Strangers in the Night, page 16
I stepped over a slightly ajar sewer cap that spewed a rush of steam into the air before I rounded the corner. The Paramount Theatre came into view, concertgoers gathering out front and spooling down the block in a long line. They were boisterous, excited about the night’s show. I glanced up at the marquee. The headliner was Eddie Fisher? I stopped in my tracks, bewildered. I had more talent in my pinky finger than that hack had in his whole body. They’d once loved me at the Paramount. Now they wouldn’t return my calls—but they made Eddie Fisher a headliner? Made me want to kick something.
I walked past the crowd, hoping I might be recognized—and I was recognized alright.
I caught a man’s eye and his smile faded. He cupped his mouth with his hands and booed at me. It caught on like a match to an old newspaper. Jeering followed the booing and I picked up my pace, anxious to get the hell out of there.
“That’s right! Get lost, Frankie! This isn’t your show!”
“Your music is rotten!”
“Where’s your whore tonight, Sinatra?”
All I’d accomplished before didn’t matter, it seemed. My music, my pictures. I was utterly forgettable, a passing fancy, and everyone had moved on to the next best thing. Everyone but me.
My head ached as a black fog rolled over me. I walked on, not seeing, not hearing, only feeling. I gasped in air as my pulse thumped in my ears. I could hardly breathe beneath the crushing weight of my bleak reality: not knowing where to go next, of who to be.
“Mr. Sinatra” a voice called to me in what felt like hours later.
I turned in the direction of the voice. A doorman in navy livery with brass buttons and pristine white gloves stared back at me.
“Aren’t you going to come inside?” he asked.
I looked at him, confused a moment, and then realized I’d passed Manie’s apartment, where I was staying, several times already.
“Oh, yeah. Thanks, man.”
“Lost in your thoughts?” he asked.
“You could say that,” I replied. “Or just lost.”
In the apartment, I poured a large glass of Jack Daniel’s and sat on the sofa in the dark for a long time, refilling my glass twice, three times. I imagined Ava sitting next to me, her gardenia perfume, the sound of her laugh when she was up to something. Ava wrapped in a bedsheet, her hair wild around her beautiful face, eyes bright.
I picked up the phone and dialed her number again. It rang five times, ten, fifteen. I hung up and called again. Nothing but her silence—that had been her way since our argument in London. Silence. Avoidance.
As I drained another glass, I staggered through the hallway and flipped on the light. Catching sight of my reflection in a mirror as I passed, I paused to study the gaunt person in the glass. I barely recognized myself. My cheekbones protruded from my face, and deep purple smudged beneath two lifeless eyes. I didn’t know where to go from here.
Maybe there wasn’t anywhere to go?
I headed to the kitchen, flipping on the light as I slugged another gulp and I choked on the burn in my throat. I’d had too much too fast but what did I care? I had nothing holding me back, nothing to live for. I stood over the stovetop a long minute, the image of the spiral eyes blurring until I felt dizzy. I couldn’t take it anymore. The pain was unbearable.
I turned on the gas, kneeled, and pulled the oven door open, sticking my head inside. As the smell of gas filled the oven, I inhaled—and coughed. It could all be over in a matter of minutes. I’d never face another humiliation, never suffer another night feeling like I was so alone that I echoed with the emptiness. I closed my eyes and inhaled again. My head grew foggy after another minute and I lay my face down on the edge of the oven rack, ignoring the cold metal digging into the flesh of my cheek. Spots formed behind my eyes.
From behind me came the sound of a door. The flicker of light.
“Frank! Jesus, man, what are you doing? Holy shit!” Manie’s voice.
Everything was hazy, my vision blurred.
I was vaguely aware of being pulled to the floor, half carried, half dragged to the bed, and everything else shifted around me like a ride on a merry-go-round.
When I woke minutes later, Manie stood over me.
“You just scared the hell out of me,” Manie said. “You’ve got to get it together, Frank. It’s time to see a psychiatrist.”
Despite the fog in my brain, I nodded. “Okay,” I rasped. “I’ll do it.”
Maybe that was what I needed, someone to talk to who could help me see my way out of the dark. Maybe. Maybe there was nothing anyone could do. I didn’t know but for now, I’d give it a shot.
Chapter 23
Ava
Manie told me about Francis. Worried sick, I called Francis several times a day, even from set. That night in London, our argument about Marilyn, and then my pride that followed . . . it had been a stupid fight. I didn’t know why I let Francis’s old flames get the better of me. The man clearly loved me, and when I could see past my jealousy and the vodka, I knew that truth to the depths of my soul. Still, Nancy’s stubborn refusal to let him go and the nastiness in the papers had worn me down. For now, the fact that he was still in New York was for the best. It gave the rumors more time to cool.
To keep myself distracted, I spent a lot of time out on the town, meeting with friends. One night after a house party, several of us headed to a club to go dancing. Lena Horne was among the group and she was a riot, smart as a tack and a real talent at singing and acting, too. We had a grand old time together, stirring up trouble. She liked a party as much as I did, as it turned out.
I clinked my glass against hers. We were sweaty after an hour of swirling around the dance floor and decided to take a break for a fresh drink.
Lena sipped from her cold martini glass. Her hair was brushed into a dark wavy bob framing her face, her lips blazed red, and her pretty little dimples made her seem innocent and sweet. “My manager said they won’t play my films in the south, or my roles have to be reedited with a white woman in my place,” she said. “Some towns and theaters even boycott Black performers.”
Lena was a gorgeous Black woman with fair skin, from a well-off and well-educated family, and yet, she was treated like a pariah in certain circles. Just like with my Reenie, it made me furious to see the way she was treated.
“That’s appalling,” I said. “Have you thought of hiring a new manager? Maybe someone else will have better luck beating down doors on your behalf.”
She shook her head. “For now, we’re taking things as they come. I’d rather sing, but the NAACP has been pressuring me to stay in Hollywood to promote their agenda. I’m all for equality on screen, of course, and everywhere else for that matter, but I also have to look out for myself, too, you know? I just signed a club tour contract. It might complicate things for my next movie role, but I figured I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”
“You’ve got a wonderful voice,” I said, laying my hand on hers. “In Words and Music, you were stunning. I could listen to you sing all day, baby.”
She smiled brightly. “You’re too kind, little sister.”
I smiled at her nickname for me. “You know I speak only the truth.”
“I know, I know.” She winked and took another sip from her glass. “I leave next week, after we hear back about Show Boat.”
I hesitated an instant. “You know they’re putting me up for that role, too?”
The role in Show Boat was a tragic singer of mixed race who could pass for a white woman. She was driven to drink because her marriage to a white man was illegal and caused all kinds of complications. It made a lot more sense to cast Lena for the role, both because of who she was and her singing skills, but I also knew there was nothing sensical or fair about Hollywood. I’d like to land the role, it was true, but I wasn’t one to begrudge anyone their success or what they deserved. Never had been, never would be, especially for a friend.
Lena nodded. “I did know, yes, and if they pass me over, it may as well go to you. At least I know you’ll do a fine job.”
“No one has your voice, baby,” I said. “I couldn’t possibly compete.”
“I’d desperately like to land that role. It was made for me, wasn’t it? If I don’t get it, I’d rather be out on the road than in Hollywood,” she said. “I’m not a big fan of this town.”
“Well that makes two of us,” I said.
We set down our drinks as the next song began and she grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor. We giggled like schoolgirls but swished our skirts like vixens, dancing until the lights went up and the club closed down.
In the end, MGM offered me the part, and Lena was as gracious as ever, wishing me luck and promising me a night out when she was next in town. I hoped she truly hadn’t felt slighted. We were neighbors and friends, and I’d learned that in Hollywood, real friends were hard to come by. Meanwhile, the fact that I was chosen over someone with superior singing skills made me self-conscious. I was no chanteuse, after all, so I reached out to Phil Moore, an old friend and a rehearsal pianist. He didn’t hesitate to help me out, the lamb.
One evening after rehearsals at the studio, I headed to his apartment for a lesson.
“Come on in, Ava,” he said with a smile.
“Thanks for doing this, Phil,” I said. “I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”
“Anytime.” He ushered me into the small studio space in his apartment. His piano was nearly as big as the room itself. The only other furniture was a small bench and a pair of identical, hideous lamps with clunky brass feet that looked like the claws of a gnarled old man.
“Do you have the music with you?” he asked.
“I do.” I handed him a folder with the sheets of music.
He ran through several practice takes and when it was time to begin, the familiar stage fright reared its ugly head again. I tried to muster my courage but every time I should begin, my heart stuck in my throat and my words faltered.
“I don’t think I can sing in front of you, Phil,” I said after the fifth attempt.
He laughed in disbelief. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Can we turn off the lights?”
“I suppose I know the music well enough, sure.”
Under the cover of darkness, I practiced my range and sang my heart out with Phil, then also later at home in the shower, and finally, with the rest of the team on the demo recordings. I may not have had the range of a professional, but my whiskey tenor had a style all its own. I was proud of it after so much hard work.
On my way to set one day, I parked and walked to the back lot. Behind the studio building was a lake that had been dug long ago for another picture and now, with its trees and muddy banks, truly looked like a real one. It would serve as the Mississippi River for our production, a stretch if you asked me, but anyone watching the picture probably wouldn’t notice, especially since the life-size model of the boat was what held the eye. The boat was the largest set prop in Hollywood production history, and as I peered up at the enormous structure, the paddlewheel at its back, and its two towering smokestacks, I could believe it.
We did a few takes of different scenes and after hours of shooting, an argument broke out between the producer and the director. He waved us off, so we took a break.
“Back to my place, for a little fun?” I asked my costars, offering my dressing room as the usual party location.
Everyone mumbled noncommittally and I left, secretly glad for the snatch of alone time. I knew this picture was going to be something special—I could feel it—so I’d been throwing myself into my performance day after day, and I was plum tired. I needed a little peace and quiet—but apparently that wasn’t to be.
As I opened the door to my dressing room, a telephone call was put through to my line.
“This is Ava,” I said, leaning back in my chair. I attempted to smother a yawn.
“Hi, Angel.” Francis’s New Jersey accent filled my ear. “Why haven’t you been returning my calls? I’m dying over here.”
“I hope you don’t mean that literally,” I said a bit too sharply.
He laughed, and I appreciated that. The man had a dark sense of humor. “How’s the shoot?”
“I’m working hard, but it’s coming along.”
“I miss you. When are you coming to see me?”
Between my exhaustion from a long week’s work and the thrashing I’d taken in the media, I wasn’t in any hurry to book a flight east, even if I loved him. Even if I missed him terribly, and I did.
“I’ll see you when you file for divorce,” I said. “I’m nobody’s mistress, Francis. I can’t go on like this. We can’t go on like this. Things will never get better if we can’t really be together.”
“What do you expect me to do? Hold Nancy at gunpoint to make her file and sign the papers?”
“For starters,” I snapped, losing my patience. “Figure it out, Francis. I’m sick of being painted as a whore in the papers.”
“I guess you haven’t seen the latest? Now we’re Romeo and Juliet. The whore is Nancy.”
“You’re kidding,” I said, opening the drawer in my dressing table, brushing aside a scrap of royal blue silk and a few pieces of costume jewelry encrusted with paste jewels to find the bottle of vodka.
“Juliet is the east and I am the sun,” he said jokingly.
I softened, laughed at his attempt at poetry. “My romantic is at it again, but I need to go, baby. I need to focus on my part. It’s awkward to act in scenes where we’ve already recorded the songs. I feel like an idiot lip-syncing.”
“You’ll nail it, Angel. You always do,” he said. “Call me tonight?”
I supposed it was time to thaw a bit. I’d frozen Francis out for a couple of weeks now, and the truth was, I wished I had him in my bed at night and his shoulder to lean on while I was working my tail off to please the director.
“I will.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
I threw back a shot of vodka and walked back to set. Joe Brown and Kathryn Grayson, the other leads, were already there, but most of the rest of the cast hadn’t returned yet, so I bummed a cigarette off a cameraman.
A moment later, the director sidled up next to me. “Ava, I’d like you to meet someone. This is Annette Warren.”
“Well, hello there, Annette.” I gave her a big smile. “I’d offer you a smoke, but I borrowed one myself.”
She smiled, hesitated an instant, and held out her hand to shake mine. “Hi, Miss Gardner. Gosh, I’m your biggest fan. I’ve seen all of your pictures.”
“Why, thank you.” I gave her a genuine smile. She was pretty if a little unsure of herself, with her shy smile and hunched shoulders, and a dress that was too plain for her face.
“Annette will be the stand-in for your singing parts,” George said. “So you don’t have to worry about anything, Ava. I know how nervous you’ve been about them.”
I dropped the woman’s hand as if it were on fire. “What do you mean she’s my stand-in? I’ve trained for weeks. I thought the recording went well.”
He cleared his throat and looked down at his clipboard. “The team decided the best thing for the picture would be for Annette to sing your part.” He shifted from one foot to the other. The lout was too weak to even meet my eye and give it to me straight. “She’s experienced,” he said, “and she has a perfect soprano. Her voice coupled with your face will only make the picture more of a success.”
I felt my cheeks flame with fury. “Is this some kind of joke? These other clowns”—I waved my hands at the cast that had started to trickle back to set—“Are no better than me. Do they have doubles, too?”
He frowned. “Come on, Ava. Don’t be like that. Listen—”
But I was no longer listening. I stormed off the stage, grabbed my purse from my dressing room, downed another shot of vodka, and headed straight for my car. A professional soprano, my ass. I had worked for weeks! For this? If they’d wanted someone else’s voice, why the hell had they chosen me in the first place? My character was a woman born on the levee, a sad drunk living a simple life. My sultry voice matched the part!
I turned over the ignition, revved the engine, and squealed out of the parking lot.
As I torpedoed down the boulevard, I pictured the director listening to my recordings and deciding they were subpar, and I flushed with embarrassment. I hated being incompetent more than just about anything and worked hard to prove myself, and yet, MGM seemed to continually remind me that I wasn’t good enough. I wanted to scream.
I drove to the beach in Pacific Palisades, parallel parked haphazardly, and took off my shoes, throwing them in the back seat. As I walked on the sand, I listened to the waves crashing and felt the cold, clear surf as it swirled over my feet. I looked ahead at the mountains where they tapered to the ocean. I didn’t understand it. I was given starring roles by practically every other studio in Hollywood and now that I was finally starring in bigger roles for MGM—and making them plenty of money—they still treated me like nobody special. Like I was second-rate. As I walked across the beach, my anger eventually turned to pity. I liked acting. I really did, but I didn’t like the business, and I disliked it enough to dream about giving up acting entirely. If I had any other skills, any other way to make money, perhaps I would.
I watched the sun streak the sky in a riot of orange and searing pink that any painter would be jealous of and suddenly realized how alone I felt. The one person who understood me better than anything—who understood the hard knocks and the way the business gnawed away at your soul better than anyone—was very far away.
I wanted Francis. I needed Francis.
* * *
I didn’t go back to set for three days. I ignored the telephone calls, the telegrams, the insistence I return. I tortured myself with thoughts of what they’d said about my voice and my performance, and I grew angrier and more despondent by the day. I didn’t want to finish the film and was seriously considering quitting, even if I was penalized with a fine from the studio.
