What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (8 page)

“ ’At’s the stuff, Janie!” a voice yelled. “Give ’em hell!”

The figure executed a clumsy high kick, staggered backward,
laughing, and fell into the lap of the young man on the piano bench. She kissed him energetically, leaving a red smear across his mouth and shoved herself away again. There was wild applause.

“Whoopee!”

“You tell ’em, Janie! Come on now, let ’er rip! Give out!”

And then a quieter voice, a woman’s, spoke close at hand: “Isn’t anyone going to stop her? Poor Blanche stuck with a mess like that out in public. Marty must be thrilled to death.”

“Don’t worry,” another voice answered. “If Blanche weren’t her sister, she’d have been out on her ear long before now.”

“Disgusting.”

“Awful—just awful…”

Meanwhile the figure at the piano had managed to regain her feet. She stood laughing, head thrown back, mouth torn wide in a red gash of mindless hilarity. The large, protruding eyes, turned upward to the light, were at once luminous and blank with a kind of blind ecstasy. And then the face snapped to one side, as a slender white hand shot out suddenly from nowhere and struck it solidly across the cheek.

“Stop it. Stop! Can’t you see you’re making a fool of yourself!”

Blanche opened her eyes, suddenly, widely, as if with a fierce effort. Caught in a spasm of trembling, she gripped the arms of the chair all the harder. She waited for the spell to pass, refusing to think any more of that terrible, terrible night.

When she felt steadier, she quite deliberately made herself look down the stairs again. She had to try. She had to, no matter what the risk, for all at once there had come to her the conviction that here before her lay her last hope of escape.

Minutes passed before she summoned either the strength or the courage to reach out to the newel post and pull herself up and out of the chair. When, finally, she had accomplished this much, she remained quite still for a moment, her heart pounding.

Even at this point, however, she had not yet committed herself irrevocably to the desperate project ahead, and the impulse to
turn and fling herself back into the safety of the chair was all but overpowering.

Quickly, banishing the thought from her mind, she forced herself to go on. Jane, she knew, might return at any moment, but that didn’t seem to matter now. She had to try, she
had
to.…

Exp. accompanist-arranger, male, to join est. star in act for clubs, TV. Piano, violin, req. HO 6-1784.

J
ane studied the corrected copy the girl had shoved across the counter to her. Then she looked back at the original she had composed herself:

WANTED: Gentleman accompanist to work with internationally renowned star of long standing in established act for top supper clubs and television programs. Must be of virtuoso caliber with piano and violin, also expert in music arrangement. For private appointment please call HO 6-1784.

Jane frowned. Visualizing both versions as they would look in print, it seemed obvious to her that hers was the best. But the girl behind the counter had been so crisply certain about hers; she had written it all down so swiftly, like she really knew.

“Well,” Jane mused, “I don’t know…”

The thing was that hers was a lot classier, and that was what she wanted, something classy. It was only a certain kind of gentleman that she wanted to hear from.

Within Jane’s mind the type of man she wished to reply to her ad was very clearly defined. He was slender and distinguished-looking, graying at the temples, slightly stooped, perhaps, and
possessed of a gentle, fatherly manner. Actually, he somewhat resembled Mr. Dahl, her accompanist when she was little. In spirit he was her father; he talked like her father. He would read the ad in the paper, and he would call her, and they would talk.…

Her gaze went back to the corrected version.…
est. star
… The girl had said it was really the same thing as what she had said in her ad. But that wasn’t so at all. It was—well—businesslike, and that wasn’t the impression she wanted to give. She wasn’t absolutely sure yet whether she really meant to revive her old act or not; it just seemed that she ought to talk to someone about it.

A lot of the old-timers were coming back into the business. You saw them on television all the time. Ed Wynn, Buster Keaton—lots and lots of them. And kid acts were always good. Fanny Brice made a fortune with Baby Snooks; she’d be going yet if she were still alive. With new arrangements to bring the songs up to date and a good accompanist… But she had told herself these things over and over again; now she needed to tell them to someone else, someone who would listen and understand and see it the same way she did.

“… also,” the girl behind the counter was saying, “it’s a lot cheaper this way.”

Jane looked up, and as she did, the cheap jeweled clip on her red velvet beret glittered with the false brightness of weary laughter.

“Well…”

Maybe she should have put her name in the ad after all.
Baby Jane Hudson.
She narrowed her eyes, seeing it in print as it once had been, and for a moment she felt a small thrill of excitement. Then, very suddenly, she opened her eyes again, and the girl behind the counter, for the first time, came fully into focus for her. A nice-looking girl, Jane thought randomly, a plain girl but nice-looking all the same. The poor little thing didn’t know how to use make-up properly. None of the young girls you saw around these days did. That was one thing about a theatrical background: you learned how to make yourself up so you at least looked alive.
Girls didn’t wear any rouge any more. No wonder they all looked so sickly and washed out.

“Of course we can print your copy,” the girl said, “if that’s the way you really want it…”

Jane decided that the girl was very pleasant and that she liked her very much. To please her, she would do it her way. It was just possible that the girl was right; the replies would come from exactly the same people anyway; the object was to get in all the vital information with as few words as possible.

“Well,” Jane said, “since you’re a newspaperwoman, you probably know best.”

The girl, drawing the corrected copy back to her side of the counter, smiled. “I’m sure you’ll get just as good results.”

Jane handed her a bill to pay for the ad, and the girl retreated to get her receipt and change.

Exp. accompanist-arranger, male, to join est. star
… Professional, Jane thought, nodding to herself; it did sound professional when you stopped to think about it, even if it wasn’t as refined as hers. Suddenly her mind reached into the future and again she saw the man with the graying temples, coming to call, following her into the rehearsal room, playing the piano while she sang, praising her… praising her.… And then, too, she had a sudden glimpse of Blanche’s face, torn with jealousy and resentment.

Miss Bigshot Movie Queen. Miss Crippled Nothing. Jane had to smile. Blanche always was a fraidy cat; all you had to do was put a good scare into her to get her to do what you wanted. She wouldn’t be going behind Jane’s back any more, telling people lies, trying to sell the house. Maybe she’d know now that when she did things that made Jane angry…

“Here you are.”

Smiling, Jane took the money and the receipt from the girl and put them in her bag.

“Thank you,” she said pleasantly.

The girl nodded, started to turn away and then turned back again. “Excuse me…”

Jane, snapping her bag closed, looked up. “Yes?”

“I know I shouldn’t, but—well—I’ve just got to know. In this ad—would you mind telling me—who’s the star?”

Jane’s smile broadened. She made a small, pointing gesture with her gloved hand. “Me,” she said. “Maybe you’re too young to remember, but I’m the original Baby Jane—Baby Jane Hudson.”

The girl’s lips parted. “Well,” she said, with a look of blank perplexity, “well, for heavensake!” She glanced away, toward a co-worker who had just put in an appearance at the end of the counter. “Well, thank you, Miss Hudson. Your ad should be in the morning edition, if you want to look for it. I—I hope you find the—person—you want.”

“Yes,” Jane nodded, “thank you. Thank you very much.” Holding herself very straight, she turned and left.

“For heavensake,” the girl said, moving off to join her companion, “who in the world is Baby Jane Hudson?”

At the bottom step, Blanche leaned forward to rest her head against the cool, hard surface of the post. Her descent had been arduous and painful. Clinging to the handrail, lowering herself tediously from step to step, she had needed to rest frequently. Now, as she sat there, small brilliant pinwheels of light whirled behind her closed lids.

After a moment she looked up again. It had been longer since she had last been downstairs than she realized. The drapes were new. And woefully wrong; poor Jane, she had such awful taste. But then Blanche turned her gaze upward to the ceiling and her lips twisted in a smile of wry amusement. Against a field of vivid blue an artful scattering of stars winked down at her dully. Her smile faded, and she let her eyes fall to the mantel and the framed photograph of the blank-faced girl who had once believed she
could actually possess the sky and the stars and had ordered them fixed upon her ceiling. What a vain, profligate child that one had been. What a contemptible fraud, really. And hardly in a position to charge Jane with poor taste. Blanche looked away, returning her attention abruptly to the balustrade and the chore ahead.

Close by, against the wall of the stairway, stood the carved chair and just beyond that, the library table. The doorway into the hall was only a few feet beyond, a little to the right. The rug fell short of the table by several feet, leaving a clear path of gleaming hardwood floor. Studying the chair again and its position against the wall, she reached up to the newel post and pulled herself slowly to her feet.

Bracing her right leg against the post for support, she pulled herself around and away from the steps. Leaning forward, she reached out quickly to the outer side of the balustrade and began to draw herself forward, moving her hands with great care from one support to the other. At the point where the balustrade rose beyond her reach she stopped. The chair was still a little more than a yard away.

After an interval, putting one hand flat against the wall, she inched forward as far as she could and fixed her sights firmly upon the chair. Then, taking one last deep breath, she shoved herself forward and let go. Her right leg buckled instantly, pitching her to the floor.

She landed abruptly but not painfully on her side and lay still for a moment, panting. When she was able, she boosted herself up again and looked around. The chair, now, was within easy reach. Pulling herself forward and into a sitting position, she turned so that her back was resting firmly against the front of the chair.

Straightening in preparation, she reached up and placed her hands firmly on the seat. Slowly, painfully, she boosted herself up, first to the edge of the seat and then back onto it. Collapsing at last into the chair, she went limp before a sudden attack of dizziness.

When the world had finally steadied again, she looked around
at the table. After another moment, she reached out to it, gripped the edge and pulled. Beneath her the legs of the chair moved easily if noisily across the waxed surface of the floor.

At the end of the table, she faced directly into the open doorway of the hall. From this point forward the chair would be useless since the hall floor was covered from wall to wall with thick carpeting. Her gaze reached out past the open door of the rehearsal room to the small arched niche that contained the telephone. It was not more than eight or ten feet away, but for the moment she could think of no possible way to reach it.

Jane, hugging her coat around her, stood staring into the bright, cluttered window of the Nu-Mode Dress Shoppe with a concentrated rapture that bordered on a state of transfixion. The dress to which her gaze was so magnetically drawn was of a deep wine-colored satin, gathered elaborately at the bodice and hip, the draperies held in place, or seeming to be held there, by two large red rhinestone clips. The mannequin upon which the dress was pinned, an impossibly svelte creature with a wig of shimmering platinum nylon, returned Jane’s gaze with lofty disdain.

A cocktail dress.
Jane savored the phrase and all it implied, and for her it implied a great deal. Sophistication. Fun. Glamour. For the moment she was transported; she stood upon a balcony overlooking moon-dappled waters. In the background there was music, dulcet and foreign. A man with no particular dimensions or face toasted her gallantly with a glass of bubbling champagne. Staring at the model in the window, Jane was mercifully unaware of her own reflection just inches away in the glass, of the ghostly duplicate of the ridiculous red beret with its winking pin, of the huddled coat made shapeless by the spreading shapelessness of her own body beneath. Neither was she aware that the scene of her imagination was one of drab triteness, nor that just such a scene had been religiously included in every one of Blanche’s pictures.

A passer-by brushed against Jane, and she was jostled back into reality. Traffic sounded again behind her, footsteps pounded dully along the sidewalk. Jane sighed. The dress would never be hers. Blanche was too tightfisted ever to let a person have something pretty once in a while.

That was why she was always nagging at Jane to stop dyeing her hair, hinting around that she was too old for it. And trying to get her to stop wearing jewelry when she went out. Just to save money. And if Jane ever wanted anything, anything nice like the dress in the window or the gold-mesh belt with the colored stones down at the Fashion Mart, there was always the same old sermon about their limited income and how they had to watch their pennies. And that was a lot of malarkey, too. There was plenty of money somewhere—if you could just get your hands on it.

Blanche didn’t really like pretty things. She didn’t like to be reminded that there was something pretty in this world beside herself. The way she kept her looks was—just unnatural. There were times when Jane almost prayed for Blanche to lose her looks, to grow old and ugly like—like she should. There were times…

Reluctantly Jane drew herself away from the window and the beautiful dress and started off down the street. She loved the Boulevard and all the pretty things in the windows—that collar, there, all of pink pearls—and the little hat made all of lavender feathers. Then, looking into a jeweler’s window, she saw that she had been away from the house for more than an hour and quickened her step. She had to hurry; it wasn’t wise to leave Blanche alone too long.

Bracing herself against the chair, Blanche pulled herself onto her feet. She balanced herself on her stiffened right leg and then let go to swing forward and grasp the doorjamb with both hands. That accomplished, she eased herself forward and into the dark passage of the hallway.

When she had gone as far as she dared, she stopped. The extended edge of the rehearsal-room door was no more than two feet away. Releasing one hand from the jamb, she reached out to the door, let go with the other hand and swung forward catching hold of the outer knob. Quickly then she brought the first hand down to the opposite knob and pushed up hard against it to break her downward momentum.

For a moment the reached dimness of the hallway seemed to thicken and stir around her, but she pressed her cheek hard against the edge of the door and waited for the spell to pass.

As the dimness receded, she pulled herself up more firmly against the door. Using her right foot as a guide, she propelled herself with the door, an inch at a time, toward the wall beyond the doorway. Tears of exertion stung at her eyes, but through the blur, she could see the telephone niche coming steadily closer.

When she was near enough, she reached out to the approaching jamb and swung herself toward it. This time, though, her strength failed her and she toppled to the floor.

There in the threatening gloom she lay motionless, a crumpled, gasping figure, fearful of losing consciousness. Then, looking up and seeing that the niche was almost directly above her, she rested her head back on her hand, reassured.

With her returning strength came a pressing sense of urgency, and she roused herself. Such a long time had passed since she had first started down the stairs; Jane might return at any moment. Placing her hands flat before her, she pushed herself up and into a sitting position against the wall.