I Don't Know How the Story Ends (10 page)

(By this point, I was clutching Ranger's hand as determinedly as he was mine.)

The Boy isn't dead; he was picked up by a Red Cross ambulance and taken to a field hospital. At the appearance of the “field hospital,” I sat up and stared. “Just like Father!” I whispered excitedly to Ranger. “Do you think the real field hospital looks like—
ow
!
”

I got the thump from behind this time, but Ranger's attention was riveted to the screen, where things had gone from bad to worse. The Germans had captured the little village and began half starving its people while forcing them to work like slaves in the fields.

Meanwhile the Boy, fully recovered, slips behind enemy lines to spy for the Allies and brushes against death's door yet again before making his way back to the village to be reunited with his intended. But of course the Germans are still there, and at least one of them has lewd designs on the Girl. The French army is advancing, but it appears they may not make it back in time to save the Boy's life and the Girl's honor. The scene cut from the frightened lovers huddled in an attic to the German officer breaking down the door, then to the oncoming army, and I was nearly wringing poor Ranger's fingers off.

Finally the Little Disturber throws a hand grenade at the lustful German. The French army arrives and beats back the foe. A ripple of applause began in the audience, but Ranger sat up sharply and grabbed my arm to keep me from joining in. “Listen!”

In the quick fading of applause, I picked up the rhythm of marching feet, distant yet steadily advancing:
tramp, tramp, tramp
. The music had ceased, and for a moment all we could hear was
tramp, tramp, TRAMP
,
TRAMP
, as real as if the rescuing army were about to burst open the doors of the theater. On screen the Boy and Girl clutched each other in their attic, scarcely believing they were to be saved. The organist began playing again, very softly, that jaunty tune everyone started singing last year:

Over there, over there;

Send the word, send the word over there

That the Yanks are coming,

The Yanks are coming…

The scene had shifted, and the lower part of the screen seemed to fade out. Vague moving shapes came slowly into focus and became marching men, row upon row.

I gasped out, “Americans!” and jumped to my feet. People were rising all around me, some singing “Over There,” others silent like me, hands gripped over my heart as I scanned the faces. Our boys, our brave, hearty boys, were throwing themselves into the fray, laughing at hardship and scorning trouble, resolving to stay until the job was done.

And my father was “over there,” patching up the wounded and cheering the fainthearted. The picture showed what his letters couldn't: what a noble enterprise and honorable mission looked like.

“And we
won't come back
until it's over over there!”

Ranger took my hand and pressed a clean handkerchief into it. “
Always
bring two to a Griffith picture.”

The Night the Stars Came Out

“That's realism for you,” Ranger gushed as we took the streetcar home. “I hear the crew shot some of those scenes in France, even while real battles were going on. That's
picture making
. That's what I want to do…”

Now that my heartbeat had slowed down and my hankie was mostly dry, I was feeling a tiny bit foolish about getting so caught up. While the picture was running I'd felt bigger and better, like I was part of the effort to chase the barbarians from France. But when the dark recesses of Clune's had spilled its audience onto the glaring streets of Los Angeles, the world seemed to be going on just the same as before, no matter how thoroughly my feelings had been worked over.

Ranger didn't notice, but raved about Mr. Griffith and his own humble film project all the way home. By the time we got off the streetcar in Hollywood, he was so warm to the topic that he was popping like corn.

“And another thing—you can't say we don't need a villain after that. If you took that sinister Hun out of
Hearts of the World
, you'd have a hole the size of Rhode Island.”

“Holes can be filled,” I said cryptically.

“With what? Stories have to have a balance, you know—a yin and a yang.”

“Mostly they need a beginning and an end, and you keep changing both.”

“Now you sound like Sam.”

“Ask Sylvie if I know how to tell a story.” Even if I didn't know how to end them.

“All right, Miss…Miss Scheherazade. How do you tell a story?”

“For one thing,” I said as we started up the drive, “if there has to be a villain in the picture, it should not be the father. My father is the kindest man in the world, and it would be very difficult for me to perform in a photoplay where he's a brute.”

“For the luvva Pete, Isobel! It's
acting
. It's nothing personal. You seem to think—” He stopped abruptly and stared toward the hacienda as though it had grown two stone towers and a moat.

What I saw was a long, low touring car in an icy shade of blue, parked in front of the hacienda. Next, a man with very long legs, in a black suit with a string tie, who was slapping a white Stetson hat against his knee as he strode toward us.

“Ranger!” he called out. “How's my boy?”

With a start, I recognized the high cheekbones and wide mouth of Titus Bell.

• • •

I don't know what I expected. The way Ranger talked, his father never paid much attention to him or was especially interested in anything he did or said. So I was rather taken aback when Mr. Bell threw an arm around Ranger's shoulders and crushed him to his chest in a great bear hug.

“You're growing like a weed, boy!”

The boy, weedy or not, only came up to the clasp of his father's string tie. What I could see of Ranger's expression was curiously mixed. Briefly he clasped his arms around the man, then muttered, “Lemme go, Pa. I have to breathe once in a while.”

Titus Bell let go with a laugh and a whack on the back that sent Ranger's breath the wrong way. Then he turned to me. “Is this the Isobel I've been hearing so much about?”

“Pleased to meet you, sir.” I stepped forward, extending my hand.

“Likewise, young lady.” Instead of merely squeezing or shaking my hand, he bestowed a gallant kiss on it in the same courtly manner adopted by his son on the day we met. What Ranger had said about resembling his father from the scalp up was only half true. They were startlingly alike in manner, down to the long, flourishing fingers. Even the flash in Mr. Bell's eyes was much the same, though the eyes were sky-blue instead of dark brown. “I've already met your charming sister. Got the bruise on my shin to prove it.”

I jerked my hand out of his. “Oh, sir! I'm so sorry! She's—”

“Settle down, Isobel,” he said, laughing. “Not all her fault. She heard the grown-ups talking about my arrival and thought it was her own papa under discussion. When I turned out not to be him, she kicked me. High-spirited little girl. I like that.”

Good
, I almost said,
for you will be getting more of
that
.

“So what have you been up to, old man?” he asked Ranger, who shrugged in reply.

“Nothing much. Showing Isobel around.”

“Lucky girl.” Mr. Bell drew us into a happy triangle, one arm around Ranger and the other around me. “Nobody knows this town like my boy. Say, you kids arrived just in time. We've decided to throw a shindig tonight. Spur-of-the-moment thing. I got on the horn to Doug an hour ago, and by golly, he'll be here with bells on at eight. Bringing as much of the gang as he can rustle up.”

Ranger caught his breath and looked at me. “Who…who's coming, sir?” I asked hesitantly.

Mr. Bell threw back his head in a powerful laugh. “Why, royalty, miss. King Doug and Queen Mary. Prince Charles too, if they talk him into it. Threw your aunt and mama into quite a tizzy. You young'uns better come pitch in.”

With a warm clasp on our opposite shoulders, he left us, long legs disappearing under the porch roof. “Royalty?” I asked Ranger.

“Fairbanks. Pickford. And maybe—” His head snapped up, like a hound's catching a scent. “Pa! Pa, wait up!”

Then he was gone, and I was reeling with visions: Mary Pickford herself and that handsome, overwhelming Mr. Fairbanks in this house. Tonight!

For all Mr. Bell had said about a casual “shindig,” the atmosphere inside the hacienda was like Buckingham Palace being polished up for a visit from the czar. Mother was arranging fresh flowers on the sideboard while Aunt Buzzy was giving Masaji a shopping list, and by his quietly frazzled demeanor, it wasn't the first time today he'd been sent out on a desperate errand.

“…and stop by Wingates' for three bottles of champagne. And see if the farmers' market is still open and if they still have strawberries—but don't get them if they're green on the ends, or they're starting to get that purplish color. Oh, Mattie, there's something else. Can you remember?”

“Butter,” said Mother, who had set the flowers on the fireplace mantel and was now dusting with a steely efficiency that didn't fool me for a minute. When she saw me, she paused, feather duster raised, and on her brow was that peculiar gleam I had noticed after the incident with Mack Sennett's greased intersection. “Isobel, you're needed in the kitchen to help polish the silver. You and Ranger can stay up for dinner tonight, but after that you're expected to excuse yourselves and go to bed. It's not a formal occasion, so your green organdy frock will do, the one with the violets around the neck…”

I glided past her, still in a daze. Pickford! Fairbanks! In this very house!

• • •

Sylvie had been packed off to the Theodore Cooper household to stay with Agnes of the ink-black hair. And, I suppose, to prevent any diving into laps or bruising shins. But after the sun set and the guests started to arrive, I had to wonder if she wouldn't have fit right in.

Not that it seemed anything out of the ordinary at first. Mr. and Mrs. Hiram Porter arrived unfashionably early, while the extra help were still setting the table. They were followed shortly by another banker and his wife, whose names I quickly forgot. But then Miss Constance Talmadge swept in with a gaggle of other young people, and the big front room of the hacienda blazed with light. Literally, for Titus Bell had just turned up the gas in the two bronze chandeliers, but also figuratively. Other guests flocked to Miss Talmadge like moths to a flame, while Aunt Buzzy helpfully whispered to me that she was a celebrated comic actress who'd made a name for herself in
Intolerance
.

That revered title made me wonder where Ranger was. After a glance around the room I discovered him in the musicians' corner, sitting by the piano. His expression startled me. He looked like the Great Stone Face or a shell-shocked veteran. I was about to go and ask him what was up—or down—when someone called, “It's Mary!”

“Five bucks says they're together,” Miss Talmadge said, laughing and raising a champagne glass.

Shortly after, Mary Pickford herself crossed the threshold with a swift step, smiling briskly while sliding a snow-white summer coat off her glowing shoulders. “Delightful house, Titus. And, Bea, how lovely to see you again. It's been too long.” With her honey-colored curls pinned up and her feisty manner watered down, I didn't recognize her. She seemed too quick, her eyes too sharp as she glanced around. And she was tiny—she stood barely taller than me as she took my hand and said, “Delighted to meet you, dear.”

There was a glitter about her that had nothing to do with the diamonds around her neck. I couldn't say a thing in return.

Behind her, a man leaped into the room—or seemed to. Abruptly I recalled Miss Talmadge's remark about
They're together
, and took it to mean Pickford and Fairbanks. Together, though I knew they weren't married. Not to each other, that is. Though Titus Bell towered over Douglas Fairbanks, they threw their arms around each other and laughed like hyenas. The next minute, they were trading punches.

“Doug!” Miss Pickford's voice rang out. “Do stop cavorting and come meet Titus's sister-in-law.” Her tone made it sound like they were married. To each other.

Mr. Fairbanks bounded over and took my mother's hand with a bow. He started in surprise when he recognized me, but recovered with a quick wink and a swipe of one finger across his mouth, meaning his lips were sealed about when last we met. I saw Mother's eyebrow rise, but before she could ask about it, she was being introduced to another guest. This was a short man whose wavy hair was streaked with gray, making me think he was old until I saw his face—a youthful, unlined face dominated by wide, dark-lashed eyes.

“…and this is her daughter Isobel,” Mr. Fairbanks was saying, as he steered the short man over to me. “Isobel, believe it or not, this sorry piece of work regularly outsells me at the box office.”

Without his busy mustache and bushy eyebrows, I didn't recognize Charlie Chaplin at all. He shook my hand like it was a pump handle and muttered something about being pleased. He didn't look pleased though. In the brief moment that our eyes met, I tried to see that character that made him so beloved: the Little Tramp, with his coal-black hair and ill-fitting clothes. But I couldn't. The real Mr. Chaplin looked like a cheeky English schoolboy—and talked like one too.

I recalled Ranger telling me he was a limey: “Everybody knows that.”

A young lady was hanging on Mr. Chaplin's arm, someone whose name I forgot as soon as I heard it, though I recall her wild, red hair and tinkly laugh. The house suddenly bulged with young men and ladies whose wild hair and flashing eyes and reckless laughter broke the evening into sharp, bright little pieces, tumbling in kaleidoscope patterns. Titus Bell boomed, Aunt Buzzy buzzed, my mother glowed, and the young people twittered. But the night belonged to the stars.

After a few drinks, Mr. Chaplin snapped out of his dark mood. He did something with two dinner rolls that had the company almost rolling on the floor. He stuck a fork in each of them and tucked his fists under his chin and made the forks perform a little dance. The rolls looked like huge feet, and his face became the character's head, and it was so funny that I thought I might split a seam. (An old routine, according to Ranger, but Charlie did it best.) Mother laughed with a hand over her mouth, a rare sign of near-abandon.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the table, Mr. Fairbanks was taking bets on his athletic abilities. He must have been, or why else would he have been doing handstands on his chair? Alcohol had nothing to do with it; so far as I could tell, he never touched a drop. Every now and then Miss Pickford would say, “Do sit down, Doug, and enjoy this splendid dinner.” And he would obey, but not for long.

I don't recall eating any of the splendid dinner. As the dessert dishes were cleared away and the host was passing out brandy and cigars, Mother bent her eyebrow at me, meaning it was time for Ranger and me to excuse ourselves and go to bed.

We obeyed halfway: the excusing part but not the going to bed. For as soon as we departed through the west wing door, Ranger grabbed my hand in a viselike grip and pulled me around to the little side porch that opened directly off the front room. Here he dropped on a bench under the rose arbor and pulled me down beside him. The window was open, and a sparkly buzz of party conversation glowed like fireflies on the lawn.

“All right,” I said. “What's the matter?”

He seemed to be having difficulty breathing. “The gig is up,” he croaked.

“What?”

“My scoutmaster called today. Right after Pa got in. They had a nice long talk.”

“Oh no!” Dire as this news was for him, I couldn't dismiss the consequences for myself.

“He wasn't going to tell me until tomorrow sometime. But I chased him down to ask if he'd invited Mr. Griffith to the party, or if he would, and that led to an altercation—”

“Why? Aren't they friends?”

“They were.” Ranger's heel thumped hard against the bench board. “Pa used to be a pretty big investor in Fine Arts. He made a pile with
Birth of a Nation
but lost money with
Intolerance
, and now they're not speaking to each other. It's just sour grapes, is all. Pa's such a…philistine. All he likes are comedies and melodramas. D.W. has more craft in his little finger than Pa has in his whole…” Ranger paused and folded one crafty little finger into a fist. “I blew my last chance, Isobel.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was on probation, see? If I pulled one more prank, Pa swore he'd send me to military school in Palo Alto. To smack some discipline into me. So… I did, and he will.”

“Oh, Ranger!” Emblazoned on my memory was the time Aunt Buzzy had told me this. She'd asked me to be a friend and help him stay on the straight and narrow. Instead, I'd let him pick me up and carry me like a football down the twisty and crooked. “I'm so sorry. I—”