The Thunder of Giants, page 11
“How … tall … is … she?” gasped Zachariah Kelsey. (Geoffrey had wrapped an arm around his neck.) “The greater she is … the more … I’m prepared to offer.”
“We’re not interested in your offers,” said Geoffrey. He squeezed, and Zachariah’s eyes began to bulge. Then he let out a cry as something latched onto to his leg: the Widow had entered the fray.
The Ambassador of Goodwill looked to his son. “Help me!” he wailed.
“I didn’t want to come here in the first place,” said Nicholas.
Zachariah flailed, and in his thrashings he kicked the Widow in the head, forcing her to let go. She cried out as she fell back. Distracted by her cry, Geoffrey loosened his grip, and the Ambassador squirmed free. He slipped down and then scrambled back to his feet. The Widow leaned against the wall, holding her leg. Geoffrey and Zachariah stood panting. And Nicholas and Andorra? They remained where they were, completely statuesque. A boy staring at his feet, a girl staring at a boy.
“You just aren’t being practical,” said the Ambassador. “Do you know what kind of life I could give her? And the money! I know how hard it must be to make a living.”
“She’s not interested,” growled Geoffrey. The men were inches apart.
“Maybe I should talk to her myself,” said the Ambassador.
“I’m not interested,” said Andorra, and she finally stepped forward.
Zachariah gaped: he had not known she was there. Nicholas gaped, too. She had been staring at him, but he had yet to notice her. Father and son froze in surprise. The light was coming from another direction; her shadow could not fall over them, but they each imagined it had. Her great size seemed to dominate the world.
“Five hundred dollars a month,” said the Ambassador.
It was a good price. In those days, Geoffrey barely made twenty-five dollars a week. But he wasn’t tempted. “Snakes usually offer much larger apples,” he said.
The Ambassador of Goodwill tried to clean his lapels. “Five twenty-five, plus room and board when I take her on the road.”
“I’m not interested,” said Andorra again.
“Five fifty a month. I’ve seen one or two giants in my day, but they’ve all been men. I really do think you might be the only lady giant in the world.”
“She’s not a lady giant,” snapped Geoffrey. “She’s a lady like anyone else.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“I want her to believe it,” said Geoffrey. He purposely laid a greasy paw on the Ambassador’s arm, further ruining the coat. “I’d very much like you to leave.”
The Ambassador stooped to retrieve his hat, which had fallen during the fight. Nicholas turned to Andorra. He was even shorter than she had thought—he barely made it to her breasts.
“Don’t hold this against me,” he said softly. “I take after my mother.” Then he gave her a sly wink even as he pressed the ball cap lower over his head.
Geoffrey followed the Ambassador onto the porch, slamming the door behind him.
“We should have tried to eat him,” said the Widow.
Andorra ignored her and peered through the crack in the door. The men were still on the porch. She couldn’t quite see them, but she could hear them easily enough; it seemed that Zachariah Kelsey was determined to be the sort of ambassador who outstayed his welcome.
“You don’t fool me,” he was saying. “You want to manage her and keep the coin for yourself. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Otherwise, you’re just a damn fool.”
“What are they saying?” asked the Widow.
“Shhh!” said Andorra.
“Have a safe trip home,” said Geoffrey. “Try not to get shot.”
“You really think she can live like a lady?” said the Ambassador. “You think some boy like my Nicholas is just going to marry her? Look, if you were rich, you could marry her off no matter how big she was. A man will marry a mountain if it has enough gold in it. But right now she’s just a big, empty mountain. And I’ll tell you who will want her: men less honorable than me. Men who will want to use their new wife as a way to make themselves rich.”
“She doesn’t have to marry,” Nicholas remarked.
“Then she’s a spinster. Then she’s nothing but some lonely woman. Let her be a giant and the whole world could be hers.”
Footsteps and then the voices died away.
“Never mind him,” sighed the Widow. “He’s just another boar.”
Andorra—the big, empty mountain—didn’t reply. She simply peeked through the curtains and watched Nicholas walk away. She barely heard her father return, even though he slammed the door shut and bolted it tight.
“The nerve of the man!” he hissed. He looked to the Widow. “Did he hurt you? If he hurt you, we can take him to court.”
Andorra saw the Widow smile—she was touched by Geoffrey’s concern. “Never mind the court battles,” she said. “I’m a little bruised, but I’ll live.”
Andorra stared at the now-empty road. “Am I really a big, empty mountain?” she asked in Catalan.
Geoffrey turned white as he realized his daughter had heard the conversation on the porch. “You listen to me,” he said. “You aren’t a mountain. You forget everything that man said.”
“But will anyone ever want to marry me?”
“A man will marry anyone he’s in love with. You just have to show him that you’re more than the sum of your measurements.”
That night she plucked at her dinner; the next morning, she picked at her breakfast. Geoffrey frowned, worried that his daughter was getting sick. Andorra didn’t know the trouble either. She had learned a lot about the world since coming to Detroit; but on that morning after the Lusitania sank, she still didn’t know that a loss of appetite is the first sign that a girl is thinking about love.
NINE
“It’s Like Staring at the Moon”
Hollywood, 1937
HOLLYWOOD. MOVIE LAND. The Hills. Born twelve years before the Lusitania sank—before Andorra started thinking about love—it took its name from a ranch in the Cahuenga Valley whose owner had seen the word Hollywood on the gate of a Chicago estate. By 1897, the region had a post office, a hotel, and a population with the dubious practice of leaving promissory notes in lieu of cash in the register of the general store. Andorra was still in her principality when the first Hollywood movie was made, but she was somewhere between Europe and Detroit when the man who made it was murdered in his sleep. “His name was Francis Boggs,” said Rutherford the Historian. “No one remembers his films but everyone knows he was killed by his Japanese gardener. That’s Hollywood. You come here to make movies and they remember you for something else.”
The City of Los Angeles crested a hill, and then the station loomed before them. Somehow, that great locomotive had made up for lost time. They were only ten hours late. Andorra had missed her appointment with the executives at the Studio but not by much; the clock on the station wall told her it was a sensible six o’clock. Next to it, she noticed a single word painted in black letters on a white sign: WELCOME. The simplicity surprised her. She had been expecting spotlights and marquees. Even an exclamation mark would have made sense—WELCOME! At least there was a crowd waiting on the platform. She had expected there to be crowds here, one potential audience after another dotting the horizon as far as the eye could see. As the train slowed, she studied the lean faces and hair sculpted with cream. Worn suits and ties. The odd woman, dressed in somber clothes.
“Journalists!” said Rutherford.
“How can you tell?”
“Trust me—they have a distinction all their own.” He quickly cleaned his glasses with the end of his tie. “Say nothing—I’ll do the talking.”
“Just remember: seven-eleven, three-hundred and twenty-two pounds.”
They had barely stepped off the train when the flashbulbs went off, each one a small exploding star. But these flashbulbs were only popping in her vicinity; the cameras were not really pointed at her. They weren’t pointed at Rutherford either. Rather, the photographers—and the journalists, the porters, the passengers, everyone, really—had turned their attention to a mountain of a man who was swaggering toward the train. He held his hat in his hand, revealing hair with so much pomade that it might have been painted to his scalp. Oh, he was handsome. Not devastatingly handsome, like Nicholas, but they were in the same league. She didn’t recognize him. She knew little of the movies, so why would she know Grover “Grove” Wilson, star of gangster films, westerns, and a single adventure flick with Rin Tin Tin?
The reporters turned their attention to the actor, clamoring as they scrambled toward him.
“We should get our luggage,” said Rutherford.
But suddenly Grove Wilson was upon them. In his time, he had kissed the hands of stars like Jean Arthur, Mary Pickford, and Myrna Loy. Now he took Andorra’s giant paw and added it to the list.
“Darling!” he said, far louder than was needed. “It’s so good that you’re here.”
“It is?”
Rutherford caught on faster than she did. With sudden vigor, he sprang into action. “I’m glad you found us, old man,” he said, clapping the actor on the back.
“Your wife got your telegram.” Grove laughed. “We told the press I was coming to meet a true Hollywood giant. Always good to make a dramatic entrance, no?” He turned to Andorra. “Come, let’s get you out of this madhouse.”
Andorra was still confused. “Am I coming with you?”
“Of course you are,” said Rutherford. “But why don’t we give the cameras at least one photo? These people have to eat, after all.”
Grove Wilson guided her toward the reporters. Almost at the same time, the photographers took a step back—it was the only way they could get all of her in the shot. Grove put his arm around her waist and delivered that clean smile that had been painted on movie posters from coast to coast. At the last moment, Andorra realized she was supposed to smile, too.
They escaped into the parking lot, where a beautiful iron tiger waited to carry her away. Elegant and grand, its engine was tucked under a long black snout that gave way to a cab with red leather seats. Grove produced bright blue sunglasses and a kerchief she could use to save her hair from the wind. “This beauty might as well be a plane,” he warned. “She doesn’t drive—she flies. You’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Actually, I have,” said Rutherford. “This is my car.” He ran a hand across the side of the car, irritation clashing with his good mood. “I told her not to let anyone drive it,” he muttered.
There was no room for their luggage—there was barely room for Andorra—so they filled the trunk of a waiting taxi and told the driver to follow them into the hills. Rutherford drove—he practically tore the keys from Grove Wilson’s hand. “This is a 1931 Duesenberg,” he said. “It’s the same car driven by Al Capone. It’s a Lycoming engine. Eight cylinders, four valves per cylinder, double overhead camshafts.” Andorra didn’t know what any of this meant, but she hardly cared. All that mattered to her was that the roof came down; all that mattered was that she almost didn’t mind climbing through the iron tiger’s jaws.
The Duesenberg carried them away. She was instantly struck by the sprawling freeway, the rolling hills, the elegant sun. And was that an actual palm tree? There was a vague familiarity to this new world—it was the Spanish influence, the echo of things carried across the border by the Mexicans who had inherited so many things from Spain. No, this was not Sant Julià de Lòria, but Andorra thought she understood this place just the same. The droughts and dust storms consuming America did not seem to have come to Hollywood. She had the sensation of arriving on an island, unaffected by the rest of the world. Grove Wilson was right. The car was a plane. And she was very clearly soaring away.
Chester Smith lived with Rutherford’s wife in an ornate house buried deep within the hills. Rutherford swore it was a palace. Look at that house, he said, and you’ll know where all the money in America went. She couldn’t see the house when they reached the front gates, but she could read the name of the estate, which was etched into a stone plaque:
WELCOME TO NEW ANNAN
ALL PILGRIMS WILL BE SHOT
Rutherford honked as he edged the car up one last hill. Then she saw it. The house—the palace—was a great animal basking in the sun. Manicured hedges of oleander lined a front lawn adorned with an immense stone fountain that shot water into the sky. In this New Annan, God was in the details. The railings were elaborate. Balconies rested on Greek pillars. Curlicues were etched into the stairs. The glory of the place dazzled her at once. This was what she should have seen when that train had pulled into the station; this was what she had always imagined Hollywood to be.
Rutherford’s wife, summoned by that blaring horn, stepped through a pair of marbled front doors just as the April wind swept through the estate. What had Andorra been expecting? Certainly not a blonde who was this large; certainly not a woman who was this blousy. Jessica Simone was as short as her husband but infinitely larger in girth. She’s lovely, thought Andorra. Big and bold, like a tropical storm.
“Why didn’t you call?” she said. “You should have told us you were on your way.” She wasn’t speaking to Rutherford; her nasal voice was directed toward Grove Wilson, who was still helping Andorra out of the car.
“Those reporters were hungry,” said Grove. “I wanted to get out of there before they ate us alive.”
Rutherford the Romantic leapt up the stairs two at a time, racing to his big blond wife like, well, like a lover in a film. He opened his arms. The blousy Jessica, after a moment of consideration, stepped into the embrace and left a peck on her husband’s cheek. Then she broke from Rutherford’s grip and descended the steps. Andorra, still trying to extricate herself from the car, nearly did a pratfall as Jessica neared.
“My God!” She had seen Andorra’s screen test, of course. But for all the power of film, there are times when it fails to capture the true wonder of real life. “Damn and double damn,” said the blousy blonde. Then she shook her head. “Well, come on. Chester has got to see this.”
She led them around the side of the house and stepped onto the back deck, where the California sun struck them like the spotlight that it was. A stone path wound its way past a garden toward a large fluorescent pool. Chester Smith was cutting his way through the water: he was gray as an old schooner and rhythmic in his strokes. They reached the edge of the pool at the same time he did. Grabbing the side of the pool, the producer hoisted himself onto land. His skin was worn like an old coat. Ribs protruded over the tufts of gray hair that sprouted on his chest. He seemed determined not to show how winded he was from the exertion of the swim.
Andorra drew herself up to her full height, making sure that she towered over him. She remembered what Rutherford had said about Chester Smith’s importance; she wanted to prove she was every bit the salvation Rutherford Simone had made her out to be. But it was a hopeless cause. She could not save Chester Smith. In that moment, no one could.
“My God,” said the producer. “It’s like staring at the moon!”
He leaned forward to take her hand, and his face contorted at her touch. Those gray eyes rolled to the back of his head. A great convulsion rippled through him, and his body twisted like origami before rolling into the pool. Jessica screamed even as Rutherford the Fully Clothed dove in after him. Andorra only stared in horror. She had encountered unique comparisons before—her husband had excelled at them. But who had ever compared her to the moon? It hinted at an originality of vision that would never be explored. Here was an abrupt fade-out, and it smacked of terrible prophecy because it had been caused by something she understood better than most: the doomed producer had a weak little heart.
TEN
A Girl like Her
New York City, 1863
WHO WOULD HAVE GUESSED that a room of convalescing soldiers could ever be enamored with a girl like Jane Eyre? Certainly not Anna, who had taken to reading to the men at the hospital at Fort Schuyler in those first months of 1863. And certainly not Jane herself, who regretted that she did not have “rosy cheeks, a straight nose and small cherry mouth.” But such things hardly mattered to the battered men. They adored Jane Eyre so much that Anna had read it twice by the time the East River thawed. The reading began as a kindness to a single blind lieutenant, but her voice had carried and taken Jane with it. Soon dozens of men had gathered to hear Anna read from her well-worn first edition. She was only dimly aware of the crowd; she was only dimly aware of the book, too. Able to recite many passages by heart, she often looked up and locked eyes with the only battered soldier who mattered. Gavin Clarke never missed a chapter. Always he could be seen leaning in the doorway, his single arm draped over his chest so his head could rest on his hand.
Fort Schyuler had become her domain; even Barnum gave up trying to put his other attractions at her side. Her schedule did not permit her to go there more than once a week. Throughout that winter and into the spring, Anna and Miss Eaton would spend their Mondays working as laundresses, nurses, and cooks. They changed bandages, doled out medicine, and prepared rough meals with the measly rations found in the hospital’s canteen. The cuisine was so unhappy that Anna began bringing supplies bought with her own gold. With Miss Eaton’s guidance, she gave the men their best meal of the week. She would finish the day with a reading from Jane Eyre before retiring to take her own supper with Gavin. As the weather warmed, the two began taking walks across the slushy hospital grounds. With Miss Eaton always at a discreet distance, there could be no repeat of that kiss that had so warmed Anna’s mouth back in January. But she didn’t need it. There would be enough time for kisses and everything that followed. She was as certain of this as she was of the thawing earth.
“You’ve done a real miracle here,” Gavin told her one March evening as they strolled beneath the poplars. The trees, still skeletal from the cold, lined the stone walls that surrounded the hospital grounds. Gavin walked on her left side so his missing arm was hidden from view. But she was so tall that she could easily see over his head to that pinned sleeve that flapped so gently in the breeze. “The men really adore you,” he went on. “They think it’s a blessing that you keep coming here every week.”
