right under your nose.
"Is there anywhere around here I could get a cup of coffee?"
"There's a commissary down near the main gate," one of the soldiers said.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome," he said automatically, never taking his eyes from the plane in the sky, while I walked away.
The commissary wasn't air-conditioned but they kept it dark and it wasn't too bad, even if the ice cubes in the iced coffee had melted before I got the glass back to my seat. I stared morosely out of the window in front of my table. Too young or too old. That was the story of my life. I was fourteen when the last one ended, in 1918, and almost over the age limit when we got into this one. Some people never had any luck. I always thought that war came to every generation but I was neither one nor the other. I had the bad fortune to be born in between.
A medium-size Army bus pulled up in front of the commissary. Men started to pile out and I watched them because there was nothing else to look at. They weren't soldiers; they were civilians, and not young ones, either. Most of them carried their jacket over their arm and a brief case in their free hand and there were some with gray in their hair and many with no hair at all. One thing about them caught my eye. None of them were smiling, not even when they spoke to one another in the small groups they immediately formed on the sidewalk in front of the bus.
Why should they smile, I asked myself bitterly. They had nothing to smile about. They were all dodoes like me. I took out a cigarette and struck a match. The breeze from the circulating fan blew it out. I struck another, turning away from the fan and shielding the cigarette in my cupped hands.
"Herr Cord! This is indeed a surprise! What are you doing here?"
I looked up at Herr Strassmer. "I just delivered a new plane," I said, holding out my hand. "But what are you doing out here? I thought you were in New York."
He shook my hand in that peculiarly European way of his. The smile left his eyes. "We, too, made a delivery. And now we go back."
"You were with that group outside?"
He nodded. He looked out through the window at them and a troubled look came into his eyes. "Yes," he said slowly. "We all came together in one plane but we are going back on separate flights. Three years we worked together but now the job is finished. Soon I go back to California."
"I hope so," I laughed. "We sure could use you in the plant but I'm afraid it'll be some time yet. The war in Europe may be over but if Tarawa and Okinawa are any indication, we're good for at least six months to a year before Japan quits."
He didn't answer.
I looked up and suddenly I remembered. These Europeans were very touchy about manners. "Excuse me, Herr Strassmer," I said quickly. "Won't you join me in some coffee?"
"I have not the time." There was a curiously hesitant look to his eyes. "Do you have an office here as you do everywhere else?"
"Sure," I said, looking up at him. I'd passed the door marked MEN on my way over. "It's in the back of this building."
"I will meet you there in five minutes," he said and hurried out.
Through the window, I watched him join one of the groups and begin to talk with them. I wondered if the old boy was going crackers. You couldn't tell, but maybe he had been working too hard and thought he was back in Nazi Germany. There certainly wasn't any reason for him to be so secretive about being seen talking to me. After all, we were on the same side.
I ground my cigarette into an ash tray and sauntered out. He never even glanced up as I walked past his group on my way to the john. He came into the room a moment after I had got there. His eyes darted nervously toward the booths. "Are we alone?"
"I think so," I said, looking at him. I wondered what you did to get a doctor around here if there were any signs of his cracking up.
He walked over to the booths, opened the doors and looked. Satisfied, he turned back to me. His face was tense and pale and there were small beads of perspiration across his forehead. I thought I'd begun to recognize the symptoms. Too much of this Nevada sun is murder if you're not used to it. His first words convinced me I was right.
"Herr Cord," he whispered hoarsely. "The war will not be over in six months."
"Of course not," I said soothingly. From what I had heard, the first thing to do was agree with them, try to calm them down. I wished I could remember the second thing. I turned to the sink. "Here, let me get you a glass of—"
"It will be over next month!"
What I thought must have been written on my face, for my mouth hung open in surprise. "No, I'm not crazy, Herr Cord," Strassmer said quickly. "To no one else but you would I say this. It is the only way I can repay you for saving my life. I know how important this could be to your business."
"But—but how—"
"I cannot tell you more," he interrupted. "Just believe me. By next month, Japan will be verfallen!" He turned and almost ran out the door.
I stared after him for a moment, then went over to the sink and washed my face in cold water. I felt I must be even crazier than he was, because I was beginning to believe him. But why? It just didn't make any sense. Sure, we were pushing the Nips back, but they still held Malaya, Hong Kong and the Dutch East Indies. And with their kamikaze philosophy, it would take a miracle to end the war in a month.
I was still thinking about it when Morrissey and I got on the train. "You know who I ran into back there?" I asked. I didn't give him a chance to answer. "Otto Strassmer."
There seemed to be a kind of relief in his smile. I guess he'd been expecting to catch hell for not telling me about that Air Corps test pilot. "He's a nice little guy," Morrissey said. "How is he?"
"Seemed all right to me," I said. "He was on his way back to New York." I looked out the window at the flat Nevada desert. "By the way, did you ever hear exactly what it was he was working on?"
"Not exactly."
I looked at him. "What was it you did hear?"
"I didn't hear it from him," Morrissey said. "I got it from a friend of mine down at the Engineers' Club, who worked on it for a little while. But he didn't know very much about it, either. All he knew was that it was called the Manhattan Project and that it had something to do with Professor Einstein."
I could feel my brows knit in puzzlement. "What could Strassmer do for a man like Einstein?"
He smiled again. "After all, Strassmer did invent a plastic beer can that was stronger than metal."
"So?" I asked.
"So maybe the Professor got Otto to invent a plastic container to store his atoms in," Morrissey said, laughing.
I felt a wild excitement racing inside me. A container for atoms, energy in a bottle, ready to explode when you popped the cork. The little man hadn't been crazy. He knew what he was talking about. I'd been the crazy one.
It would take a miracle, I'd thought. Well, Strassmer and his friends had come into the desert and made one and now they were going home, their job done. What it was or how they did it I couldn't guess and didn't care.
But deep inside me, I was sure that it had happened.
The miracle that would end the war.
CONTINUED IN
NEXT INSTALMENT
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