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Chapter Text

They called it a prop shop, but in truth it was a warehouse. Newly built, the rough-hewn pine shelves smelling of Christmas trees, it was already stuffed to the gills with goods of every kind, shape, and size imaginable. It was as if, Nelly thought, someone had upended the entire contents of Marshall Field’s into the place. Clothing racks held miles of costumes, separated by sexes. Shelves in the same chamber as the costumes were filled floor to ceiling with hat boxes. Another door led to an open floor that seemed to be the size of a football field where furniture that had been delivered by truck and train stood in neat rows. Other rooms held baby buggies, oil lamps, vases and ceramics galore, bedclothes, books, barrels, china sets, coffee grinders, cuckoo clocks with tangled chains. And though there was enough stuff for at least seventy-five families of four to comfortably set up house, Buster apparently wanted more.

When she thought back to the Vista’s prop room, stuffed with paper mâché masks, costumes increasingly moth-eaten with every month, and beaten-up props, and little larger than a closet, she felt dizzy.

The prop master, Bert, seemed not to notice her overawe and she was grateful. When she’d arrived in Sacramento two mornings prior and been told by the Chamber of Commerce that she was late and all 1800 slots for extras had long since been filled, despair had threatened to overtake her. She’d already let a room in a house on 22nd street, fibbing to the young married couple who owned it by saying she had a part in the film. She’d spent the afternoon of the 19th and the 20th haunting the edges of River Junction, that strange half-city out of Reconstruction America, looking for someone who could give her a job. Man after man laughed her down. Most were just hired help themselves. “You and all the other damn dames,” they’d say, shaking their heads. 

She hadn’t been anywhere near ready to declare defeat, but running into Bert was nonetheless the lucky break she needed. She’d spied him getting into one of the fancy cars that lined a lot outside the larger-than-life set and asked for a chance, any chance, to be part of the picture.

“Well,” he’d said with the doubting half-smile she’d recognized from the other men’s faces, “we do need some help right now in the prop shop. We could use someone to help with the books.”

Beaming, she’d declared it was just the opportunity she’d been looking for and when could she start. Breaking into pictures was what she intended to do and if this was the path forward, so be it.

As Bert gave her the tour of her new environs, she learned that she was expected to help choose props for sets and, more importantly, manage the inventory. Each prop that went out into a set had to be returned, so each one that was on a set had to be noted. Bert would handle the broader picture stuff, the hired men the props, and she would be in charge of the small, boring details. She was thrilled to be in charge of small, boring details.

If the scale of the prop shop was jaw-dropping, it was still nothing compared to the size of the city. There weren’t words for the size of the city. Gargantuan didn’t do it. Humongous was a little closer to the mark, but still not right. She’d expected the sound stages you saw in magazines, not whole entire buildings, not full-sized steamboats of the type she’d only glimpsed in books, not paved streets lined with cars. Most of the buildings were just optical illusions, their fronts fully fledged and their backsides unfinished. This fact did nothing to make the city less impressive when she considered that almost none of it had existed three weeks ago. She knew from the magazines, of course, the huge money Buster had spent to make The General historically acceptable, so perhaps she shouldn’t have been as surprised as she was.

Still. It was one thing to read that there was big money in pictures. It was another to see it up close for yourself. It was quite another still to know that you were going to be a cog in this giant piece of machinery.

It was thrilling, it was daunting, she was pretty sure she was the luckiest girl in the world. There were so many people to watch, too. Workmen, gag men, and beautiful young girls, none of whom, she quickly was told, were the leading lady. Their only job was to stand in the background and look gorgeous. It honestly relieved her that she’d wound up in the prop shop. She wasn’t so modest that didn’t know she was easy on the eyes, but her looks seemed positively average in comparison. Clearly there was work to be done before she made her screen debut.

“Are you clear on it all?” Bert said.

“Sure I am,” she said, feeling not the least bit clear. 

For the rest of the day, she sat at a kind of workbench in the prop shop going through a list of businesses like Hale Bros., Inc. and the John Breuner Company and ringing them to see if they could ship her a mysterious array of things, including a ventriloquist’s dummy and an escritoire. She had a delightful time imagining how the various and sundry props might be used for laughs and what they could possibly have to do with steamboats.

She didn’t actually see the star of the picture that day or even the next, but it didn’t matter. As she rode her bicycle back to the room on 22nd Street, exhausted but proud, she felt that she had finally arrived.

Buster didn’t remember her name, which meant that she wouldn’t be a steady.

It bothered him.

Not that he didn’t remember her name, not that it wouldn’t be an affair to remember, but it bothered him that it no longer bothered him that he couldn’t remember her name. It pricked him so much that after he got up to take a leak and pour himself a glass of water, he moved to the opposite side of the bed from her. Slightly more awake than he had been just two minutes ago, he fished for her name. No luck. It slithered trout-like out of his grasp.

Call it an instinct, a hunch, a premonition, but he knew he was in for rough waters ahead. Not a week went by that the papers didn’t mention talkies. The Villa had made Nat happy, but not nearly as happy as he’d hoped. It all added up to trouble on the horizon. Even though he’d always known that what goes up must come down, he didn’t have it in him to be cheerful about it. 

Just before he went back to sleep, he closed the gap between him and his paramour on the bed, deciding to sleep next to her after all. He laid a hand on her naked bosom as he drifted off. This season of Bacchanalia would come to an end, one way or the other, probably sooner rather than later. May as well enjoy it while he still could. 

Chapter Text

Nelly couldn’t have been happier as she rode across the I-Street bridge on her bicycle the morning of the 23rd, bathed in the orange glow of the early morning light with a cool breeze running through her hair. She arrived on set at a quarter to seven, fifteen minutes ahead of the start of her shift, but better early than late. She left her bicycle in the lot with the cars and walked down to River  Junction. 

The city was more ghostly than it had been the previous day. There were no extras yet, just crew smoking cigarettes and laughing among each other. She realized she was almost the only girl in sight. A tall blonde man leaning against one of the facades winked at her as she passed by and she smiled back.

It turned out to be a hectic, busy morning. Workmen, directed by Bert, carried out various pieces of furniture, including several full-sized barber’s chairs, and she jotted it all down in her ledger and ran back and forth fetching smaller props. By the time eleven o’clock rolled around, she was starved. She took lunch in the canteen at one of the long tables amidst the female extras that the company had brought with them and who’d introduced themselves yesterday and waved her over to sit with them. Today she said her greetings and sat back to listen to their gossip over some cold chicken and peaches. She expected to hear all about the picture, but mostly the girls just talked about the sundry men they were involved with or wanted to be involved with. Buster was a hot topic. Nelly was shocked to hear some of the girls discussing how to seduce him. 

“Seduce?” one said, laughing. “All you have to do is walk into his dressing room and offer yourself.”

The remark sent the other women flying into giggles. “That’s right,” another said, with a wink. There was another peal of laughter, so loud that several men at the other tables turned to look at them. Nelly grinned so she wouldn’t stick out, but inside she was horrified. She wasn’t an innocent, that wasn’t it. She’d had her fair share of dalliances with steady boyfriends, no big deal. She supposed it was the casual way the women talked about it, as if he weren’t a married father. She’d heard plenty of rumors about Hollywood of course, most of them sordid, but somehow she’d never stopped to consider that Buster Keaton, with his elegant wife and beautiful young sons, might be in their center. No one who was rational could really believe that he was the shy, hesitant lover he appeared to be on screen, and yet she guessed she’d bought into fiction without fully realizing it.

She still hadn’t seen him in the flesh yet; she had to mind the shop while Bert supervised the furnishing of sets and seldom left it except to relieve herself or take lunch. By the time she’d left the prop shop the past three days, the star of the picture had been long gone. She was curious to see him, but in no hurry. There were still at least three more weeks of filming and she had more than enough to keep her happy and interested. Already she loved sitting at her workbench going over the books while the radio played quietly nearby or taking inventory at the end of the day, drinking in the marvelous array of props.

Anyway, to speak of Buster as a conquest felt wrong. She finished her cold chicken and excused herself. She ran into Bert halfway back to the prop house. He was carrying a large floor lamp and kept bumping the shade into the side of his head as he walked. “Could you find Buster and ask him where he wants those barber’s chairs? We’re setting up right now and God forbid I ask Reisner over him.”

“Buster?” she said, stomach somersaulting. 

“Yes, Buster.” The corner of his mouth twitched and he shook his head slightly as if he couldn’t believe her astonishment. “If you’re going to be in pictures, you’d better get over the starstruck thing quick. It’s all business here.”

She blushed. “Where is he?”

“Dressing room I imagine. Make it quick, filming starts in thirty.”

She didn’t actually know where the dressing rooms were, but spied the blonde man who’d winked at her earlier heading toward the prop shop as she headed away. “Excuse me. Can you point me to the dressing rooms?” she said. For one instant, she considered asking him to go ask Buster about the chairs for her, but realized how it might look to Bert if he found out she couldn’t take directions. Now that she had this job, nothing was going to get in the way of it. 

The man smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners. They were striking and blue. She realized that he was very good-looking up close. “What do you want to know that for?” he said teasingly. 

“I’ve got to ask Buster about some barber’s chairs. Bert told me to.” She felt herself go red under his gaze. 

“Just off in that direction. See that building on the left there? They’re in there.”

She thanked him and turned to go.

“Hey,” he called after her. “What’s your name?”

“Nelly,” she said.

“Nelly, I’m Tommy.”

“Okay Tommy,” she said, smiling. “Thank you. It was nice meeting you.”

“See you around,” he said with a wink. 

The building that housed the dressing rooms was fairly empty, but she did find a man who could tell her which dressing room was Buster’s. It was larger than the others and set at a remove from them. Block letters on the door read simply ‘Keaton.’ With her heart in her throat, she tapped on the door.

“Come in,” said a voice. 

She was momentarily stunned as she put her hand on the doorknob. The Great Frozen Face spoke! His voice was of middling deepness with a plain, Midwestern edge to it. He sounded nothing so much as completely ordinary. 

He was alone when she entered the room, sitting at a small table with a drink next to him and a notepad open in front of him. He’d been writing when she interrupted. 

The sight of him tied her tongue. To start with, she didn’t expect him to be in costume. He was wearing the most absurd outfit she’d ever seen in her life, and she’d been to the circus almost more times than she could count. He had on a loud, diamond-checkered jumper vest, a striped velvet jacket, a polka-dot bow tie, and plus fours so oversized they almost entirely concealed his shoes. Topping off the outfit was a fake moustache glued under his nose, following the curve of his upper lip. His face was made up in greasepaint and powder, his lips painted scarlet and eyes lined in kohl. The only word for what she felt was awestruck. 

“Can I help you?” he said, looking at her. He seemed oblivious to the way he looked. 

She swallowed, but her knees felt weak and she couldn’t remember what she’d come into his dressing room for. Some question Bert had wanted her to ask. What was it? All she could seem to think was that she, a little old nobody from Evanston, was meeting Buster Keaton, a movie star. How many times had she seen him and films and here he was, right here, a real-life person? Her mind staggered with the enormity of it.

“Oh, I see,” he said, after the silence had dragged on for a few moments. He straightened up and put his palms on his thighs. “You want to be in pictures and you’re asking me for a break, but I’ve made you tongue-tied.” He nodded, as if she’d answered the question instead of him. “Sure, that’s what it is.”

She felt faint. The pounding of her heart in her own ears almost crowded out his words. Was it that easy? Was getting a break really this easy? It wasn’t why she had come here, but if he was offering …

She couldn’t seem to summon any words. 

“Look, I’ll put it straight to you,” said Buster, sounding resigned.  

She couldn’t get used to his voice.

“You’re too tall,” he said. “You need to get rid of about twenty pounds, give or take. And you’ll want to do something about your bosom. It’s too big. It’s not in fashion.”

There was a roar in her ears as she struggled to process what she had just heard. She felt as though he’d just poured a bucket of ice water down the back of her dress.

He must have noticed what the expression on her face meant, because his mouth quirked sympathetically. “I’m not trying to be unkind, I think it’s just better you hear it now so you know what you’re up against. Girls are a dime a dozen in this biz and they’re expected to have a certain look, you know?”

She had never felt so humiliated in her whole life. Of course she did want to be in pictures, but that wasn’t why she’d come here. Not at all. He was wrong. If only she could speak, maybe she could sort out the misunderstanding.

“That’s not why I’m here,” she finally said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. 

“Oh?” he cocked his head, appearing unaware that he’d just made a fool out of her. Realization appeared to dawn and his features relaxed a little. “Oh. If it’s that, it’s got to be quick. And I can’t undress all of the way, I’m supposed to be on set in twenty.” His hands went to his belt. 

To say she was mortified was a deep understatement. She wished she’d never bumped into Bert and been told to come here. She shook her head. All she could choke out before she fled was, “I’ve got to go.”

She left the building in a daze, hands shaking. He thought she was propositioning him!

She managed to make it back to the prop house without swooning. When she was safely back at the workbench, it came to her. The stupid barber’s chairs, that’s what it was all about. Before she had time to properly compose herself, Bert walked out of the next room. 

“Nelly, you’re white as a sheet. Something the matter?” he said.

She shook her head quickly. As far as she was concerned, her humiliating encounter with Buster would go to the grave with her. “I don’t think my lunch agreed with me,” she said. 

“Well what did Buster say about the chairs?”

“He said—” Her mind went back to the way he’d begun unbuckling his pants and she couldn’t find a lie to patch the gap in her words fast enough. 

“You did find him, right?”

She nodded, unable to meet Bert’s eyes. 

“Ah,” Bert said, patting her shoulder. “Starstruck, right? That’s okay, happens to a lot of first-timers. I should have tried to introduce you before this.”

There was another man making assumptions about her actions, but this time she welcomed it. She nodded. 

“Don’t worry about it. It probably won’t take us too long to set the chairs up. They’re heavy suckers, though.”

He disappeared, leaving her alone. Her thoughts went back to lunch in the canteen. All you have to do is walk into his dressing room . Maybe she was more of an innocent than she’d thought, because not once between that overheard conversation and standing in front of Buster had she considered what it meant to show up all by herself in his dressing room. In hindsight, her mistake was obvious. She cursed herself. 

It was impossible to keep her mind on the books the rest of the day. Like a ghastly film, the scene in the dressing room played through her mind on a loop. The previous three days, she would have worked long into the night if Bert had let her. This time, when six o’clock rolled around she couldn’t get off the set fast enough. She was far from happy anymore as she bicycled back to 22nd street across the I-Street bridge.

Chapter Text

The third glass of whiskey at lunch was a miscalculation. He felt a little too unsteady on his feet as he walked into the barber shop set and they weren’t filming any pratfalls today, so he couldn’t play it off as that. He put an extra stick of chewing gum in his mouth just in case the first stick and brushing his teeth hadn’t concealed the smell of the drink on his breath, and tried to keep his gait steady. At least he’d be sitting for most of this scene.

Reisner was fussing over the props with the workmen, telling them some sign wasn’t straight. “Buster, where do you want these?” said Bert, gesturing to the barber chairs where he and his girl were destined to reunite. “Do you want them farther apart than this? Closer? Or what?”

Buster shrugged and sat down in one of the chairs. “They look fine to me. Maybe a little closer.”

“I mean, are the cameras going to have enough room?”

“Bert, they’re fine,” he said. “Move them a little closer together if you want. You know I trust you.”

Bert nodded and wrestled the other chair forward a few inches. As he wrestled, he said offhandedly, “You sure scared Nelly, didn’t you?”

Buster had no idea what he was talking about. “Nelly?”

“The prop girl, Nelly.”

“I’m not following.” Behind him and to the side, men bustled lighting into place. 

“The new girl I’ve got in the prop house. I sent her to ask you about the chairs. She looked like a ghost when she came back.”

A second ticked by, then another. Then another. He still wasn’t—

Realization landed like an oversized prop anvil. “Ah, hell.” 

“What?” said Bert.

“That was your prop girl?”

“Yes. What did you say to her to make her look so white?” Bert gave him a knowing look. 

“Nothing!” Buster said. He’d been acting and ad-libbing his whole life and he wasn’t about to stop now. “She got a little tongue-tied and I filled in the blanks. Thought she was coming to ask for her big break in the movies, you know how they corner me about that stuff. I must have embarrassed her, I guess.”

Blame that third glass of whiskey. It had made him dopey and loose, thrown off his judgment. There was a feeling in his stomach right now that he didn’t like, a sizzling sense of shame. It was a feeling that hung around too often these days in one form or another and he was getting sick of it. It wasn’t his fault. Nine times out of ten when there was a woman under the age of forty in his dressing room, she was already naked or willing to be. The other times, it was the age-old hard-luck story about needing a break. He’d had perfect reason to assume both motives. It wasn’t his fault.

The shame niggled. Oh yes it was .

He tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d insulted the girl’s looks on top of it all. In truth, there was nothing wrong with them. She looked fine, just not suited to pictures was all. With the whiskey freeing his tongue, he’d thought nothing of answering honestly. Now the terrible coarseness of his remarks was apparent.

The shame went on niggling him until the cameras began rolling and he lost himself where he always lost himself, facing down the cameras with a stone face. 

By the time she’d gone to bed, Nelly’s humiliation had invited a friend along: anger. She knew that men were frequently cruel, licentious, and crude, but she’d never thought in a million years that Buster Keaton could be counted amongst them. All of it was a damnable lie, the wife and the children and the sophisticated parties, and most of all the sweet trepidatious Buster of the films. He wasn’t Rudolph Valentino’s Sheik or John Barrymore’s Don Juan, not her favorite character or star in other words, but she’d always found him charming; what girl didn’t? She had to wonder—were they all like this? Did Valentino have a nightly habit of robbing women of their virtue? Did Barrymore delight in dressing down girls until they felt about as small and as low as a bug? 

She rolled onto her side fitfully, fuming. It now seemed like a mistake to come to California. Perhaps it was just better to turn tail and go back to Evanston rather than spend another day in the employment of a man who had belittled her ambitions and her looks before she had a chance to get a word in edgewise. She could maybe work herself up to a couple starring roles in local productions, retire at the height of her career, marry, and host garden parties and luncheons for the Women’s Auxiliary Club just like her mother and aunts. Of course, the thought wasn’t a serious one. She was being paid a handsome twelve dollars a day, far more than she’d ever earned as a part-time governess in Evanston. She’d swallow her pride, finish out the picture, and use the experience as entrance into another picture, maybe not a laugh feature next time.

She let a fantasy of John Barrymore rock her off to sleep. Although she’d never seen him in Hamlet , she’d clipped a picture from the production from a magazine and glued it into her scrapbook: dark clothing, brooding brow, those strong hands that could clutch a girl and make her swoon. After Steamboat wrapped up, she’d return south to Hollywood and finagle her way onto the United Artists lot, where she would be cast as Katherine to Barrymore’s Petruchio in Taming of the Shrew . The last thought in her mind before she drifted off was of Barrymore’s big hands tearing the blankets off of Kate as she lay in bed, declaring them unfit for such a woman as his wife.

The memory of what he’d said to the prop girl bit at Buster like a flea all the next morning. As soon as the cameras stopped rolling, his traitorous mind would wander to the incident and he’d be reminded unpleasantly of what a low thing he’d done. He stuck to one whiskey at lunch, even though he would have preferred a second. He tried calling Nate at the Villa, thinking that hearing her voice might provide some kind of consolation. The phone just rang and rang, until finally Edwin picked up and told him she was with Dutch.

At last, his conscience pricked him so much he left his dressing room early. He peeked in the canteen and cheers of “Buster!” erupted from the extras and the crew. He gave them a wave of acknowledgment and left. The girl wasn’t there. He exited and headed toward the prop house. Feeling slightly shy in addition to remorseful, he swung open the door when he got there. The prop girl didn’t notice him over the sound of the radio. She had her back turned to him at the workbench and was crunching an apple and reading a book.

“Hello,” he said. 

“Jesus Christ!” she said, nearly startling out of her skin and whipping her head around.  

Her swearing made him feel better. In his experience girls who swore could take care of themselves, which meant that maybe he hadn’t crushed her underfoot like a flimsy petunia blossom.

She blanched when she realized who it was. “Oh. Mr. Keaton,” she said. An expression resembling dislike settled on her face. 

He couldn’t blame her. He crossed the room and swung himself onto the workbench, dangling his legs. “I insulted you yesterday,” he said, studying her face. Despite the dainty little mouth she’d drawn on with lipstick, she couldn’t hide the fact that her lips were full. Her brown hair was done up in earphones in a faux bob. She reminded him a little of Evelyn Nesbit. Now that he had a good look at her, without the glaze of whiskey, he doubly regretted what he’d said about her looks. 

She stared straight ahead, expressionless, the apple forgotten in her hand. She still seemed a little nervous around him, but there was a set to her jaw that told him he was not going to be forgiven easily.

“There’s baseball practice tonight at seven. You’re invited,” he tried.

She finally met his eyes. “I have plans.”

“Okay,” he said, conceding. “You’re angry with me. I get it. Look, I was out of line yesterday. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for opening my big fat mouth. I was way out of line.”

She merely looked at him. 

“I acted disgracefully. There’s nothing wrong with your looks. I never should have said anything, I never should have—” He couldn’t bring himself to mention that he assumed she’d also been looking for sex. “I’ve been out of sorts lately and, look, I won’t start making excuses. It was wrong, plain and simple. I made assumptions and I shouldn’t have. What’s your name? Nelly?” he said, pressing. He wasn’t going to let up until that flea he called his conscience stopped biting.

“Nelly,” she confirmed in a flat voice. 

“Let me make it up to you, Nelly. Do you want to be an extra today? I’ll ask Bert to give you the afternoon off.”

He could almost see her internal struggle. She set her half-eaten apple on the workbench and folded her hands in her lap. “I don’t want any favors,” she said, staring ahead.

She was a proud one. It should have annoyed him, but he found himself admiring her stubbornness. Anyway, he had a lot of practice in Natalie cracking tough nuts. He hopped off the workbench and sank to one knee, propping supplicating hands on her knee. “Please?”

She drew in her lips and he could tell she was trying not to smile. Ah, sweet victory. 

For his pièce de résistance, he broke into song. “ I can hear the robins singing, Nellie Dean. Sweetest recollections ringing, Nellie Dean .”

Nelly succumbed to the smile. “Alright,” she said, shaking her head and trying to hide it. 

“Good,” he said, getting to his feet. He crossed the room and poked his head into the area where all the costumes were stored. Although the film was ostensibly set fifty years ago, all of the women’s costumes were of the latest fashion. He thumbed through the rack and pulled out a few dresses halfway before selecting a pink sleeveless one embroidered with burgundy flowers. “Wear this,” he said, walking back into the main room and handing it to her.

She looked surprised. “Are you sure?” Her eyes told him she still didn’t trust him. 

“Of course I’m sure. Go dress and I’ll walk you to the set.”

Looking now as though she especially didn’t trust him, she nonetheless went into the costume room and closed the door behind her. She came out less than a minute later. She looked just fine—maybe not like a leading lady—but just fine. The shame nipped him again and he scratched it off, reminding himself that he was making it up to her.  

“Sure you don’t want something nicer for the shoot?” he said, noticing that she was wearing flat brown Oxfords.

“Oh, they’re fine. I don’t suppose the cameras will be anywhere near my feet.”

When he stepped closer to her, it clicked; she was a couple inches shorter than she’d been yesterday. He’d made her embarrassed of her height and she switched shoes. It was another reminder of how rotten his words had been. No taller than he was, she was certainly not a giant. He even had an inch on her, give or take. 

“Do I need to put on more makeup?” she said. 

He shook his head. “No, you don’t need to wear any if you’re in the background. We have to do it to stick out,” he said, indicating his powdered cheeks. 

“Alright then.”

“Hold on a minute.” He ripped a piece of paper from a steno pad on the workbench and wrote, Stealing Nelly for the afternoon. Will return her in a timely fashion. -Buster. He set the half-eaten apple on top of it for a paperweight and offered his arm to Nelly. She just stared at it and then at him. “I’ll walk you to the set,” he explained.

She continued to look unsure as she accepted it, but his conscience felt much lighter as they left the prop house together. 

The bright lights agreed with Nelly. They probably wouldn’t have appeared particularly bright to any proper budding starlet, but that Buster had made her an extra for a day, that she would actually be on film and tens of thousands of people would see her, was exactly what she’d been hoping for when she’d taken a train from Evanston to West Hollywood to Sacramento. 

It turned out that being an extra involved a lot of standing around waiting for direction while the cameras tracked the exploits of the main characters, namely Buster and his mouse-sized co-star Marion, whom everyone called Peanuts. The scene was about missed connections; Buster, encountering his girl on the street, tries to apologize to her. She ducks in and out of the telegraph office, debating whether to accept, then follows after him as he trudges away from her.

Peanuts needed the benefit of multiple takes. Buster was flawless, Nelly thought, in every one. Her role was to be one of the town inhabitants walking down the sidewalk. It was hot in the early afternoon sun and she was grateful that Buster had picked out a sleeveless dress for her. She tried to act casual while strolling back and forth and not get distracted by the action further down the sidewalk where Buster and Peanuts were.

After the scene had wrapped, the director and Buster moved onto the next one: Buster walks dejectedly up the street and a car whizzes his carpetbag out of his hands and onto its running board. She and the other extras gathered in a small crowd facing the car to watch. Behind the scenes like this, she began to see how the gags were accomplished. For this one, the camera tracked Buster on the left. When the car came into frame, it obscured most of his body. Because of this, the audience couldn’t see one of the actors in the car pluck the carpetbag from Buster’s hand in one fluid movement, which left him bag-free and bewildered after the car had passed. The hand-off was invisible. This scene took only a couple takes. Buster was all business in between, telling the other actors and the director in a serious way what he thought the scene should look like. It was all so fascinating to finally be on the inside and see the nuts and bolts. She watched carefully, trying to commit it to memory. 

For the next scene, the carpet bag was meant to tumble off the running board and trip up Buster, who was running at top speed after the car. It took around three or four takes for the bag to fall satisfactorily into Buster’s path. Each time it did, he would somehow tumble head over heels to miss it. The first time he accomplished the stunt, the extras hooted and broke into clapping. Buster flashed a quick smile, clearly pleased, and Nelly joined in the applause. No matter how many times he vaulted over the bag, going briefly vertical, she couldn’t tell how he did it. After that, it was back to the sidewalk for her even though she was too far in the distance, she thought, for the cameras to see her at this point.

After some time had gone by, Buster announced that it was a wrap. So that was that. She looked around at a couple of the other extras for guidance, wondering what came next. The logical thing to do would be to return the dress and finish out the rest of the day in the prop house, so she decided just to slip away rather than reveal herself as a rookie by asking. As she turned at the corner near the facade of the Western Union Telegraph building to take a shortcut, the sound of hurried footsteps made her look over her shoulder. It was Buster. The extras turned to look at them as Buster came to a stop. Nelly felt herself pale a little as she faced him. For all her bravery in the prop house earlier, she was still far from used to him.

“Coming to practice tonight?” he said, a little out of breath. 

She was surprised. She’d assumed that the invitation earlier had been flippant. “I can’t,” she said, before she had time to think about it. She had a hard time reading the answering expression on his face, but she thought it was puzzlement. “I have plans.”

However thrilling being an extra had been, part of her had not forgiven him. When she’d stepped back and looked at her torso in her bureau mirror that morning, all she could think about was his comment about her bosom being too big and her needing to lose twenty pounds. The words still felt like salt in a bleeding gash, even if he clearly did wish to make it up to her. Anyway, she wasn’t fibbing about having plans. She’d agreed to play blackjack with Joe and Maggie, the owners of the house on 22nd Street, that night. 

“Well, alright then,” Buster said, with a nod. “I’ll see you around.”

“Sure,” she said, feeling an upwelling of all sorts of emotions: regret at turning him down, pride at her own resolve, anxiety that he might decide to can her if she continued to rebuff him. “Thank you for letting me be part of the picture.”

“No problem.”

She nodded at him and they parted. 

The worst of the confused feelings had faded by eight that evening when she was at the leather-top folding table with Joe and Maggie in their sitting room, regaling them with stories from the day. By now, they knew that she was employed in the prop shop and not as an extra, so the fact that she really had been an extra that afternoon was of the utmost interest to both. She went over every detail, keeping back, of course, yesterday’s ignominious encounter with the picture’s star. As the conversation waned and they settled into the game of blackjack, she felt positively luminous. Not even Mary Pickford, she thought, could feel as famous as she did tonight.

Chapter Text

The band in the Senator’s ballroom was playing a slow dirge-like version of “In the Good Old Summertime” and Buster had half a mind to kick the lead singer in the seat of the pants so he’d shut up. The head of the Chamber of Commerce was there, the mayor too, and he was pretty sure he’d met a few of the eponymous senators. He’d glad-handed for as long as he could stand it (about an hour) before slinking off into a protective circle of familiar faces. He used his stature to his advantage, concealing himself behind the screen that Joe, Fred, Sandy Roth, and other members of the company made. There was plenty to talk about; namely, the picture. And also, the picture. But now he was bored of talking about the picture and this positive funeral march that they were playing wasn’t helping matters. Although Sacramento was rumored to be open, the hotel was pretending tonight that it was dry and he regretted leaving his flask in his room, but they were feting Buster after all and it would have been rude not to be fully present for every single excruciating second.

Still.

“Think they’ll notice if their esteemed guest goes AWOL?” he said to Fred. 

Fred laughed. “Count on it.”

Buster pulled his packet of cigarettes out of his slacks pocket, pinched one out, struck a match, and lit it. He didn’t like crowds of people he didn’t know or being expected to care about Sacramento’s economic situation, whether Coolidge was to be president again, and what was to be done about the decline of morals in young people. He especially didn’t like airs and this crowd had plenty. The truth was, he’d been made to do very few things in his charmed life, fewer still as he’d become a bona fide star, and his tolerance for formalities was at an all-time low. They were much more Nate’s speed. With her at his side at these functions, he never had to do more than answer the usual stupid questions (“Do you ever smile?”; “Do your pratfalls hurt?”) before Nate filled the uncomfortable silence with gay chatter and put the questioner at their ease.

Unlike with The General , however, Natalie had expressed no desire to be on location during the filming of Steamboat . He liked to think it was because she couldn’t bear to be away from her magnificent Villa for very long, but he had a sneaking suspicion her absence had simply to do with the fact that she didn’t care to be around him any longer.

“At least one more hour,” Joe said. “Then you can go back to your room and cut loose if that’s what you want.”

Behind Sandy, Buster spotted a man and his wife encroaching. 

“Excuse me,” said the man, tapping Sandy on the shoulder. “My wife’s an awful big fan of Mr. Keaton and I was just wondering if we could introduce ourselves for a minute.”

Taking a deep drag from the cigarette and blowing the smoke out in such a way that it temporarily obscured his face, Buster looked at the woman and said, “I never smile and the pratfalls don’t hurt.” 

She looked shocked. “How did you know what I was going to say?”

“Hi.”

Nelly startled just as badly as she had when Buster had crept up on her a few days prior. She knew the voice wasn’t his, though, even before she looked over her shoulder and found herself locking eyes with Tommy, the blonde-haired workman. 

“Hi yourself,” she said, turning around and smoothing down the skirt of her dress. She’d been going through a jumble of skeleton keys in one of the smaller rooms in the prop house. 

Tommy was extraordinarily tall, almost sequoia-sized. He leaned against shelves. “How’d you like to go to a blind tiger tonight?” he said, without preamble. “A few of the fellows and I are going. We invited Mr. Bert. Oh, and Buster too.”

Buster, she thought, accustomed as he was to rubbing elbows with the upper crust, was not going to attend this rustic soirée, but she didn’t want to puncture Tommy’s evident pride at the scheme. She had never been to a blind pig, a blind tiger, a blind anything. She and some girlfriends would pass around hooch some Saturday nights back in Evanston, but she’d never actually drunk alcohol in an establishment. So naturally she said, “What time?”

Tommy grinned. “Oh, we were thinking maybe seven o’clock or something.”

She knew that Sacramento wasn’t as dry as other cities, but she paused to consider whether this was such a good idea nonetheless. A brief flash of the place being raided by police and her getting carted off to jail and losing her gig on the film occurred. The sybaritic part of her threw the doubts aside. Her decision was only strengthened by Bert, who came through the prop house doors.

“This jackass bothering you?” he teased, craning his head to look up at Tommy. 

“I invited her to the party tonight,” Tommy said. 

“What makes you think she’d go with the likes of you? She has taste, y’know,” said Bert. 

“What makes you think I have taste?” Nelly said, making both men laugh. When the laughter died away, she said, “Sure. Where?”

Tommy told her it was on 2nd Avenue next to a Chinese laundry. By day, it masqueraded as a five- and ten-cent store. “One of the bricks is painted a sort of yellow,” he said. “Just the one, though. There’s a side door off the alley. Knock four times.”

It all sounded so alluring and mysterious that Nelly couldn’t wait. 

A quarter past the appointed hour, Joe dropped her off in front of the store. She expected it to have a dingy air, but it looked perfectly clean and presentable, not at all the sort of place that would draw attention. Joe waited for her as she crept into the alley, feeling her heart race with the illicitness of it all and the promise of seeing Tommy again. She gave four rhythmic knocks. A man in a tweed cap whom she vaguely recognized opened the door and she waved to Joe to let him know it was okay to drive off before she stepped into the tiger’s den. 

There were slightly more than a dozen men crowded into the place, which was an apartment at the back of the store consisting of one main room, a water closet, and a couple doors that appeared to belong to bedrooms or closets. Everything from the stove to the sofa was in the main room. An old gramophone in the corner played ragtime jazz. She knew at once that Buster would not be coming. The set-up and the company were far too humble and she wondered if she’d made an error in judgement showing up. She was the only girl in sight and overdressed in nylon stockings and her best black dress with the belt. She felt ill at ease until she saw Bert and Tommy. Bert was in conversation with one of the men who was frequently in and out of the prop house. Tommy was standing near a bar, behind which stood various libations. 

“Nelly!” he cried, striding toward her. His eyes crinkled and he looked ecstatic to see her. “C’mon, come pick your poison.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and led her to the bar. Bottles lining the shelves behind it contained liquors of light ambers, deep browns, and clear silvers. There were even bottles of beer, not near beer, but real beer. She’d never seen so much booze in her life. She selected a bottle of beer. Tommy didn’t take his arm away immediately. It was heavy and he smelled good, woollen and mannish. She tilted the bottle back to her lips, feeling as though she was in good hands. It didn’t take long before she was warm and happy. 

Tommy conversed with the other men about the week’s events on the set—one man had nearly lost a finger sawing a board, another had given himself a good electric shock from a wire—and talked a good deal about a poker game he had recently won $100 in. She and Bert spoke for a while, mostly about work and what they expected shooting to look like next week. When her beer bottle was empty, Tommy slid a generous glass of bourbon into her hand. It stung going down in a way she didn’t quite care for, but as she got warmer still, she became used to it. About an hour or so into the party, Tommy’s hand crept around her waist and she didn’t mind a single bit. He talked to her about his childhood in Indiana and how he’d trap raccoons for fur to bring in money for the family. With his height and looks, she figured he was trying to break into pictures too, but it transpired that he thought he’d make his real fortune as a high-stakes poker player. The ambition seemed a little silly, but she wasn’t one to trod on other people’s dreams.

“Let’s dance,” he said, bending down to yell it in her ear over the conversation. The man who was in charge of the gramophone put on a song of medium speed in which a guitar plunked quietly in the background and a clarinet and trumpet took turns in the foreground. They danced in a small circle around the room and she had to crane her neck when he talked. 

They were three songs in when a workman in his fifties approached. He was missing several bottom front teeth. “Here.” He pushed a small glass of something clear in her hands.

“What is it?” she said, laughing.

“Gin.”

“I’ve never had gin before,” she said.

“Never had gin before?” Tommy said, holding her at arm’s length in mock incredulity.

She giggled and shook her head, trying to keep the glass steady as he pulled her back under her shoulder. She sipped and there was that sting again, this time tasting like Christmas trees. 

“No, you don’t sip it,” said the workman. “You swallow it down all at once.”

He and Tommy watched as she gamely tilted the drink to her lips and disappeared the gin down in one gulp. She gasped, wrinkling her nose as they laughed uproariously. “That was awful!”

“Try this one,” said another workman, younger and heavier. He extended a rocks glass containing a chestnut brown liquor. “Whiskey.”

She sipped and contorted her face. This was the worst one yet. “I’ll take my time,” she promised, setting it on a nearby table.

It didn’t take long before she was warmer and looser and gayer than she’d ever felt. Tommy passed her into the arms of the toothless workman. To her surprise, he was an incredible dancer and they did a foxtrot around the room to the next song, winning the applause of the other men. Bert took the next dance and they attempted a tango, but the music wasn’t the right tempo and they couldn’t stay in step. She was having the time of her life. She reached for the whiskey and barely noticed the sting as it went down. 

Tommy took her back and someone put “Steamboat Bill” on the Victrola, which caused everyone to erupt into laughter.

Oh, Steamboat Bill, steaming down the Mississippi.

Steamboat Bill, a mighty man was he.

Steamboat Bill, steaming down the Mississippi.

Going to beat the record of the Robert E. Lee!

She grinned, hot and breathless. Tommy’s big hand on her waist was beginning to feel more and more exhilarating. She began to entertain thoughts of asking him to slip out into the alley with her, but whenever a song ended, another workman was waiting with a drink or a request for a dance. At some point, the fat workman stole her away from Tommy and tried the Turkey Trot with her, but her feet were no longer cooperating. She was thirsty, but the only thing available to quench her thirst was beer.

She became dimly aware that her head and limbs had turned clumsy and heavy and she had completely lost track of time. It didn’t worry her. She was young and could dance and drink all night if she wanted.

Chapter Text

Buster was feeling withdrawn and almost didn’t show. He’d settled on a night working out a few more gags for the flood scenes and reading a few more chapters of the latest issue of Popular Mechanics , but he was restless. The gags didn’t seem right, his attention kept wandering from the pages of the magazine. By his third glass of whiskey, an adventure sounded like just the thing he needed to cure the jitters. After all, he reasoned, it would mean a lot to Bert and the hired guys if he put in an appearance, even if it was just for an hour. At around half past nine, he put on his jacket and went down to the Senator’s lobby to have the valet bring the Duesenberg.

Sure enough, the speak-easy was right where they said it was, near the corner of 2nd Avenue and 33rd Street next to a Chinese laundry.

There was no need to knock on the old wooden door midway up the alley. The laughter was loud enough that he could hear the party from out here. He opened the door and let himself in. Everyone was in such a state, it made him look sober. No one noticed him and he was considering a flip-flap to get their attention when a woman’s laughter rang out among all the masculine voices, turning his head.

“No, I don’t think so,” she said, quite clearly.

She was standing near the door of a darkened room and the tall blonde workman had her by the elbow. He seemed to be trying to coax her into it where at least two other men waited. Several others ringed the doorway of the room. Something about it didn’t feel right. No one else in the place seemed to notice that anything was amiss; they were caught up in conversation and card games.

“C’mon, we’ll take good care of you,” the blonde man said.

The girl planted her feet, still smiling, but Buster could see she didn’t want to go. 

“C’mon, show us your striptease!” said another man, to a peal of laughter from the group. 

Her smile faded.

Anger crackled in Buster and he started across the room. “What’s going on here?” he said. Only when he’d reached them did he notice the girl was Nelly, the one who worked in the prop house. 

“Buster!” the men all cried, throwing up their hands and smiling like it was just a big game. The tall blonde man didn’t join in, but instead let his arm fall from Nelly’s elbow and gave Buster a contemptuous look, although he immediately followed it up with an innocent smile. “Just having some fun with Nelly, is all,” he said.

“Like hell you are,” said Buster, and the smiles disappeared.

“Buster,” said Nelly, looking discomfited and very, very drunk. 

“You’re coming with me.” He took her elbow and she stumbled forward, and only then did he realize how bad of shape she was in. She could barely stand up straight.

“Where’re we going?” she said, and he caught her around the waist with both hands as she lost her footing. “Ouch,” she said, trying to look at her right ankle.

“I’m taking you home,” he said, glancing back at the men. The smart ones had sense enough to look abashed. A couple were glowering, including the blonde guy. With three whiskeys under his belt, he had more than half a mind to clean the bastard’s clock. 

“Oh,” Nelly said, as she regained her balance. “You don’t have to do that, Bert was going to give me a ride.”

“No, we’re going now. Just where is Bert anyway?” said Buster, realizing he hadn’t seen him. 

She shrugged. “Oh, my bag!” she said. “I can’t forget my handbag!”

“Where’s your bag?”

“Behind the bar.”

“You stay here, I’ll get it.” 

When he had retrieved the little beaded purse and passed it to her, he took her elbow and guided her out the door. She smelled extremely boozy. “How much have you had to drink?” he said, as he led her carefully down the alley and to the street. 

“Not nearly enough,” she said. “Gosh, my ankle hurts.”

“Be serious.” He opened the passenger door of the Duesenberg and helped boost her into the seat. 

“This is the nicest car I’ve ever been in,” she said, looking around in a kind of glazed wonder. “But I am going to answer your question and that answer is, I am not entirely sure. I think eight drinks, maybe. I had a glass of whiskey and gin. I had some bourbon, too, and some beer. I feel splendid.”

“Hands in the car, I’m closing the door,” he said. He made his way around the front of the vehicle and climbed into the driver’s seat. “How do you really feel?”

“As gay as a feather,” she said, with a drunk giggle. 

“I mean, can you see straight? Is everything spinning?” 

“Mmm,” she said thoughtfully, squinting. “Not too badly.”

“If you’re going to be sick, you must tell me, okay? The car is new.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to upchuck in your fancy car. I’ve got better breeding than that.” She patted his arm and said, “I’m hot. Is it too warm? Are you warm as well?”

Any other time, he might have found the situation amusing, but the image of the blonde man trying to persuade her into that room had overpowered any funniness for him. 

“You could have lost your virtue back there,” he said seriously. 

“Oh, I lost that a long time ago. It’s no big thing. I wouldn’t be telling you this under normal circumstances, but what’s to be done? I’m very drunk you see.” She turned her palms up apologetically.

“I’m not talking about you being willing. Those guys had every intention of—”

“—Buster, I’m not a virgin.”

He took his hands off the steering wheel, unaware he’d been gripping it, and spun toward her in a sudden temper. “Yes, I heard you the first time. You aren’t taking this seriously. They meant to rape you. Can I put it any plainer?”

Nelly went quiet. “I’m sorry,” she said softly after a few moments, seeming to grasp even in her state what he’d saved her from.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, looking away from her, “but if I’d have been ten minutes later, who knows what they may have done.”

Nelly sank down in the seat. “I had too much to drink.”

He reached across the seat to squeeze her upper arm. “You’re not the first girl and you won’t be the last. Now, where do you live?”

“22nd Street. I rent a room there,” she said. She began to unbuckle one of her shoes.

“Address?” he said. He took the car key out of his slacks and put it in the ignition. 

“1922, I think. The year Ulysses was published.”

“You think or you’re sure?” he said, turning his head toward her again.

She removed her shoe and sank further down the seat, giving him an apologetic look. “I’m not sure now. It could be 2219. If you take me there I’ll be able to pick it out.”

He wasn’t fond of the idea of driving up and down dark streets waiting for her to choose a house and perhaps choosing wrongly, so he made a decision. “You’re going to sober up some before I take you home.”

Nelly looked uncertain, but she seemed to accept it and made no reply. 

“And tell me if you’re going to be sick. I can pull over.”

“I’m fine,” she said, as he turned the key and headed down 2nd Avenue toward Broadway.

It wasn’t the adventure he had been after, but he supposed saving a damsel in distress counted for something. Nellie removed her other shoe and rubbed her ankle. “Would you care if I put down the window?” she said. “I’m so hot.”

“Knock yourself out.”

She rolled it and put her hand out into the night air. To Buster, who had never taken off his jacket, the temperature felt plenty cool. He considered, turning down Broadway, how he was going to look walking into the lobby of the Senator with a girl who couldn’t see straight and taking her up to his room, but he was just going to have to chance it. 

A peculiar movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he looked over. “What are you doing?” he said. Nelly had pulled the skirt of her dress halfway up her thighs and was wrestling with the garter clips of her girdle. 

She gave him a guilty look. “I’m hot.”

“Please don’t take off all your clothes. I don’t want a scandal,” he said, only half-joking as he envisioned the lurid headline (‘Dame Caught without a Stitch in Buster Keaton’s Duesenberg’) and Natalie’s hysterical reaction. He thought fleetingly of Virginia Rappe, who would strip any time she had a few drinks in her.

“I’m not, just my stockings,” said Nelly, sounding embarrassed. “They’re suffocating me.”

He turned his eyes back on the road and rubbed his forehead. “Okay, carry on.” 

She continued bustling in his peripheral vision and eventually succeeded in rolling down the offending stockings. “It was a mistake to wear these,” she mumbled. 

He decided not to answer. He was already thinking ahead to the hotel room. He’d get some coffee and food into her, wait around while she recuperated, then take her straight home. He was forced to look over again when she thrust her hand out the window, gripping her stocking and making it trail in the breeze like a wind sock. “Goodbye,” she said, releasing it.

“Good God, why have you done that?” he said.

“It was a mistake and I’m getting rid of my mistakes.” She dangled the second stocking out of the window for a moment before letting it go, humming to herself under her breath. Fortunately, they were at the Senator in less than ten minutes before his mixture of annoyed and amused tipped further toward annoyed.

“I’m going to let her sober up and then take her back home,” he couldn’t help but say to the valet as he got out of the front seat. 

Nelly, to his dismay, chimed in as he helped her out of the car. “He rescued me and I am indebted.”

He put his arm around her waist and helped her into the hotel, she in bare feet with her shoes in one hand and purse in the other. He was relieved to see that the lobby was mostly empty. He made a beeline for the elevator and ignored the attendant manning it. Nelly hummed and looked around, and the attendant gamely pretended she didn’t exist. Blessedly, the coast was clear as Buster took her to his room and unlocked the door. By now, it was approaching ten-thirty. He deposited her on a settee in the salon and rang down for some toast and coffee for two.

“Is there a lavatory here?” said Nelly, when he’d hung up. 

He assisted her to it, warning her not to pass out or hit her head because he wouldn’t be coming in to rescue her. His luck held out when she emerged without a scrape. Back in the salon, she stretched out on the light blue velvet sofa with the high back and massaged her ankle. “Okay, the room is spinning now.”

Without a word, he set a wastebasket at her feet. “Use that if you need to.” The whole encounter had sobered him up; he didn’t feel the whiskey anymore and poured himself a glass so he could relax. As he sipped, he looked at Nelly. There were two types of drunk girls in his experience, lewd and ridiculous. Nelly was a classic case of the latter. She sat up slightly with her bare knees bent and began reaching into her hair. She pulled out one pin, then another. He watched as tendril after thick tendril tumbled to her shoulders.

“Why do you wear your hair long?” he asked.

She smiled. In the light, he could see her mascara was smudged and her eyes had that slightly faraway look of every person three sheets to the wind. “I know, it’s terribly out of fashion, isn’t it?”

He sipped. “I didn’t say that.”

For a moment, she appeared and sounded perfectly sober. “It was my one concession to my mother. She hates the idea of me being an actress and she really hated that I came to California. Before I left, she made me promise that I would never bob my hair. Like Jo March, it’s my one beauty.”

He was about to tell her that wasn’t true, but a knock came on the door. He set the glass of whiskey down and commandeered the tea cart from a reluctant staff member, who wanted to wheel it inside for him. He didn’t care for the man to catch sight of Nelly and her bare legs.

“Do you take sugar or cream?” he asked Nelly, after he’d taken the cart to the sofa. By now, over half of her hair was down, brown and thick and wavy and glossy. He found himself staring and had the blind thought that he was grateful her mother talked her out of bobbing it. 

“Cream, please,” she said, still busy with her hair. “Thank you.” She took the cup from him and folded her legs up, pulling her skirt down over her knees. 

“So you want to be an actress?” He took off his jacket and laid it on the back of the chair, and picked up his whiskey again. 

She gave him a smile that almost looked sad as she sipped the coffee. Her glazed eyes considered him. “That’s the idea. I guess I’ve got a few pounds to get rid of, though. Probably shouldn’t eat that toast.”

He tried not to grimace. “Nelly, if I could take back what I said last week, I’d do it in a heartbeat. You don’t need to lose a single pound and if you don’t eat some toast, I’ll dump you out the window right now.”

“You hurt my feelings that day,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him. “I’ve tried not to let it bother me, but I suppose I’m only human.”

He did the only thing he could think of. He stood up, took the coffee out of her hand, set it down, hooked one arm under her knee and the other beneath her back, and lifted her bodily from the sofa. She shrieked in surprise.

“Buster, what are you doing?” she said, kicking her ankles and squealing.

“I am demonstrating to you that you are not heavy is what I’m doing,” he said, looking sternly into her face. “And I won’t set you down until you agree to eat something.”

Nelly gave up and went still. “This is ridiculous,” she said, glaring up at him.

“You’re right,” he said, frowning down at her.

They scowled at each other for a moment or two before the absurdity of the situation struck them at the same time and they broke into laughter. 

“Please,” Nelly said, laughing, “set me down please.”

“Promise you’ll have at least two slices of toast.”

“Promise.”

He lowered her back to the sofa. “Good. Raspberry jam or marmalade?”

“Just butter, please.” 

He buttered two slices and passed them over to her on a plate. She bit into one obligingly and looked at him. He went back to his whiskey. 

After she’d finished one slice of toast, she said, “You have a dimple in your right cheek when you smile.”

He pretended not to have heard her. “You want to be an actress?” he said, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation. 

“Doesn’t everyone?” she said, starting on the second piece of toast. She yawned. 

“I don’t want to be an actress.”

“Haha,” she said dryly, setting the plate aside after one bite. 

“What do you see yourself doing? As an actress.” The whiskey had begun to warm up his blood and he was beginning to like the repartee.

“You really want to know what my dream is?” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“I asked, didn’t I?” 

“Even if you’re just feigning a polite interest, I’ll tell you,” she said. Her hands went back up to the top of her head and another tendril of hair fell to her shoulders. “When I lived in Evanston, that’s where I’m from, I acted at the Vista—that’s our theater—mostly in revues, but I always liked Shakespeare best. I think talkies will change the way they film Shakespeare. Shakespeare’s hardly Shakespeare without the words, you know? That’s what I’ve always thought. You could film in all the places he talks about too, Scotland and Verona.”

He nodded. “So where do you come in? Lady Macbeth or Juliet?”

She shook her head and more tendrils fell. She was almost done unpinning her hair. “Neither. My dream is to play Kate in The Taming of the Shrew.”

He couldn’t remember what that one was about, but didn’t say so. “Who’s the leading man?” He half-expected her to say him.

“John Barrymore, if you must know,” she said. As she unfastened another tress, spots of color appeared on her cheeks.

“Hmm,” he said. “Jack? I’d forget about him, he’s a woman-hater.” 

Hair all the way freed, Nelly hid her face as she shook it out. “You seem to like trampling my dreams.” She tossed her head back and gathered the curtain of hair over one shoulder with two hands, twisting it.

Buster felt a strange kind of way. Not jealous, that wasn’t quite it, but some kind of way he couldn’t put his finger on. “Trust me on this one. I’m doing you a favor. He drinks like a fish, too.”

“So do you,” she fired back, and he was at a momentary loss for words. He wouldn’t say ‘like a fish,’ but he had been at the bottle more than usual these past few months. He didn’t see how she could have known that though, having met him all of three times.

“Eat the rest of your toast,” he said, changing the subject. 

She stuck her tongue out at him, but had another bite. He watched her collect the bobby pins into one hand. She stood up somewhat unsteadily and placed them on the tea cart. “Safekeeping,” she mumbled.

He set the whiskey aside. “How are you feeling now?”

She squeezed her eyes closed. “I don’t suppose more coffee will help with the spinning? I’m starting to feel like I’m on a carnival ride.”

He had a sudden vision of her hurling on the leather seats of the Duesenberg and said, “Why don’t you sleep it off for a couple hours? You can take the bed and I’ll just stay up for now. I was in the middle of a magazine anyway.”

She looked ready to argue, but a jaw-splitting yawn interrupted her. “Only if I’m not imposing,” she said, after it had passed. Her eyes looked unfocused. 

“You’re not imposing,” he said. He knew a girl on the edge of collapse when he saw one. He stood up and offered his arm, and led her into the bedroom. The awkward question of what she would wear to bed was solved when she crawled underneath the blankets, dress and all. 

“G‘night, Buster,” she said, closing her eyes. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

After he left the bedroom, the memory of what he’d seen at the speak-easy replayed in his head. Jack Barrymore wasn’t the only woman-hater in pictures. The business was crawling with men, both bigwigs and lowlifes, ready to defile a girl at a moment’s notice. In fairness, it was also crawling with women willing to be defiled in order to get where they wanted to be, but Nelly, not a virgin but not a lewd drunk either, didn’t seem like one. He hoped that she took care of herself wherever she ended up.

Pretty soon his own eyes grew heavy. The idea of waking Nelly and lugging her down to the lobby, waiting for the car to be brought, then driving her all the way home did not sound in the least bit attractive, not to mention the danger of her being sick all over in the car. He pushed the tea cart into the hall so it could be collected and found a spare blanket in the wardrobe. With a wary eye on the sleeping figure in his bed, he took off his shirt and slacks, plucked a pillow from beside her, and settled into the cramped confines of the bedroom sofa. He was asleep before he knew it, dreaming that Peanuts had drowned during the flood sequence and that the papers were calling for him to be hanged.

Chapter Text

Nelly staggered out of bed. It wasn’t her bed, but that was the least of her worries. She was going to be sick. She moaned, stumbling to the floor. Beneath her hands, a red carpet with a zigzag pattern swirled and pitched.

“No you don’t, no you don’t!” someone called from across the room. She was grabbed under the armpits and dragged into a bathroom as the horrible flip-floppy feeling that preceded throwing up rose in her throat. She had just enough time to make it onto her knees in front of the toilet before she vomited. As she clutched the edges of the seat and heaved, the someone held her hair back. She had no memory of unpinning it. 

“Am I dying?” she said, after her stomach had stopped lurching. She felt as though she might faint. The room spun and she was drenched in a cold sweat. The sight of what she’d just thrown up in the toilet bowl made her retch again, but nothing came up.

“No.” A hand at the base of her skull continued gripping her hair. She now knew, although she couldn't remember how, that the hand belonged to Buster. Her feeling of illness was so acute, however, that she had no will left to worry about what he thought of her. She leaned back and he let go of her hair. He pulled the chain on the water tank and vanished the frightful contents of her stomach. A sink ran. 

“Here, drink a little water.” He nudged a glass into her hand. 

She swallowed a few mouthfuls and set it down. “Feel cold,” she said, teeth chattering. In front of her, the toilet swam. She tried to make it focus, but it wouldn’t stay still. 

“Here.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “C’mon. Why don’t you try to stand up?”

She shook her head. “I feel like I’m going to faint.”

“Okay, put your head between your knees then. Take deep breaths.” He knelt, pushed her feet slightly apart with his hands, and pressed on the back of her neck, urging her head down. “Breathe, alright? Deep breaths.”

Even with her eyes closed and her head bent, everything was pitching like she was on the high seas. “Cold,” she reminded him.

“Shh, take it easy.”

His hand was warm on her neck and she shivered. She had no idea where she was or what had happened, but she didn’t care. She felt so sick, all she could think about was how horrible she felt and whether she’d ever escape the sensation. After a minute or two, the hand disappeared. Moments later, a heavy down bedspread flumped on top of her. Buster pulled it off her head and tucked it around her shoulders. It was so big, it seemed to fill up half of the bathroom. She scooted over to a deep clawfoot tub to the right of the toilet and leaned against it. For the first time, she caught a good look at her companion. He was knelt on his haunches in front of her in nothing but a white undershirt and shorts, his hair rumpled, and he looked concerned.

“Where are we?” she managed.

“My hotel room,” he said, without explanation. 

She had no energy to ask for one and she didn’t care about the answer, anyway. The warmth of the bedspread felt good. Gradually, the pitching lessened and her teeth stopped chattering. Sleep began to creep over her. “Can I have a pillow?” she said. 

“No, you’ll feel even worse in the morning if you sleep here. C’mere. I’ll walk you back to bed.”

She still felt nauseated when she stood, though not as bad as before. Mostly, she was so tired she felt like a steamroller had run her over. She couldn’t keep her eyes open all the way. Buster gripped her around the waist, blanket and all, and slowly walked her out of the bathroom. “Easy,” he said. “Easy.” There was a large, high bed in the next room missing its bedspread and she shuffled toward it like an invalid with his guidance. 

“Here.” He removed the bedspread from her shoulders and tossed it to the foot of the bed. She sat on the edge of the too-high bed and he grabbed her calves and swung her legs up onto it. She was no longer wearing her stockings, she realized, but still had on the belted black dress. Before she could protest, Buster had pulled the sheets up to her shoulders and tucked the bedspread around her. “Comfy?” he said.

“Mmm-hmm.” Her eyes closed and she immediately began to fall asleep. 

“One more drink of water,” said Buster, rousing her. When she groaned, he said, “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

She drank half the glass and that was apparently enough to satisfy him. Whatever sane sliver of her brain that still remained wondered if they had slept together. She expected him to get in bed next to her, but sleep dragged her under before she could find out if he did.

The alarm clock woke Buster at 5:30. He briefly considered throwing it out the window like so many comedians in so many bad shorts. Why in the hell he’d passed up that vacation for the pleasure of doing another picture, he didn’t know. He had a whiskey headache and a sore neck courtesy the sofa. His height didn’t give him any advantage with this particular one, which was small and not intended to be slept on. Rolling his head on his shoulders and rubbing his neck, he walked over to the bed where Nelly was sleeping, the alarm having made no impression on her. She’d kicked off the bedspread and was lying face down with the sheets twisted around her. He put three fingers lightly in the center of her back just to make sure she was still breathing. She was. 

He went into the bathroom, pulled off his underclothes, and stood in the ribcage of the shower, letting it steam off the worst of the headache. He expected Nelly to be awake when he came out in a towel with his teeth brushed and hair combed, but she hadn’t moved. He gathered his clothes, deciding it was safe to dress in the bedroom. Sure enough, she still hadn’t moved by the time he was dressed. He went over to her again and put his fingers on her. Still breathing.

He stared at her a moment more, running his thumb back and forth over the tips of his fingers, then went to the salon adjoining the bedroom where he picked up the telephone and ordered breakfast and a newspaper. As he sipped coffee and forked up bites of wheat cakes, the Sacramento Bee told him that $100,000 alone was going to be paid in salaries for the Sacramento shooting of Steamboat . He scoffed, knowing that Harry would be even more of a pain in the neck if he read it.

At 6:30, there was nothing left to do but to head out to River Junction. He stepped back into the bedroom one last time to retrieve his jacket and shoes, and glanced at the bed. Nelly had moved onto her back, but was still fast asleep. He had no intention of waking her and ordering her to work; it was best for her to sleep it off. Bert could just manage without her for the day. He slipped the Do Not Disturb sign onto the doorknob of the suite before he left. 

The first thing he did when he walked onto the set—knowing that it wouldn’t stop eating at him until he did—was order Bert to gather all the hired men who’d been at the speak-easy. When all fourteen of them were assembled before him at the entrance of the prop shop, he let them have it. “Which one of you had the bright idea to get Nelly so drunk last night she couldn’t tell left from right?”

“Who?” one wise guy had the guts to ask.

“You know damn well who,” he said. “The girl who works here. The only girl from the picture in that place last night.”

None of the men spoke. He hadn’t expected them to. The blonde one who’d been the ringleader of it all was staring at him sullenly. The memory of what he’d been trying to do made Buster’s blood boil. He itched to pummel him, but that would mean trouble. With Brand on his case, trouble was the last thing he needed.

“If I ever catch any of you trying to pull a thing like that with a girl who works here or any girl who doesn’t for that matter, I’ll fire you and make sure you never have a job in California again if it’s the last thing I do. Understand?” 

There were murmurs and downcast eyes. So much for being tough guys. He let his words hang in the air a little longer, then jerked his head, dismissing them. “Don’t forget it.”

As the blonde man passed him, he said, “You, over here.” The blonde man stopped in front of him. “You are fired,” Buster said.

“Huh?” the guy said, looking shocked.

“You heard me. I wasn’t born yesterday, I saw you fooling around with her. I know exactly what you were up to. I want you off of this set right now. Get your things and get packing.” 

The guy looked one hundred percent livid and Buster found himself wishing for a fight. Let him try it; he would be in for a rude awakening. He could actually see the guy weighing it, sizing him up. But all he did before he stalked out was spit, “Fuck your picture anyway, Keaton.”

When he’d gone, Buster rounded on Bert. “And what the hell were you thinking? You were there, weren’t you? Why weren’t you keeping an eye on her?”

Bert mumbled something about needing some air. 

“No, you left her there. You went home. I didn’t see you out front and you weren’t in the alley. You dirty dog, you actually left her there with all those roughnecks.”

Bert protested that Tommy had agreed to take her home.

“Tommy? The blonde fellow? I think you and I both know what he was planning on doing to her, and he had some friends along the ride,” he said. Bert wasn’t getting off the hook that easy.

Bert acknowledged that, yes, they did know what the men had planned on doing to her.

“Well you keep an eye on her then, okay? Make sure none of those horses’ asses are coming in here giving her a hard time. And see to it you’re ready for the game tonight.”

He spent the rest of the morning on the Colusa wearing his sailor suit and filming gags in a make-believe world where men and women were largely innocents and nothing could hurt them, not even floods. 

Chapter Text

When Nelly opened her eyes, she couldn’t remember what day it was, what time it was, or most of all where she was. The bed sheets smelled like a man.

Buster . She sat straight up, hardly noticing the clanging in her head.

She scrambled to the edge of the bed and tried to tear off the sheets that were twisted around her middle. She saw as she swung her legs over the side of the bed that her dress and girdle had ridden up around her waist, but she was still wearing her cami knickers. Whatever had occurred last night had not apparently involved their disposal. 

A wave of nausea and dizziness seized her before she was able to stand up. Her head ached so badly that she ran her hands over it, suspecting that she’d fallen and hit it. The exterior was intact, but the interior … It was in agony. Her very brains felt hot and swollen. 

“Hello?” she said. The suite seemed empty, but she couldn’t be sure. “Hello?”

When no answer came, she reached for the half-full glass of water on the nightstand and drained it. She had a raging thirst and scanned for the bathroom so she could fill the glass again and relieve herself. She had to pee like a racehorse. She got up and was forced to hobble on her way to the en-suite. Her misadventures had led to one thing at least: a twisted ankle. She remembered a phonograph and a rolicking jazz tune that made her feel the lightest and gayest and youngest she’d ever felt in her life. She remembered Tommy now, how good-looking he’d been. She remembered dancing for what seemed like hours. She was in such a good mood that she’d even danced with the men who weren’t handsome. She groaned at the memory of the other men as she relieved herself.

There was water in the round basin at the bottom of the skeletal shower and the bathroom felt slightly humid. A towel hanging on the bar confirmed that Buster had come and gone.

At least she thought it was Buster. That part she remembered too. Vomiting her guts out and Buster Keaton squatting opposite her in his white undergarments … doing what? It was fuzzy. She vaguely recalled a desire for a pillow, but he must not have given one to her because she woke up in the bed. She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten from the blind tiger to the hotel room. She tried and failed. It was a big black spot, a blight on a reel of film. Buster had not been at the blind tiger as far as she remembered. 

At the sink, she drank four glasses of water total, then rinsed her sour mouth. Her face was pale and haggard in the mirror. She looked about twenty years older. Suddenly, her heart hammered at an alarming thought. It wasn’t Sunday, it was Saturday. What had made her think it was Sunday? They were filming today! She was hours late. 

Her eyes scanned around the bedroom for a clock. She spotted one on the mantel and rushed to it. A quarter to noon. 

“Damn!” 

She ran into the adjoining salon, hoping to at least find her handbag. She did, half-spilled on one of the seemingly dozens of ornate chairs that dotted the room. The handbag held no powder or rouge, but at least it had lipstick and her tin of mascara. She dashed back to the bathroom to apply it. Her hair was another story. There was no hairbrush in the handbag, just a small backcomb that was impotent against the rat’s nest of tangles confronting her. She was out of bobby pins. Her dress was wrinkled and covered in lint, not to mention that she stank of sweat and stale booze. She would have to go back to 22nd Street unless she wanted to get fired on the spot for improper dress. Also, her stockings were nowhere to be found. She looked on the chairs in the salon, underneath the bed, on the mantel, and in the sheets and bedspread. Nothing. She even peeked, blushing, in Buster’s closet and his bureau drawers. She did find a sterling silver men’s hairbrush on the bureau. She also discovered a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet and washed down four capsules without a second thought. 

As she considered the sterling silver hairbrush, she felt guilty. It was expensive and she didn’t want to get it clotted up with her long hair. Promising herself she’d use her own comb to clean it afterwards, she sat on the bed trying to get the tangles out. The hairbrush smelled like Brilliantine. It seemed important not to be seen wandering the halls of the prestigious Hotel Senator with the unbrushed hair of one of Macbeth’s witches. Maybe she could call and have some bobby pins brought up—but that would alert hotel staff to the fact that there was a Girl in Buster’s Room. From her first encounter with him in his dressing room, it was clear that he had dalliances, but she wasn’t sure how discreet they were. For all she knew, an enterprising maid might sell a story to the papers for some extra money at the first opportunity. She brushed her hair and tried not to think of how terrible her head felt. 

Her situation went from bad to worse when a doorknob rattled in the salon. Of course. The staff tidied the suite every day. She considered hiding under the bed, but it was too late. From her position, she watched an arm come through the door, shortly followed by a leg, shortly followed by Buster himself. 

Of all the things she might have expected to come out of his mouth when he saw her, it wasn’t, “You’re awake.”

Before she had a chance to do much other than stammer a response, he was in the bedroom. He took off his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe, saying, “How do you feel? Feel like eating?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling rather weak and desperate. 

“I’ll order sandwiches and coffee. You look like you could use some coffee.”

As soon as he’d exited the room, she frantically pulled the strands of her hair out of his brush and padded to the bureau to return it. Job accomplished, she sat on the sofa rather than the bed, noticing for the first time that there was a rumpled sheet draped over the back and a pillow lying on one end. From them, she deduced that she had run Buster out of his own bed. 

“Relax,” said Buster, appearing in the doorway and startling her. 

“Am I fired?” she said, looking over at him. 

He looked surprised. “Fired?” A half-smile played on his lips as he realized what she was driving at. “Oh, for being young and silly and frivolous? No.”

“I am terribly sorry for last night,” she said soberly. “I kicked you out of your bed and you—when I threw up, you—”

He waved her off. “Don’t worry about it.” As if he’d peered into her mind that very second, he added, “Nothing happened between us, don’t worry about that either. Why’s your hair look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Brushed on only the one side.”

“I don’t have a hairbrush.”

He squinted, clearly confused. “How’d you get half of it brushed then?”

She flushed what she could only assume was a violent red. “I borrowed your hairbrush.”

“But you only brushed half?”

She was going to die of mortification right here in Buster Keaton’s hotel room. That’s how she was going to go, rest in peace Nelly Foster. “I didn’t want you to know I’d used it, when you came in just now. I hadn’t asked permission.”

He cocked an eyebrow. He strode over to the bureau, then to her, and dropped the hairbrush in her lap. “All yours,” he said. 

“Thank you. Do you think,” she said, not meeting his eyes, “you could have some bobby pins brought up?”

“Sure. Need anything else?”

She shook her head. “I’m just going to go back to my room to change before I head over to the set.”

He sat on the foot of the bed. “You’re not going to the set today, you’re going to rest. How far away is your room?”

She thought. “A mile, a mile-and-a-half? 1911 22nd Street. I didn’t mention it last night?” 

Buster grinned. Nelly had seen him smile, but never up close and never with full teeth. His teeth were very straight on top and he had a dimple in his right cheek. She was keenly aware in that moment of how extraordinary it was that she had ended up in the bedroom of Buster Keaton’s hotel suite, never mind that her methods were nothing short of disgraceful.

“You mentioned a lot last night, but I couldn’t get that address out of you to save my life.”

“Oh no,” she said, her stomach sinking. She shielded her face with her hand.

“You’re a lot of fun.” He stood up and squeezed her shoulder on his way out of the room. “I’m going to call for those bobby pins.”

As he used the telephone, she hastily brushed out the rest of the tangles, swiped her hair from the bristles, and set the brush on the nightstand next to the bottle of aspirin. Pretty soon there was a knock at the hotel door and she ducked into the bathroom, partly to relieve herself again, mostly to hide from whoever was delivering lunch. She looked in the mirror, tried for a moment to make her hair and her face more presentable, but gave up. The lipstick and mascara would have to do. She also gave her teeth a hasty brush with a finger and Buster’s toothpaste.

Feeling shy, she stepped into the salon where a silver tray sat on a cart. “Sit down,” said Buster. He handed her a small plate that held a chicken sandwich. “There’s soup here too. Something asparagus, I think.”

Nelly took a bite of the sandwich and found that she was ravenous. The sandwich gave her an excuse not to talk. As she ate, she considered how she would politely remove herself from Buster’s company and sneak away before he changed his mind about not canning her. Her bare legs made her self-conscious and she tucked them under her on the chair as she ate. The silence didn’t seem to bother Buster. He dipped his sandwich in his soup and ate, glancing at her once and awhile.

“I can’t find my stockings,” she said, after she’d finished her sandwich. “Do you know where I put them?”

“You threw them out the window.”

“I what?” she said, not sure she’d heard right. 

“Of my car.” Buster blinked without expression, the famous frozen face she knew so well from pictures.

She was bewildered. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were hot,” he said, with a small shrug. “By the way, I noticed the ankle.” He gestured. “You should ice it when you get back to your room.”

“I don’t remember turning it,” she confessed. 

“What do you remember?” he said, his eyes probing hers.

She told him about drinking and dancing in the blind tiger. She also told him about the gap in her memory between dancing and winding up on his bathroom floor. “I am really, terribly sorry about that,” she said again. More of the incident had come back to her and she remembered how he’d dragged her into the bathroom and held her hair back as she vomited. 

He waved her off. “I’ve seen worse. I want to talk to you about something serious for a moment, though.”

A hot-cold rush of dread ran through her insides at his words, but she kept her hands steady on her cup of coffee and tried to make her face cool and calm. 

Buster finished the rest of a second sandwich, dabbed at his lips with a napkin, and put the plate on the bottom of the cart. “You know that tall man, the one with the blonde hair?” He paused, looking at her.

“Tommy,” she said. Why she should feel so guilty about Tommy, she didn’t know, but under Buster’s gaze she somehow learned that consorting with him was a horrible mistake.

“Is that his name? Well anyway, I’ve fired him. If he ever comes around again to bother you, come straight to me.”

She must have looked as puzzled as she felt, because he went on. 

“When I walked into that speak-easy last night, they were trying to get you into a room with them. A whole gang of them, and he was the ringleader.”

She was horrified beyond words. Tears filmed her eyes, but she blinked them back. On top of the spectacle she’d made of herself the previous night, she was not going to cry in front of him.  “I don’t remember that at all,” she said, her voice feeling weak.

“I know you don’t.” He reached over and laid a hand on her knee for a moment. “They got you as drunk as possible for that very reason. Just be careful from now on, okay? Take a few girlfriends when you go out.” He withdrew his hand. “Here.” He took a red box out of his pocket and handed it to her. It was decorated in violets and labeled INVISIBLE HAIR PINS. “Do your hair up and I’ll drop you by your room before I go back to the set.”

Back in the bathroom with Buster’s brush, she saw she no longer needed rouge. Her cheeks were in a high flush now, partly from the effects of last night’s imbibing, partly from their conversation. There was no crimping iron to be found, so she made do with a hasty chignon, patting down the flyaways with Buster’s Brilliantine afterwards.

“Ready?” he said, when she returned to the salon.

She felt hot and ashamed walking through the halls of the Senator and down the stairs next to him, but he didn’t seem to care if they were spotted together. She kept her eyes on her feet as much as possible. Even though they hadn’t slept together, no one in the hotel knew that. No one in the hotel knew either that she’d almost been raped by a gang of men last night, but all the same it felt like she was wearing a scarlet letter. 

They waited in silence outside the grand hotel doors for the valet to bring Buster’s car around. He didn’t seem to have anything to say and she was too mortified to make small talk. When the green Duesenberger rolled up and the valet exited, Buster held open the passenger door for her. She assumed it must have been the car she’d ridden in last night, but her only memory of it was from the parking lot in River Junction. She sat beside Buster in silence as he took a right on J Street. When they had come to Joe and Maggie’s house, he went around to the door and helped her down from the car.

“Don't look so glum,” he said, before he let go of her hand. “Everything’s okay. And ice that ankle as soon as you get in, hear?”

Chapter Text

Buster woke the following morning feeling like hell. His nostrils were so stuffy he could barely breathe out of them, his nose was on fire, and his mouth still tasted like blood even though he’d brushed his teeth twice before bed. He stumbled to the bathroom to look at the damage. Two small purple bruises underscored his eyes and the bridge of his nose was swollen to twice its size. His appearance confirmed that canceling filming had been the right decision. He swallowed some aspirin, cleaned his teeth again, and took a shower, letting the steam open his clogged sinuses. 

The aspirin barely touched the pain. He toweled off and pulled on a dressing gown, then poured himself a breakfast whiskey to go with the steak and eggs he ordered. Once he’d eaten, he called Nate. To his relief, he was patched over to her line; she hadn’t left for Sunday brunch at Dutch’s yet. 

“Hello?” she said.

“Hi, how are you?” he said.

She told him that she was well. 

He said, “I broke my nose in the game last night.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. How?”

He explained the eighth-inning fastball to the face. “But we won the game. 9 to 6.”

“Did you?” she said. “That’s too bad about your nose though. I’m sorry, darling.”

She sounded suitably sympathetic, but he craved more. He wanted the soothing, the I’ll-be-right-there, the kissing and canoodling. 

“How are the boys?” he said.

“The usual,” she said. “Full of the devil.”

“Good,” he said. “I won’t be filming for a few days because of my nose. You should really consider bringing them up. They’d love the steamboats and I’d like you to see the set. They say the shopping is good in Yolo, too.”

“Oh Buster,” she said, her tone telling him the answer was already a big fat no. “You know I’d love to, but six hours on a train is too much for them, don’t you think? I know you’re disappointed, but we must think of what’s best for them. And wouldn’t they be in your way? I’d have to bring Connie to mind them, and I think four is getting to be a crowd. I don’t suppose your suite would hold another four, would it?”

“Nate, you don’t have to bring the governess. I think you’re perfectly capable of managing them for a few days, don’t you? We can get a second suite or even a third, if that’s what has you concerned.”

“I’m flattered by your faith in me,” she said with a little laugh, “but you’ve never traveled with three- and five-year-old boys! I know I’m letting you down, but it’s only another month, isn’t it? Five weeks tops? That’s really not so bad when you think of it.”

“Yeah, it’s not too bad,” he said, echoing her hollowly.

“I miss you dreadfully,” she assured him, before launching into a story about the picture Dutch was filming and the party she intended to throw with her sisters at the Villa next weekend. He listened with only half an ear. He wasn’t surprised about her answer to his proposal, but he still felt lousy.

Since Bobby had been born and Nate had booted him out of the bed, he’d accepted that his needs would have to be satisfied by other women. He knew that Nate hated him for it, even though he’d stuck to his original promise and been the soul of discretion. In spite of her rejection, he still desired her and wanted to win her back, but the most she would ever permit was necking and light petting. If he so much as thought about taking things further, she’d squirm out of his grasp. He just didn’t understand, even three years since he’d last made love to her, why he couldn’t have both a wife and the rights that other husbands were entitled to. He’d gone over it in his head a thousand times. Was he a bad lover? Was it her upbringing? Peg’s sermonizing? Her religion? Could she be a lesbian? He didn’t know and God forbid he even try to broach the topic. She’d give him such a withering look before she stalked out of the room that he felt like he ought to be thrown in jail on charges of sex depravity for even mentioning the idea. 

Divorce was out of the question, naturally. There were relationships to preserve: the one with Joe for starters and those with his famous sisters-in-law. He didn’t trust that Nate wouldn’t try to keep the boys from him, either, if he tried to end it. He could just hear her saying to some attorney, ‘Well, he doesn’t see them much anyway.’ In the meantime, all the saphead could do was to keep trying vainly to find that opening in his wife’s affections. Casting her as his leading lady hadn’t worked. Building her a little love-nest, then a great big love-nest, hadn’t worked. He’d recently decided that maybe a real honeymoon instead of the post-nuptial cross-country train trip that had masqueraded as one might work on her. He figured deep down it wouldn’t change her mind, but still he had his foolish hopes. 

When Natalie was done prating, he told her he had to get ready for lunch with Joe and said his goodbyes. There wasn’t any such lunch, but he no longer wanted to talk. 

He ended up spending the afternoon at the new zoo, disguised by a fake moustache, a tweed cap, and jumper vest that constricted him in heat on what was already a sweltering day. It worked, though. No one looked twice at him. The zoo was a disappointment. To begin with, it was extraordinarily tiny, but more importantly most of the animals featured—deer, wild turkey, raccoons—could be seen if you just sat in a Muskegon tree long enough. The most exotic offering consisted of some listless-looking monkeys in cages. A pack of adolescent boys thumped on their wire enclosures and screeched at them to perform. “Pick on someone your own size!” he yelled at them, and they scattered. The monkeys blinked back at him, not seeming to care one way or the other. 

He did have dinner with Joe that night at the Italian Restaurant in the Julius Hotel. As Buster tucked into his truffle tagliatelle, Joe dropped the bomb. 

“We can’t have the flood sequence.”

Buster laughed. “It sounded like you just said ‘We can’t have the flood sequence,’ Joe, but I don’t think I heard you right,” he said, and took a bite of tagliatelle. “Good one, though.”

“I’m not kidding. Think about how it’ll look. You’ve got a river that’s supposed to be the Mississippi—”

“Sacrasippi,” Buster said, lifting his eyebrows.

“Cut it out,” said Joe, frowning. “I’m trying to be serious. You’ve got a river that’s supposed to be the Mississippi and it’s supposed to flood. Well, you know as well as I do that hundreds of people just lost their lives in the Mississippi floods.”

“Since when do you care?” said Buster. If there was one thing he’d always liked about Joe, it was that he let him alone and let him make the pictures his own way. Something about this smelled fishy.

“It’s in poor taste. It’s not going to get laughs, it’s just going to bring bad publicity. I don’t want it to flop. There’s too much money in it.”

Buster set down his fork. Two words had stuck out: publicity and money. “This is Harry, isn’t it?” he said, narrowing his eyes.

Joe gave a slight wave of his hand, dismissing the comment. “Now don’t go blaming Harry. I happen to agree with him. It would be a risky thing, and God knows what it would cost to pull it off anyway.”

“Well that god damn bean-counter,” said Buster, anger flaring. “We’ve already got everything set up for a flood! The entire god damn picture is about a flood. That’s the entire point!”

Joe looked at him with a firm expression. “I’ve made up my mind. We can’t do a flood.”

“Well, we may as well can the whole picture then,” Buster said. “All my best gags are built around the flood. I can’t just start from scratch.”

“Look,” said Joe, continuing to eat his own meal. “We’re talking about lost lives here. You can see that, can’t you?”

“Horseshit,” said Buster. “Remember Chaplin’s picture Shoulder Arms ? The ink wasn’t even dry on the Armistice when he released that. I remember ‘cause it was the first thing I saw after I got back from France. Everyone loved it. No one was thinking about how many soldiers had just gotten their heads and legs blown off in the war, they just knew a funny picture when they saw one.” He clenched his left fist in his lap. 

“Why not try another disaster?” Joe said.

“Like what?” he said. He stabbed at the pasta with his fork and took a bite without pleasure.

“I’m not the brains here.”

“What, like a cyclone? Joe, I bet you tornadoes and hurricanes kill more people each year than floods. Sure we wouldn’t get bad reviews and angry letters from folks whose families have been killed by tornadoes?”

Joe waved his hand again. “A cyclone sounds just fine. Anything that’s not a flood, you can do.”

It stunk to high heaven as far as Buster was concerned, but he knew Joe well enough to see when he’d made up his mind. He finished his tagliatelle in silence and didn’t even pretend he was willing to pick up the tab when Joe went to pay. He took a taxi back to the Senator and went to bed early, tossing between the sheets and stewing about his lost flood.

There were butter cookies in the brown paper sack making dark greasy spots on its sides. Nelly stood outside Buster’s dressing room, her heart racing with the memory of what had happened last time she’d stepped inside it. Before she lost her nerve, she tapped on the door. 

“Come in!” called Buster. 

She slipped through and closed the door. He was sitting at his table again, not in costume today but wearing dark slacks and a long-sleeved blue jacquard shirt with faint stripes.

“Hi, it’s Nelly,” she said, by way of greeting. 

“I haven’t forgotten your name,” said Buster, one corner of his mouth quirking. “What do you have there?”

She stepped a few feet forward and extended the bag. “I made you cookies.”

He looked from the bag to her as he took it, surprised. “What did I do to deserve such an honor?”

“I heard you broke your nose,” she said. Indeed, she could see up close that his nose was swollen near the top and there were small faded bruises beneath his eyes, not noticeable unless you were next to him.

“So you baked me cookies.” He peeked inside. 

“Yes. I wanted to thank you, too,” she said, feeling the full ridiculousness of her gesture. “For taking care of me last Friday night.”

“No one’s ever made me get-well cookies before, not even my own mother. I’d just get cod-liver oil, even for sprains.” He sounded pleased.

“How’s your nose?” she said, as he bit into a cookie. 

“Hurts like the dickens,” he said, chewing. “I’m hoping the swelling will go down by Friday so I can start filming again.” He didn’t remark upon the cookie as he finished it, but she noticed he pulled another out of the bag. “We’re doing the night scenes soon.”

She was still a little fuzzy on Steamboat Bill ’s plot, but this week’s filming had involved hundreds of local extras, and the grander of the two steamboats was piloted up and down the river, belching out huge plumes of black smoke. She’d taken a break to watch the spectacle. The crowd’s enthusiasm for the steamboat seemed real. The whole set certainly looked real thanks to all the props down by the riverside, the small boats, the large pennants reading KING, and the patriotic bunting draped on storefronts. Buster had been on hand near the cameras helping direct, but hadn’t noticed her in the throngs.

Buster went on. “I’ve got this publicity man who says I can’t have a flood because of the lives that were lost when the Mississippi flooded, so we’re changing everything up for a cyclone.”

She marvelled a little that he was telling her anything about the production, but tried not to show it. “I wondered what those airplane propellers and big motors Bert had me order were for,” she said. 

“These are good,” said Buster, pulling a third cookie from the bag. “Remind me to get hurt more often.”

“Or rescue foolish girls from themselves more often,” she said. 

“It was nothing,” he said. 

“It was something to me.” 

He considered her as he started on the third cookie. 

“Anyway, I already took lunch. I’ve got to get back to the shop,” she said.

“Okay,” he said. 

She had her hand on the door when he spoke up again. 

“Why that Shrew play, anyway? Why not Juliet?”

She turned back and looked at him, thoroughly confused. She had no idea how he knew about one of her dearest and closest ambitions.

He noticed her puzzlement and clarified. “You said your dream was to star in that Shrew play. Why? Why not Romeo and Juliet ?”

“I don’t remember telling you that,” she said, feeling abashed

“Well, don’t get bent out of shape about it, I was just asking,” he said, a little defensively. 

“No, I’m not bent out of shape, I’m surprised,” she said, as she faced him. “I don’t remember saying that. I’m afraid of what else I, uh, might have said that night.” She cringed to think of what else might have come out of her mouth. “I hope I didn’t beg you for a break or anything.”

He regarded her with a calm expression. “You didn’t. I’d still like to know, though.”

“Well, Kate has a mind of her own. She wants to control her own fate. Marriage isn’t for her,” she said, conscious of how clumsy her words were. “She’s fun to play. Romeo and Juliet is a little boring.”

In truth, it was Katherine’s spirit which she loved, the rebellion against her father and Petruchio, and hang the end of the play. In her experience, the audience never remembered the end of the play, only the beginning and middle where Katherine was at her most defiant and fiery. 

Buster nodded, elbow on the table and finger sliding absently under his lip. The silence stretched on for long enough that Nelly said, “Anyway, I’ll see you around.”

“Thanks for the cookies,” Buster said.

Chapter Text

Buster hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and stared up with admiration at the 120-foot crane. Having been delivered to the set in multiple pieces by a fleet of huge trucks, the workmen had just finished putting it together. “Beautiful, ain’t she?”

At his side, Joe grimaced. “Did you have to?”

“ ‘Course I did,” said Buster. “How else are we going to lift the hospital off me in the cyclone sequence?”

“I just didn’t expect it … it’s so big, you know?”

“Damn right it is.”

“How much did it cost?”

“How much did it cost? Really?” Buster said, feeling like Joe had just stuck a pin in his mood and popped it. “It cost what it cost.”

Joe rubbed the back of his neck as he looked up at the crane. “I just wish you’d said something first. Harry’s worried about going over budget.”

“Tell him he can blow it out his ass,” said Buster. “I’m getting damn tired of Harry. Didn’t we all sit down and agree a cyclone was just fine?” He bit his tongue and didn’t say ‘I told you so,’ because if they’d stuck to the original plan, there wouldn’t have been a crane. He wasn’t sure how much the cyclone had run them so far, but it was already over $20,000.

“Yeah, I guess we did. Just try to—” said Joe. “Well don’t go overboard, is what I’m getting at.”

Buster, who had already handsomely paid to go overboard, kept his silence again. “Sure.”

It was a ridiculous conversation for them to have, standing in the shadow of an expensive 120-foot crane, but that was hardly Buster’s problem. 

On the thirteenth, a Saturday, Nelly dressed up to go to the pictures—Buster’s picture, to be exact—with Joe and Maggie. It was still hot at 5:30 p.m. and her bedroom window was wide open as she made up her face and pinned back her hair in a chignon.

They took a street car to K Street. The sidewalks were still busy when they arrived at the Senator theater around 6:30, everyone parading around in their Saturday night finery. She felt good about the ensemble she’d chosen, a short-sleeved dusty peach cotton dress with a mauve straw cloche hat and silk stockings. Inside, the Senator was cool. She’d been to a picture there only once before, but it was enough to make her fall in love with the place, which had been built just two years prior and was new like everything on the West coast was new. It was adorned in velvet drapes and jardinières heaped with fresh chrysanthemums, plush wall-to-wall carpeting, and fringed lamps, but her favorite feature was the painted dome and the enormous multi-tiered chandelier hanging from its center.

As she and the Kimbles took their seats in the balcony, she looked to the box seats on either side of the theater, half-expecting to see Buster in one, but she didn’t. Maybe he was in the crowd, but there was only so much gawking she could do before attracting attention. She saw him in person nearly every day now, but always at a distance and always when he was busy in front of or behind the camera. River Junction had been a bustle of workmen and noise in the mornings as they rebuilt sets for the cyclone and put together the biggest crane she’d seen in her life. Bert allowed her to take breaks a couple times a day to watch the filming. Even though she was behind the scenes now and could see everything, from the cluster of noisy cameras to the even noisier rain machines, the sight of Buster falling into a puddle up to his waist or being blown off his feet by a gust of wind was still a laugh. On Thursday, she’d been called upon to place an order for five large loaves of bread from a bakery, but they were spirited off to an unknown part of the set and their purpose remained a mystery. 

Her brief acquaintance with Buster seemed to have come to an end and she wasn’t inclined to press it any further, having made an ass of herself the first day in his dressing room and then later after the party at the blind tiger. It was enough that he knew her name. She’d begun hoping that the company would keep her on when they wrapped filming and packed up for Hollywood in a few weeks. The more she stuck around, the more people would know her face, and the more people knew her face, the greater her chances were of being recognized by a studio.

She shared Joe and Maggie’s jumbo box of Junior Mints as the lights went down and the opening short started. An organ in an arched box with pillars provided accompaniment. 

When the opening credits of Buster’s feature began, Nelly’s pulse quickened a little bit. It was surreal when he finally appeared on the screen, walking beneath an umbrella with his mother in the pouring rain, soaked to the skin; she’d gotten used to him as a flesh-and-blood person. She now knew how his production company made that rain and that there were cameras in front of him tracking his every step. She also knew that the person inside the truck driving down the street in the background was an extra. Nevertheless, the scene still looked believable, and pretty soon she was sucked into the story like the rest of the audience.

Buster played a brainy college freshman without a lick of athletic ability, which happened to be the only thing his girl cared about. He spent most of the picture trying out for sports to impress her and failing miserably. Buster often took two or three-hour lunches to play baseball with his production team, so Nelly couldn’t quite buy that he didn’t understand the rules of the game and couldn’t hit a ball to save his life.

As the movie wore on, she became aware—and it gave her an unpleasant sensation, like an itch—that he was better-looking than she remembered. It embarrassed her somewhat to see him in his skimpy track outfit. In one scene where he sat on the sidelines, the shorts rode up so high she could see where his tan ended and his natural skin tone, considerably paler, began. She was almost glad when the movie ended. The last few seconds had been queer, besides. The scene of Buster and his girl walking out of the chapel after being married had melted into a scene of them sitting at home while their children played in the background, then one of them in old age, before concluding with a shot of two headstones.

The organ died away and the lights went up. 

“What on earth did that ending mean?” said Maggie, with a look on her face.

“I don’t know,” said Nelly, but it had given her a bad taste. Judging by the expressions on their neighbors’ faces, they weren’t alone in their confusion. Even in Shakespeare’s time, everyone knew that you ended a comedy with a marriage. To do otherwise was to let your audience down. The abrupt, morbid ending brought her back to reality and reminded her that the real Buster was not to be confused with his handsome, whimsical on-screen counterpart.

Joe was the only one who seemed to find the ending funny and tried explaining it as they made their way up the balcony and down the stairs. Nelly was busy searching the exiting crowd for Buster’s face and only half listened. They made it out onto the sidewalk before she accepted she wasn’t going to see him that night. 

Maggie proposed getting hamburgers before they went home and Joe and Nelly agreed. They found a diner on L Street and sat in a booth with a checkered red-and-white tablecloth.

“So what’s he really like?” Maggie said, after their food arrived and they were tucking into burgers and coleslaw. She was a heavier girl, pretty, with auburn hair and freckles on her nose. Her claim to fame was that her maternal grandfather had been one of the original inhabitants of Sacramento when it was first incorporated. She’d asked Nelly the question before, but Nelly didn’t mind answering it again. Buster had rubbed off some fifteen minutes of fame onto her and there was no sense in not using them. Of course, she hadn’t told them that he was her savior the night of the party; in her untruthful retelling, Bert had played that role. They did know, however, that he had invited her to be an extra and that she’d baked him cookies after his accident with the baseball.

“Not much like that,” said Nelly. She looked up and scanned the faces in the other booths as if one might belong to Buster, but they didn’t. “He smiles in real life, but you know that, I’ve said that before. He can be very solemn. He’s not boyish like he is in pictures. I think he’s a kind person, mostly.” She was almost surprised to hear herself say it, but it was a conclusion she’d come to in spite of how he’d appalled her at their first meeting. He’d been a gentleman through and through when he rescued her at the party and took her back to his hotel room, and she couldn’t help but alter her opinion because of it. “He keeps a lot to himself and sticks to his own pals. And he’s very funny, just as funny as his movies.”

“He’s a real athlete too,” Joe said. “He can’t hide that.”

Nelly agreed. “Yes, he plays a lot of baseball with his team.”

“I liked the picture anyway. The gags were funny,” said Joe.

“It was alright,” Nelly said.  

Maggie added, “I’m still not keen on that ending.”

“No,” said Nelly. 

They ate their burgers and the conversation moved to the Senators game (everything was called Senator here since Sacramento was the capital) and how, according to Joe at least, the team hadn’t been the same since Brick Eldred (whoever he was) left. It was getting late by the time they left the diner, and they took a taxi back to 22nd Street, Nelly and Maggie deciding that they’d forgo the dance hall for the evening. 

Nelly had almost forgotten about Buster by the time she crawled into bed around eleven. She tried to drift off by boring herself with thoughts of baseball. Her father and uncle liked the White Sox, but she’d never really understood or cared for the game. Her only memory of the game she’d been taken to as a little girl was of eating hot dogs and popcorn and wandering the stands with Ruthie. Although she couldn’t say why, fantasies of men had not been satisfying since the incident with Tommy, not even her go-to of John Barrymore. The idea that a man might take up baseball or another sport he was abysmal at in order to win the love of a girl seemed laughable now that she thought about it, but Buster had done it—and more—in College . He’d even rescued the girl from his rival who was trying to ruin her reputation.

Her eyes shot open. She hadn’t thought of it until now, but Buster had rescued her that night at the blind tiger. Of course, he hadn’t done it out of a sense of love and there was no reading into the coincidence since the picture had been shot long before she’d met Tommy or Buster, but it struck her regardless. Maybe Buster’s pictures did reveal something of his character. As she puzzled over it, her thoughts got hazier and hazier, until finally she dropped off to sleep.

Chapter Text

The last two-and-a-half weeks of August went by in a pleasant blur. Buster almost forgot about Harry Brand’s gripes and grudges as he indulged his inner boy with the cyclone sequence. He spent the days slipping through mud, battling wind, clinging to an uprooted tree swung by the enormous crane, and clambering all over the Colusa. The production team landed a building on top of him and splintered it to pieces just after he walked out. They tore another building away from him, leaving him looking bewildered in a hospital bed. They slid buildings and piers into the river and rammed the steamboat into a building floating in the river. The more the sets collapsed around him, the more buildings were destroyed, the better he felt about Steamboat . He felt sure that next to The General , it would have the best finish of any of his pictures.

Louise, Jingles, and Myra took a train up one day so that Louise could double for Peanuts, who couldn’t swim, in the rescue scene. He put them up in the Senator where they played cards in the evenings and reminisced about Muskegon and life on the road. When his family wasn’t there, he spent the nights dining in good restaurants and playing bridge. If he tired of these activities, there was always a pretty girl nearby for added recreation.

All in all, the uneasy feelings that had been on him since he’d begun filming were receding like so many floodwaters. 

The final days of filming whizzed by. Nelly was so busy on the set helping stage buildings and managing the props within that she found it difficult to find a spare moment to write home. The workmen had put in a considerable amount of time the previous weeks fashioning breakaway buildings—a library, a hospital, a corner building—for the grand finale. Most of these, with the exception of the library, had to be fully furnished, paintings hung on the wall and lamps and sofas and chairs arranged just so for maximum realism. If she had learned anything from her short time in pictures, it was that Buster did nothing by halves. Every detail was important to him. When she wasn’t working, she was watching the awesome destruction of the little town on the banks of the Sacramento River. With the Liberty wind machines gusting and papers and other debris blowing pell-mell into the river, facades collapsed with thundering crashes and buildings splashed into the river. Buster spent one afternoon in front of the wind machines trying to stay upright for laughs. The machines did a number on him, skidding him face first through the mud and nearly ripping his shirt off at one point. He was panting by the time the engines were turned off. She was surprised that he didn’t hurt himself, especially when the crane picked up the tree he clung to and dipped it up and down before dumping him into the river. Upon her return to Joe and Maggie’s each night, she had time for dinner, a conversation about the day’s filming, and a bath before sheer exhaustion claimed her. Her family and her old life seemed a million miles away even though she’d been away barely two months.

Every week, a postcard from her mother arrived. I never hear from you. Are you sure everything is okay? Please write or telephone me as soon as possible, Nelly dear.

A spare moment came on Sunday the 28th, the day after filming wrapped and also the day before she was to begin arranging the shipment of the entire contents of the prop house back to Hollywood. Joe and Maggie were at church and had given her permission  to use their phone. She called her mother at ten o’clock, knowing that it would be noon back in Evanston and both church and lunch would be finished. 

“Hi, Mother,” she said, when Lena picked up.

“Is that really Nelly? Well I’ve been wondering where you’ve been,” said her mother. “Your father and I have been worrying our heads off about you.”

Nelly suspected they really hadn’t, but didn’t say so. “I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy here. I’ve hardly had a minute to myself. I work practically from sun-up to sundown.”

“Are you famous yet? Is that Keaton going to put you in his next picture?”

“No. And not as far as I know,” Nelly said. Her mother knew that she was acquainted with Buster and that he was a big name in pictures, but was too out-of-touch with the film world to be as impressed by it as she might have been. 

“Well I wanted to tell you that Ruthie’s going to have a baby again,” said her mother. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

Nelly’s stomach sank. “Oh my, that’s marvelous!” she said, forcing a smile into her voice.

She and Ruthie had been close as children, but drifted apart as they matured. Nelly liked books and the theater, Ruthie liked boys and homemaking. The younger by two years, Ruthie had always been her mother’s pet. That relationship had only strengthened when Ruthie married auspiciously at nineteen and had her first baby by twenty. This would be baby number three. Nelly loved her niece and nephew, but there was a stiffness to them that she didn’t like to see—as though they were an extension of Ruthie’s big, clean house with all mechanicals and servants running in regimented order.

“She thinks she’ll have it in February,” her mother said. “A St. Valentine’s Day baby. Wouldn’t that be something?”

Nelly agreed that it would. 

“You know, Harold Jenkins still asks after you every Sunday at church.”

“Does he?” she said. She had not been to church since leaving Evanston, something she’d never tell her mother, and was very grateful to not have seen the loathsome Harold Jenkins for as long. 

“Are you seeing anybody out there in Sacramento?” said her mother.

“Of course not. When would I have the time?” she said. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose there are dances on the weekend, aren’t there?” 

“I’ve gone to see the pictures a few times, but mostly I’m too tired to do anything on weekends. I work Saturdays, you know.”

The conversation was headed where it invariably did, the lines so predictable Nelly could recite them in her head. 

Mother: When are you going to get married?

Nelly: When I find the right man. 

M: Are you looking?

N: No, I am not. 

M: Time is running out on you having children. 

N: I know it is, Mother. 

M: I just want to see you happy and settled down. 

N: I know, Mother.

Marriage had never factored into Nelly’s plans as it had Ruthie’s. She assumed she’d get there eventually, but her real dreams had been built around the theater since she’d been ten years old and seen her first play. The possibility of having children seemed even hazier than marriage. She knew she was getting older and wouldn’t have forever to decide, but she also knew that marriage and children would put an end to her theater career. She wasn’t eager to declare the dream deceased before it ever lived.

“When are you going to settle down?” her mother asked. 

Nelly did not attempt to conceal her sigh. “Just as soon as I find the right fellow.” She was half-tempted to add how bad she’d been at choosing men of late, what with the near brush she’d had with Tommy and the other workmen. 

“I just want to see you happy. You’re already twenty-six. I had you and Ruthie by then,” she said. 

“I am happy, Mother,” she said, frowning. “I’m working for a big star and I’m going to try out for a role in some of the other pictures just as soon as this one’s wrapped up. I don’t mind being an old maid. I’m happy. Who says happiness is marrying and having babies. What if I married the wrong fellow? I’d be a lot worse off than I am now.”

“I know you have more sense than to do that, dear,” said her mother, brushing aside her argument. “And you will be happy! I was when I met your father, and Ruthie and Gerald couldn’t be happier. It only gets better when the babies come along.”

Nelly rolled her eyes and withheld multiple sarcastic replies. “I’d better be going now. I’ve got a lot of cleaning to do. I promised Maggie and Joe I’d help.” She felt bad lying to her mother, but there was a danger of her losing her temper and that undoubtedly was a worse sin. 

“Okay. I do hope you can make it back to Evanston in time for the baby to be born. Your father sends his love.”

Nelly sent her love in kind and said her goodbyes. She went upstairs and sat in her open window after she’d hung up the phone. 

“ She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house, my household stuff, my field, my barn, my horse, my ox, my ass, my anything ,” she muttered. Spoken previously by John Barrymore in one of her fantasies, the words had seemed romantic, but they didn’t seem that way anymore. She never wanted to become a man’s chattel or ass, his anything rather than everything. 

The breeze was warm and the lemon tree outside the window was plump with still green fruit. No matter what her mother said, this was happiness. She was earning her own wage and working in pictures, and she didn’t have to go to church every week and endure Halitosis Harold’s clumsy attempts at courting. There was also Buster. Just being near his genius made her feel like a piece of dry tinder next to a spark. If they were acquainted long enough, she felt certain that she would ignite with the same ingenious fire that burned in him.

Chapter Text

Filming for Steamboat had wrapped by the first Saturday in September. Weeks of cutting still remained on the horizon, but Buster could do that from the comfort of his production room at the Villa. The cutting was precisely why he was now knocking on Joe’s office door. If he had anything to say about it, the words ‘Supervised by Harry Brand’ would not appear anywhere in the credits. Once was more than enough. 

“Come in,” said Joe. 

Buster walked in and seated himself in the chair in front of Schenck’s desk. 

“What’s on your mind?” said Joe. He was drinking coffee.

“The picture. What’s on anyone’s mind right now?” said Buster affably.

“Sure,” said Joe. “Still on track to finish tomorrow?”

“That’s the plan,” said Buster. 

Joe wasn’t stupid and Buster could see that he was trying to figure out what the visit was about. He seemed a little uneasy as he sipped his coffee.

“So,” said Joe. 

“Sew buttons,” Buster said, the witticism lame and off-handed, before getting down to business. “Anyway, I was thinking about how we’re going to cut the picture and that got me to thinking about the credits. About how we’re doing things in general.”

Joe looked at him, waiting for him to go on.

“So you’ve got a picture. Say it’s a Doug Fairbanks picture. For example, Doug comes on and you say, ‘Douglas Fairbanks supervised by Joe Doakes.’ It’s bad on the face of it. You’re belittling Fairbanks. Fairbanks, not Doakes, is what you’re selling.” Buster leaned forward and knit his hands on the desk. 

“I’m listening,” said Joe. A frown was creeping onto his face. 

“When you’re talking about a picture, what do you really need? Three things. One man writes it, another man directs it, and a star acts it. Those three people are responsible for every great picture that was ever made. In some cases one man is all three—Chaplin,” said Buster.

“I see where you’re going with this and I disagree,” said Joe, giving a frown. “Supervisors are the big thing. All the big studios are using them.”

“Maybe they are,” he said. “But they can be wrong. It’s not going to last long. The whole damned thing’s a bad joke.”

Joe shook his head, looking displeased.

Buster laid the trump card on the table, poker-faced but confident. “There’ll be no more supervisors in the pictures Buster Keaton makes.”

He waited for Joe to reply. As the seconds ticked by in silence, he began to wonder if he was in for a real fight. He’d said he was taking the pot, but maybe Joe didn’t know that he wasn’t bluffing.

At last, Joe cleared his throat and said something. Buster had to lean forward to catch it. His brain grappled with the words, not comprehending.

Buster Keaton isn’t going to make any more pictures .

That’s what Joe had said. 

He sat back in stunned silence as Joe continued. 

“No, no,” said Joe. “That didn’t come out right. What I mean, Buster, is that you’re not going to make any more pictures for me. I’m dissolving the studio.”

“Why?” Buster managed to say. His lips felt tight and dry. 

“Now I don’t want you to worry,” Joe said, holding up a hand in a benevolent way. “I’ve gotten it all straightened out. You’re going over to M-G-M. That’s where Nick is. He’ll take great care of you. Look, I know it’s not what you want, but just think about it for a minute. You’ll have ten times the opportunities. A whole staff of writers working for you, helping you with cutting and production and stories. The money’s bigger. The pictures will be better. You can’t lose, it’s a chance of a lifetime.”

Buster couldn’t make his mouth work. Joe was now waxing poetic about the settlement Buster would be getting for his interests in the studio. The studio? His studio. Buster Keaton Productions. Five thousand dollars for eight years of making millions for Joe, and now he was finding out in the worst possible that he didn’t have the power in his own enterprise that he thought he did.

“Nick will treat you just like his own son. I’m telling you, you’ve got nothing to worry about.” Joe was more animated now as he reviewed the details. It was clear that he had been chewing on this decision for a while now and there was no appealing it.  

Buster listened on in disbelief. An image was crystalizing in his mind of a theater trunk sitting in an alley, left behind and forgotten. He’d felt exactly the same way the day he’d split up The Three Keatons. 

He didn’t remember what he said to Joe before leaving the office. He didn’t even remember leaving the office. He just found himself walking east on Romaine Street toward 1025 Lillian Way. His thoughts couldn’t seem to coalesce. He supposed he was in shock. Part of him wanted to think that it was all a dirty joke, but Joe—Joe, who attended the Sunday barbecues at the Villa faithfully, who had been so worried for Buster when he’d returned from France that he’d emptied his wallet for him, who’d lent Buster money to buy his first house—had never been that kind of man when it came to serious matters. Buster was torn between wanting a stiff drink and wanting to jump off a bridge. 

He did neither, of course. Back at Lillian Way, there was a film to finish. He now knew what the crowning gag would be. Tomorrow, the Saphead Would Face Down Certain Death. Whether he survived, he didn’t much care at the moment.

Nelly had never worked on a Sunday before, but the Sunday before Labor Day was the final day of shooting and she couldn’t object even if she wanted to. Of course she didn’t want to. She’d been with the picture from almost the first and couldn’t think of a greater honor than finishing it out. The other actors and much of the crew had departed since they’d left Sacramento, and now it was just her, Bert, Buster, and a skeleton crew. A small set had been built on the United Artists lot and she was presently furnishing a small two-story house. The second story needed only to be filled with boxes, but the main floor required homey touches, so she and Bert arranged a rug, a sofa, a chair, and pictures on the wall. She set a lamp on a table in the center of the room. The house had a breakaway facade that was lying face-down in the dirt, but had hinges enabling it to be drawn up. 

As she decided whether a fringed floor lamp should go to the left or right of the sofa, Buster and one of the crew walked up. They both got on top of the flat facade and she watched, pretending to be busy with the lamp, as Buster stood in the frame of an open second-story window and looked to the top of the house. She positioned the lamp to the left of the sofa and slid the cord under it and out of sight. When she glanced at Buster again, he was hammering a nail into the dirt inside the window frame. She couldn’t imagine what he was doing. Plumping one of the throw pillows on the sofa, she looked again. He was hammering a second nail.

“This’ll do it,” he said to the crewmember.

Bert came through the back door of the house with an armful of curtains as Buster and the crewmember walked away. 

“What’s he doing?” Nelly said to him under her breath.

“Buster?” said Bert, sounding a little out of breath as he dumped the curtains on the sofa. “Figuring out where to stand. The facade’s gonna come down right on top of him. Except he ends up in the window and doesn’t get hurt.”

“On top of him?” said Nelly, her innards seeming to go cold. The breakaway facades weighed a ton. The crew and cast had been warned to stay well away from them when the previous breakaway scenes were filmed, since getting caught underneath one would spell catastrophe.

“That’s right,” said Bert. “It was just supposed to fall down near him, scare him a little bit, then he’d run toward another building and it would fall down too, but he got the idea to have the window pass over him last night he said.” Bert didn’t seem to be at all perturbed by the nature of the stunt as he set to hanging a curtain.

“He’s going to get killed!” Nelly said, rooted to the spot. “That facade has to weigh at least a ton.”

“Two tons,” Bert said, walking across the room and pulling down another curtain rod. He eased a curtain onto it.

Nelly felt panicked. “He’s crazy. He’ll get killed. Has anyone tried talking him out of it?”

Bert laughed. “You think anyone has ever talked Buster Keaton out of anything once he’s got an idea in his head?”

“He’ll be killed,” she said. She was starting to feel almost hysterical. 

“Trust Buster,” Bert said, stretching up to hang the curtain on his tiptoes. “He’s always fine.”

Nelly sat down on the couch, trying to calm her thoughts. Bert was probably right, but suppose …

All of her supposes, like the hinges failing or a wind machine shifting the facade just inches in either direction, ended up with Buster crushed to death. Bert walked back out the back door and she barely noticed. She tried to think of some way to stop the maddening act, but couldn’t. She didn’t know Buster as well as Bert, but she knew Bert was right. Nothing stopped Buster once he was set on something.

“Better move, sweetheart, we don’t want you in the scene.” She looked up and Buster was at the corner of the house peering in at her. 

It was her chance to beg him to reconsider, to throw herself on him, scream, and rend his clothes. Instead, she apologized and let herself out the back door. There was nothing that causing a ruckus would do except delay filming and possibly get her kicked off the set, spoiling her future chances of working for the Buster Keaton Studios. The facade gave a titanic creaking as it was eased back into place. Outside of the set, a couple crew members were wetting the dirt in front of the house with a hose so that it was slick and muddy as if from a cyclone. Nelly made her way toward some other crew members clustered off-camera to the right of the house. As she got closer, she noticed they were huddled in a funny way. 

“... hallowed be thy name

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done

On earth as it is in heaven .”

They were praying. The realization almost made her sick to her stomach. She didn’t go in for religion, but as she stopped in their midst, she made the decision to join them. If there was any chance the prayer would spare Buster, it was worth it. The ending lines had a foreboding potency they’d never had before.

“ But deliver us from evil

Now and at the hour of our death .”

The hour of our death. She looked up and saw Buster a few feet from them, looking placid in his baggy pants and suspenders. Was she seeing a man in the final hour of his life? If she had any sense, she’d leave. There was no reason to watch this. Yet she felt duty-bound to stay. A superstition said that maybe it would help preserve him from the stunt going wrong. 

She watched Buster helplessly as the minutes went by and the final preparations were made to the set and the cameras. The wind machines were turned on and Buster walked in front of the house. He went down to his knees and sprawled out flat onto his chest in the mud.

“What’s he doing?” she said to one of the electricians.

“Continuity,” the electrician replied. “He was muddy in the scene we shot yesterday.”

The cameraman yelled something she didn’t hear and Buster walked in front of the house. He faced one of the cameras. Nelly felt almost light-headed. What if the wind had blown the nails out of place? What if—

Buster rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his jaw. The house’s machinery groaned and the facade heaved forward. At the last second, she turned her head. There was a gut-wrenching thud as the facade landed. Tears sprang into her eyes. 

After an interminable second or so, a roar went up from the men around her and they began to clap. She looked back. Through the glaze of her tears, she could just make out Buster, still rubbing his neck and rolling his jaw nonchalantly. A great cloud of dust had sprung up. Buster pretended to suddenly realize what had just happened and dashed out of the ruined facade, stopping once at a safe distance to stare at the house in terror. 

“Cut!” shouted the cameraman over the wind.

The group of men headed toward Buster at a clip. There were hoots and handshakes and claps on the back, and Buster was grinning. Nelly shielded her face with her hand and cried, overcome with relief. She still felt weak and sick. 

“Why are you crying?” said Buster.

He had crept up without her noticing. She turned her face away quickly, shaking her head. “Because you’re a damned idiot!” she said, not caring now whether speaking her mind would ruin her chances of staying on with him. “You had no business doing that.”

Buster touched her shoulder. “Look, I’m okay, ain’t I?”

She shied away. “No gag is worth your life,” she said. 

Buster looked surprised. His hand fell from her shoulder. “Okay.”

He left to go talk to the second cameraman and Nelly stole away, tears still coming, feeling downright dreadful. She wished she hadn’t stayed on for the final day of filming. It hadn’t been the celebratory end she’d expected. It had been awful, like seeing a man trying to commit suicide but by a miracle failing.

Chapter Text

The Monday after Labor Day, Buster took a train to New York City to see Adolph Zukor. Nate fretted, but didn’t offer to go with him. By now, the Talmadges knew of Joe’s decision to close the studio. In front of them, Buster pretended that the move to M-G-M was everything he’d ever wanted. The girls were sharp, though, and he didn’t think Norma and Dutch were fooled. Peg certainly wasn’t. She’d always had the knack for seeing right through him and tutted when the big promotion (the big demotion, as Buster thought of it), was brought up at brunch the following weekend. He could tell she wanted to declare him on the down-and-out, but she couldn’t argue with the handsome salary Joe was promising. Nate wasn’t fooled, either, but that was because he told her how he really felt. She tried to soothe him, but it was obvious to Buster she thought he was making a mountain of a molehill. Probably relieved that her shoe budget wouldn’t be interrupted, he thought cynically.

He’d had phone calls from Chaplin and Lloyd the previous week; both thought it was suicide to go over to M-G-M and give up his independence. Their opinion doubled his resolve to fight for his own studio. Hence New York, hence the meeting with Zukor. Buster had a hunch that Zukor could be convinced to see his point of view. First impressions mattered, and Zukor’s first impression of Buster had been the night he and Roscoe pulled the unforgettable Clumsy Butler Prank at Roscoe’s fancy dinner party. Buster could think of no more persuasive argument than that for getting Zukor to distribute his films.

It turned out that Zukor didn’t see it that way. Expressing regret, he explained that since Paramount had just contracted to release Lloyd’s films, it wouldn’t be fair of Buster to steal Lloyd’s spotlight and ruin his chances. Buster got the real gist of it when Zukor excused himself to go to the john and he noticed a letter bearing the letterhead of the Hays Office near the top of the pile of papers on Zukor’s big desk. Playing a hunch, he slid it out and scanned the contents. He didn’t have long to read before Zuk got back, but the phrases “Buster Keaton” and “exclusive property of M-G-M” stuck out. It was as he suspected. Even though he hadn’t signed a contract yet, he was already considered their chattel.

Back at his hotel, he poured one whiskey after another as he fumed. Zukor’s argument didn’t hold the least bit of water. Hadn’t United Artists been releasing both him and Chaplin for years now? It was time to play his final card, so with several whiskeys under his belt, he went to Nick Schenck.

“Why are you fighting this?” said Nick, with an incredulous look on his face. “It’s the chance of a lifetime.”

Nick reeled off his brother’s lines about the top-notch writers, directors, and sets that Buster would have at M-G-M. Buster wasn’t to forget about the money either. More money than you’ve ever seen in your life.

Fuck the money , was what Buster wanted to say. He’d been earning his way since he was a tot. The money had always been there and there was no reason to assume it would ever go away as long as he still had ideas in his head and could fall flat on his face without taking a bruise.

But he couldn’t see a way out of the M-G-M conundrum. He didn’t doubt his ability to find a couple lots, a few buildings, some props, and recreate Lillian Way. He had a loyal crew and his core group of gagmen. There was no point in trying, though, without somebody to release the films—and it would seem that M-G-M had already blacklisted him. 

So he went back to his hotel again and drank. He returned to California four days later to continue cutting Steamboat .

In early October, he and Natalie headed west to Pittsburgh to see Murderers’ Row face the Pirates in the World Series. They celebrated his birthday in a Pullman car somewhere near Galesburg, Illinois. He blew out the candles of his chocolate cake, ushering in his thirty-second year on earth and thinking that he’d never felt more of a wash-up. Natalie got him two expensive ties, a box of fine cigars, and a fine silk Japanese dressing gown, but it wasn’t anything that he wanted from her. What he wanted, to start with, was to not sleep in separate berths. He wanted her to show more than a glancing interest in his ideas for new pictures. That would do for a start. 

At Forbes Field, the Yanks won 5-4 in the first game. Natalie gave up on Games 2, 3, and 4, but came with him to New York for Game 3. Babe Ruth hit a homer in Game 4. It was tied in the top of the ninth until the Kentucky Colonel scored on a wild pitch and brought it home in the bottom of the ninth, winning the Series for the Yanks. That made Buster feel better, but only for a short while. 

In New York, Natalie shopped with Constance. Buster sat in his hotel room racking his brains for a solution to his big problem that everyone except Chaplin and Lloyd told him wasn’t a problem. He sometimes thought about Snap Shots , his new picture, but mostly he thought about his big problem. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t think of a solution. Little by little, resignation seeped in. He wondered if this was how his old man had felt when the Little Fellow Who Couldn’t Be Damaged had abandoned him for a career in pictures.

He drank and drank, but it didn’t give him a solution, either. He was stumped. 

Nelly needn’t have worried about Buster being appalled by her outburst after the facade scene; she discovered a week later that Buster Keaton Studios was dissolving altogether. “Don’t say nothing though, you’re not supposed to know,” Bert said, when she came to collect her radio from the prop shop at Lillian Way. “He hasn’t told the papers yet.”

She was stunned. “Dissolving? Why?”

“M-G-M cut him a deal he couldn’t refuse. Says he’s taking us with, the ones who’ve been with him the longest, but like I said, you didn’t hear this from me.” Bert glanced around in a furtive way, as if someone might be listening. 

“No room for the new kid,” she said, realization dawning. 

“Sorry, kid,” said Bert, touching her arm. “Lemme give you my telephone number, though. If you need me to put in a word for you anywhere.”

That was how Nelly came to find herself on the United Artists lot a day later, dressed smartly in her orange Canton silk dress and hesitating, once again, outside of a door, not knowing the sort of reception she would receive behind it. This was the door to the waiting room of the casting office. In her handbag was a folded, typewritten piece of paper giving her experience, all the way down to a high-school production of Alice in Wonderland when she was sixteen. She hoped that the words Steamboat Bill, Jr. - Buster Keaton at the top of the page would help make up for her rather one-note acting experience in Evanston. 

The waiting room of the casting office was, to her relief, an equal mix of men and women, perhaps a dozen in total. She’d expected all women. She opened her copy of An American Tragedy , but her reading speed was considerably slow as she sneaked looks at the competition. She was prettier, she concluded, than half of the prospective actresses, but she wasn’t so sure about the other half. Every twenty minutes a man in a room would call out “Next!” and everyone would look up, feigning like they weren’t nervous.

She finished six chapters while she waited, there nearly two hours. When her chance finally came to go into the room with the closed door, she found two men behind a desk smoking cigarettes. They didn’t look particularly happy to see her, though she put on a big smile. They told her they were casting for a D.W. Griffith film. There would be a scene in a jazz nightclub and could she dance? She’d never been confident in her dancing skills, but professed herself a regular Isadora Duncan. 

“Says here you worked in the prop department for Keaton,” said the younger of the men. 

“That’s right, sir.”

“We could use you right away in the prop department here, if you’re willing. And you worked on scenery before? Painted backdrops, says here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We could use some help there, too.”

When she left the room, she felt dazed. She was to show up at the prop building on the United Artists lot at 7:30 the following morning. As to the Griffith film, nothing further had been said. Though it hadn’t been what she’d wanted or expected, her foot was back in the Hollywood door and she could afford the little three-room apartment she’d recently rented on Genesee Avenue.

And so that was how the rest of September passed. She was back to managing and ordering inventory. Some days, she would pitch in for a few hours working on a backdrop, wearing paint-splattered denim overalls and looking like a twelve-year-old tomboy. She learned a little more about the Griffith film through the grapevine. It was called The Battle of the Sexes and no extras were yet required, which she was relieved to hear. She hadn’t missed her chance yet.

The grapevine put a crashing halt to her easy routine in October: John Barrymore was making a new film called Tempest and extras would be required.

Buster was swimming when Caruthers came down the stairs leading to the pool at a brisk pace. “Telephone for you,” he said, as he got closer.

Buster stopped mid-breaststroke and bobbed. “Is it important or something?” It was a cool eighty degrees out and he was enjoying himself.

“Well it’s a girl,” said Caruthers, shrugging. “Didn’t ask her name.”

That piqued his interest. “Guess I’ll take it. Nate isn’t back, is she?”

Caruthers, who’d been at his side longer than Natalie had and knew perfectly well what such calls meant, shook his head. Buster climbed out of the pool and smoothed his hands back over his head, squeezing out water. He ascended the sixty marble stairs carefully, mindful that his dripping could make them slick. It took him so long to get up the stairs—it always took long to get up the stairs, the price of opulence—he somewhat doubted whether the girl would still be on the line once he arrived in the foyer. 

“Hello?” he said, holding the phone to his ear and dripping a little on the checkerboard marble floor of the foyer. He was out of breath from the steps. 

“Hello, is this Buster?”

He didn’t recognize the voice one the other end. “Who’s this?” he said. 

“It’s, uh, Nelly. From the prop house on Steamboat ?”

“Oh. Hello.” He was confused.

“I’m sorry to call you like this. I hope it’s not a bother. Bert gave me your number.”

“You’re using a dial telephone, then.”

“Well, yes. I didn’t think the operator would put me over if I just asked to speak to a movie star. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t irritated on top of being confused. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said, all feminine apologies and politeness.

“No, go on.” He decided not to tell her about standing there in his wet bathing trunks lest she proceed to apologize for the next five minutes.

“I hate to ask, I can’t believe I’m asking, but they’re casting for a new Barrymore film right now. You’re—” Her words broke off and he could actually hear the deep breath she took. “You’re the only one I know who could put in a word.”

“Oh,” he said. He’d accused her of having an angle back when he first met her, but now that she was playing one he didn’t know what to say.

“You can say no,” she said, the words rushed, “but ever since I got here, all I keep hearing is that it’s all about who you know. I’m just trying out to be an extra. I don’t even know if they have any parts for girls other than the lead.”

“Who’s directing?” he said.

“Sam Taylor. Do you know him?”

“Not well.”

“Oh …” She trailed off. 

Buster, in the meantime, had latched onto a brilliant solution. “How’d you like to come to my place for a party on Saturday?”

Nelly was silent for a moment. “I’d love to, but you don’t have to—”

“Jack Barrymore himself will be here. You can ask him yourself.” He was pleased to have solved the problem, never mind that Hollywood’s biggest stars would be in attendance and she was just a prop girl. Well, she wanted to be in pictures. Let her sink or swim.

“I don’t know what to say.” She paused. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose. I’m fine if you just put in a word with him, honest.”

She sounded genuine, but his mind was made up. “The party starts at six,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”

After he’d hung up, he went back to the pool and finished his swim. Natalie phoned to tell him that she and the kids would be spending the night at Peg’s. That was fine by him. He had lobster for dinner and afterwards Caruthers made him a Manhattan, then another. He shot some pool in the billiards room under the coffered oak ceiling, the priceless chandelier that hung above the pool table crisply illuminating each shot. When he tired of that, he retreated to the balcony outside his bedroom and enjoyed the warm, sweet smell of the night air along with a Cuban cigar. In that moment, he could almost believe that everything in his life would work out okay.

Chapter Text

Nelly had never suffered stage fright in the theater, but as her taxi pulled up to the Villa, she felt like she was getting a year’s worth at once. Her taxi wasn’t the only vehicle in the front drive. A handsome red-and-black Packard was there, expelling a man in a seersucker suit and a fashionable woman who shimmered in a dress the color of a deep blue sapphire. She wished desperately for a drink. She wished that she hadn’t eaten a plate of scalloped ham and potatoes before leaving. She wished that she’d asked Buster what to wear, how to comport herself, what to say, but all she had to go on were her own acting skills and a small measure of courage. She wondered if he’d be surprised to see her show up, if he’d forgotten the invitation altogether.

She had rented her dress from Carmela’s for the handsome sum of $37. It was pale green like a luna moth and layered in silks and crepe de chine. Silver beading was stitched across the front in a design vaguely resembling a rising phoenix. She’d also purchased a white-feathered rhinestone headpiece for $12, but her necklace was her own and its green gemstones only glass. Her hair was waved, each side done up in a braided bun. For her lips she’d chosen a dark rose, and she’d applied some turquoise shadow to her lids above the kohl liner. She felt like a perfect imposter, albeit an elegant one. 

Until they’d pulled up his drive and she’d sighted the Villa, she hadn’t really understood just how rich Buster Keaton was. The residence was white and enormous, a sort of boxcar shape with both ends bent inward, with a red clay-tile roof and another large house to the left as you were approaching the Villa from the back. A long paved drive wound up the back of the house where palm trees, Mediterranean cypresses, and a carpet bed of flowers studded the hills. Buster’s easy, humble manner on the few occasions she’d interacted with him in person had made her feel increasingly at ease with him. It had begun to feel like they were on the same level. Now she realized how incorrect that feeling had been. She’d been in a few stately houses back in Evanston—those belonging to her mother’s higher-society friends—but they were nothing to the sprawling grandeur of The Villa. 

The jets of a stone fountain in the center of the front drive splashed pleasantly as Nelly stepped out of the car and tipped the driver, holding her door, with a five-dollar bill. She smiled and tried to look easy, like she belonged there and was in the habit of handing out handsome tips. Her only thought as she approached the tall arched doorway of the Villa was, I’m going to flub my lines .

It was a warm night and no one was wearing coats, but there was a maid in the foyer prepared to take them nonetheless. Just outside of the foyer, a beautiful young woman was smiling and clasping the hand of another beautiful young woman, who was accompanied by a beautiful young man. The beautiful young woman looked a whole lot like Norma Talmage and Nelly realized that she was none other than Natalie. Her heart went wild. Before she had time to think about what she would say, it was her turn to greet the hostess.

“How do you do?” she said.

“Very well. How do you do?” said Natalie, smiling. She was slim and petite, with a dark bob parted on the side and prettily waved.

“Very well. I’m Nelly. I worked with Bus—your husband—on Steamboat Bill .” She didn’t know what made her blurt it, only that Natalie was looking at her without a hint of recognition in her eyes and Nelly felt she owed an explanation for how a nobody like her ended up among the big names. She fancied that she saw something in Natalie’s expression change a little, but the smile didn’t waver.

“Very pleased to meet you. You’ll find refreshments just over there. Buster will be down in a little while. I’m sure he’ll be pleased you came.”

Nelly wanted to do something to soften Natalie’s impression of her, compliment the house or her dress, a costly-looking beaded yellow one that hit slightly above the knee, but she was already greeting the next guest.

Seven or so couples mingled in the space beyond the foyer. There were two square white columns supporting an upper level, a majestic stone staircase leading up to it on the right, and arched doorways to the left and right leading to unseen parts of the house. There were arched doorways everywhere, in fact, and a long table filled with an assortment of French hors d’oeuvre . A recessed area with white-streaked black marble steps stood at the rear of the open room, leading out to a loggia from which Nelly could just see the backyard. She itched to find the washroom so she could powder the sweat off her face.

A butler appeared at her elbow offering a cocktail and she took it at once. When she was sure no one was watching, she gulped it in one go and hid the glass on a nearby table. She had no business being here. She wondered whether she was meant to have invited somebody. All of the other couples seemed to know each other and were engrossed in conversation, and she was the only one without a partner. She stood on the checkerboard marble floor with her hands knit in front of her, smiling and trying her best to project an air of belonging.

That smile faltered when she saw who came through foyer next. It was Louise Brooks! She was wearing a low-cut black gown that revealed the cleavage of her small breasts and her lips were a deep cherry red. She was accompanied by a man that Nelly didn’t recognize. Nelly’s mouth began to go dry and she was keenly aware of how damp her underarms had become. She had nothing to anchor herself to for comfort or security. As the minutes ticked by and she remained unacknowledged by the other guests besides polite smiles and nods, she began to feel hot and dizzy. Her heart was beating rapidly. She needed to escape. She wondered if anyone would notice if she made a casual break for the loggia.

“Hey, Buster!” a man called. Some people pointed up and waved. Nelly followed their eyes and saw Buster on the second level above the loggia. He put up his hand gravely like a king recognizing his subjects and started down the stairs.

In the next horrifying moment, he lost his footing and took a hard tumble straight down. The room erupted in gasps and shouts. Buster had come to rest on his back at the foot of the stairs with his limbs splayed. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving. Some of the guests rushed toward him.

Then, with a mildly baffled expression, he stood up and brushed the dust off the arms of his suit jacket. Someone began clapping and pretty soon everyone joined in, laughing and cheering him. Only then did Nelly realize it had been a pratfall. She didn’t know if it was funny. The sight of him lying so still for those few heartstopping moments had rattled her. 

“A drink?” The butler was at her elbow again.

She looked away from Buster. “Please.”

He handed her a martini glass with a little orange wedge on the side and sugar on the rim and she sipped, the spell of her own panic broken somewhat, though not for very long. Still more guests were filtering into the room. She recognized Marion Davies and Norma Talmadge with another thudding of her heart in her throat. The room seemed to be getting famouser by the minute. Buster was greeting guests a few yards away, sober and unsmiling, unaware that she was there. She wondered if he’d forgotten that he’d invited her. It seemed quite possible.

It was too much; she gave into her impulse to steal off to the loggia. Trying not to draw attention to herself, she stepped down into the recessed area, through an arched doorway, and into the loggia. White wicker furniture, potted trees, and pink orchids adorned it. Sconces on its inner walls burned with real flames, while two hanging fixtures gave a stronger light.

It felt a few degrees cooler outside. The sun had by now fallen and only a few streaks of purple remained in the sky. Nelly’s cocktail tasted of citrus, and she licked some sugar off the rim. The glow of the drinks hadn’t yet hit her. Too much scalloped ham in her stomach, she supposed. She stood next to one of the columns beneath yet another arched doorway and looked down what seemed like one hundred white marble steps, illuminated by carefully concealed electric lights, leading to the huge sunken swimming pool. The green lawn seemed to go on for miles. She still couldn’t get her head around the sheer excess of Buster’s abode. She remembered a two-reeler in which a down-and-out Buster, looking pitiful, stood in a bread line but was denied a loaf at the last minute. How humble and sad he had seemed!

“Hello,” said Buster behind her. 

She shuddered in surprise and turned around to see him walking toward her. “You always sneak up on me,” she said.

“Nelly.”

The split-second astonishment on his face told her two things. One, he hadn’t recognized her. Two, she looked as good as she thought she did. A sudden warm confidence renewed her. 

“What are you doing out here?” he said, stopping a few paces from her. He raised his own cocktail to his lips.

She took another sip of hers, deciding there was no point in not being honest. “I realized I was out of place and wanted some air.”

Buster looked at her appraisingly. He was wearing a well-tailored navy-blue suit and the flowers on his matching silk tie were embroidered in bright gilt thread. It was the prettiest tie she’d ever seen. “Thought you wanted fame and fortune,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows. “I want a job as an extra. I never said anything about fame and fortune.”

“What about your starring role in Shakespeare’s big talkie?” he said. Although he wasn’t smiling, it was definitely a tease. 

“I want the role. I hadn’t thought about what happens next,” she said, and it was true. She wanted to be an actress because she liked it. She wanted recognition for that acting, but it had never occurred to her, not seriously anyway, that recognition might lead to prominence or money. Now, among Hollywood’s elites in Buster Keaton’s extravagant mansion, anything seemed possible. Silence fell between them and she finished her cocktail. 

Buster said, “So what do you think?”

“Of what?”

“My house. The Villa.” He came to her side.

She met his eyes and was alarmed to feel a sort of flutter in her middle as they regarded each other. She thought of Natalie greeting her in the foyer and was disgusted with herself. “It’s, uh …” she said, distracted.

“Vulgar?”

“No, that’s not what I was going to say. I think it’s wonderful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“But it is vulgar. I think it’s wonderful as well, but it’s vulgar. You can say it.”

“If you insist,” she said, looking away from him. It was difficult to look him in the eyes now.

“You’re not being honest,” he said. 

For a panicked second, she thought he was referring to her feelings. But no, they were talking about the house. “I never thought you lived like this,” she said. “I guess I don’t know what I thought. I’m not used to it.”

Buster nodded. “You thought I was that honest boy from the pictures.”

“Well that’s how you seem when you’re working. I mean, when you’re filming a picture.”

He sipped his cocktail. “It’s expected,” he said, sweeping his hand to indicate the house. “When in Rome, you know.”

“Well I suppose that tells you that I’m out of place, that I’m not used to it.”

“C’mon, I’ll help you find your place.” He held out his elbow and she found she couldn’t refuse. She linked her arm in his before she was properly aware of it. His arm was warm and the material of his jacket was soft against her bare arm. He smelled like cigarettes and aftershave. Her mind protested, Natalie, his wife Natalie . But she was powerless. They walked back up the steps to the recessed area, then up the other pair of steps to the checkerboard floor. The room was now noisy with conversation. A Victrola playing jazz could barely be heard.

Buster dropped her arm and stopped in front of Marion Davies and her male companion, who were near the hors d'oeuvre table sipping drinks. “Nelly, this is Marion and Dick. Marion and Dick, this is Nelly.”

“How do you do?” said Nelly, blushing. 

With formalities out of the way, the lovely blonde-haired Marion asked with a polite smile, “And what do you do, Nelly?”

“I’m a theater actress. I worked with Buster on his last picture,” she said, the answer coming out just as smoothly as if she’d rehearsed it. 

More polite conversation commenced, and Nelly began to relax. This was one of her mother’s garden parties when she was a teenager and she was practicing her charm and manners with the adults, that was all. Sure it was artificial, but that was okay. 

As soon as there was a lull in the conversation with Marion and Dick, Buster spun her toward a nearby man looking to be about forty, slightly heavy with large, broad arms. “Clarence, Nelly. Nelly, Clarence.”

Clarence ended up being Clarence Brown, who had directed Norma Talmadge in Kiki . Nelly told him that she had liked it and Buster said in a whisper, his breath hot on her ear, “Careful you don’t charm him too much, he just got divorced.”

Next, Buster turned her toward Jack Conway and his wife Virginia. She didn’t recognize his name and kicked herself for not paying more attention to title credits when Buster explained that he was Jack Conway the director. She had seen Brown of Harvard , though, and was able to find common ground with him by telling him that she liked it. She was just starting to feel like she had established a good rapport with the Conways when Buster whisked her away again. She was now faced with Louise Brooks, sparkling like the dictionary definition of sex, and her date, a slim-mouthed man in a grey double-breasted suit who did not sparkle with anything. 

“Louise and George, Nelly. Nelly, Louise and George.”

“Call him Wet Wash,” said Louise, giggling. 

“She’s not his wife,” Buster whispered. Nelly swallowed at the feeling of his breath against her ear again. 

Again, Buster’s butler approached her and again she accepted a cocktail. This one was bright green and mint-flavored. Nelly hadn’t seen Louise Brooks in any pictures, but she’d seen her in plenty of magazines, so she expressed her admiration for Louise’s sleek, dark-brown bob instead. Louise received the compliment good-humoredly and asked Nelly what she did. Buster placed his hand on the small of her back. The weight of it was exquisite, but brief. He leaned over to say, “You’re on your own now, kid. I have to mingle.” Then he was gone.

“I’m a theater actress,” said Nelly. 

And Louise said, “Oh, what have you starred in?”

And pretty soon she was telling Louise about the humble Vista, the revues, and playing Helena and Maria like it was nothing.

It was suicide to be seen paying more than momentary attention to a girl in the presence of Nate and the two warships that were his sisters-in-law, but from the minute Buster saw Nelly out on the loggia, a vision in green, he couldn’t seem to leave her alone. There was no reason why he should worry so much about whether she was having a good time or if she spoke to the right people, but now that she was here, he felt compelled to look out for her. Maybe it was how drunk she’d gotten at that speak-easy. Without guidance, she seemed liable to slip and be swallowed up. Or maybe it was her unspoiled Midwestern ways, which reminded him so much of folks he’d known in Muskegon.

He wondered that he’d never noticed that her eyes were blue.

His sense of duty toward her became more powerful with every drink. He knew he’d suffer the consequences in the form of one of Nate’s jealousy attacks, but that punishment seemed far removed as his guests got drunker and their sense of abandon greater. Morning was far off and the night was still young. Now was a time to be happy about it all, to stop tormenting himself about how to make Nate happy and thinking about being saddled with twenty M-G-M gag writers who wouldn’t know funny if it high-kicked them in the forehead like Joe Keaton. He was with his friends in his palace, there was a pretty girl to charm, and life was okay.

Somewhere north of nine o’clock, Nelly was sitting in the family room on a settee opposite Louise and George, who were sharing a chair. Perched in George’s lap, Louise’s sparkle drew lots of men’s eyes, Nelly noticed. Of course, that sparkle had a lot to do with the shocking low cut of her dress and its promise to expose her breasts if she moved just a little this way or that. In spite of Louise’s glamor and unabashed provocativeness, Nelly liked her. She was down-to-earth, and they soon discovered a mutual love of books and music. Another citrus cocktail had been handed to Nelly by the butler at some point and the warm glow of spirits was finally upon her. She couldn’t remember why she’d been so worried about this party. She belonged perfectly.

Louise was in the midst of a story about her first feature roll which was to begin filming in Mexico the following month when Buster wandered over. It had been over an hour since Nelly had last seen him. She looked up expectantly, waiting for him to sit next to her on the settee. Instead, he moved closer and seated himself straight in her lap. 

“Buster!” she cried, trying not to spill what remained of her drink. 

He sprang up and looked at her lap, his brows knit in confusion. Then he sat next to her, folded his hands, and looked at Louise and George, as if unaware of his mistake. Louise laughed appreciatively and George smiled. Nelly tried not to laugh, but couldn’t help it. He really was funny, playing the boyish Buster she knew from the screen. 

“Oh. Nelly,” he said, as though noticing her for the first time.

“Buster,” she said dryly. 

“I don’t suppose you like to dance,” he said. He searched her eyes and nodded slowly, as if coming to an answer. “No, I don’t think you do.”

“What?” she said. Her cheeks were warm and there was a joke she wasn’t understanding.

“Go dance with him!” said Louise, laughing. “That’s what he’s asking.”

Buster responded with a mock pained look and opened his hands, as if to say, Great, you just ruined it . 

Silently, he offered his elbow to Nelly, looking straight ahead and not saying anything, back to acting like one of his characters again. She took it and cast Louise a helpless look as he led her away. As they headed back toward the room with the checkerboard floor, she kept her gaze straight ahead. She didn’t want to risk catching any of the Talmadges’ eyes if they were around.

A medium-tempo jazz number was playing on the Victrola. Buster wasted no time in placing an arm around her waist and taking her hand in his. He led her onto the checkerboard floor where a number of other couples were dancing. She smelled whiskey on him where she hadn’t earlier and wondered if he was drunk. Buster hummed along to the song, which wasn’t one she recognized, but she liked the jaunty saxophone. He was a good dancer, nimble and coordinated.

She looked into his eyes and what she thought she saw there made her certain that she was in over her head. She quickly glanced away. She was getting that gay happy feeling she had the night at the blind tiger and wished to squash it. Natalie might be somewhere in the room and Buster was dancing with a girl other than his wife, so she had to have all her wits about her. 

Don’t you know who she is

Looking right at me is

Sugar

My sugar

She looked at Buster’s hand curled around hers. She’d never noticed how big his hands were for such a small man. Feeling the danger in it, she glanced back at his face. He was regarding her impassively. She dropped her eyes again.

Bees would not be buzzin’

‘Round her if she wasn’t

Sugar

My sugar

I declare that honey hasn’t got a thing on her,

No sir!

Buster hummed as he swanned her around the room. Nelly finally worked up the courage to look over his shoulder to see who else was in the room. To her relief, she saw none of the Talmadges, which could only mean that they were in the living room. She made a note to spend the rest of the night out here offering herself as a dance partner so she could avoid finding out how they felt about Buster inviting her to dance.

In conclusion therefore

That is why I care for 

Sugar

She felt a little out of breath when the song ended. Part of her was relieved that they were no longer drawing attention to themselves and the other part was disappointed, especially when Buster released her hand and dropped his hand from her waist.

She started to thank Buster for the dance, but his attention was elsewhere. Her eyes followed his and fell on a man who wasn’t much taller than Buster, but seemed far bigger. Maybe it was the breadth of his most defining features: that distinctive cleft chin, the prominent nose and ears. Or maybe it was just the way he had loomed so large in her fantasies. 

“Well there’s your Don Juan,” Buster said softly, breaking the spell. “Won’t you go to him?” 

“Oh, I can’t,” she said, terror grabbing her.

Buster touched her chin and steered her face back to his. “Do you want to be in pictures?” He looked at her in an earnest way. 

“Yes.”

“Then let’s meet him.” He placed his hand lightly in the center of her back and walked her to the object of so many of her torrid dreams.

“Jack, this is Nelly. Nelly, this is Jack,” he said. 

To Nelly’s alarm, Buster melted off into the crowd and she was stuck staring up into John Barrymore’s face.“How do you do?” she said. Tremulous didn’t begin to describe how she felt.

He smiled. “How do you do?” His voice was deep and rich and aristocratic, exactly as she had imagined it. “Do you care to dance?”

She managed to nod and he pulled her close to him, guiding her in a waltz step as a slower number began. It was a new version of “In the Good Old Summertime” that she hadn’t heard before.

In the good old summertime

In the good old summertime

“And what’s your story, Nelly?” Barrymore asked.

Nelly felt like she might be drowning.

You hold her hand and she holds yours

And that’s a very good sign

In a daze, her cheeks flushed, she found herself telling him not about being a theater actress or working with Buster, but of playing Kate in the first talkie adaptation of Taming of the Shrew . Unlike Buster, Barrymore knew Shakespeare back to front and she felt sure somehow that he would understand. He smiled and listened, the perfect gentleman. She explained that talkies were a natural fit for Shakespeare and would forever change the way audiences experienced him. All the while, the soft dreamy notes of the music carried them along. She had been gay and light-hearted before, but now she was overpowered by Barrymore’s sheer presence. He was strong, he was beautiful, he seemed a little dangerous. Maybe this is what real love felt like.

She was surprised when he released her hand and thanked her for the dance. The music had ended just like that. She felt as though she’d only been dancing for seconds.

Before she had time to do anything other than return his thanks for the dance, another man touched her shoulder. “May I have this dance?” he said in a refined English accent. He was about Buster’s size and quite handsome.

“Of course,” she said, taken aback. She was dizzy with the drinks and the encounter with Barrymore. She wanted nothing more than to retire to the washroom to touch up her face and memorize the details of her conversation with Barrymore, but it wouldn’t do to be rude to one of Buster’s guests.

The man grasped her waist and took her hand as a Dixieland jazz tune began. He smiled. He had full lips, blue eyes, and thick wavy hair that was turning white at his temples and forehead. In spite of that, he looked and sounded young. She tried to remember if she had ever danced with three such handsome men before in a single night.

“I’m Nelly,” she said. “A stage actress.” 

“You probably don’t need me to introduce myself,” said the man. His voice was light and cheerful. He bore forward and she stepped back, left foot, right foot, to the side. A tango. 

She didn’t recognize him at all, but guessed that he was a director. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are,” she confessed. “I’m pretty new to town.”

The man’s smile broadened. “You’ve really no idea?” He seemed delighted by this news.

Nelly smiled and shook her head. “Not in the faintest.”

“Shall I spoil it for you or do you like a mystery?” he said.

“I like one well enough,” she said, trying to remember her tango steps. 

“I’ll give you a clue. Clue starts with C.”

Beautiful changes in different keys

Beautiful changes and harmonies

“You’re charming,” she said.

“That’s not my name, but it’s a good guess.”

Watch that, hear that minor strain!

The song changed tempo and they trotted across the floor. She was definitely out of breath now.

There’s so many babies that he can squeeze, 

And he’s always changing those keys.

She studied his face and shook her head again after a few seconds. “I can’t place you. Are you a director?”

“The first four letters were right,” he said, winking. “When you said ‘charming.’”

She spelled them in her head, C-H-A-R, and the penny dropped, along with her jaw. “I can’t believe it!” she managed. 

“It’s not often I get to surprise anybody,” he said, looking satisfied. 

She searched his face for hints of the Little Tramp, but couldn’t find them. “I never knew your eyes were blue. I thought they were brown.”

“One of my many secrets.”

“Well, you are a director. I had that right!” she said, and that made him laugh.

When the dance ended, Charlie Chaplin kissed her hand before releasing her and she felt truly like she was walking on the moon as she sought out of the washroom. It didn’t seem possible that this was her life. She relieved herself, then appraised herself in the mirror. It was scalloped and gold, with the names of famous Italian cities stamped around the edges, FIRENZE, GENOVA, ROMA, MODENA, VENEZIA. She was happy to see that her makeup was mostly bearing up under the dancing, but she touched up her lipstick and powder. Although she was a little flushed, she felt far more in control of her faculties than she had been the night of the blind tiger. There was great irony, she supposed, in the fact that she had felt out of place that night too. Whether in low company or high company, Nelly Foster managed to stick out. Her head whirled with the encounters she’d had over the past few hours, Marion Davis, Louise, John Barrymore, and Charlie Chaplin.

And Buster, the architect of it all. As she left the washroom, she wondered where he’d gotten off to. She hesitated in the corridor, reluctant to rejoin the revelers on the checkerboard floor or face the Talmadge clan in the living room. Once again, the loggia seemed the logical solution. She crept off to it, wondering what time it was. 

Unfortunately, the loggia was not a refuge. As soon as she stepped foot on it, she heard such blatant sounds of passion that sent her scurrying and blushing back to the room with the checkerboard floor. The front door seemed to beckon. There was a grandfather clock just outside the foyer that told her it was a quarter to eleven. The mere thought of the late hour made her yawn; she was accustomed to being asleep by nine-thirty each night. The night had been enjoyable and, all things considered, she had comported herself alright. It seemed wisest to call a taxi and quit while she was ahead.

“You’re not leaving?” said Buster behind her.

She startled again. “How do you manage to do that?” she said, turning around

“Do what?” He had a whiskey glass in each hand and was wearing a nonchalant expression.

“Oh, you know what,” she said. “And yes, I was thinking of it. It’s getting late.”

Buster cocked his head, indicating the front door. 

“What?” she said. He rolled his eyes in mock impatience and cocked his head again, wordless, playing his character. She followed him, her heart quickening as she followed him out the massive arched mahogany door and into the circle drive where the fountain splashed. She couldn’t imagine where they were going and why. He went left and led her past topiaries, then left around the corner of the house. Outside, it was dark and still. The leaves of palms waved above them and shrubs sheltered them from sight. Buster sank down in the lawn some feet from the marble steps of another loggia, this one with a squarish entrance.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

Instead of answering, he reached up and offered her one of the glasses. She took it and sniffed it. It was straight whiskey. Her stomach remembered the way it had felt coming back up that night in his hotel room in July and she hesitated.

“Did you get your break with Barrymore?” Buster said, looking up at the sky. 

Nelly set the drink in the grass and lowered herself carefully next to him. She had to return the dress the following day and would be responsible for any damage, including grass stains. “I didn’t get a chance to bring it up.”

Buster tilted his glass to his lips. “I can talk to him if you’d like. Or Sam Taylor.”

Nelly frowned though he couldn’t see her face well in the diffuse light coming from the loggia. She picked up the glass and swirled it, then plugged up her nose before she took a drink. All the same, the whiskey still burned going down. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she said at last. The question had been growing on her ever since he invited her to the party and, influenced by the cocktails, she wanted to know.

Buster took another drink. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?” He lowered his chin and looked off into the distance.

“Are you drunk?” she said. She didn’t have proof, but she was pretty sure she was more sober than him by miles.

“Does it matter?” he countered. 

The conversation wasn’t getting anywhere. “All I mean to say,” she said, “is that you don’t have to introduce me to your friends. When I called you the other day, I wasn’t expecting this. In fact, now I don’t think I ought to have called you at all. I ought to have just found a way to ask Mr. Taylor myself.”

“Everyone has an angle,” said Buster, knocking back the last of the whiskey. 

Nelly had not thought of herself as someone with an angle before, but there was some truth to his words, even though she didn’t like to admit it. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you doing these days?” he said. He pulled a flask from his jacket and refilled his glass.

The flask shocked Nelly a little bit, but she bit back a blunt remark and answered his question as if she didn’t notice. “Working on the United Artists lot. They put me in the prop department and I paint backdrops once and awhile. I’m hoping to get a part as an extra in the new D.W. Griffith. Anything they’ll let me do, really. It pays my rent fine.”

Buster hmm ed . She saw that his hair was beginning to resist the lacquer he’d put in it and was coming loose, a curl here, a wave there. Likely it was the cocktails speaking, but she wanted to take the glass of whiskey away and stroke it. 

She followed his gaze. The Villa looked down into the soft, firefly-like glow of Beverly Hills. The light from the distant mansions wasn’t enough to dampen the stars, which hung white and clear overhead, peeping through the palm leaves. The grass was dewy beneath her hands and goose pimples rose on her arms as a breeze stirred. It was decidedly cool now. Although October in California felt nothing like the October in Illinois, there was something of autumn in the air. She shivered. It was like a scene out of a picture, Buster and his girl under the stars, dissatisfied because they hadn’t yet sorted out their misunderstanding. Then she gave herself a mental shake for being fanciful and romantic, reminding herself of how Natalie had welcomed her into the Villa earlier. This was her home just as much as it was Buster’s; she was Buster’s girl.

“Cold?” said Buster. 

She protested, but he was already shrugging out of his jacket. He arranged it around her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said. His face was close as he tucked the jacket and she turned away. She reached for her glass and took another swallow of whiskey. She wasn’t ready to face her thoughts without more liquor on board. 

“Pretty dress, by the way,” said Buster, leaning back on an elbow. “Might be the prettiest one here.”

“Thank you. I rented it,” she said, warmth rising in her cheeks.

“Why?” 

She laughed. “Why? Why’d I rent it? Well to begin with, I’m not rich, and if you’re going to act, you need to look the part.”

“Are you acting?” said Buster.

She choked back another mouthful of whiskey and grimaced. “Sure I am.”

“What does your father do?”

It was an odd non-sequitur. “He’s in real estate,” she said. “Why?” The warm bloom of a proper drunkenness was settling on her.

“And he does pretty well for himself, I guess?” said Buster. 

“I guess.” She rolled the glass between her hands.

“You didn’t want for anything growing up?”

“No.”

“Most of those people in there, they didn’t grow up so well. We all just got lucky, that’s all. Right place, right time kind of thing. We’re just kids with a bunch of money, buying toys and palaces. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of around them. Everyone’s pretending just as much as you.”

She considered him, his face deeply shadowed in the feeble light. There was something dark and melancholic in his mood.

“Anyway, I should have told you to bring someone,” said Buster. “You would have felt a little better I bet. Do you have a steady?”

She shook her head, wondering what it meant that he was asking her if there was a man in her life. “No steady. And I did feel a little better, after you introduced me.”

“Good.” He tossed back the rest of his glass and scooted closer. “How was Jack Barrymore? Did he live up to your dreams?”

She grew hot and took another swallow of the biting liquor before answering. It was the second time he’d brought up Barrymore. The truth was, events had moved so fast she hadn’t had a chance to think about her encounter with Barrymore in any depth. And now that Buster was so distracting and near, she found it hard to think of Barrymore at all. “What makes you think he has anything to do with my dreams?”

“ ‘Cause you said so, that night I picked you up from the speak-easy. It’s alright, I won’t tell his wife. They’re getting a divorce, anyway.”

The joke felt cruel, the barb of it directed more at her than Barrymore and his wife. It made her feel ridiculous and scheming, ashamed of the dazed way she’d looked up at that singular face she’d only seen on screen, imagining that this could be her break, that she might be captivating him or falling in love. The worst of it was that it might be true. She did have an angle, possibly more than one. 

“That’s mean,” she said, looking out at the distant houses. 

“Well, it’s true. And I suppose you heard about Chaplin’s scandal, how he got soaked for almost a million in that divorce of his,” he said.

She acknowledged that she had. 

“I just hope Nate’s kinder to me when the time comes,” he said. 

She looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

His lips twisted in a bitter smile. “You can’t seriously think that we’re happy.”

“Nate?” she said.

“My wife. Natalie.”

“Oh.” The conversation had taken a dangerous turn and she finished her whiskey before saying, “I hadn’t thought about it.” Her heart thumped in her ears.

“Do you like me, Nelly?”

“Yes. Why?” She tried to sound casual, but wasn’t sure if she succeeded. 

She hazarded a glance at him, fearing what she might find in his eyes, but he was looking straight ahead again. What she didn’t dare say was that she liked the profile in front of her—the aquiline nose, the soft lips, the dark brows, the heavy-lidded eyes—better than Barrymore’s. She had for a while now, she realized.

Buster shrugged and pulled the flask out of his jacket again. Nelly, by now feeling the whiskey’s full effects, did something shocking without a single thought. She snatched it from his hand, raised her arm as high as she could, and flung it down the hill. 

“Hey!” said Buster, somewhat loudly.

“Shh,” she said. “We’ll be heard.”

“Don’t shush me, sweetheart, this is my party and I can drink as much as I like, you hear?”

He looked like such a mixture of things in that moment—bewildered, indignant, hurt—that she leaned in and kissed him.

He didn’t react. 

For a split second, she was sure that she had misread all of the signs she thought she’d noticed and was about to be in serious trouble with him. Then his hand was at the back of her neck and he was pulling her into a deeper kiss, nothing at all like the chaste, brief pecks he gave on screen. She threaded her hand in the shorter hair at the back of his head to keep him where he was. His arm came around her shoulders and she braced her free hand against his chest. She was thrilled to find that his heart was pounding.

“You shouldn’t drink anymore tonight. You’ll have an awful headache in the morning,” she said in a whisper, when he pulled back for a moment.

He kissed her again. The heat in her cheeks was rapidly starting to spread to other regions of her body. Now that this was happening, she didn’t have a single thought for anything but Buster. Her entire world had come down to him, and he felt too right for her to worry about morals or consequences. 

She leaned her forehead against his as they broke apart. His breath warmed her lips. He was looking at her silently and she looked back. Gradually, the world began to fade back in. She could hear a faint peal of laughter from within the Villa and she wondered how long it would be before someone would miss the host and go searching for him. 

“I guess we should go in,” she said, after a few moments of silence.

Buster looked at her. His finger traced the bow of her upper lip, then the seam of her mouth. When she parted her lips in response, he captured them again. She closed her eyes and cupped his cheek as her world narrowed back down to the sound of their kisses and his soft, needy exhales. It might have been just seconds or whole minutes before Buster jolted her back to reality with the press of his tongue against hers. She drew back, feeling light-headed, and he followed, biting her neck, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to tell her that this could get out of control quickly. The base part of her wanted that—very much—but the rational part of her mind was waking up. 

“We should go,” she said.

“We’re by my wing,” said Buster hoarsely. “There’s a staircase to my balcony. You could wait in my room for me until the party’s over. I’d get you out before morning.”

“We can’t,” she said, even as he was arguing against her neck with more gentle love-bites. 

“Why not?” His head went lower and his tongue outlined her collarbone.

“It’s dangerous. I bet your guests are already looking for you.”

Almost on cue, laughter echoed out from the area of the drive and the fountain. Aware that it could be the Talmadge sisters, Nelly took the opportunity to stand up and brush herself off before he could persuade her—and he was perhaps too close to persuading her. She’d lost track of the whiskey glass and whether she had finished what was in it. She was decidedly intoxicated. “C’mon,” she said. She stuck out her hand for Buster. He let her pull him up and swayed beside her for a moment, wincing and rubbing his forehead.

“Will you call a taxi for me?” she said. 

He reached out and touched her cheek, looking at her for a long quiet moment as if to memorize her. She noticed that his mouth was smudged in lipstick. 

“Oh dear. I got lipstick all over you,” she said. “Do you have a handkerchief? I don’t have mine on me. My handbag’s inside.”

“You and that damn bag, always leaving it behind.” He reached out and fished in the breast pocket of his jacket on her shoulders. 

She dampened the handkerchief with a little saliva and scrubbed at his lips. “Ow!” he said, frowning. 

“Don’t be a baby, it’s almost off,” she said, wiping at the corner of his mouth. She stood back. It was hard to tell because of the shadows, but she thought that she’d gotten most of it. “How do I look?”

Buster smirked, the first real smile she’d seen on him the whole night. “Defiled,” he said. “Better stay out here while I call that taxi.” He pressed her hand before he left, and she was alone with the most impossible tangle of thoughts, the foremost of which was that she wanted him to come back as soon as possible so that they could finish what they’d started.

She stepped into the loggia and sat down in the nearest chair. Stunned didn’t begin to describe her feelings. Buster’s jacket around her shoulders enveloped her in the smell of him, cigarettes and his own unique scent. Drunk, she was buoyed on a comfortable wave of happiness. She and Buster had done something daring, it was true, but in her heart’s core it was what she had wanted and she didn’t regret it a single bit. She’d only stopped it because she was afraid of being caught. Under normal circumstances, that thought would have alarmed her, but inebriated she could be honest with herself. It wasn’t to say that she didn’t get the thrill of a lifetime when she thought of her dance with Barrymore or even handsome Charlie Chaplin; she did. It seemed, though, that she had fallen for Buster without even knowing it. She shivered and not because of the chill in the air.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she said, standing up and catching his hand when he reappeared a few minutes later.

He gave her hand a squeeze and passed over her bag, which he was holding. “I did you one better. Caruthers said he’d take you home. He’ll have the car ready in five.”

“Five minutes is a long time,” she said suggestively.

“Even I can’t finish that quick, honey,” he said, and she was glad he couldn’t see how brightly her face burned.

“I didn’t mean that you goose, I meant this.” She leaned in and kissed him again.

“Oh. Yeah, that,” he said. He pulled her against his chest and gave her a long, searching kiss. 

This time, Nelly didn’t pull away at the touch of his tongue; she met it and Buster groaned. With one hand, she stroked the fallen strands of hair at his forehead. “Thank you,” she said, when they broke apart. “Thank you for inviting me tonight.”

“Sure you won’t stay the night?” Buster said, kissing the corner of her lips.

“I’m not crazy,” she said.

“If you were, would you?” he said, drawing back to look her in the eyes.

Her heart pounded. “Yes,” she said, after considering it. “I guess I would.”

He pulled her close and embraced her. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, thinking that she could stay here in his arms all night. Another burst of laughter and conversation came from the direction of the fountain. Car tires crunched on the gravel.

“We better behave,” Buster said.

“You’re probably right.” 

He released her and sat down in one of the chairs, and she followed his lead. He took her hand between both of his and they fell into silence. She wanted to tell him what the night meant to her, but couldn’t find the words. She looked out at the distant houses and up the stars, wondering if she’d ever get the chance to kiss him again or if she was just a passing fancy for a starry, booze-filled night. Too soon, there was the honk of a horn and Buster let go of her hand, standing up. “I think that’s your ride,” he said. They walked back to the drive, Nelly a few paces ahead of Buster, where a dark-colored Packard was waiting. Buster approached it and opened the nearest backseat door. He took her hand and helped her into the car. “Thanks for coming,” he said, after regarding her for a quiet moment.

She wanted to give him a parting kiss on the cheek, but couldn’t with his butler for an audience. “I had a beautiful night,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

He gave her hand another quick squeeze and went around to the driver’s window, where he said to Caruthers, “Get her home safe.”

As the butler pulled away, she watched Buster walk back to the Villa. He didn’t turn around once, but continued until he reached the mahogany front door and slipped inside. Only then did she realize she was still wearing his jacket and had forgotten to check him for lipstick again.

Chapter Text

Buster caught it good from Natalie at breakfast the following morning. As soon as Connie collected the kids to wash them up and the room was empty, she let him have it.

He was made to understand that just before he reappeared inside the house after seeing off Nelly, Louise Brooks had exited the rear loggia, hair and dress rumpled and a nipple exposed, and dashed toward the bathroom. Natalie saw the whole spectacle and saw Buster too, strolling through the front door a minute later with a telltale smear of lipstick on his face. There wasn’t anything he could do to defend himself when she snapped, “I suppose you weren’t thinking about me at all when you went off with Louise last night? What everyone there would think?”

Oh, actually it wasn’t Louise, Nate, that was a crazy coincidence. It was this other girl, you see . Yeah, that’d go over like a lead balloon. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, after giving his answer some thought. “I really am. I had too much to drink. I didn’t know what I was doing.” There was nothing else he could say. Whoever had been out there with Louise, whether George or another lucky man, had either slipped back in unnoticed or left unnoticed, leaving good old Buster to take the fall. He wasn’t convinced that anyone had put two and two together concerning Louise and him, but that hardly mattered to Nate. All the elements to humiliate her had been in place.

“You say you care about me, but that isn’t true at all. Otherwise you wouldn’t be two-timing me every time my back is turned,” she said. Her beautiful eyes were shimmering with unshed tears and he did feel terrible looking at her. He wanted to comfort her, this woman he’d loved since the day he’d stepped off that train in New York and gone to seal their engagement, but he knew it wouldn’t do a lick of good, even if she had allowed him to gather her into his arms and hold her close, which he knew she wouldn’t. 

“You know about the two-timing,” he said. “I never lied about it.” He felt the futility of the argument as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

“Yes, but you said it wouldn’t be public ,” she said, breaking into a sob.

“Nate, I fucked up, alright!” he said. “I don’t know what you want. What do you want me to do, put on the hair shirt and get out the cat o’ nine tails? Jesus, I’m sorry.” He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. Now he was angry and couldn’t quite grasp why. Something to do with his stupidity and carelessness but also Natalie’s long-standing refusal to engage in the normal rules of marriage as he understood them. He was angry at everything. He shoved the chair so the arms struck the edge of the table, hoping they’d dented the table’s pristine finish, and stormed out. Eleanor was mopping the checkerboard floor and he ignored her meek hello as he jogged up the stairs and stalked into his bedroom. 

He yanked open his closet, pulled out a jacket, shrugged it on, and laced up his shoes. Before leaving, he collected his fishing poles and tackle box. 

He ended up driving out to Franklin Canyon Lake where he could be alone with his thoughts. He found an isolated spot and parked the Duesenberg, then set up. The absurdity of it didn’t escape him, sitting on the grassy edge of the lake getting the seat of his pants wet and dirtying up a $200 pair of leather shoes with a $9,500 car behind him.

He had been pretty drunk last night, but not so drunk he hadn’t known what he was doing when Nelly kissed him. She’d made the first move, but he’d been getting ready to beat her there. His thoughts had been returning to her all morning. He’d grown to like her and there wasn’t much question as to why. She was pretty for starters and she had a backbone, which he’d always liked in a girl. He was amused by her sense of pride. Her stakes also seemed very low. She didn’t want to be the leading lady in a romance or even the leading lady in one of his comedies, for that matter. No, it was fusty old Shakespeare she had her hopes pinned on. His first thought upon waking up, apart from lamenting how ferociously his head hurt, was that he wanted to see her again.

Nate’s sad, pretty little face at the breakfast table rose up in his mind and guilt gnawed. She deserved a husband who would be faithful to her; he did believe that with his whole heart, even though he couldn’t ( Couldn’t or wouldn’t? hissed a part of him) make that sacrifice. It wasn’t fair of him to treat her the way he did, to be thinking of Nelly and how much he’d wanted her last night. Still, the selfish part of him objected stridently. He had needs too and didn’t he deserve to get them met? Hadn’t he tried his best to make things better before going outside of his marriage? Didn’t he still do his damndest to make Nate happy, what with the Villa and parties and letting her control the purse-strings?

The fishing was good as morning wore into afternoon and afternoon wore into evening, but he threw everything back. Gone were the days in Muskegon where Myra cooked everything he caught, frying the fish up in butter and cornmeal. Caruthers bought the fish and other meat fresh every day and it was usually exotic, skate fillets and swordfish and the like, not the humble trout and largemouth bass his line was currently fetching. When he tired of fishing, he got back in the car and drove home. He would miss dinner, but he wasn’t hungry. He parked in the garage and headed to the east wing, where he climbed the stairs to his balcony and let himself into his room, not wanting to come through the main entrance and risk encountering Natalie. He kicked off his shoes and tossed his jacket and trousers on the floor, and crawled into bed. The hangover had caught up to him and he fell fast asleep. 

When he woke up, he had no idea where he was or what time it was. It took him a few seconds to remember the fishing trip, the fight, and the party. He grabbed the alarm clock on his bedside table and brought it up to his face. Almost nine o’clock. He’d slept for over two hours. He sat up, feeling groggy and hungry, and pulled his trousers back on. He padded into the hall. The house was dim, Caruthers having turned down the lights for the evening, and no trace of the previous evening’s festivities remained. He wondered if Nate had decided to go ahead with the barbecue tomorrow in spite of the fight. Even though he would have rather inspected the kitchen for leftovers, he passed the stairs and went on to the west wing. The door to Natalie’s bedroom was closed and he tapped on the door to announce himself before pushing quietly inside. 

Natalie was sitting up in bed in a blue satin nightgown and a matching translucent wrap reading an issue of Colliers . She didn’t look at him as he sat at the foot of the bed. “Hi,” he said, giving her toe beneath the covers a friendly tweak. She withdrew her foot and turned the page of her magazine. The cover advertised the new Zane Grey novel and was subtitled A Story of Love and Adventure in Arizona . 

He knit his hands in his lap. “I know you’re angry.”

No response. 

“I’m sorry.”

Silence.

“I love you.”

Only then did Natalie put down the magazine and look at him. “A fine way you’ve got of showing it.” The expression on her face was cold.

He stood up and climbed into the bed with her, making himself comfortable against the mound of pillows on the vacant side. It was a risky move, but she didn’t object. “I wanna make things work.”

Natalie scoffed. 

Her king bed felt as big as a steamliner compared to his double. Even if he had been permitted to sleep in the same bed with her, with its size there would have been no danger of them ever touching.

“You know I still care for you. I’ve never stopped.” Cautiously, he stroked her arm.

“You humiliated me,” she said, not looking at him. 

“I know. I deserve to be castrated.” He didn’t think he deserved any such thing, but she was letting him stroke her arm, so he went on.

“Does the whole world know you’re stepping out on me? That I’m not enough for you?” Her voice was trembly. 

He sighed. “I don’t think anyone noticed last night. We came from opposite ends of the house.”

“Yes,” she said tearily. “It was very clever of you. But I noticed.”

“Because you’re my wife. My wife who I love very much.” He threw caution to the wind and moved into her space, putting his arms around her and laying his chin on her shoulder. “I don’t want to lose you.” She was rigid, but didn’t attempt to pull away.

“What will it take for you to treat me with respect then?” she said, reaching up to dash away a tear. 

Buster sighed again and nuzzled her shoulder. She smelled of flowers and baby powder. “I do respect you. You know what the problem is.”

The silence between them was heavy. After a while, Natalie said, “I could try again to like it, I guess.” She sniffled.

He looked at her, surprised. “Do you really mean that?”

She nodded. “I want us to be happy. I want Bobby and Jimmy to have a mother and a father. Under the same roof, that is.”

Apparently he hadn’t been the only one with the D word on his mind. “Okay,” he said, not quite believing she’d just said what she had. “Well, you know that would make me very happy.”

Natalie laid her hand on his forearm. “And you’d stay faithful to me, if …” She was so delicate, she trailed off instead of naming the unseemly act to which they both referred.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

“I don’t want to tonight,” she said, sounding almost frightened.

“I don’t expect you to.” He leaned up and kissed her cheek. “We can take things at your pace.”

“Okay,” she said. He felt her relax in his arms.

She permitted him to linger cuddling her a while longer, and when she kicked him out so she could sleep it was with a kiss.

Standing in the kitchen eating a shaved-beef sandwich a few minutes later, he felt like the tide was turning just a little. The cutting of Steamboat was going well. The barbecue was still on for tomorrow and those always cheered him up. Natalie had done better than just forgiven him for his indiscretion, she told him she was willing to resume their marital relations. Even so, once he’d taken a bath and was lying between his sheets in his silk pajamas, he couldn’t sleep. He was thinking about the night before and the girl who had attended in her rented dress and had thrown away his flask of whiskey. He remembered too that she’d cried when he filmed the facade scene.

Chapter Text

The day after the party, Nelly stayed in her apartment waiting for a phone call from Buster that never came. She left only to return the green dress, still smelling of Buster, to Carmela’s. His jacket hung on her coat tree. She buried her face in it and inhaled before she went to bed that night, and all of the sensations of the previous night flooded back in an intoxicating wave. 

The next day she went to work reluctantly.  She knocked on her neighbor’s door as soon as she got home to see if anyone had called for her. They hadn’t.

A week passed without a call, then two weeks. She thought that Buster would at least want his jacket; it didn’t look inexpensive. But November went by with no call.  

It was a while before she could admit to herself how silly it had been to nurture the hope that the kiss with him had meant something. In hindsight, her naïveté was obvious. He was drunk, she was convenient, and since he couldn’t convince her to go to bed with him, that was that. It hurt her, of course. She’d replayed the memory of the night in her head countless times, how he’d led her to the grass and handed her the glass of whiskey, how delirious she’d felt when he bit her neck, how he’d held her hand on the loggia while they waited for his butler to bring the car. She felt sure she had not hallucinated the husk in his voice when he’d invited her into his bedroom. In the first few days following the party, the memory drove her crazy. Lying in bed or in the bathtub, she would pretend that her hand between her legs was his.

December came and went. She spent Christmas alone in the apartment, but it didn’t feel like Christmas with the sun shining and the temperatures hovering near seventy. She was used to the bleak December cold of Evanston, shopping with Ruthie and her mom in downtown Chicago as snow slanted down, stinging their faces, and the frigid wind bit through them.  The opportunity to be in The Battle of the Sexes never arose, but on the third of January she received a letter from the casting office telling her that she had been chosen as an extra in John Barrymore’s Tempest . To say she was flabbergasted was an understatement. As she stared at the letter, she became more and more convinced that Buster was behind her turn of fortune. She couldn’t prove it. He was no longer near the United Artists lot, so she couldn’t ask him even if she wanted to—and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Her dashed hopes after the party had caused heartache enough and moving on was the sensible thing. Whenever she thought of him, she reminded herself that he was a married father and that even if things had gone further, it would have been to no end. The smartest course of action was to forget him and concentrate on the reason she’d come to California in the first place.

The first night of filming for Tempest came a couple of weeks later. First she and the other girls were buttoned into ball gowns made of sumptuous combinations of taffeta, chiffon, satin, lace, and beads. Her gown was of cream-colored satin, and a makeup woman twisted her hair into an intricate chignon with braids that undergirded the rest of her hair. A girdle pulled her waist to half its size and dainty beaded slippers with a modest heel rounded out the ensemble. Not since Buster’s party had she felt so ravishing.

When costume, hair, and makeup were in order, they were driven to the set in Studebakers with two rows of seats. It was now a quarter to six and dark. The girls gabbled in anticipation, but Nelly’s thoughts were in such a tumult that she was too distracted to join in. John Barrymore would be in that ballroom and she looked stunning. She wondered if he would notice her and if he did, how their conversation would go. Most of all she wondered whether she would feel anything toward him. There was no mistake that she had felt something the night that she had danced with him, though it had been eclipsed by her more potent encounter with Buster. Well, she had an angle with Barrymore and it was no better or worse than the angle Buster had played to try to get her into bed. If she was in the same ballroom as John Barrymore, if he chanced to recognize her, she would take advantage of it.

The palace ballroom was a breathtakingly huge set on the United Artists lot, every bit as real as the actual thing. The exterior was squarish and looked Roman in style, with an open-air stone porch and columns that were forty feet high. She and the other extras went up wide stone stairs through a set of towering arched double doors. Inside, there were ceilings even higher than the columns outdoors. A chandelier the size of a small elephant hung from the main ceiling. There were more columns inside, looking as big around as the sequoias she’d seen in her childhood schoolbooks. The ceilings and higher parts of the walls were adorned in frescoes and friezes. Candles burnt in candelabras affixed to the walls. On one end of the room was a bar and a long white table lined with countless glasses, a large, deep punch bowl, and a tub filled with ice and champagne. It was a dazzling sight.

Nelly knew a little bit of the premise of the film. Camilla Horn played a Russian princess. John Barrymore, a peasant turned military officer, was in love with her. The ballroom scene would be the first time they had met since Barrymore’s station in life had changed.

She located her partner Bradford standing against a wall with his arms folded behind his back. They’d been practicing for the past week in a large ballroom on the United Artists lot, and she was relieved that her average dancing skills had drawn no attention. Bradford was good-looking, brown-haired and of medium height, but she had noticed throughout their rehearsals that he was not interested in girls. There was no delicate way to convey to him that she had known many homosexual men back at the Vista and that it wasn’t a big deal to her, though she always tried to do her best to put him at ease. Still he remained stiff and aloof.

“Some place, huh?” she said.

“It’s something,” Bradford agreed, barely looking at her.

“Barrymore here yet?” she ventured. 

Bradford shook his head. “Haven’t seen him, but I don’t think Mr. Taylor’s here yet either.”

They fell into silence and watched everyone greet each other and the women compliment each other’s dresses. Bradford would never engage in more than small talk and Nelly was too excited to join in the other girls’ prattle. She liked them fine, but since she spent most of her time in the prop department, there was little opportunity for her to socialize other than in the canteen, where she listened quietly to the day’s gossip, having nothing to contribute herself and wanting to hear the latest lurid rumors. Barrymore’s marriage was indeed on the rocks as Buster had said and she found herself thinking about this fact more than was probably appropriate.

It was another twenty minutes before Barrymore and Camilla finally appeared, coming through a side door with Mr. Taylor and an entourage. Camilla was wearing a white satin gown with a full tulle skirt, a wrap to match, and earrings that brushed her shoulders. She looked every bit the princess she was playing. Barrymore was in black trousers, matching shiny knee-length boots, and a white officer’s coat with gold buttons. Her pulse quickened when she saw him and she wondered, not for the first time, if she could grow as fond of him as she had lately of Buster. 

However, she had no more time to be fanciful because Mr. Taylor was soon directing them to the dance floor, spacing them at intervals and telling them to remember what they’d practiced the previous days. Someone put a waltz on the Victrola. It played tinnily into the cavernous room and was soon swallowed by the sound of footsteps and rustling skirts. 

The first half hour was a thrill. Nelly relaxed, basking in the feeling of being in the midst of the greatest splendor Hollywood had to offer. All of the cameras were distant, focused on Barrymore who gazed penetratingly at Horn while she danced with a young officer and cast him contemptuous, conniving looks. There was no need to worry if she missed a few steps; trained on Barrymore and Camilla, the cameras could hardly have noticed. 

Camilla was the most beautiful woman in Hollywood that Nelly had seen yet, blonde, slender, and big-eyed with perfect Cupid’s bow lips. 

She could not have imagined how tiring the evening would become as the half hour wore into an hour, and the hour dragged into a second. After performing endless dances with Bradford under that dizzingly high ceiling, having always to smile and look gay, she was hot and thirsty and hungry. Her feet were swollen in her delicate shoes. Though the extras were permitted short breaks every half hour, the communal pitchers of water weren’t sufficient to quench everyone’s thirst and they were forbidden to touch the plenitude of spirits laid out in the tub and on the long tables draped with white tablecloths. The beer, champagne, and other drinks appeared to be for Barrymore’s benefit alone. One scene had him standing at the bar with cameras grouped around as he drained glass after glass. He appeared to be drinking the real thing. She could steal looks at him, but only over Bradford’s shoulder and they couldn’t be long lest she spoil the scene. 

Around the third hour, now close to ten o’clock she guessed, she ceased to care about Barrymore at all. He had by now moved onto the floor with Camilla and the Victrola was trying to be heard over the dancing again. Nelly had only mind for her thirst and exhaustion. She wondered how much more of it she could take. Her lips were chapped and her smiles now felt more like grimaces. Bradford’s eyes looked glazed, though his steps were as sure and strong as ever.

Suddenly, there was a little shriek, a cry of “ Mein Gott !, and the echoing sound of something hitting the floor. Bradford stopped and so did Nelly. They followed the other dancers’ eyes to the center of the room. Camilla was sitting on the floor on her behind wearing a look of shock and looking like an upended wedding cake in her disarranged white dress. The cry had been hers. Barrymore was on his hands and knees, laughing and trying to get up. One of the male dancers had to assist him, and when he was on his feet again he swayed. There was no disguising that he was really drunk. After two male extras had helped a ruffled-looking Camilla to her feet, he reached for her waist and again lost his balance, almost taking them both down again. She couldn’t say why, but Nelly was seized by the conviction that Buster had warned her that John Barrymore was like this.

Bradford dropped Nelly’s hand, clearly sensing that this was more than a momentary disruption. Mr. Taylor appeared, standing between the two parties and talking to them and his crew, his face serious. Someone brought a chair for Barrymore and he sat heavily in it. His face looked red. A few of the other dancers attempted light conversation as if the spectacle in front of them wasn’t taking place, but Nelly had no energy to pretend she was interested in anything else. The reprieve from dancing was a blessed relief.

Little by little, chatter began to filter back to Bradford and her: Barrymore was indeed drunk as a skunk and to avoid the cost of reshooting the scene on another night when he was sober, Mr. Taylor was trying to come up with a solution for him to finish his dance with Camilla.

“I need to sit down before I faint,” Nelly said. 

Bradford nodded as if barely hearing her. The pitchers of water had been brought out again, so she grabbed a glass, filling and draining it twice. After the edge was gone from her thirst, she walked to the coatroom to find her handbag, keeping the glass so she could refill it in the washroom.

The washroom was empty save for one other girl. Nelly used the toilet and set to touching up her makeup once she’d washed her hands and had another two glasses of water. Somewhere in the echoing hall outside of the washroom, a clock chimed the half hour and she remembered standing in Buster’s foyer looking at his grandfather clock. Vaguely, she wondered if every famous man in Hollywood drank as much as Buster and Barrymore and, if so, what they were trying to escape from. 

She was carefully coating her lips in Vaseline to address the fine cracks that hadn’t been there three hours earlier when he came in, blundering through the door like an ox.

“Mr. Barrymore!” she said, utterly amazed to see him.

“Oh, hello. Jack, please,” he said, as if he hadn’t just walked into the women’s washroom. His cheeks were rosy with color and his gait was unsteady. 

He stumbled to one of the sinks and she watched in disbelief as he fumbled with the buttons of his trousers. Before she had time to do much more than look away, he was urinating into the sink. She couldn’t seem to move.

“What the hell are you doing in the men’s lavatory?” he said, swaying in her peripheral vision. 

Her face was hot. “Sir I’m sorry, but it’s the ladies room,” she said, keeping her eyes straight ahead. 

The appalling sound of urine splashing into the sink seemed to go on for hours. “Why in the hell would they have urinals in the ladies room?” Barrymore boomed. 

She didn’t like the sense she was getting, one of being around a powerful, dangerous animal. “Sir, they’re sinks.”

“I’ll be damned.” In the corner of her eye, he shuffled and ran the tap. He had finished urinating.

Her thoughts went back to their dance at Buster's party. She’d had a drowning sensation then and had considered whether she might be love-drunk. That feeling seemed very far away now. She looked over and he was picking his nose in the mirror, wiping the contents on its edge. She couldn’t believe she was seeing what she was seeing.

“We met at Buster Keaton’s party in October,” she said, because she was embarrassed and could think of nothing else to say.

“Did we,” Barrymore stated, sounding disinterested as he peered into the mirror.

“Yes,” she said. “We danced and I told you about wanting to star in a talkie of The Taming of the Shrew .”

He narrowed his eyes, as if struggling to remember it. The approaching sound of giggling and the subsequent appearance of two extras through the door saved her just then.

“Mr. Barrymore!” said one of the extras, looking bewildered.

“By Jove, this is the ladies room!” said Barrymore. He’d finished picking his nose and was propping himself up with one hand on the sink.

“He was confused,” said Nelly. “We should take him back to Mr. Taylor.” A little voice in the back of her head asked why she was bothering to defend him at all. “Come here.” She took him by the elbow and gestured to one of the other girls to do the same. He stank of booze and she thought she caught a faint whiff of urine as they led him down the hall and back through one of the sets of arched double doors. She was no longer awed by him. Rather, she wanted to dispose of him as fast as possible. 

In the crowded room, Nelly located Sam Taylor by searching out Camilla’s distinctive white dress. She and the two extras led Barrymore to them. Mr. Taylor raised an eyebrow when they approached.

“I think he needs an eye kept on, sir,” Nelly said, her arm still in Barrymore’s. 

“Found me in the fucking ladies room!” said Barrymore, chuckling.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Taylor. Nelly could tell he was trying not to betray his annoyance at Barrymore. 

She could have stayed and offered more of an explanation, increasing the director's chances of remembering her face, but she’d had enough of playing angles and wanted to get as far away as possible from the dangerous animal that was John Barrymore. As soon as she found Bradford again, she poured out her entire tale. 

“He’s a pig!” she concluded. 

“Good God,” said Bradford, making a face. She wondered if he had found Barrymore as handsome as she once had and was now reconsidering. 

“You’re telling me.”

“They’re building him a sort of carousel now in the courtyard for him and Miss Horn to sit on since he can’t stand straight,” Bradford said. “They’re going to film the dance that way.”

“Looks like we’ll be here all night,” said Nelly, her spirits sinking. If she had gone back in time and told the Nelly Foster of last July that the idea of spending prolonged hours in the same room as John Barrymore would cause her intense dread, she wouldn’t have believed herself for a minute.  

Her prediction turned out to be true. The clock chimed one before Mr. Taylor had the footage he wanted. Nelly was surprised that the carousel hadn’t made Barrymore vomit, but although he swayed off in the direction of the washrooms several times more, he kept down whatever he had drunk.

She piled into one of the Studebakers with the girls and fell asleep for the brief duration of the ride. Back at the United Artists costume shop, she degowned, redressed, and shoved her aching feet back into her own shoes. She lined up for a streetcar with the other girls and sank wearily into a seat when it opened its doors. It was another forty-five minutes before she was home. By now the hour was two a.m. and she had to be up at five-thirty to catch a tram in time for her seven a.m shift in the prop department. She felt like Perrault’s Cinderella, but the magic had vanished before midnight and she was, all in all, relieved to be among her rags and ashes again.

Chapter Text

The first week of December, Natalie arranged for a photographer to come to the Villa to take their portraits so that Beulah Livingstone could do a write-up in a magazine. The photos would be shared far and wide, showing the world Mr. and Mrs. Buster Keaton’s fairytale life in Hollywood.

Beulah thought it would be cute to set up a kid-sized Christmas tree outside of the boys’ playhouse. The boys were given wooden trucks and cars as early gifts. Buster and Natalie sat in folding chairs while the boys hung gobs of silver tinsel and ornaments on the branches. Bobby was too young to see the production for what it really was, but to his credit, Jimmy smelled a rat. He knew you didn’t trim a tree and get toys before Christmas Eve, and Buster watched him go mechanically through the motions of admiring the toys and decorating the tree. Buster, who had a hangover, found himself hating every contrived second. It wasn’t that he objected to getting pictures taken with the kids and Nate, it was the burlesque of it all. It was a Talmadge thing to do, a Peg thing to do, and he was just about sick of that. He didn’t like his private business in the public eye and he didn’t think it was good for the kids, either. 

“Let’s get some of the mister and missus,” Beulah said to the photographer, after she was satisfied with the shots of the tree-trimming and toys.

“I’ll change then,” said Natalie. “Just a moment.”

“Why?” said Buster. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with what she was wearing, a triple string of pearls and a light green dress with a dainty bow at the neckline. Mostly, he just wanted to get rid of Beulah so he could get on with his day.

“Well I’d like to wear something a little nicer,” she said, giving him a smile that was a frown in disguise.

“Well I’ll help you pick something then.”

Natalie didn’t look happy at this pronouncement, but there was no way he was sticking around to make small talk with Beulah. He took Natalie’s arm and strolled up the lawn with her and into the house.

“I would prefer you wait downstairs,” Natalie protested, as he followed her up the stairs to the west wing. 

“Oh no,” he said. He was in a perverse, restless mood. “This is what husbands and wives do, help each other out, spend time together. Ain’t that what the magazine story’s about?”

“You are being cynical,” she said in a low voice, frowning at him. They went down the hall past the kids’ rooms and into her inner sanctum. 

“Who, me?” He sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, feet dangling as Natalie disappeared into the vast room that held her clothing. She didn’t answer and he heard the sound of hangers being slotted around. He looked around the room. It was cool and fresh-smelling, its walls a light taupe and hung with portraits of the boys and her sisters. On a little table near a south-facing window, there was a framed photo of them on their wedding day. In the picture, he was holding his white cuffs and looking sidelong at Natalie, and she was laughing into the camera, the ribbons on her bouquet streaming to the ground. He didn’t remember the moment, but guessed he’d taken the cuffs off to make her laugh. He had loved making her laugh. 

“Is it really all just for show?” he said. 

“What?” she said.

He could hear the susurration of expensive fabrics. “The photos.” He meant the magazine photos, though it occurred to him that he could just as well have meant the photo on the little table.

“Of course not,” she said, her voice just on the side of too bright. She’d always been a bad liar. 

He hopped off the high bed and walked to the doorway of her closet, if such a colossal room could really be called a closet. She had undressed down to a white silk slip over a girdle and looked alarmed at his appearance. 

“Don’t lie,” he said.

Her lips tightened. “You know very well that I’m trying my best.” 

Now that was absolutely a fib. Sometimes she’d let him get to second base, but he was just as likely to win his studio back as get a runner on third, and forget home base. He’d had that familiar itchiness lately, but he’d kept his vow in October to stay faithful, even though there were temptations aplenty at all the parties she dragged him to.

He closed the space between them and cupped her cheek. “C’mon. You know that isn’t true.”

“Buster, not now. Not like this.”

Her voice had a shrill edge and he realized with a deep, searing pain that he was frightening her. He hadn’t been trying to seduce her, he’d just wanted an honest answer out of her.

He withdrew his hand, looking at her incredulously. “You think I’d force you?”

She turned her head away, but he’d already seen it in her face. She thought him capable of a desperate, despicable thing like that. 

“I just don’t care for it,” she said in a small voice. 

He couldn’t believe it. “You think I’m such a beast, such a sex-crazed brute that I’d—”

“Stop it!” She turned back to him, her eyes flashing. “Stop it at once!”

“Stop what?” he said. “I ain’t doing nothing.”

“You know perfectly well what you’re doing!” she said. “I arrange for a nice day and ever since you got up this morning you’ve been determined to ruin it. Well, consider yourself successful.” She ripped a pink dress off a hanger. 

“A nice day? Whose idea of a nice day? With that phony out there, Beulah?”

Natalie pulled the dress over her head and wriggled it down her hips, saying in a cold voice, “The children are enjoying it.”

“Jimmy isn’t. And Bobby’s too small to know better. You really want ‘em growing up this way? Thinking everything they do’s gotta be for show? That they get whatever they want whenever they want it? Christ, would you just think about it for a minute?” he said, now as angry as her as she was at him.

“Stop it!” she said. “Just stop it!”

“Not until we sort this out,” he said, standing persistently near her.

Natalie tugged the dress in place around her hips and reached back to do up her buttons. “I have nothing to sort out. You’re the one who started this whole business.”

“Oh, it was me who had the big idea about the separate beds, was it? Well that’s news to me,” he said.

Natalie huffed. “It’s back to that again, is it?”

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” he said.

She tilted her chin at him defiantly. “It wouldn’t be if you weren’t so obsessed with it.”

He’d never once been violent with her, but the remark made him want to strike her. Now he was the one who felt frightened. At any other time he would have argued that he wasn’t obsessed, but he didn’t trust himself. He stepped back from her. “You know what?” he said, hardly hearing his own words. “Go on ahead with Beulah, just you. I’ll see you later.”

Her protests followed him into the hall, but he didn’t turn around, still not trusting himself. He went out the front doors and walked straight over to Tom Mix’s, feeling pale and angry.

Tom was surprised to see him. “Long story,” Buster said, inviting himself inside.

Tom seemed to understand and pulled a chair up for him in the kitchen. “Game of gin rummy?”

“Only if you’ve got the gin to go with.”

Tom rummaged in a cabinet and came out with a bottle, grinning.

“Good. We got ourselves a game.”

With a little gin and Tom for company, Buster was soon happy again—or if not happy, then able to forget the disagreement with his wife.

Nothing more was said afterwards about resuming their marital relations. They carried on as they had since Bobby was born. They entertained guests. He was home in time for dinner. They retired to separate wings at bedtime. On Christmas Day, the Talmadges bustled into the Villa with all their noise and gaiety and gossip, and he sat quietly back, playing the meek husband. Natalie gave him gifts and he gave some in return. That afternoon, he took the boys over to Myra’s house where the gifts were less extravagant, but they seemed nonetheless pleased with them and their decidedly unglamorous aunt, uncle, and grandmother.

Whether out of loyalty to her or a contrary need to prove her wrong, he stayed faithful to Natalie into January. She’d kicked him back to first base again. Even then, she never seemed to want to play ball. As the time to sign his contract with M-G-M drew closer, he wondered how long he could behave himself before he cracked.

Chapter Text

The canteen at United Artists buzzed with the news of the scene that John Barrymore had made in the ballroom while filming Tempest . For once, Nelly had something to contribute. Over a dozen times, she told her story of him blundering into the washroom and pissing in the sink. She omitted the detail of his nose-picking, as it seemed unnecessarily spiteful. Perhaps she was still loyal to her past infatuation with him, which was now wholly gone. Regardless, her story was still a hit. 

It took a couple of days for the canteen chatter to return to the usual: who was straying from their marriage or thinking about divorce or both; who had been seen at a party or a restaurant or a premier; who had been drop-dead drunk and fallen from grace. The other extras felt smug that the stars were mortal and not gods, and although she enjoyed the gossip just as much as anyone, Nelly didn’t feel superior. It was no revelation to her, especially after encountering John Barrymore in the washroom, that Hollywood types were covered in warts if you looked closely. She thought of what Buster had said about many of them not growing up well and being like children who had been handed palaces and toys. Even though he did live in a palace, Buster felt more down-to-earth, a man she might have met anywhere. She’d felt comfortable with Louise Brooks and Charlie Chaplin too. 

Occasionally, the canteen talk was more useful, involving buzz about films that were rumored to be in the offing. On Thursday morning at eleven, Nelly heard something that stopped her heart and then broke it. She was eating a chicken salad and half listening to her neighbors, half thinking about the props she needed to organize for an upcoming scene of Norma Talmadge’s new picture The Woman Disputed , which was nearing the end of filming. Every time she thought of the film, she thought of Norma. That caused her to think of Natalie, which in turn led her to think of Buster. Even though he was with another studio and she hadn’t seen him for nearly three months, scarcely a day went by where she didn’t have cause to remember him.

“... Taming of the Shrew ,” said her neighbor, a pretty brunette with a bob and a snub nose, and Nelly was suddenly paying attention just as though someone had said her name directly. Shakespeare was not a topic of conversation that typically came up in Hollywood, and when it did it was always Hamlet or Macbeth or Midsummer .

“Excuse me, could you say that again?” she said to her neighbor.

“I was on set yesterday with Mr. Taylor and he was saying his next big film’s called Taming of the Shrew . It’s Shakespeare or something. What a queer title, don’t you think? Why’d you want to tame a shrew?”

Nelly was too excited to explain the particulars of rodents versus unruly women. “When’s he casting?” she said, feeling breathless. 

“Well God knows that,” said the extra. “He’s gotta finish with Tempest first, doesn’t he? But he says Doug Fairbanks and Mary Pickford are the leads, so it must be a romance. Lord, I’d give my right ear to be in a film with her.”

Nelly could almost feel the shattered halves of her heart drop into the space beneath her rib cage. Her stomach burned. She murmured some meaningless rejoinder and let others around her pick up the threads of the conversation. No one noticed when she got up and left, her chicken salad half uneaten. 

Coming to California, all of her hard work, had been pointless in the end. She’d never stood a real chance of making it onto the screen in a leading role; even the other extras were prettier, slimmer, and more experienced, and they weren’t the main competition when it came to actresses. Somehow, she’d never thought anyone would think to make The Taming of the Shrew without her, though.

She found herself back in the prop department, going through her work like an automaton all while feeling as if a family member had just died. Well, a dream had and it was just as dear to her. It was all she could do to make it through the day without crying, but when she arrived home she found that she was too numb to let the torrent burst forth. She sat on the sofa in her apartment as the news sank in. The trajectory of her life had come into a new and painful focus. She was not to have success in pictures. Here she was, twenty-six, unmarried, no children, no career; in short, not a thing to show for her time on the earth. Worse yet, she was now all but certain that Mr. Taylor had gotten the idea from John Barrymore. Where else would it have come from?

Besides Barrymore, not a single other soul in the world knew what the dream had meant to her except Buster. She still had his number from back in October. It was written on a curled piece of paper in Bert’s handwriting and hidden in her underwear drawer, and she never considered calling it until now. The rational course of action would be to let the storm blow over and the sun reappear from behind the clouds, but she was so miserable that once the thought of Buster was in her head, she couldn’t help herself. She stood up and went into her bedroom. The paper was tucked toward the back of the drawer beneath a black silk lace chiffon chemise she’d never worn before. She told herself that it was humiliating to run to Buster and throw her little fit, yet she was in the hall outside the apartment dialing his number before she had the chance to reason herself out of it. 

The line rang and rang and rang some more. 

With every second he didn’t pick up, her misery increased. Friendless, talentless, foolish, hopeful Nelly. She was seconds away from hanging up when there was a click on the other lines and a voice, sounding harassed, said, “Hello?”

“Is this Buster?” she said. 

“Yeah?” said the voice.

“It’s Nelly.”

There was silence and evident confusion on the other end. “Oh. Well, how are you?”

A hot, mortified flush went through her. How stupid it had been to call him and involve him in her silly problems. She’d probably interrupted him in the middle of something important.

“You know what, it’s not anything important,” she said hastily. “I’m sorry I called. I don’t want to bother you.”

“Well you can’t do that to me. Now I’m interested,” said Buster. 

“No, it’s stupid. I just didn’t know who else to tell,” she said. 

“Spit it out.” 

She took a deep breath. “I just found out that Sam Taylor is directing Taming of the Shrew ,” she said. “He’s cast Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks in the leading roles already. And I think—oh, this is so stupid—I think that John Barrymore gave Mr. Taylor the idea. I’m sure I gave John Barrymore the idea. I told him all about it, the night of your party. And—” To her distress, her voice cracked.

There was silence on the line. “Oh,” said Buster, his voice gentle and soothing. “You poor kid. So someone’s gone and taken your dream?”

“Yes,” she said. She fought to swallow back the tears and steady her voice. “Anyway, you’re the only one who knew … and I thought—but I told you it was stupid. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know who else to tell.”

Buster’s next words nearly knocked her over. “Where do you live? I can be right over.”

“No, no, you don’t have to,” she said hurriedly.

“No, I’m coming over. What’s your address?”

“Genesee Avenue, but don’t. You don’t have to.”

“What number?”

“401, but please—”

“Great. I’ll be there in about a half hour.” The line clicked again and he was gone, likely having realized she was about to try to argue him out of it. 

She sniffed back her tears and looked around the apartment in a daze, forced to set aside her despair as she considered the state of her home. Neatness had never been one of her talents and there was dirty laundry all over the floor, used cups stacked on top of magazines, and stacks of books everywhere. First, though, she needed to address her makeup. The sob had smeared her mascara and eyeliner, so she reapplied those and touched up her lipstick. Her hair had a few flyaways, but she judged it acceptable. The beige cotton day dress with the green and red dice pattern could have been fancier, but there were dishes and laundry to worry about and she didn’t have time to try on outfits to see which one worked best. She filled a sink with soapy water and did a quick job of cleaning three days’ worth of plates, silverware, and cups. Running short on time, she dashed around the living room next picking up slips, dresses, and stockings. She’d cleared most of them when she heard a distant knock. Her heartbeat rose in her throat.

She slipped out of the apartment and hurried to the front door before any of her neighbors could investigate. When she opened it, Buster was standing there in a pale yellow jacket over a white collared shirt. He gave a slight smile when he saw her. She was simultaneously reassured and distressed by the sight of him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Stop it,” he said, as he stepped over the threshold and she closed the door behind him. “Quit apologizing.”

“Okay,” she said. She brushed past him and took the short hall to her front door. Buster followed. Inside, she motioned for him to sit on the sofa. “I’m sorry about the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“What’d I just say about apologizing?” Buster said. He sat on the sofa, putting his elbows on his knees and knitting his hands. “So tell me about your bad news.”

Nelly hovered next to the sofa, uncertain of how to conduct herself. She was unable to forget that the last time she’d seen Buster, they had engaged in some rather serious kissing and he’d asked her to spend the night with him. There seemed to be no trace of that romantic mood left in him now. “Do you want any coffee? Tea?” she said. “I can make some.”

Buster shook his head. “I want you to sit here and tell me what’s happened.” He patted the cushion next to him.

She felt shy, but didn’t dare disobey. She took a seat beside him, leaving a polite space between them, and began pouring out her tale. In truth, there wasn’t much to say. Fairbanks and Pickford were shoe-ins and her chance to make movie history was down the drain. 

“I don’t know what I do now,” she said after explaining what she’d heard in the canteen, the despair creeping up on her again. “I wasted all this time for nothing. I was so stupid to think I’d get anywhere. You told me from the very beginning I wasn’t leading-lady material and I ought to have listened. I feel awful.”

“It’s a tough business for everyone, never mind me putting my foot in my mouth that one time,” Buster said. “What about trying out for one of the other parts?”

Nelly shook her head. “There’s Bianca. That’s it. Even if I wanted the part, I don’t have any experience. Acting in pictures, I mean. I’ve been an extra for you and in John Barrymore’s new picture. That’s all.” Her eyes welled with tears as she wondered what it had all been for. There was no place for a girl of average looks who was twenty pounds too heavy. No place for an old maid. The tears wobbled in her eyes and spilled.

Buster rummaged in his trousers pocket and handed her his handkerchief.

“Thank you,” she choked out. She blew her nose and blotted her eyes, leaving behind smudges of eyeliner and mascara on the clean white fabric. “I was so damn stupid. I shouldn’t have said a god damn thing to John Barrymore. It was hubris.”

Buster patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry, baby. It’s a rotten business.”

She wept at his words, shielding her face with the handkerchief.  

“Now c’mon. Don’t do that. C’mere,” said Buster. 

She shook her head, but he pulled her to him and gathered her in his arms. She gave up and buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m so stupid,” she said into his shirt. As she cried the rest of her tears he continued to hold her, rubbing her back and putting his chin in her hair. 

“If it makes you feel better, even people who’ve been in the biz since the beginning don’t always get what we want,” said Buster. “I just lost my studio.”

“I know,” she said, sniffling. “Bert told me. It’s not fair to you, either.” Her tears soaked into his shirt.

Buster’s chin on her head and his touch on her back were comforting. Although she was in the grip of despondency, the caresses were making her feel just a little like things might be okay after all. 

“I’m glad you called,” he said, when the hitches in her chest began to lessen. 

“Why?” she said, straightening up and breaking his hold on her. She turned her face away. She could feel it was hot and blotchy and knew she’d cried off half her makeup. She blew her nose.

“I’ve been thinking about you, Nellie Dean.”

She dabbed at her face with the cleaner edges of the handkerchief and hazarded a glance at him. “What?”

“Since my party.”

She couldn’t tell what his expression meant. “What do you mean?” she said, feeling dumb. 

“ A pretty girl is like a melody / That haunts you night and day ,” he sang, with a silly smile.

She laughed at his absurdity and wiped her nose with the handkerchief. Her mood was suddenly lighter by half. He was telling her he hadn’t forgotten her. “Buster Keaton, are you making love to me?” 

He nodded. “C’mere.”

She shook her head. “I look like an utter fright, my nose is stopped up, how can you possibly want—”

“Shh,” he said. He tugged at her arm and she couldn’t resist.

She fell against him and he took her face in his hands. The kiss was long and searching. The taste of his mouth was familiar and reassuring, and the melting sensation she felt was the same, too. She’d given up hope of this ever happening again and felt beyond giddy now that it was. She leaned into him and put her hands on the back of his neck. After a minute or so, he removed his hands from her face and clutched her to him. Their thighs pressed together as they kissed.

Too soon, Nelly had to pull back. “My nose is still stopped up,” she said with a laugh. She turned away and blew it again.

Buster reeled her back into his embrace as soon as she’d finished. This time when he kissed her, he slid his hand up her knee and under her dress. He bypassed her stocking, stopped on her bare upper thigh, and squeezed, his hand warm and emphatic. Thrilled, Nelly insinuated her hands beneath his jacket to rest on his back as his tongue met hers. She knew that they couldn’t go further—she had her little friend visiting—but she found him hard to resist. He made her forget that she would never have success in pictures and that she currently looked like a fright. Feeling bold, she dropped one hand to the rear waistband of his trousers and tugged his shirt and undershirt out so she could put her hand against the warm skin of his back. 

Buster made a noise in his throat and pulled back, withdrawing his hand from her dress. He was considering her in that silent, serious way that he had. When she went to touch his face, he caught her hand. He planted kisses on her palm, then put her hand on his cheek and held it there. A very sober look was on his face and she realized in an instant what it meant. 

“I can’t,” she said, blushing.

He looked crestfallen. “Are you religious? Is that why you won’t go to bed with me?” 

She laughed and blushed deeper. “No, not at all. I’ve—oh, this is embarrassing—I’ve got my monthlies.”

“Oh,” he said. 

“I want to,” she said, not meeting his eyes. She wound her hand around his and brought it to her lips so she could kiss his knuckles. For the first time, she noticed that the index finger of his right hand was missing the first joint and there was a small protrusion at the tip. “What happened?” she said, touching it.

Buster withdrew his hand like he’d been burnt. “Clothes wringer when I was a tot,” he said.

“You’re self-conscious about it,” she said, comprehension dawning. “I’m sorry.” She gently took his hand again and kissed each fingertip individually, including the shortened one. His nails were bitten down and she wondered fleetingly about all the things she didn’t know about him. “I think it’s beautiful, just like the rest of you.” She looked at him and he swallowed. “I’m sorry about … having my monthlies too.”

“I said no apologizing,” he said, clearing his throat. 

“I did want to, that night at your party,” Nelly said, pressing his hand. “And when I didn’t hear from you, I figured I was just there for a little fun.”

Buster returned the press of her hand. “You weren’t.” He cleared his throat again. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime.”

“Okay.” 

They lapsed into silence and she could hear Buster thinking as he stroked her hand. 

“Are you hungry? I could make some sandwiches.”

“No, I uh—” He scratched his head with his other hand, seeming nervous. “I better go.”

Nelly’s heart sank. She had done something to offend him. Maybe it was mentioning his finger. Or her monthly visitor. Perhaps he thought she was making excuses. “Did I say something?” she said. 

“No. I just think if I stay here any longer, I’ll—” He laughed and didn’t finish his thought. 

“What?” she said. She kissed his hand in concern. 

“I might be compelled to do something rash, monthlies or no monthlies.” His laughter trailed off and he gave her a meaningful look. 

“Oh.” Monthlies or no monthlies, a lick of fire went through her. “I should see you out.” She stood before he had a chance to test his powers of persuasion and the fire had a chance to catch. If he really did mean to take her to bed, she didn’t want it to be this way, her makeup half-gone, the redcoats downstairs. “I’m glad you came. I feel better.”

Buster stood and put a hand in the center of her back. “Any time. Don’t worry too bad, you’ll get your break. And hey, maybe the picture will flop without you in it, ever think of that?” The hand slipped down to her waist and they walked slowly to her door.

“With Mary Pickford and Doug Fairbanks?” she said, smiling. “Not likely.”

“You never know,” he said. They went out the door and walked down the hall together, Buster still gripping her waist.

“Thanks again,” she said, as they reached the front door of the apartment. 

Buster kept hold of her waist. “Same day, same time next week?” he said.

“What, here?” she said, her heart speeding up. 

He kissed her forehead. “If the invitation stands.”

“Of course.” She hugged him, burying her face against the side of his neck where he smelled like aftershave and Buster. Her heart was beating so hard she thought she might swoon. 

Buster squeezed her back. “I’ll give you a call next week, okay? Keep your chin up.” 

With a parting kiss to her lips, he stepped into the night. She watched him until he got into his car and pulled away, then returned to her apartment. She didn’t think it was possible for her to feel in any more of a muddle. On the whole, though, Buster had made it a much more pleasant muddle.

It was a cool fifty-eight degrees the morning of the 26th. There was the sign, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer-Stvdios, the gate that swung open to admit him, the attendant in the booth that waved him onto his destiny. As Buster parked his car in front of the offices, he reflected that anyone else in his place would have a song in their heart right now, what with the weekly $3,000 and twenty-five percent cut of profits that were soon to be his. Nothing sung in him. He couldn’t shake the image of a prisoner walking to the gallows as he entered the building.  

Mayer’s office was wood-panelled and working hard, Buster saw, to convey taste and refinement. Mayer had a soft, persuasive voice with a hint of a Russian accent, and it was with this voice that he told Buster how honored he was that Mr. Keaton had chosen to sign with them, and hoped that his time with the studio would be productive and successful. Irving Thalberg, also in the room, expressed similar wishes. Other men whose names he was told and promptly forgot shook his hand and said it was an honor. Professions were made that if he should need anything, anything , he should never hesitate to call upon them. Buster nodded and answered in kind. The whole scene felt stiffly rehearsed and he never had cared for rehearsals. He felt like he was watching himself on the screen.

Harold Lloyd’s words went through his head. It’s not your gang. You’ll lose . 

But there was the contract set out on a little desk like a bone for a dog, and there was the Villa to think of, the Villa wouldn’t pay for itself. There were his boys, his Little Lord Fauntleroys. There was Natalie too, he had to keep her in the way in which she had become accustomed, and he also had Myra and the other Keatons to support. 

The bone seemed too easy, there had to be some catch, some dog-catcher’s trap he wasn’t seeing. He picked up the fountain pen with the gold bib and mother-of-pearl inlays on the barrel. Giving his audience a slight smile, he unearthed the final page of the contract and signed. There was no need to read the pages before; he’d been given a copy by Joe beforehand and seen all the herebys, herewiths, hold harmlesses, and ‘it is understoods and agreeds.’

Someone clapped his shoulders and he had the fight the urge to sock them one good for touching him. He didn’t know these stuffed shirts from Adam, but he shook hands agreeably instead. It then transpired that they wanted to snap some pictures of him outside the gates, so away he went, the pliable new star that they had collected for their luminous pantheon. 

It was understand and agreed, he thought, standing there with a suitcase in one hand and oversized leather satchel in another, that Buster should herewith pose with some bags that had been plastered with stickers that read GAGS, the reason being that they would convey to the public that he was moving into M-G-M and bringing his gags (haha!) with him. He wanted a cigarette, but then there came headshots, and after all wasn’t it an honor for the photographer to be shooting him? The photographer said so, anyway. 

Honor. Everyone kept using that word. It made it sound like he was doing them a favor out of the goodness of his heart, rather than being forced into it.

When every excruciating formality had been taken care of, he shook another round of hands and was released. The tour of the studios had occurred a few weeks before and all that needed to happen now was for his new picture to be settled on. Mayer assured him that they would be in touch about it. 

As he drove away and headed back to Beverly Hills, cigarette in mouth, he felt like doing something reckless and destructive, but nothing suggested itself. Drinking himself into a stupor was too obvious and easy. He wanted to burn something down, beat someone up, anything to tarnish the squeaky-clean reputation he knew that Louis Mayer wanted him to have. He thought of surprising Nelly with a visit, but since it had only been two days since he saw her, her feminine predicament was likely to be the same. He wished Roscoe were in town and that they could paint the town red like they used to. Then he felt guilty, knowing that old Roscoe would give his right arm for a chance like he was getting. In a dialogue in his head, he apologized to Roscoe and explained that everything had changed since those early, innocent days. Things weren’t what they used to be. Hollywood was growing up. 

It’s not your gang . 

Well, what was done was done. There was no turning back now.  

You’ll lose . 

When the familiar streets and buildings of Beverly Hills came into view, he finally figured out what he was going to do. He was going to have an affair. In the years since his exile from Natalie’s bed, he’d had plenty of trysts. He was known to a brothel or two, and he’d also had a couple of steadies, girls with their own places he could depend on to scratch the itch when he got it, but he’d never had a real affair. He knew the perfect place to start it, too. He pulled into the parking lot of Luxury Travel and stretched his legs. 

The receptionist pretended not to be awed when she saw him. “What can I do for you, Mr. Keaton?” she said, as though they’d met before. 

“I’d like to see a man about a cabin,” he said. “A cabin by a lake.”

“Of course. Let me go get Mr. Cabbot.” 

In Mr. Cabbot’s office, Buster reiterated his desire for a cabin by a lake, within an easy drive, and Mr. Cabbot said he’d see what they had. Together, they agreed that a place just northeast of the San Fernando Valley fit the bill. Buster arranged to rent it Friday through Sunday. When Natalie asked him what he was whistling about when he returned to the Villa, he told her he was happy about the M-G-M contract, but he was thinking about next week, having Nelly all to himself in a cabin by a lake.

Chapter Text

Nelly had all weekend to think over the fact that she was going to have a tryst with Buster Keaton, but now that she was sitting in his Lincoln town car with him watching the brown mountains and sandstone hills roll by, it scarcely seemed real. Over the weekend, she’d plotted out a dinner menu for his visit on Thursday and planned to wear the black silk lace chiffon chemise beneath her dress. She hadn’t expected the postcard that arrived at the beginning of the week, addressed to ‘Nellie Dean’ with a color image of the Villa on the front.

I’ll be by Friday instead of Thursday. Pack for three days. Will pick you up at 10 , it read in neat cursive. It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be.

So her plans were out the window. It was still a tryst, but not a one-night stand. It was some other category altogether that she couldn’t quite puzzle out. Buster would take her to bed undoubtedly, but there would be many other hours between now and Sunday to fill—not that she minded spending 72 hours in bed with Buster if it came to that. He was currently looking quite fetching in a tweed driving cap and a casual jacket to match. He chain-smoked as he drove and she wondered if he was nervous. He didn’t say much and she, feeling shy knowing what the trip was really about, couldn’t think of anything to fill the silence. 

After they had been quietly sitting for almost half an hour, Nelly thought of a topic of conversation at last. “What’s your real name?” she said. 

Buster looked over at her, raising an eyebrow. “What’s your real name?”

She laughed. “Helen Gladys Foster at your service.”

“Ah, like Helen of Troy. The face that sank a thousand ships!” said Buster.

“Don’t you mean ‘launched?’ ” she said. 

“No, I said what I meant,” he said, deadpan. 

“Buster,” she admonished. 

“Not that I’m saying your puss would sink a thousand ships. Maybe three, tops.”

“If you weren’t driving, I’d strike you,” she said, laughing. 

“If I wasn’t driving, I’d letcha.”

When they fell silent again, she said, “You never answered the question.”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “Joseph Frank Keaton, but I’ve never been called anything but Buster.” He took the pack of Camels out of his trouser pocket and withdrew another cigarette.

“Houdini named you,” she said, recalling the piece of trivia from a magazine. It was a handsome name, Joseph, but she had to agree that Buster suited him ten times better.

“That’s right,” said Buster. He used his knees to steer the car as he lit the cigarette. It would have seemed dangerous with anyone else, but Nelly trusted his uncanny mastery of machines and his own body. “Fell down some stairs at six months and Harry says to my folks, ‘That’s quite a buster your boy took.’ They say I didn’t holler or anything. Didn’t have a scratch on me.”

“It almost sounds like a Greek legend when you tell it that way,” she said. 

“I’m Number Five in a long line of Joseph Keatons,” he said. “My oldest kid is Number Six, but Nate wouldn’t let me call him Joe or Buster. Said he was to be James or Jimmy. She put him in pink ribbons the first three months of his life too, poor sap. Wanted a girl and wouldn’t face facts for a while.”

Nelly was jarred back into reality with the mention of Natalie and his son. It was well enough to enjoy Buster’s company and admire how handsome he was, but he had a family and a life back in Beverly Hills at the end of the day. It made her feel funny and maybe a little blue. “It must be difficult to have to have to compromise like that,” she said diplomatically. 

Buster took a drag on the cigarette. “You ever been married?”

“Me?” said Nelly. “No, I’m an old maid.”

“Yeah, you’re appallingly old,” said Buster. “Twenty, by the looks of it.”

“Twenty-six. Twenty-seven in May, but you’re sweet to pretend,” she said.

Buster glanced over at her, looking surprised. “Are you really that old?”

“Yes, I’m really that old,” she said, feeling self-conscious.

“And no fellow’s ever thought to marry you, huh?”

“I had a boyfriend who proposed. I broke it off,” Nelly said. “Actually, he was named Joe, funny enough. I liked him okay, but I couldn’t see myself settling down with him. I was twenty-one. Mother was beside herself.”

Buster tapped his cigarette on the windowsill, ashing it. “So she wants you hitched, but you’re not having it, huh?”

Nelly laughed, feeling shy. “Oh, Mother wants me married alright. My little sister got married at nineteen and Mother never lets me forget it. ‘I was married and had you and Ruthie when I was your age. Ruthie has two children already.’ That’s what I’m always hearing. And now Ruthie’s going to have another baby any day now, so I really look bad.”

“Ma said the same thing to me when I was about your age. When she was twenty-five, she was already married, had me. Same story your mom’s giving. I guess it did get me to thinking about settling down,” Buster said. He took a contemplative drag from the cigarette and flicked it away. “You never answered the question, either. You’re not interested in marriage?”

Nelly felt a warm pleasure that he seemed so interested in her thoughts on matrimony. “If I found the right fellow, maybe,” she said. “I know it’s what’s expected. I just always thought of my career first. Home-making seems so dull once you’ve been on the stage, to have to give it up to have babies and bake pies, you know.”

“I like pies,” Buster volunteered.

Nelly laughed. “I’d rather memorize lines or read a book.”

“Ma did both,” said Buster. “She married Pop and had me and then Jingles and Louise, but she was always part of the act until I broke it up. ‘Course she didn’t learn to cook until I was older, so there you have it. Guess something has to go by the wayside.”

“Jingles?” said Nelly. 

“My kid brother. Harry Houdini again. When he was a baby, he made such a racket with his toys the name stuck. Pop tried to get him in on the act, but it never really worked.”

Buster spent the rest of the ride telling her about his days on the vaudeville circuit with The Three Keatons. He had stories about almost suffocating in a trunk when he was a baby, fleeing burning buildings, appearing uninvited in Annette Kellerman’s act and stealing the show, and before Nelly knew it the last twenty-five minutes of the journey were up and Buster was turning off the car. As he’d talked, the car had moved up the sandstone hills and the sparse trees had gotten thicker until they were a real forest. 

Buster had stopped the car in front of a small, single-story brown-shingle cabin with an open porch. The cabin was at one end of the lake, which wound through the hills and out of sight like a river. With the windows still down, Nelly could hear a delicious stillness. The only sound was the echoing calls of birds high up in the trees. 

“It’s gorgeous,” she said in wonder. 

“Like it?” said Buster.

“I love it. I had no idea where we were going. I didn’t expect this.”

“Good,” he said. He looked pleased. “I’ll take our stuff inside, you can get out and look around.”

Our stuff . The words rang in Nelly’s head in a pleasant way. She stepped out of the car as Buster went around to the rear seats and looked up at the high trees with the sun shining through. So this was the site that Buster had chosen for their tryst. Not only was it beautiful, it was isolated; they had passed maybe two or three other houses that she’d noticed, and they’d all been miles back. Their cabin was located on a winding, private lane that terminated once it reached the house. She found herself wondering what Buster had told his wife about where he was going.

What a situation for her to be in! Her mother would be scandalized. 

There was a dock stretching several yards into the lake and Nelly walked to its tip, the structure swaying slightly under her feet. If she stood and looked straight out, she couldn’t see the dock at all, not even in her peripheral vision. It was like she was standing in the middle of the rippling water with the sunlight glinting off of it. Unfortunately, the effect was disorienting and she had to look down at her shoes to shake it off. She was hot by now and the water looked inviting. It had been cool when she and Buster had departed, and she’d chosen a wool dress and a light coat for the journey, but now the temperature had climbed, to seventy she guessed, and the thought of cool water on her skin was tempting.

A door banged and she turned to watch Buster coming out of the cabin. He set his hat on the hood of the car and walked toward her. The dock dipped slightly under his weight when he stepped onto it. When he reached her, he put his arm around her shoulders. Her body lit up at his touch. 

“Like the view?” he said. 

“Yes,” she said. It felt like the words had been stolen from her throat. There was a difference in being touched by him when they weren’t uninhibited by drink or she wasn’t in the throes of an emotional turmoil. She’d felt bold when he’d left her apartment last Thursday, but now she felt shyer. He was a Somebody and she was a Nobody or, if not a Nobody, then an Anybody. “It’s hot,” she observed, making small talk. “I could almost take a swim.”

“Great idea,” said Buster. “I’ll join you.”

She laughed, some of the shyness dissolving. “It’s February. I bet the water is freezing.”

“Bet you it ain’t.” Buster sat down on the deck and began unlacing his shoes. She was taken aback, but remembered back to what Bert had said the day that the facade scene was filmed, how you couldn’t change Buster’s mind once it was made up. 

“I bet you it’s colder than the Atlantic the night the Titanic went down,” she said. She was very hot, though. She shrugged out of her coat and dropped it behind her on the deck, feeling only slightly cooler once it had been discarded. Buster set his shoes aside and rolled up his trousers to unhook his sock garters. “You’re crazy,” she said. But she liked the idea of him jumping into a cold lake in only his underthings.

“You’re coming with,” he said, reaching over and grasping her calf. 

She stepped out of his reach before he could do something dastardly like pull her in. “I’ll only consider it if it’s warm enough. You go first.”

“Sure,” he said, winking. 

She didn’t like the look of that wink. She watched him shrug off his jacket, unbutton his collared shirt, and place both in a heap with his garters and socks. Then he grasped the edges of his undershirt and hauled it over his head. She hadn’t been expecting him to go bare-chested and looked away, her cheeks flushing. His back was extremely muscular and she thought wildly that she would have to get rid of this shyness before he took her to bed lest she just lay there in a disappointing paralysis. Buster stood up and she had to look quickly away again; he was undoing his belt and his trousers. The sun suddenly seemed twice as hot as it had a few seconds before. She glanced back again, only to see his entire backside exposed as he shucked down his trousers, underwear and all. 

“Buster!” she said, closing her eyes. 

She heard him laugh, then the dock took a noticeable dip as he jumped. There was a splash and a yell, of exhilaration or shock at the water’s temperature, she didn’t know. 

“Are you decent?” she called. He could undoubtedly see how red her cheeks were because she could still hear him laughing. 

“As long as you’re not shocked by the sight of a fella’s shoulders,” he said.

“Okay,” she said, opening her eyes.

He was bobbing a few feet from the dock and she couldn’t remember ever seeing him grin so wide. He smoothed his wet lank hair out of his eyes with two hands. “It’s fine in here. A little cold, but it ain’t bad.”

“Are you sure?” she said.

“Would I lie?” 

“Yes,” she said flatly.

“Well I’m not. You’ll feel a lot better if you get out of that hot dress.”

“That’s just what a man who wants to get me out of my dress would say.” She shifted from foot to foot, deciding. 

“I’ve never been so offended by an accusation in my life,” Buster said, bobbing. 

“Oh hush.” She reached behind her neck to start working on her buttons. Buster kept his gaze on her and she blushed again. “Don’t get too excited,” she cautioned. “My chemise is staying on.” Her shyness flared as she finished unbuttoning the dress and stepped out of it, keenly aware of her quiet audience. She sat down and unbuckled her shoes, not looking at him, and unhooked her own garters and rolled down her stockings, now especially not looking at him. The air was cool against her skin and she was starting to have doubts about the water. 

“Jump in all at once,” Buster suggested. “You’ll get used to it faster that way.”

“I don’t know,” she said, standing up and looking down at the water with doubt.

“Come on, don’t be a chicken.”

“Oh, you think I’m a chicken?” she said. He seemed to know exactly the right way to goad her. Of course she would want to impress him by being daring. 

“Prove me wrong,” he said, with a defiant look on his face.

“Okay,” she said, steeling herself. 

“And lose the chemise!”

Her face heated. “Buster …”

“It’s only fair,” he said, deadpan and innocent. 

Her heart thumped. Would she really dare? She thought about it. “You have to turn your back if I do,” she said, testing him. 

Buster looked as though Christmas had arrived. He spun right around. “Alright.”

“No peeking,” she warned. Feeling like she was positively mad, she unbuttoned the straps of her step-in chemise and slid it down her body, keeping an untrusting eye on Buster the whole time. 

“All at once, you hear?” he called. 

“I am, but you keep your back turned!”

“I’ll count you off,” he said. “Five, four—”

“Start again and go slower.”  She crept up to the edge of the dock so her toes were overlapping the edge. Figuring that he’d try to sneak a peek as soon as the countdown was up, she decided to take the plunge on the count of four. 

Buster sighed in mock exasperation. “Five. Four—”

Nelly jumped. And screamed as she hit the water. 

Not only was it not warm, it was not ‘a little cold’ as Buster had claimed. It was not even a lot cold. It was the coldest water she’d ever felt in her life. It was freezing. She thought blindly of the Titanic as she pulled her sopping head above water and gasped. Her muscles had launched into a violent shiver. She dashed the water from her eyes and opened them. 

Buster was roaring with laughter. 

“You son-of-a-bitch!” she said, when she could speak.

He swam to her, shuddering helplessly as he laughed. She did what was only deserving. She jumped half out of the water and pressed both hands down on the crown of his head, dunking him. 

He came up laughing. He shook the water from his hair and seized her around the waist. “Dunk me again,” he said, pecking her cheek and grinning. “I got to see your tits.”

“Buster!” Her shock was only half-pretend. 

“Sorry, I’ll say bubs from now on. How’s bubs?”

“I can’t believe you,” she said. She could feel that her cheeks were hot even though her teeth were chattering.

Naked in a lake with Buster Keaton was not how she had expected to end up five minutes ago, let alone that morning. As Buster held her waist, she brought her arms up and put them around his neck. Her chest made contact with his and he looked down for a few long seconds, then back up at her. “You’re cold,” he observed pointedly. 

They both remained quiet for a few moments, treading water. Her heart was drumming very fast and the frigid water now seemed quite remote. She was already shivering less. 

“Suppose we go warm up,” Buster said. “Unless you’re still keen on a swim.”

“Okay,” she said. Her voice felt like it would fail if she said anything more. 

He leaned in to kiss her and his lower half bumped hers, confirming her suspicion that he had something on his mind besides swimming. “C’mon,” he said. He let go of her waist and drew her arms from his neck. She followed him over to the dock ladder and he got out first. She was too shy to look at him as he exited the water, though she’d liked the earlier glimpse she’d gotten of his backside and was tempted. She trained her eyes on his knees when she climbed out. She was less enthusiastic about him seeing her in the nude; she had never forgotten his words about the size of her bosom or how she was too heavy for pictures. As she stood up, one look at the awed expression on his face told her that the worry was misplaced.

The air was cold on her wet skin and she shivered anew, but both of them had, it seemed, run out of jokes about the water and the temperature. Buster took her hand and they walked barefoot up the dock and into the dusty soil, their feet picking up dirt.

They stepped inside the cabin. It consisted of one open room with a kitchen area, a dining table with two chairs, and a sitting area. A small hall led to what she presumed was the washroom. There was a double bed against the south wall, just opposite the door. Buster led her to it and pressed on her shoulders, making her sit. She watched in dry-mouthed anticipation as he crouched and rummaged through one of his suitcases. This time, she didn’t look away from the sight of his muscular back and bare backside as he crouched on his haunches, looking for what, she didn’t know. They were both still wet, her hair in particular dripping in its chignon, but she scarcely noticed. When Buster straightened back up with a small, thin metal box in his hand, it became apparent: prophylactics. Foolishly, she hadn’t thought about bringing any herself. She was grateful for his foresight. 

Buster sat next to her and without a shred of shyness took a prophylactic out of the tin and put it on. She watched his face as he did, feeling in a daze. Knowing what came next, she drew her legs onto the bed and stretched herself out in the center. Buster climbed on top of her and touched her cheek, looking into her eyes. She was struck by how beautiful his eyes were with their brown irises and delicate black fringe of upper lashes. He gave her a deep kiss.

“You sure?” he said, he said in a soft voice.

She nodded and reached down, grasping him. He closed his eyes and drew in a sharp breath. He couldn’t tell yet, but her body was just as much affected as his. She shifted her hips, positioned him, and he pushed. There was no need to tell him to go slow, for he was the perfect size for her and she was at the pinnacle of excitement. 

“Nelly,” he whispered, closing his eyes and exhaling heavily.

“Go on,” she said, kissing him.

He began to move in languid strokes, holding himself up with one arm and palming one of her breasts with his free hand. 

She clutched that muscular back, transfixed by the well-sculpted muscles of his shoulders and pectorals, the dark thick hair on his forearms, and the way his Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. In contrast to his arms, there was barely any hair on his chest and torso. The pleasure of him inside her was exquisite and she kissed his throat, moaning. That made him quicken his pace, and if slow had been good, fast was even better. 

He touched her all over, moving his hand from one breast to the other, trailing his fingertips over her stomach, and following the contours of her sides. They were both breathing fast. Nelly put a finger to his lips and he moved it out of the way to kiss her wetly and messily, his teeth bumping hers. He was moving even faster now and a sweat had broken out on his back. He dropped to his forearms and kissed her neck, pushing deeper. She felt that she could last the rest of the day, but she wasn’t sure about Buster. She could feel the increase in his desire in the tension of his muscles and see it in the set of his jaw. A low, continuous hum of pleasure was coming from his throat.

“You can let go if you want,” she said, kissing his ear and laughing a little.

Buster didn’t need to be asked twice. He groaned and snapped his hips forward. She was caught off-guard in the most delightful way as he drove into her at such a furious pace, the bed lurched. She closed her eyes, savoring the feel of him. When he cried out and the rhythm broke, she knew it was over. “Sweetheart,” he said throatily. He gave two more jerky thrusts and collapsed on her, kissing her neck.

She held him close as he recovered, his breathing hard. It had been a long while since she’d been with a man and she felt very good indeed. After several seconds, Buster slipped out of her and grabbed her arms, heaving her on top of him as he rolled onto his back. He knit his arms around her waist and they regarded one another. 

“How was it?” he said.

“Wonderful,” she said, smiling and stroking the still damp hair at his temple. 

“You sure?” he said, expression serious. “You were laughing just a second ago.”

She laughed again. She couldn’t help it. “I laughed because I was enjoying myself. Are you always this insecure when you take a girl to bed?”

“A fellow’s never sure what a lady thinks of his performance,” he said, looking somber. 

Nelly kissed his cheek. “Well it was first-rate. I want an encore later.”

He looked pleased. “Far be it from me to refuse a lady,” he said, brushing her cheek.

“Good.” She brought her head down to his chest, listening to his heartbeat as they lay there in silence. 

He stroked her head. “You chilly?”

“A little.”

“We’d better get into some clothes before we catch cold.” He sat up and she shifted off of him to a sitting position. “Not,” he added, looking her up and down, “that this is a bad look for you. You should try it out more this weekend.”

“Only if you try out yours,” she said, looking down at him and smirking.

Buster used the washroom and she took her turn after him. He was back in underclothes by the time she returned. She got into a bandeau brassiere and cami knickers as Buster put on a pair of trousers and buttoned up a light knit long-sleeved shirt. 

“I like that you don’t wear a girdle,” he said.

Her cheeks flushed a little. “Well, would you like to wear one?”

He laughed. “Kinda question is that?”

“Precisely,” she said. “They’re a nightmare! Your lungs get squished to the size of pea pods. I used to be more vain about my figure, but I won’t have anything to do with them now.”

“I was just thinking it was nice because I can see this better.” He trailed a finger down the midpoint of her torso to her navel. “This too.” He traced the curve of her waist down to her hips with both hands and she lit up with desire again. 

“Is that so?” she said in a breezy way, trying to act unaffected.

“Uh-huh.” He pulled her close and kissed her square on the mouth. 

“We’ll catch cold,” she said feebly.

“Oh.” He pulled back and winked at her. “Okay.”

She opened her suitcase and pulled out a medium-weight grey chambray dress. It wasn’t particularly showy, but she had packed it for comfort. In the washroom again, she fixed her hair and makeup, which were not as not as worse for the wear as she expected given her recent activities with Buster. She did have to wipe dirt from her bare feet before putting on her stockings. 

“You look gorgeous, kid,” Buster said, when she’d reemerged. He kissed her. “Come help me put away the provisions.”

She slipped on her Oxfords with the low heel and joined him in the kitchen. There was a refrigerator, but the idea of there being an ice man anywhere nearby to make it functional was a laugh. Buster had thought this far ahead, though, because everything she helped him pull out of the brown paper sacks was fine without refrigeration: butter, eggs, potatoes, oranges, apples, carrots, cured ham and bacon, jars of chipped beef, mustard, bread, flour, beans, powdered milk, honey, maple syrup, peanut butter, and much more.

“You thought of everything,” she said. 

“Caruthers thought of everything,” Buster said, setting the maple syrup and milk in a cabinet.

“Who?” 

“My butler. Real name’s Willie, but he wanted something fancier so I called him Caruthers.”

“Oh, I forgot that was his name. He drove me home after your party, remember? You know, I still can’t believe Buster Keaton has a butler,” she teased, pulling some asparagus out of one of the sacks. 

“You haven’t tasted his cooking,” said Butler. He opened the refrigerator and put the meat inside. “I like the finer things, I don’t make it a secret, I like having someone cook for me. But I like this too. This is the way it was in Muskegon.”

He launched into an account of summers in the lakeside Michigan town, how he spent them swimming, pulling pranks on visitors, and constructing elaborate inventions to get a fat neighbor out of bed in the mornings or shame uninvited guests who availed themselves of the neighbor’s outhouse. By then, the food had all been put away and they were both leaning against the counter. Nelly thought she could listen to him talk for hours.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he said. “Get the lay of the land.”

“Alright,” she said. 

The dirt drive that they’d come in on narrowed to a walking trail where two could stand abreast. They followed it into the trees. There were towering pines and firs, tall spindly maples, and cypresses. The air smelled piny and fresh. 

“I spent all my life in Evanston,” Nelly said. “I’m still not used to the California scenery.” She looked up, still taken aback by the view. “There are forests nearby, you know, but nothing like this. It’s so flat that when we would go to the beach in the summer, we could look across Lake Michigan and see them building all the new skyscrapers in Chicago. The skyline was always changing.”

“That’s funny,” said Buster. “At Bluffton I’d walk to the beach and look out at Lake Michigan too. Thought it looked just like an ocean. Couldn’t see any skyscrapers where I was, though.”

Nelly had a romantic image of them, Buster in his teens maybe and she not more than twelve, gazing at the same inland sea on their respective shores, separated by a hundred miles as the crow flies, never knowing the other existed. It was like the beginning of a picture Buster might star in.

“I wonder if we ever looked at it at the same time, the lake.” 

Buster knit his hands behind his back as he walked. “Might’ve,” he said.

They walked in silence for a while.

“I wanted something like this when Nate and I got married,” said Buster out of the blue. “Something simple.”

“Oh?” said Nelly. She was surprised he was talking about his wife again. 

“Yeah, my big idea was to buy a farm down in the San Fernando Valley and lease it out to a farmer and his wife for about a year. They’d get it up to snuff, the cows, the crops, the chickens, the works, then we’d build a nice house there and live happily ever after.”

Nelly looked down at the path, which was becoming more stony. “What happened?”

Buster shrugged. As they walked, he fished a Camel out of the pack in his trousers pocket and lit it. “She had other ideas,” he said, after taking a drag off the cigarette. “We never could manage to get on the same page.”

She knew right away that he was telling her something that had been eating away at him for a long time. “That’s too bad,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

“We rented a house for awhile, but then the baby was coming and her family insisted on moving in, so we rented a bigger place. Then we buy a house after the second kid comes along. Only that house ain’t the right one either, so we buy another and move again. I get the bright idea that I’ll build one for her. I help design it, think of everything down to the furniture. Takes months,” Buster continued. “Figured I’d surprise her. She’s gonna love it. Only she don’t. So okay, I get rid of it. Build her another house. Is she satisfied? I don’t know.”

“How couldn’t she be?” said Nelly, assuming that he was referring latterly to the Villa. “It’s paradise.” She didn’t want to offend Buster, but it seemed the peak of bad breeding to turn down a house that your husband built specially for you. 

“You don’t know Natalie. She may not be descended from royalty, but she sure acts like it.” He took a drag from the cigarette. 

“ And for thy maintenance commits his body / To painful labour both by sea and land, / To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, / Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; / And craves no other tribute at thy hands / But love, fair looks and true obedience; / Too little payment for so great a debt ,” she quoted. 

“What’s that mean?” said Buster. 

“Oh, it’s a line from Kate’s big speech at the end of Taming of the Shrew . I just thought of it because of the—” She trailed off, not wanting to mention Natalie’s ingratitude. “Anyway, it means that husbands slave night and day to keep their wives comfortable and safe at home, and it’s not asking much for wives to be obedient and loving as thanks.”

Buster laughed. “You believe that?”

“I didn’t think I did,” she said. “If you ask me, Petruchio is a bully to Kate. But it does seem—” She stopped again. “I’m sorry, it’s not my place.”

Buster smiled and flicked some ash. It was not a happy smile. “You can say it. My wife’s an ungrateful you-know-what.”

Nelly’s cheeks heated. “It’s not my place,” she repeated. 

“No, it’s okay. I’m the one who brought it up. Guess it just gets under my skin sometimes.”

Nelly couldn’t fathom being unhappily married to handsome, successful, funny, rich, kind-hearted Buster Keaton. “I just thought any girl would be thrilled at the idea of making a home with you,” she said. 

“I thought so too,” said Buster, with another rueful smile.

She wanted to ask him more, but neither did she want to pry. “It fits better,” she said. “The farm, I mean. I guess I don’t know you all that well, but it seems to fit better.”

Buster took a long drag from the cigarette and appeared to be thinking. He kicked a stone. “No changing it now.” 

The reason for Buster bringing her here was coming into focus, though it still wasn’t all the way clear. She knew he wasn’t faithful to Natalie, which had shocked her when she first heard it back on the set of Steamboat , but she’d never stopped to consider that there might be a reason for his philandering. Over half a year in Hollywood had taught her that most stars stepped out on their husbands or wives. It seemed just a matter of course.

“I don’t mean to drag you down,” said Buster. “Not much of a romantic getaway, hearing me complain about my marriage, huh?”

Nelly looked at the path ahead of them instead of at him. “I don’t mind,” she said. “I like that you trust me.”

Buster didn’t reply, but he halted to toss his cigarette and grind it underfoot. When he was done, he put an arm around her waist and she leaned her head on his shoulder, and they continued down the path at a slow, shuffling pace. In spite of the glum topic of conversation, Nelly couldn’t help but feel happy and bright.

Chapter Text

When they were back from their walk, Nelly made cheese sandwiches on buttered bread. They spread a spare blanket at the edge of the lake to eat the sandwiches and drink lemonade. After they were done, Buster gave her a crash course in how to tie knots and cast a line. She insisted she’d never fished before and expressed relief that they were using cheese as bait instead of worms.

All of Buster’s worries about the weekend disappeared as they sat side-by-side at the edge of the lake, watching their lines as they talked. On the drive to the cabin, he’d been anxious. Suppose she wasn’t the outdoors type and would have preferred a hotel and fancy dinners instead of a cabin and cooking in? Suppose she didn’t really want to go all the way with him? Suppose they didn’t get on so well after all? All of his worries were for nothing. She proved as cheerful and easygoing as he could have wished. It felt as natural as anything to be with her. Contrary to what he’d expected, he didn’t feel a bit guilty about Natalie.  He liked that he felt like himself around Nelly and not like a rajah in a palace. Of course, the fact that she genuinely enjoyed doing the deed made him like her all the more. It had been half the point of the trip, after all.

Nelly was squeamish and made him take the hooks out of the catfish, bluegills, and bass they threw back, but she was game to continue and started getting the hang of it when she caught their biggest trout yet. He tied the trout and walleye that were to be supper to a line in the water. They held hands or kissed when their lines were slack. She let him put his arms around her as much as he liked, which was a lot. He struggled to remember when the last time was that Natalie had permitted something like this. It seemed a very long time ago. He remembered holding her in bed at the end of a long day’s shoot at the Truckee River, chatting to her and stroking her stomach which was starting to expand with her pregnancy.

When they had more than enough trout and walleye to feed them, Buster took the fish up to the cabin and suspended them from a clothesline. Nelly, holding the folded blanket and dirty plates and watching the fish flap feebly, felt bad that they were suffocating, but when he explained the alternative was clubbing them she saw the wisdom in his solution. They’d only been fishing a few hours, but the sun was already getting low in the sky and the air was beginning to feel crisp. 

“You could make those butter cookies for dessert,” he suggested, following Nelly into the house.

“For you, anything,” she said, smiling and putting the dirty plates in the sink. 

Buster took the blanket from her and set it on a chair. It was such a funny choice of words, For you, anything . 

“How’s your nose?” said Nelly. She ran the sink tap and began scouring a plate with a sponge he hadn’t realized that Caruthers had packed.

“Sore if I bump it,” said Buster, “but it’s most of the way healed I guess. I’m just lucky it wasn’t my ankle again.”

“When did you break your ankle?” she said. 

He leaned back on the countertop. “Filming The Electric House . One of my slap shoes got caught in the motorized stairs and it snapped my ankle. I fainted dead away. Laid me up for months.”

“That sounds terrible. I would have baked you five pounds of butter cookies.”

He leaned over to kiss her cheek and she smiled again. 

“I don’t think I saw that one, The Electric House ,” she said. 

“We started shooting it in ‘twenty, but my accident put the kibosh on it. Gabe—he’s my technical man—wouldn’t let me have a crack at it again until he’d rebuilt that infernal staircase. We shot it again in ‘twenty-two.”

“What’s a technical man?” She handed him a plate and added, “Dry this.”

He fished a towel out of a drawer and obeyed. “I dream it up, Gabe builds it. He was the one who helped me work out the breakaway house on Steamboat . They’re letting him come over to M-G-M with me and thank God.”

“What’s M-G-M like?” asked Nelly.

Buster grimaced. “Don’t know yet. Just signed the contract last week.” He put the plate away and she handed him another to dry.

“You made a face. Aren’t you glad?”

Buster hesitated. She was trying hard to make it in pictures and would probably think he was crazy if he told her the truth. He’d already taken a risk opening up to her about Natalie. He didn’t want to think badly of him. He wavered too long, though.

“You’re not glad about it,” Nelly concluded. She handed him a butter knife to dry.“Why?”

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he said cautiously, drying the knife and setting it aside.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Mr. Mayer,” she said. She took the towel from him and wiped her hands on it. 

“It feels an awful lot like I’m giving it all up,” he said. “When I had my own company, we never stuck to a schedule or wrote anything down, we just made it up as we went along. Almost all of my best gags came that way. I’m afraid I’ll suffocate like all our fish out there at M-G-M. They’re giving me two dozen writers, the best minds Nick Schenck tells me, but I never had any trouble with my imagination before, did I? When we got stuck, we’d just play some baseball ‘til we got it figured out. Charlie Chaplin and Harold Lloyd are taking my part. They think it’s suicide. I went out to New York to see if I could get Adolph Zukor to put out my films, but it’s no good. M-G-M’s got me blacklisted. I snooped in his stuff when he was in the can and saw the letter. I’m property as far as they’re concerned.”

Nelly nodded, leaning against the counter with him. 

“I suppose that sounds ungrateful, huh? With you trying so hard to get a break.”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t see it that way.”

He worried a fingernail with his teeth. “You don’t think I’m unreasonable?”

“Only when you let houses fall on you. No more of that.” She smiled. 

Buster thought back to that Sunday afternoon and the reckless despair he’d felt standing in front of the facade. “That was the morning after Joe told me I’d lost my studio, Joe Schenck,” he said. “I was crazy or I never would have done it. I didn’t care if it killed me or not. Didn’t see the point in going on.” 

Nelly put her arms around him and hugged him, her head on his shoulder. “Buster, don’t you ever think like that again.” She kissed his neck.

He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head. Her hair smelled like the lake and he thought of the way her nipples had pressed into his chest when they’d embraced in the water. “Okay.”

“Good.”

“Say, when do you want that encore?” he said. A certain part of him was beginning to awaken against her hip. 

She laughed. “Let me do some cooking or we won’t eat tonight!” She ducked out of his arms. “C’mere, you can help.” 

As reluctant as he was, he was also hungry and had to agree she had a point, so he obediently beat together some butter and sugar for her. She added pinches of salt and vanilla, then tipped in two egg yolks from the shell. After he’d mixed in the flour, he helped her roll the dough into little balls and press them on the cookie sheet.

When the cookies were in the oven and Nelly had begun washing potatoes for their main course, he took a platter and a knife outside. He gutted and cleaned the fish on the edge of the dock, putting aside his and Nelly’s discarded clothes so he wouldn’t get fish guts on them. He dropped the entrails, fins, and heads in the water.

Nelly blanched when he walked back in with the platter of slightly bloody trout and walleye. “Your hands!” she said.

He’d rinsed his hands in the lake, but his fingertips were still stained. “Boy, you’re more of a city kid than I thought.”

She took the platter from him. “You’ve got me there. Meat comes from the butcher’s and I don’t have to get my hands dirty for it.”

The cookies were by now cooling on a sill and there were diced potatoes sizzling in a pan. Nelly snapped the ends off stalks of asparagus. 

“Here,” said Buster, after he’d rinsed the fish and washed his hands. “I’ll teach you the real way to fry fish.”

She watched as he took out a tin of klim and shook some of the powdered milk into a bowl, adding water and stirring until the liquid looked like the real thing. He threw in a couple eggs, a handful of flour, a dash of salt and pepper, then rinsed the fillets under the tap. One by one, the fish got baths in the flour mixture, then rolled in a separate bowl of cornmeal. He scooped out two big spoonfuls of lard into a fry pan and melted the fat until it was crackling, and demonstrated how to lay the fish carefully into the spitting grease. Nelly regarded the proceedings with a serious air and stirred the potatoes. She put the asparagus in the oven to roast as he turned the fish. He could almost imagine he was back in Muskegon, but he hadn’t been grown up then and he never kissed pretty girls anywhere but the bedrooms at Delia’s. 

“Go set the table, I’ll take it from here,” he said, when Nelly declared the asparagus done and the potatoes nearly so.

He served them and, seated at the small table, they ate until they were stuffed. There was too much fish, so after they’d eaten their fill they walked to the edge of the dock and dumped the leftovers in the lake. Nelly wondered why they couldn’t just scrape them in the back of the cabin and Buster had to explain about bears. It was dark now, and Nelly gathered up their clothes from the dock.

“You afraid of bears?” he said, as they walked back to the cabin. 

“You trying to make me afraid of bears?” she said. 

He laughed, lighting a cigarette. “Ever seen one before?”

“Just at the zoo,” she said. 

“I’ve seen plenty. They’ll leave you alone mostly, but it’s best not to tempt them.”

“Thanks. You’re the only animal I’d prefer to be tempting this weekend.”

Buster tapped her behind playfully with his free hand. The night was cool and getting cooler. “Why don’t you go get the blanket and our jackets?” he said.

With Nelly thus occupied, he returned to the Lincoln and pulled his ukulele case from the backseat. He took a few more drags from the cigarette before grinding it out and joining Nelly outside the cabin. 

“Where to?” she said. 

“Hmm.” He scanned around them, looking for a good break in the trees. He decided on the east side of the cabin, which was relatively treeless. At his instruction, Nelly spread the blanket on the ground and they sat on it. The sky couldn’t have been clearer, a million white stars scattered across it. It was the perfect end to a perfect day. No wonder he felt like singing.

She handed him his jacket. “I’ve never seen anything like this. The light out in Evanston and Chicago, it just wipes out the stars. You never see them this bright unless you drive far out of the city,” said Nelly. “I still don’t think they’re this bright though.”

He opened the case and got out his uke. As Nelly lay back, her arms crossed behind her head, he strummed the opening chord to “Red Wing.”

         Charlie Chaplin went to France

        To teach the ladies how to dance

         First you heel and then you toe

         Lift your skirts and up you go

Nelly laughed, and Buster stopped to tune the fourth string before going into the chorus.

        Now the moon shines bright on Charlie Chaplin

         His boots are cracking for want of blacking

        And his old dusty coat is wanting mending

        Until they send him to the Dardenelles

He made a pillow of his jacket and lay down, singing and watching the stars. When he was done, Nelly said, “Were you in the war?”

“Yeah, Sunshine Division, but by the time we got to France, it was pretty much over. Never saw any action.”

“No war wounds?” she teased, running her hand over his bicep.

“Just my hearing. I caught a cold the first month I was over there and had it so long I went deaf. Almost got shot and killed ‘cause of it. I was coming back from playing cards one night and I didn’t hear the sentry asking for the password. He cocks his gun and somehow I hear it just before he pulls the trigger. Tell him not to shoot, it’s just me. He bawled me out good for it.”

Nelly leaned over and ran a finger over the rim of his ear.

“Now any time I've got a cold I go deaf, more or less,” he said, as Nelly kissed his ear. He shivered, distracted. 

“What did you do if you didn’t fight?” she said, lying back.

“Slept on the ground and caught my death of a cold,” he said, strumming a few chords.

“Anything else?”

“Do that ear thing again, will you?”

“Only if you give me a story,” she said coquettishly. She wriggled closer until they were lying side by side.

“Didn’t do much. After the Armistice then sent us to a little town by Bordeaux, all of us crammed in these boxcars they called forty-and-eights. I scrounged food for us. We were all half-starved from army chow. The girls in the shops took a shine to me.”

He told her some of the highlights, getting the general’s orderly to drive him to the town square in the general’s car so he could put the fear of God into his fellow troops, doing the snake dance for a brigadier general, and the endless cigarettes, games of cards, and fooling around. 

“What a life you’ve led!” she said, laying an arm across his chest.

“ K-K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy ,” he sang. “ You’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore. When the m-m-m-moon shines over the cowshed, I’ll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door .”

“Mmm.” He glanced over to see her with her eyes closed and a smile on her face. 

“Don’t fall asleep on me now,” he said. 

“I’m not. Just listening.”

“ K-K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy. It’s plain to see y-y-y-you’re a perfect bore . If it’s a-a-a-all the same to you Katy, I’d rather go off t-t-t-to war .”

Nelly giggled. “I don’t remember those words.”

“I made them up,” Buster said.

“How ‘bout an encore?” she said. 

He strummed another chord, ready to launch into “Baby Face” for his next number. Nelly gently removed the ukulele from his hands and set it on the ground a couple feet away. “Uh-uh,” she said. “The other kind.” She peeled off her jacket and climbed on top of him. His heartbeat quickened.

“How could I forget?” he said, running his hands up and down her arms. 

“Liar. You haven’t forgotten a thing.” She bent down and her mouth was by his ear again. She sucked his earlobe and he groaned involuntarily. He sought out one of her breasts and fondled it. He kissed her. She kissed back and rolled her hips against his. He mmm ed appreciatively. He wasn’t sure how long they kissed like that, her head framed against the stars each time she pulled back, but it got heated awfully quickly. 

He reached under her skirt to do battle with her knickers. There were a lot of things he liked about women, but getting them out of their complicated clothing wasn’t one; he wasn’t even going to try to mess with her dress. Nelly helped him, moving off of him for a few moments and slipping the article of clothing off one shapely leg. He put his hands back under her skirt and squeezed her bare bottom. She was sitting on top of him again by now, fussing with the buttons to his trousers. 

“Here, let me,” he said. 

She stroked him, which distracted him so much that unbuttoning his own trousers took three times as long as normal. Finally he shimmied out of them while she worked to unbutton his drawers, and then they were both unclothed enough to start something. 

“Wait, wait. Almost forgot.” He groped for his trousers and felt in the pocket where he’d placed the tin of prophylactics earlier, having a good sense after the lake ordeal that that mood might strike anywhere. He took one out and put it on. “You may start,” he said. 

“You’re too ridiculous,” she said, leaning over and giving him a deep kiss, but she was smiling. She reached down, maneuvered him, and he was inside her in seconds. “Goodness Buster,” she whimpered, and that set him all afire.

He shoved up into her with abandon, clutching her backside and gritting his teeth at the sensation. “You feel great,” he told her. 

“You’re not … so bad … yourself—oh!” she said.

“I thought I was ridiculous?”

She had no answer for him, not with words, anyway, but to his delight she took control from him and set her own rhythm. He held her thighs and watched. It was too dark to see much of her, but the light from within the cabin allowed him glimpses of the ecstasy on her face. She pressed his hands down by his head, palms up, and threaded her fingers through his as she rode him. He clenched his teeth and tried to distract himself by looking at the stars. He didn’t want to lose it yet.

Nelly kissed him, her lips soft and intoxicating. “Are you going to come?” she asked sweetly. 

“You just had to go and say something, didn’t you?” he managed to choke out. Unable to hold back any longer, he grabbed her hips, pushing up and into his orgasm. It hit in such exquisite bursts that he wasn’t sensible again for several long moments. When he came back down, Nelly had rolled off of him and slung an arm over his chest. She sighed in a happy way. 

He put his arm around her and kissed her head. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Buster,” she said, voice dreamy.

“Mmm-hmm?” he said.

She made no reply, but nuzzled her head into his shoulder. They lay there like that in silence for several minutes. He was the most content he’d been in a good long while. Only a stinging on his bare thigh brought him back to reality. He slapped it and said, “Suppose we head back inside before the bugs eat us alive?”

He stood up and redressed, and Nelly pulled her knickers back on and folded up the blanket. She yawned. “I’m ready for bed.”

He put an arm around her waist and they went inside. The kitchen was a mess, but Nelly didn’t mention it. She paused by the counter to pick up a cookie and pop it in his mouth. 

“That time I baked cookies for you,” she said, brushing crumbs from the corner of his mouth as he chewed. “It’s strange to think of.”

He swallowed the cookie. “Oh yeah?” 

She shook her head and gave a bashful smile, and he recollected that was how she’d been those first few weeks on the set: shy. “I still can’t believe you want anything to do with me after the way I behaved after the blind tiger.”

He shrugged. “You were in a spot, I got you out of it. I’ve seen dames do worse.”

She fed him another cookie. “I still don’t remember much from that night. Just waking up and losing my lunch and you holding my hair back. That was very nice of you.”

“I took you up to my room so you could sober up some, but you were a little worse off than I’d planned,” he said, his mouth full. “Decided not to take you home ‘cause I didn’t want you to throw up in my car. Plus you couldn’t remember your address.”

“Did you take advantage of me?” She cocked an eyebrow, but he could tell the question was playful. 

“If making you eat some toast was taking advantage, I’m guilty,” he said. “I recall you were stubborn about it. You wouldn’t let go of the thing I said about your weight, so I picked you clean up to show you weren’t heavy. Said I wasn’t gonna set you down until you ate something for me.”

Nelly laughed. “I don’t remember that at all! See? I have terrible manners.”

“No worse than mine,” he said. “You remember what I thought when you walked in my dressing room that first time? When I put two and two together, I could have kicked myself. Felt like the world's biggest oaf.”

Nelly bit into a cookie and stroked his cheek. “Well look where we ended up. Maybe you weren’t wrong after all. Anyhow, I’m still grateful for you rescuing me that night. For being a gentleman. I know you didn’t take advantage.”

“I think we can call it even,” he said, pulling her close to him and kissing her forehead. She yawned, leaning her head on his shoulder. “It’s time to get you to bed, too.”

“I still have to take down my hair,” she groaned, pulling back and setting down her half-eaten cookie. “I keep swearing that I’ll cut it, but I always lose my nerve.”

“Don’t. I like it. You look just like a Gibson girl. It’s pretty.” He stroked one side of her chignon. 

“It’s an inconvenience, but I’m glad you like it,” she said. She left his arms and sat on the side of the bed, pulling out unseen bobby pins and setting them on the end table. 

He felt a little shy himself now. It had been awhile since he’d stayed overnight with a girl and there was usually a lot more liquor involved and a lot less worrying about bedtime routines. 

“Will you find my hairbrush? It should be right on top in my suitcase.”

Buster located it and handed it to her. He watched, as he’d watched the night in his hotel room, as tendrils of long hair fell to her shoulders. It fascinated him now just as much as it had then. She looked up and gave him a sheepish smile, and he realized he was staring. 

“I’ll just go and take my own hair down now,” he said, pointing toward the washroom. He gathered his kit bag and had a piss before scrubbing his face and brushing his teeth. 

When he emerged, Nelly was brushing out her hair in long strokes.

“How’s it look?” he said, turning his head this way and that so she could get a look at his hair. 

She giggled and rumpled a hand through his hair as he bent his head for her to inspect. “First-rate.”

“Good.” He went to his suitcase and fished for a pair of pajamas. “No looking,” he warned her.

“I’d never dream of it,” said Nelly with a smile, looking straight at him as he began unbuttoning his shirt. 

He stripped down to his skivvies and put on the pajamas, and true to her word she watched his every move. He didn’t mind. 

She finished brushing her hair. He sat on the bed and watched her remove a small reticule from her suitcase and pull out two white ribbons. She sat beside him and nimbly braided each side of her hair, capping each braid off with a ribbon. 

“What a production!” he said.

“Now you see why I’m tempted to cut it.”

“Takes a lot of work to be a girl.”

“More than you’d ever know,” she said with a rueful smile. “I’ll just be a moment.” She disappeared into the washroom. 

He stood up and yawned. There was a window next to the bed and he cracked it. The cabin’s two radiators were working overtime and it was a little too warm in the big room. He sat on the bed again and fidgeted. His nervousness was increasing, so he lit a cigarette and smoked it all the way down before Nelly reentered the room. With the braids and now wearing no makeup, she looked girlish, but still pretty. He ground the cigarette into an ashtray on the end table as she sat on the bed, her back turned toward him. “I’ll let you help with the buttons,” she said. “It’ll go faster.”

He could smell mint Colgate on her breath and kissed the back of her neck. “You got it, sweetheart.” The act of undoing each tiny button was more intimate than he’d bargained for, not a turn-on necessarily, but he wondered if he really knew what he was getting into after all. 

Nelly stood and shed the dress. She was back in the brassiere and cami knickers, and damned if he didn’t go hard again. He watched in silence as she bent to unlace her shoes and extract a pale pink slip from the suitcase. She turned her back to him again as she unhooked the brassiere, took it off, and pulled the slip over her head. It barely covered her derrière. 

“Which side do you usually sleep on?” she said.

“Huh?” he said. 

She turned around, trying to pull the slip lower. “Stop gawping,” she said, but she was smiling.

“What was the question?” he said, now intentionally playing dumb.

“Which side of the bed? I’ll take the other.”

“I usually sleep in the middle,” he answered, being honest.

“Oh, a bed hog,” she teased, folding her dress.

“Can’t hog the bed if you sleep alone,” he said. 

Nelly’s eyebrows knit momentarily. “Oh,” she said. He could tell she was trying to hide her surprise. 

He shrugged. “I got kicked out of the bedroom after the last kid came along. Never have figured out why.”

“I see,” she said. He could tell she was weighing her words. “Well how about I take the left and you take the right? If you end up in the middle, I won’t complain.”

They turned out the lights as a team and got into bed. The room was very dark. Buster cleared his throat. 

“Something the matter?” said Nelly. She scooted closer and made herself comfortable in the crook of his arm again. 

“No, no,” he said. 

“Relax,” she said. “I don’t snore.”

He tilted his chin down and kissed her forehead gratefully. She put an arm on his chest and dragged her fingers over his collarbone and the hollow of his throat in a sleepy way. 

“Thank you,” she said. Her breathing already sounded deeper. 

“For what?” he said. 

“For today.” She gave another deep yawn. 

Although she didn’t elaborate, he knew what she meant. It was odd, but he was already dreading having to say goodbye to her on Monday even though the whole weekend stretched ahead. They felt like peas in a pod. For several minutes after she fell asleep, he stared up at the ceiling. Through the open window, he could hear bullfrogs in the lake calling out to each other, asking to be loved in their own way. He played through the day’s events, watching them in his head like a reel of pictures, until he too grew drowsy and succumbed to sleep himself.

Chapter Text

Nelly woke up to Buster sucking her bare breast and a robin singing cheerily outside the window. The room was cool and smelled of fresh mountain air. It was one of the better ways she’d ever been woken up. When she murmured and turned her sleepy eyes to his, Buster slid a hand between her legs. She moaned. 

“This ‘cause of me?” he said in a husky morning voice, fingers busy.

“Who else, silly?” she said, stifling a yawn. He withdrew his hand and she whined in protest. 

“For all I know you could have been dreaming of anybody,” he said, rolling over and grabbing the tin of prophylactics from the bedside table. 

“Jealous of my dreams?” she said. She laughed, feeling suddenly very awake as she watched him roll a thin onto himself.

“I’m jealous of any guy who’s my rival.” He got onto his hands and knees and kneed aside the blankets, which were still covering her lower half. She arched her hips and he slid into her without any effort. 

“Oh, Nelly,” he said. His dark hair was wild and wonderful, and he was smiling.

She felt she would never be tired of that smile. Her hip bones and inner thighs were a little sore from the hours before; they had both woken in the middle of the night, torn off their clothes, and done it again, in such a fever that it was over almost as soon as Buster entered her. She quickly forgot the bruises, however, as Buster settled into a rhythm. “Mmm.” She tangled a hand in his hair. 

“How d’ya like this?” he said.

She moaned in response, lifting her hips and putting her hands at the small of his back. “More, please.”

He pulled back and slammed into her. “How’s that?”

“More,” she said. 

He growled and slammed again. She pulled him close and let him ravish her. It surprised her how keenly she needed him. He apparently felt the same way. Their lovemaking was fast and indelicate, and Buster gave no verbal warning that he was approaching the brink. She could only tell in the parting of his lips and the tightening of his muscles. When she knew that he was close, she put her heels against the small of his back to lock him in place, which unraveled him. He was suddenly shouting oaths and she was laughing, joyful and satisfied.

As he sank onto her, panting, she could hardly believe how good she felt. She had enjoyed sex in the past, but with Buster she felt she finally understood what all the hoopla was about. She ran a hand through his messy hair and thought that she could live in this moment forever. 

“Whatcha thinking?” he said, when he raised his head.

She shook her head. “Just you. That was nice. You’re nice.”

“Well you’re nice too.” He kissed her lips and the tip of her nose. “You hungry? I was gonna offer to make breakfast.”

“Starved,” she said. “I might take a bath if you’re making breakfast.”

He kissed her forehead and laughed. “Sure about that? I’m just gonna dirty you up again.”

“I’ll take that risk,” she said, pecking his lips.

“I suppose you expect me to get up then.”

“That would be nice,” she said, trying to shift out from under him. 

Buster went limp, his dead weight pushing most of the air out of her chest. 

“Buster!” she protested, shoving his shoulders. “Come on.” She could feel him laughing, but he was perfectly still otherwise. Half breathless, she tried to roll out from under him. “Don’t make me kill you,” she said, after a fruitless struggle. 

The body on top of her was silent. 

“I warned you,” she said. She began tickling his sides and underarms. 

“Hey, wait,” he said, giggling and coming to life. “Wait a minute.”

She doubled her attack and he burst into laughter, trying to fend her off. As she dug her fingers harder into his side, he suddenly slipped off of the bed and fell to the floor with an ominous thud.

“Oh!” she cried, her laughter dying. She looked over the edge of the bed to see Buster lying on his stomach, stark naked, his arms splayed out in front of him. “Are you okay?” she said, sitting up at once.

Just as she was starting to worry, he sprang to his feet with the nimbleness of a cat, giving her a look that was all innocence. “What’d you say?” he said. 

She sat on the edge of the bed and shoved him away. “You’re wicked. I forgot you can do that.”

“Do what?” said Buster nonchalantly, now picking up his underwear from the floor. 

Nelly grasped him by the hips and turned him at different angles, examining his skin. He didn’t have a single blemish that she could see. “Fall flat on your face without taking a bruise.” 

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I took a bruise right about here,” he said, slyly indicating his manhood. “Maybe you oughta kiss it better.”

“You really are wicked,” she said, standing up.

Buster raised an eyebrow. “Who? Me?”

She pecked his lips again. “Maybe I’ll kiss it later if you ask nicely,” she said, giving him a significant look. “But I’m taking a bath now to preserve what’s left of my purity.”

Now it was Buster’s turn to look shocked. Satisfied that she had bested him, she sashayed into the washroom without a further word. While the bathtub filled, she pulled her braids out and gave her hair a quick comb, pinning it up messily so it stayed off her shoulders. Washing it was a production and she didn’t feel like undertaking it on this particular morning. It seemed important to spend every waking moment she could in Buster’s company. It was a silly thought, but like Cinderella, she feared the whole beautiful dream would disappear the minute the proverbial clock struck midnight—or Monday morning in her case. 

As she slid into the water, she could smell Buster all over her skin. It reminded her of the jacket he’d left on her shoulders the night of her party, which now hung in her closet among her dresses. She wondered whether she’d ever remember to give it back. As she sleepily mulled over Buster and all of the events of the morning and the day before, she washed herself with her rose-scented soap and shaved her underarms. The bathroom was beginning to smell like bacon. She’d never had a man cook for her before.

When she was done with her bath, she wrapped herself up in a towel, brushed her teeth, made up her face, and took some time combing out and pinning up her hair. She’d felt uneasy going without makeup in front of Buster before bed, but wearing a full face of makeup to sleep had seemed even sillier. He hadn’t said anything, which she took as a good sign. 

“How was your bath?” Buster asked, once she’d stepped back into the main room.

“Nice,” she said, bending to unlatch her suitcase. “It smells good in here.”

“It looks good in here,” said Buster, approaching her. He had a dish towel tucked in the band of his trousers and was wearing only his undershirt on top. His feet were bare. 

“Hands off,” she said, giggling as he ogled the knot of towel between her breasts. Stockings dangling in her hand, she let him pull her close and kiss her. His mouth tasted like stale cigarettes, but she didn’t care. When he withdrew his lips, she pushed him gently aside. “You’ll burn the toast,” she pointed out. It smelled done. 

“Hmm,” he said vaguely, putting his lips against her neck. 

Nelly allowed her eyes to close as he nipped her skin. At this rate, she really would be spending 72 hours in bed with Buster. She opened her eyes and stepped back, feeling like she was shaking off a fog. “The toast.”

“Hmm.”

She walked into the kitchen area and pressed the button on the toaster just as the toast was crossing into overdone territory, Buster following, and still kissing and nipping her neck. There were over-easy eggs and bacon warming in pans. 

“Buster,” she said, wriggling out of his arms. “Behave.” He had a potent effect on her, that much was certain. She was ready to forget about breakfast and get right back in bed with him, but she was hungry and also pretty sure he was just teasing. This guess proved true when Buster abandoned the game just as suddenly as he’d begun it.

“Okay,” he said, plucking the toast out of the toaster and setting it on a plate, as if he hadn’t just been trying to seduce her seconds before. 

As Buster bustled in the kitchen, Nelly gathered a step-in chemise and her pink-and-blue-striped day dress from her suitcase and dressed quickly. Buster whistled at her, but left her alone as he prepared their plates. 

They ate in a contented silence at the little table. Buster served orange juice and black coffee to go with the toast, eggs, and bacon. 

“I could get used to this,” said Nelly.

Buster smiled. “You’re an easy pleaser, kid.”

When they were done, she gathered their plates and told him she would start washing up. 

“Wait until after I’ve drawn my bath,” said Buster.

As Buster departed for the washroom, Nelly piled their dishes next to the sink. It looked as though Buster had used every pan and utensil in the kitchen to cook breakfast. She put the food waste from supper and breakfast in a paper sack and set it in the wastebasket, mindful of what Buster had said about bears and not wanting to put it in the bin outside the cabin just yet. Not having anything else to do until Buster was done with his bath, she put on her jacket and went outside with the novel she’d just begun reading, Marjorie Bowen’s Mistress Nell Gwyn. She hadn’t bothered to look at a clock since Buster had woken her up, but she guessed that it was now around nine o’clock. What grass there was around the cabin was still slightly dewy and the sunshine was warm on her shoulders. She felt very, very happy. She found a chair beneath a pine tree, put her feet up on a convenient stump, and read. The main character was named Nelly and was an insouciant orange seller at Drury Lane.

Buster came outside around a half hour later, wearing a white shirt, a lightweight periwinkle jacket, and brown trousers. He leaned to kiss her cheek before lighting a cigarette. He smelled damp, and like soap and aftershave.

“Hello,” she said. 

“Hi,” said Buster, taking the chair next to her. He reached over and turned the cover of her book so he could read the title. “You like romance, huh?”

Nelly’s cheeks warmed a little. “Yes.”

“Just noticing,” said Buster. “Did you see the Dorothy Gish picture they made out of the book?”

Nelly folded the book over her hand to mark her place. “I didn’t. Was it good?”

Buster shrugged. “Dunno, I didn’t see it. Just remember the posters.”

“What about your next picture?” she said. 

“What about it?” said Buster, drawing from his cigarette. 

“Have you decided on a story yet?”

“Sure,” he said. He put his feet up next to hers on the stump. “It’s called Snap Shots . I’m the fellow in New York City who stands on the sidewalk taking tintype portraits. Naturally, as these things happen, I meet this beautiful girl and fall in love, so I tell her I’ll do her portrait for free. I find out she works for a newsreel agency, so I sell my tintype camera for a film camera. A Pathé camera about as old as Methuselah. It’s falling to pieces and I don’t know how to use it.”

“What’s the girl like?” said Nelly. 

Buster shrugged. “Pretty.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, what more does she need to be?” he said, exhaling smoke. 

“I just think you could give your girls more character,” said Nelly, thinking of Nell Gwyn. 

“They don’t need to have character, they need to be pretty and act a little, that’s all,” Buster said, looking amused. “You sound an awful lot like Mary.”

“Mary who?”

“Mary Pickford.”

Nelly laughed. “You should introduce us then. I’m just saying, girls like to see themselves in stories.”

“It’s not the point though. The point’s the gags,” said Buster, taking another drag from his cigarettes.

“Okay, if you say so,” Nelly conceded, smiling. “How does it end?”

Buster tossed his cigarette to the ground and snubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. He grasped her upper arm and sought out her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed as he kissed her. “With one of these,” he said, after he’d pulled back. 

“Just like Shakespeare,” said Nelly, feeling absent-minded from the kiss. “All comedies end with a marriage. That’s why I thought the ending of your picture College was funny. You married the girl, but you both died at the end.”

Buster laughed. “It’s what happens, right? Eventually.”

“Why’d you do it? The audience didn’t like it. You know, I didn’t like it either to be frank.”

“Oh, I dunno,” said Buster, his smile fading. “Life’s all about chasing the girl and that big day, but what happens afterwards? It all goes stale. Musta been feeling cynical.”

“Because of your marriage?” said Nelly. When she saw the look on his face, she knew she had said the wrong thing.

Buster composed his face though, saying in an airy way, “Could have been.”

“I’m sorry,” Nelly said. She put the book on the stump and sat in his lap, winding her arms around his neck. She pecked his forehead. “I offended you.”

Buster looked at her with those big brown eyes. “No. I’m not offended, I’m—” He trailed off. 

“Well it was foolish of me to bring it up. It’s not my business.”

Buster looked like he was about to say something, but closed his mouth before he did. He touched the small of her back and slid his hand up and down. “I’m not offended,” he said at last, but she could tell he was thinking about something and that it wasn’t pleasant.

“What shall we do today?” she said, intentionally steering the subject away from his marriage.

“What card games do you know?” said Buster. He kissed the hollow of her throat. 

“I know War and Gin Rummy and Hearts. And Casino, but that’s like Gin Rummy.”

“What about bridge, do you know how to play bridge?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“I could teach you,” Buster offered. “It’s something of a hobby of mine.”

“Don’t you have to have another team to play against?”

“Well I can teach you the ropes so we can play down the road,” he said, sounding eager. 

“Okay,” she said, tickled by his enthusiasm. “You may teach me bridge.” It didn’t escape her notice that playing later signified that their acquaintance would outlive the weekend. It also meant that he intended to introduce her to another couple. She wondered if he would be honest to them about who she was.

They laid on their stomachs on the blanket by the lake while Buster went over the rules of bridge, dealing them both cards and demonstrating which suits trumped which in a trick until Nelly’s eyelids grew heavy in the warm sun. 

“There’re easier ways to tell me you’re bored,” said Buster, shuffling the deck, but she could tell he wasn’t being serious. 

She smiled sleepily. “I’m not bored.” She yawned and stroked his head briefly, then rested her head between her arms. “Don’t let me sleep too long, alright?” As she drifted off, she was aware of him leaving the blanket for awhile, then settling next to her again, his presence warm and reassuring. Nonsensical dreams beckoned her into sleep and she dozed comfortably without recalling a single one of them. When she opened her eyes again, she felt disoriented. 

“How long was I out?” she said, sighing. Her eyelids still felt heavy. 

“ ‘Bout twenty minutes,” said Buster. 

She turned her head and saw that he was resting his head on his bare arms. He’d been wearing a shirt when she went to sleep, so she looked at the rest of his body and discovered he was nearly naked, wearing only his white drawers. “You really must be warm,” she said, feeling some of the residual embarrassment she’d felt yesterday when they were in the lake together. She wasn’t used to his easiness in his own skin. 

“I’m sunbathing,” said Buster, not at all abashed. “You oughta try it sometime.”

“I burn too easy,” said Nelly. “You look nice with a tan, but I’d just look coarse I’m afraid.” 

“I bet you’d look nice no matter what. Dream about anything nice?”

“Probably bridge,” she joked. “I’m sure I’m working out how to beat you.” Buster shifted onto his back, putting his hands behind his head, and Nelly stole a glance at him, feeling instantly warmer when she did. Where his underwear rode high on his legs, she could see the pale tone of his skin beneath. “I noticed that you tanned when I saw College ,” she said. 

“Yeah?” said Buster, turning his head to the side to look at her. He closed his eyes for a moment and stretched his legs. 

“Yes. I could see how white your skin was underneath your shorts.” She drew a finger across the pale part of his thigh, reminiscing. “And I felt—funny I guess you’d say. For noticing it.”

“Funny?” said Buster, lifting his eyebrows. 

“Yes. Oh, don’t tease. You know what I mean.”

“Was that the first time you felt funny about me?” he said. He looked interested.

“I suppose so. I was working on Steamboat with you when I saw it and I just felt funny for noticing. You were my boss after all. ‘He’s not bad-looking.’ ”

Buster laughed. “You can’t get much higher praise than that! He’s not that bad-looking.”

“What about you? When did you notice you felt funny about me?” she said, ignoring his jest. She was half-convinced he wouldn’t tell, even though she was suddenly very interested to know. 

“That night at my party,” Buster said, without hesitation. “You were the prettiest girl there. Didn’t want to leave you alone.”

Nelly warmed further at the compliment. “Did you really? After I was so out of place?”

Buster smiled a slow, reflective smile. “You were the only one who owned up to being out of place. It took guts.”

“I didn’t intend to kiss you,” she said, thinking about how she’d found his mouth there in the dark. “I thought I might have offended you. When I didn’t hear anything from you afterwards, I was pretty convinced I had.”

“No,” said Buster. “Charmed me is more like it. But here’s what happens: After I see you off, I walk through the door wearing your lipstick and Natalie sees it straight off the bat. The universe likes teaching a fellow a lesson, so it wasn’t a minute before that she’d seen Louise Brooks running from the opposite direction with her bub flopping out of her dress. I got pinned for it. Wasn’t anything I could do but take the fall. No sense in bringing you into it.”

“Oh,” said Nelly. She was surprised to find that there was a reason behind Buster’s silence all those months. 

“After that …” Buster trailed off and went silent. When he spoke again, he said, “It’s a long tale.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, we’re here now,” Buster said. “It was just fine that you kissed me.”

Nelly moved over and kissed him. “Good. It’s good that you like to be kissed.”

“I do,” he said. His lips searched hers, insistent and needy, and heat flared through her. It gave her a wicked idea. 

She broke off the kiss and scooted down until her head was level with Buster’s hips. “What about—here?” She touched his prick, which was half hard. 

Buster squirmed and lifted his head to watch what she was doing. “I like it very much,” he said matter-of-factly. “As I seem to remember mentioning before breakfast.”

“Shall I kiss you here, then?” She looked to him for an answer and he nodded wordlessly, wetting his lower lip with his tongue.

Smiling, she found the buttons to his underwear. When she had tugged it down, she straddled his thighs and bent her head. Buster seized her hair with a sharp moan as she took him into her mouth. His sounds sent an answering current of desire through her. She wanted nothing more in the world than to bring him to the heights of pleasure, so she angled her head to take him deeper, fingers buried in the coarse dark hair at his groin. 

“Jesus, Nelly.”

The swear meant that what she was doing must be good, so she moved her head up and down with unbridled enthusiasm. 

“Not so much teeth, not so much teeth!” Buster gasped, letting go of her hair, and she pulled back at once. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking up and feeling embarrassed. 

“No, no,” said Buster. He looked stupefied, like he still wasn’t sure she was doing what she was. “Just—try opening your mouth a little wider. But I don't want you to stop. Please.”

Nelly carefully took him into her mouth again and bobbed more gently this time, her mouth widened. 

“There,” Buster sighed, his fingers twining in her hair again. “That’s more like it.”

Nelly relaxed into the activity. Unlike friends of hers, she had never minded performing this courtesy for a man. In fact, she had always rather liked it. Her own desire increased with every sigh that escaped Buster’s lips and every involuntary clutch of his fingers in her hair. She had a memory of him beginning to unbuckle his trousers the first day she met him back at River Junction, and thought that if she had known it would have been like this, she might not have fled his dressing room so readily. 

She glanced up at him. His head was thrown back and his eyes were screwed shut. He looked like he was in heaven and she felt a powerful pride that she had been the one to send him there. She pressed on his hipbone with one hand, adjusting her angle, and he tightened his grip in her hair. He croaked something she didn’t catch. 

“Hmm?” she asked, not removing her mouth. 

“Gonna come,” he said, in a strangled tone. 

She gripped the base of his prick and stroked fast, and Buster uttered a few choice swear words as he stiffened and came. When she was sure that he was done, she pursed her lips and spit discreetly into the grass. Although she very much would have liked to climb right on top of him and screw him silly, physiology was against her. She contented herself by stretching out alongside him and petting his messy hair, which he hadn’t bothered to put Brilliantine into after his bath. 

“Good?” she asked. 

“Oh Nelly, you’ve got no idea.” He shook his head.

“I like doing that for you,” she confided. 

Buster groaned. “You sure you’re for real? You sure I didn’t just dream you up.”

She traced his ear. “Not a dream.”

Buster sat up and drew his underwear back on, buttoning them. Then he laid back again and closed his eyes. They basked there in the warm sun and now it was Buster’s turn to drowse. He fell asleep with his head turned to the side and his hand curled against his face. Kissing his bare shoulder softly, Nelly slid off the blanket and went into the house. On her way back from the washroom, she grabbed a cookie. The dishes could wait. 

Chapter Text

“When are you free?” said Buster. It was late Sunday afternoon and they were walking among the trees. He was smoking and Nelly was slowly eating an orange, taking small bites of each section once she’d pried them from the whole fruit. He’d been thinking about how to work her into his life.

Nelly looked at him with bemusement. “When am I free?”

“Yes.”

“Why, I’m free right now. What do you mean?”

“I mean what about afternoons? Or weekends?” He was thinking of having to cut Steamboat , the endless meetings with M-G-M writers about Snap Shots , and Natalie expecting him home at night like a good little husband. 

Nelly smiled and looked away. “I get back to my apartment by six o’clock, usually. Sometimes a little earlier if I can catch the 5:15 tram. Sometimes I work a Saturday for extra money, but I don’t do anything most evenings except wash my hair. And Sundays I don’t do anything much. Why?” she asked. 

“Oh, this is just going to be harder to finagle than I thought, that’s all.” He took a drag from his cigarette. 

“This?” said Nelly, looking curious.

He began to feel a little flustered. He didn’t want her to think he was jumping the gun, so he switched the subject. “What do you do on the weekends?”

Nelly dropped her orange peel. “Not much. I see a picture on Saturday night or a Sunday matinee if I’m not too tired. The problem is, I work so much I haven’t got any friends here. At least back in Sacramento I had Joe and Maggie—they were the couple I rented a room from. Back home, my girlfriends and I would go to the theater or out dancing. Sometimes we’d go in together for a hotel room and spend Saturday night in Chicago. We had a lot of laughs, but they don’t answer my letters much anymore.”

Buster took in this information and added it to his mental file. “Oh?”

She stooped to pick up a pinecone and examined it as she spoke. “They’re married and having babies. I suppose they’re busy. Or maybe we just don’t have much in common anymore.” She looked at him. “I’m the odd one out now I guess.”

“ ‘Cause you don’t want to get married,” he said, recollecting their conversation in the car.

She shook her head. “If I find the right fellow. Sometimes I think time’s running out though.” She let the pinecone roll from her fingers and into a litter of pine needles. She gave a valiant smile. “Anyway, I’m sure I’ll make friends here eventually. I think the girls I work with are probably in the same boat as I am, not settled down. It’s just that they have me in the prop department so often nowadays, I never get to speak to anyone much.”

Buster flicked his cigarette to the ground and snuffed it with his shoe.

“Will your next film be a talkie?” said Nelly.

He noticed she was now the one changing the subject, but let it pass. “No.”

“Why not?”

“M-G-M ain’t got the right stuff yet. They’re doing a picture now with music and sound effects, but no talking. It suits me fine. I’d like to talk, but too much isn’t for me.”

Nelly found his hand and wound hers through it. “Are you afraid they won’t like your voice and it won’t be a success? The picture?”

“No, no,” said Buster, shaking his head. “I’m told I’ll do just fine in that respect. It’s ‘cause I like telling a story through action. What’s the point of telling it when you can show it?”

“Because words are beautiful, that’s why,” said Nelly. “I’d love to be in a talkie. I thought about what you said about The Taming of the Shrew . Maybe I’ll try for the part of Bianca. Or maybe there will be another Shakespeare talkie where I can pick up a bit part.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Good. That’s the spirit.”

She smiled. Her hand slipped from his as, without warning, she dashed a few paces ahead of him. She paused in the middle of the path and struck a pose, and a troubled expression crossed her face. “ To be or not to be ,” she declared, then looked to him, waiting. 

“ That’s the question ,” he finished. 

Nelly began to pace, her brow knitted. “ Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them ?”

She paused as if thinking, then went on. “ To die: to sleep; no more ”—she spoke these words slowly—“ and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d .”

She laid her hand on the trunk of a nearby pine and hung her head, hiding her face from him. “ To die, to sleep… ” She curled her hand in a fist. “ To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub .” She turned back to him, but didn’t look at him; her eyes were cast skyward. For a moment, he was sure she would cry. “ For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause .”

Then she turned to him and gave a sheepish smile, Hamlet no longer, just plain Nelly. 

“Bravo,” said Buster, clapping, and he meant it. He’d never seen her act before, but she was the real deal. 

She joined him again and they started walking again. “Thank you,” Nelly said after some silence, “I’m no Sarah Bernhardt. But I wasn’t just showing off. The point was that the words are beautiful, aren’t they?”

He’d seen the soliloquy what felt like a million times from the wings with The Three Keatons, but had never stopped to think about what it meant. As a kid, mimicking it for a laugh was what counted. Like most Shakespeare he’d seen, it was all Greek to him, stuffy and Important with a capital I, a relic belonging to an earlier age. “I don’t know,” he said, feeling the sting of his lack of formal schooling. 

“You don’t?”

“Told you, no,” he said, starting to feel defensive. 

Nelly, lost in her own thoughts, didn’t seem to notice. “Well, he’s talking about death. About killing himself. The pros and cons. He’s asking if it’s better to suffer when life is unfair or stick up for yourself by ending it all. To him, suicide’s not the coward’s way out, it’s taking matters into your own hands.”

Buster shivered unconsciously. He looked up at the treetops and the blue sky peeping through. “Why not just say that?”

Nelly laughed. “Well, they talked differently 300 years ago, didn’t they?” she said. “Oh, you’re not wrong, though, they didn’t talk in poetry like that. Shakespeare did it like that because it was easier for the actors to learn their lines if most of the play was in iambic pentameter. Also, the words are a puzzle. You try to work out what they mean and that’s part of the fun. Anyway, that’s why I can’t wait to see a Shakespeare talkie.”

“Why not just show that he’s thinking about ending it all though?” said Buster. “Have him hold a knife or, I dunno, stand on the edge of a cliff or something, like my picture Hard Luck . I don’t tell you I’m thinking of committing suicide, I just lay down on the tram tracks in front of a tram. Gets the point across without a single title card.”

Nelly stooped to pick up a stick about the length of a bayonet. “We do show it. I mean, we have props. They help the audience figure out what’s going on.” She turned the stick in her hands, looking at it closely. “If I’m Hamlet and I’m looking at this dagger when I say words like ‘death’ and ‘sleep’ you start to get the picture.” She hurled the stick far into the trees. “If I throw away the dagger while I’m saying ‘And enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action ,’ then you know for sure that I’m too afraid to go through with it. I’m afraid of what happens after you die.”

He wasn’t convinced. “Still seems like a waste of words.”

“We show you what the words mean with our bodies and our faces too, just the same as you do in your pictures. You watch us and you start to understand what’s going on,” Nelly said. She turned and they began to walk back in the direction of the cabin. “Shakespeare’s audience loved wordplay. He got a start as a poet, you know. Don’t you think the words are even a little beautiful? ‘In that sleep of death what dreams may come .’ ”

“Gives me the heebie-jeebies,” Buster answered honestly. All things being equal, he preferred not to think of that sleep of death. Instead, he thought back to Day Dreams . “I suppose you think I’m ignorant, but you know I played Hamlet in one of my two-reelers. I put on the hose and the wig and I had my skull: ‘Alas, poor Yorick!’ It was a kind of dream my girl was having when I write her a letter and tell her I’ve gotten a job as an actor. She’s thinking I’m doing Shakespeare, but what she don’t know is I’m just a foot soldier in a small-time play who can’t keep his shoe on the right way.”

“Ah, see?” said Nelly, knitting her hands behind her back. “Even you can’t ignore Shakespeare! I think you should see some of the comedies. You might like them better. They’re full of wicked jokes.”

He raised his eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh, now you’re interested.” She dug her fingers into his ribs playfully and he squirmed out of her reach. “Well,  so Kate and Petruchio are arguing in The Taming of the Shrew about where wasps keep their stings. Petruchio says in their tails, Kate says, no, in their tongues. Petruchio says, ‘Whose tongue?’ and Kate says, ‘Yours if you talk of tales, and so farewell.’ Petruchio says, ‘What, with my tongue in your tail?’ ” Nelly paused and he waited for her to explain the pun. “He’s talking about putting his tongue in her...” Blushing, she didn’t finish.

“Oh. Pussy,” said Buster, getting the joke.

Nelly covered her face with her hands and he could see the color in her cheeks between her fingers. “Buster!”

He laughed at her modesty. “I didn’t say it, Shakespeare did.”

“I shall pretend I didn’t hear that,” Nelly said, bringing her hands down from her face and shaking her head.

“Why?”

“It isn’t a polite word.”

Buster stopped her with a hand on her upper arm so he could kiss her neck. He’d learned that it was a weak spot for her. “Who said anything about polite? You’re forgetting I’ve seen you in the bedroom now, I know you’re not as polite as all that.”

“Says you,” said Nelly, smiling. Her eyes fluttered closed as he kissed a trail to the edge of her jaw and nipped. 

They’d had sex again first thing upon waking, but if there was one thing the weekend had taught him, it was that his appetite for her was hard to dampen. He found her breast and squeezed. She was exquisitely proportioned; how he could have ever thought her bust too big was a wonder. “Would you like it if I was like Shakespeare? More polite?” he said, getting an idea. 

Nelly briefly opened her eyes, but they quickly dropped shut with pleasure as he identified a nipple through her brassiere. “I think you could learn a thing or two.”

“Alright, so tell me this: have you ever had a tongue in your tail?” He put a hand between her legs and rubbed where he thought her coozy was, although it was difficult to tell with the material from her dress and slip in the way. 

A small noise escaped her throat. “With Joe, yes,” she said, squirming as he rubbed.

“Mind if I try?”

She swallowed hard. The only answer he got was a small, shy nod. It was the only answer he needed. He steered her to the nearest tree and knelt in the rough patch of ground beneath, not caring for the comfort of his knees.

“Hold these up,” he advised, gathering up her skirts and lifting them out of the way. 

Nelly obeyed without a moment’s hesitation. He hooked his fingers in the waist of her knickers and drew them down her creamy thighs until they dropped between her feet. He hadn’t seen her up close like this yet; there had been too many other activities of the sexual variety to distract him up to this point. He parted the thick brown curls at the juncture of her thighs to find the pink seam of her, drawing his tongue along it at once and savoring her tang. Natalie had never once allowed him to do this, had made him feel like an animal for even suggesting something so vile. It was this memory that made him attentive to how stiff Nelly was. Even though she was plenty wet, when he looked up, he noticed her hands were clenched and her eyes were closed just a little too tightly. 

He drew back. “You’re nervous. Want me to stop?” He was disappointed, but there was no sense in pushing her if she didn’t want to.

She shook her head. Was she shaking her head because she wanted him to stop or because she didn’t want him to stop? She said, “I’m just ...”

Suddenly, he understood her hesitation perfectly. “Afraid of what I’m thinking,” he finished. “Well don’t be. I think you’ve got about the nicest one I’ve ever seen. And you taste just fine.”

She bit her bottom lip. “If you’re sure.”

“Never been so sure of a thing in my life,” he said, and his prick wholeheartedly agreed. 

“Well, you should—finish then.”

He could hear what it was costing her to say to say what she wanted out loud, so he didn’t dare tease. As he put his tongue back, he wondered that she was so shy about this.

He licked at her until minutes passed and his tongue felt numb. He was beginning to think he wouldn’t get her to come—he’d hardly ever managed it with girls in the past, they were so particular—when she put a hand on his head. “There,” she said, and he could hear the need in her voice. “That. That feels nice.”

“What, here?” he said, demonstrating. 

“Oh,” she said, as he went on. “Yes.” Then, “ Oh .”

“Ah-hah,” he said, chuckling. 

She kept her hand threaded in his hair as he applied his talents with renewed vigor. Her muscles began to tremble almost imperceptibly. He had her right where he needed her. With his tongue still busy, he guided his finger into her. She cried out and gripped his hair tighter, so he plunged another finger in. 

“Goodness,” she gasped, trembling harder. 

“That’s right,” he said, coaxing her. “C’mon.”

“Oh my goodness, oh goodness, oh .” Her whole body seized as she came and he had to follow her with his tongue as she squirmed involuntarily out of his reach, her wanton cries driving him so wild he reached down to jerk himself through his trousers. Eventually, she pushed him away and he licked his lips with a numb tongue and got to his feet. His sore knees had been worth it. 

He touched her cheek. “How’d I do?”

For a moment, she couldn’t seem to speak. She just draped her arms around his neck and sighed, looking so content and overcome that his heart clenched. “You pass muster,” she said.

“Good.” He slipped out of her arms, crouched, and slid her knickers back up around her waist, then adjusted himself through his trousers.

“Don’t you want to—” Nelly started, glancing down at him.

“We can worry about me later,” he said. “Let’s start thinking about dinner. How do you feel about wheat cakes?”

Chapter Text

As Nelly washed her face and braided her hair that night, she could scarcely believe that the weekend was almost over. It had been a happy blur of fishing, bridge lessons, walks in the woods, songs under the stars, and tonight a campfire and a ukulele concert after a dinner of wheat cakes and maple syrup. And of course, not a trivial amount of that time had been passed in bed with Buster. As she’d spent those blissful hours with him, time zipped by without her noticing. 

Buster was humming to himself from the other room and Nelly wondered if the weekend had gone the way he’d expected. She wondered, not the first time, what had he expected. From the way he was behaving, he seemed cheerful and serene, but she wasn’t sure. Men were mysterious. Tomorrow he would go back to his wife and she would return to being a cog in the United Artists machine.

Before leaving the washroom, she brushed her teeth. She was half-tempted to shed her chemise and knickers ahead of bed; they always ended up torn off in the middle of the night anyway.

In the other room, Buster was sitting up in bed with the blankets pulled over his lap and her little red book in his hands, paging through Mistress Nell Gwyn . She felt a flush of embarrassment and regretted not bringing a more serious book along.

“Are you reading it ‘cause the main girl’s called Nelly?” he said, looking up at her.

Her face warmed as she checked the lock to the front door and turned off the floor lamp near the kitchen. “No, I like Marjorie Bowen and I hadn’t read this one yet. The name’s just a coincidence.” And it was, truly. “What do you read?” she said to switch the subject. They’d gotten around to discussing their favorite music (they both liked Bix Beiderbecke, Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five, and Paul Whiteman), but not their favorite books. 

Buster looked slightly abashed as she switched off the table lamp by the sofa. “Does Popular Mechanics count?”

“Well, not as far as novels go,” she said, crossing the room and lifting the corner of the sheets on her side of the bed to slide in next to Buster. 

“I read a dime novel once and awhile. Mostly don’t have the time,” said Buster. “But your book—she’s sweet on old King Charlie?”

Nelly took the book from him, amused. “King Charles II,” she corrected. 

“Why d’ya like it?” said Buster. He burrowed deeper into the covers and snuggled against her shoulder like a boy wanting a bedtime story. 

“I like novels based on real things. I get a history lesson and the people from back then feel more real.”

“Did you see my picture The General ?” asked Buster.

“Of course,” said Nelly. Her memory of the film wasn’t very strong, but she knew that she had enjoyed it quite a lot and remembered gasping with the rest of the audience at his daring stunts on the train. She seemed to recall that she found him good-looking with his long hair and sober looks, but apparently not so good-looking that she’d felt compelled to write him a mash note or glue his picture into her scrapbook like she had with John Barrymore.

“Now that picture, you see, was based on real facts. And the train was really called the General !” Buster launched into the story of the Great Locomotive Chase of 1862, and Nelly listened with contentment to his animated retelling. He talked all about the production of the picture, having to find narrow-gauge railroad tracks, learning how to operate a steam engine, hiring the National Guard to play soldiers, and playing baseball near the Willamette Valley. “I thought it was my finest picture but the critics all blasted it. Said it was a flop. I haven’t been able to make sense of it. Guess they thought I should leave the serious acting to types like your fellow, John Barrymore.”

“He’s not my fellow, Buster,” Nelly chided. She ran her fingers idly through his dark hair.

“What happened to being his leading lady?” he said, kissing her bare upper arm.  

“Oh, don’t tease me for being romantic when I didn’t know him. I didn’t know what he was really like. Didn’t I tell you? When I was in the Tempest , he came right into the ladies room and pissed in the sink right in front of me. And if that wasn’t enough, he picked his nose right in front of me too! He was so drunk he couldn’t tell left from right. I had to help him back to Mr. Taylor.”

Buster laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“Gosh, I wish I was. He kept us there all night he was so drunk. They had to build a sort of carousel for Camilla Horn and him to finish their ballroom dance.” Thinking of the Tempest , Nelly was reminded of something that had been on her mind since her hours with Buster had begun to draw to a close. “I want to say something serious to you now though.”

Buster, to his credit, didn’t try to make a joke. “What’s that?”

“In the book”—for a second, Nelly lifted the red volume that lay between them—“Nell Gwyn is just an orange seller at the playhouse. One night, King Charles invites her to a tavern with his friends Rochester and Buckingham. He remembers seeing her before and likes her. While they’re eating and drinking, he asks what she means to do with her life and she says that she wants to be an actress. Then she dances for him and he leaves her a pair of silver shoes as a gift because she pays for his food and drink. You think that he’s going to see to it that she becomes an actress, but he doesn’t. He has his own matters to worry about and goes on with his life, but she becomes a successful actress on her own—I’m only halfway through of course—and anyhow that’s how he notices her again. He goes to a play and she’s starring.”

“Oh yeah?” said Buster, obviously not understanding. 

“Well, what I’m saying is I appreciate you putting in a word for me with Mr. Taylor, but if you want to continue seeing me …”

Here she paused. It was a brave thing to say aloud because she didn’t know, not for certain, if Buster did want to see her after he dropped her back off at her apartment tomorrow. It wasn’t just false modesty. For all she knew, he had getaways with girls all the time, a new one for every weekend. His waywardness with women had, after all, been one of the first things she’d heard about him back in River Junction: all a girl had to do to seduce him was walk into his dressing room. 

“I don’t want any more favors and I won’t ask for any. I don’t want to play angles anymore. In fact, I prefer to try it on my own in the future, getting parts that is, just to see if I can, if I’m good enough to make it without help. Like Nell Gwyn was.” She let out a deep breath, afraid of his reaction.

“I think that’s fine,” he said, putting a hand on her jaw and turning her head to his so he could kiss her lips. His expression registered no displeasure. “Only I never talked to Sam Taylor. You did that one on your own. Honest.”

Nelly could hardly believe it.“Really?” she said, scanning his eyes to see if he was being truthful. 

“ ‘Course not. Had nothing to do with me,” he said.

“Oh. Well…” said Nelly, feeling silly.

“I’ll make a note. No angles, no favors. I’ll let you go it alone like your Nell Gwyn.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Tell me what happens next in your book, though.”

Feeling that a weight had been lifted, Nelly went on. “Well, the King sees Nell at a play and as soon as he notices her silver shoes, he remembers who she is.”

“Then what?” said Buster, caressing her hand. 

“I don’t know. Then she becomes his mistress,” Nelly said. She felt embarrassed to admit that she read such books.

“Did he have a queen?”

“Oh yes, Queen Catherine, the one who got the British to start drinking tea, but she doesn’t get much mention in the book. Mrs. Bowen’s more concerned with his mistresses. He had about a dozen. There’s the Countess of Castlemaine and Moll Davis, who’s another actress. Nelly was just one, but she was the most loyal.” She looked down to where Buster was holding her hand in his and rubbing it with a thumb, and wondered what he was thinking about her foolish taste in novels. 

“Will you be my mistress?”

Nelly turned her face to him, stunned. For a moment, she thought it was just one of his many jokes. One look at the beseeching expression on his face told her it wasn’t. Such waves of happiness and consternation struck her then that it was several seconds before she could answer. “Yes,” she said. There could hardly be another answer. And yet even as she consented, she thought of the Countess of Castlemaine, Moll Davis, and the Duchess of Portsmouth.  

“You got this look on your face,” said Buster.

“Do I?” she said, feeling flustered. 

“Yeah. A look that’s telling me you got something on your mind you ain’t telling me.”

Now that they were being so honest, she couldn’t deny him the real answer, even though it was preposterous to ask for faithfulness from a man who was already someone else’s husband.

“Well, are there others?” she said, searching his eyes. 

“Other what?” said Buster, cocking his head a little. “Mistresses? No.” He squeezed her hand. “Now I ain’t going to lie, I’ve had steadies before, not what you’d call mistresses exactly, but cross my heart I haven’t been with a girl in months. Are you asking if I’ll be true to you?”

Nelly looked away. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, but reminded herself she was trying to be honest. “I suppose I am and it’s the silliest thing to ask. I know you’re married. I’m not asking you to… Well, I guess I don’t know what I’m asking. Maybe I’m a little jealous, not about your wife, but about other girls because I—I like you already.” She looked back at him, fearing his reaction, but he was only regarding her in the same interested way he had when she’d relayed the plot of her book. “Please don’t take what I’m saying the wrong way, I know it seems like I’m looking a gift horse in the mouth,” she said hurriedly. “And I don’t expect you to keep me either like King Charles keeps Nelly, with satin and pearls and houses. Oh, I’m sorry for making this such a muddle. All I should have said was yes. I just want to be pals like we’ve been this weekend. I know it’s not right to ask.”

“ ‘Course we’ll stay pals,” said Buster. “And I promise no satin and pearls. I can still buy you dinner, can’t I?” 

Nelly laughed, her spirits feeling lighter. “Of course you can. I just don’t want to be a kept woman, okay? You can still do all the normal stuff a fellow would.”

Buster’s hand found its way down the front of her chemise and she pulled in a sharp breath as he rolled his finger lightly around the perimeter of her nipple. “Like this?”

She nodded, her eyes closing as his thumb joined the finger and pinched with gentle pressure. Her mind went back to the sight of him between her legs in the forest, his dark messy hair that he’d stopped slicking down with Brilliantine during the course of the weekend, and she groaned at the memory. She rolled onto her side, Buster’s hand still busy at her breast, and slid her hand beneath the brim of his pajama trousers.

“You’re not wearing any underwear,” she said, grasping the warm, silky length of him. 

Buster shifted onto his side. “Yeah, you’ve been teaching me something about efficiency.” He gave a wince of pleasure as she began to move her hand up and down. He withdrew his hand fro m her chemise and put it in her knickers, and she felt as warm as she had in the sun on Saturday as his fingers began their clever work.

They exchanged pleasures like that for a couple minutes before Buster began tugging her chemise over her head. She unbuttoned his pajama shirt as he played with her breasts. It would be a terribly long time before she was ever bored by the way he tensed his stomach when she touched him, making all the muscles stand out like they were sculpted in marble. She pressed her breasts against her chest as she pulled his pajama shirt the rest of the way off of him, and Buster began wrestling her knickers down. When they were all the way undressed, both still lying on their sides, Nelly put her leg over him.

“Let’s try it without,” she whispered, as Buster kissed her neck and ear. It was a crazy thing to ask, but she was beyond thinking straight. 

“What, without a thin?” he said with surprise. 

“I think it’d be okay. If you pull out before--” She blushed. “I want to see how it feels without it.”

Buster kissed her forehead once, twice, three times in obvious gratitude. “Alright.” 

Nelly shifted herself lower and guided him into her with a hand. For a few moments, Buster was perfectly still. Nelly breathed deeply, feeling him without a barrier for the first time and jubilant with the sensation, as well as the weight of his proposal. A mistress. 

He made love to her more slowly than he had on previous occasions, pausing for long stretches to kiss her, then grasping her backside to push himself deeper. Eventually, the slow pace sent her into such a frenzy that she took control of the rhythm. He caught on and went faster. When every muscle on him stood out again as if sculpted, she knew he was close. 

“Don’t forget to pull out,” she said, seeking his eyes. 

“I won’t,” he said breathlessly. He gave such a fierce, pleasurable thrust that she keened, and that caused him to withdraw suddenly and rock himself against her stomach until he came with a shuddering groan. 

She stroked his cheekbone when he was finished. His eyes had closed and his breathing was deep and satisfied. Buster Keaton’s mistress. She was so filled with the thought that she felt barely any guilt when she thought of his wife. It was, after all, easy to justify. He was not intimate with her; she had realized that when he mentioned that he slept alone. She had never forgotten his statement the night of his party either, that the marriage was headed for divorce. But there she cut off her thoughts. She was getting far too ahead of herself. It was enough that they had gotten on like a house on fire and that Buster was holding her in his arms now, smelling like sweat and cigarettes and himself. 

“Buster,” she said. She could tell he was starting to fall asleep.

“Mmmph,” said Buster. 

“We should set an alarm for tomorrow. My tram leaves at 6:45 and I’ve got to be at work around 7:30. We should get up at four so we have time to pack and so I can get ready.”

Buster rolled onto his back and cupped the crown of his head in his hands. “Don’t worry about the tram, I’ll drop you off.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I don’t want to get you into any trouble. If anyone sees us, they’ll talk,” she said. 

Buster opened one eye and lifted his eyebrow. “Let ‘em talk,” he said.

“Okay,” said Nelly, not quite knowing what to make of this attitude. 

Nell Gwyn had been no secret to King Charles II’s subjects, but somehow Nelly thought that Buster Keaton’s public would be less tolerant if he got into the habit of parading around a mistress. Nonetheless, she didn’t argue with him. As she cleaned his seed off of her in the washroom, she didn’t have a thought except for how happy she was when she was around him.

Chapter Text

Contrary to what he’d said while tired and sex-drunk, Buster did care about being seen with Nelly. After he’d driven her back to her apartment Monday morning and she’d hurried in to drop off her bags, then hurried back to the car, he dropped her off a few blocks from the United Artists lot. He hazarded a quick kiss on the lips, but that was it. He knew as well as anyone that to keep a mistress you had to be quiet about it, at least if your wife was as concerned about preserving the illusion of a happy marriage as Natalie was. It was a price he was willing to pay.

Now alone, he drove the half-hour to Culver City, reflecting on the weekend. It felt nice to be wild for a girl again, made him forget his troubles until the M-G-M sign loomed up ahead. His gut sank. Before he signed the contract, he’d asked for his team to be put on the payroll. The studio had granted his wish, but what he hadn’t bargained on was becoming the proud new recipient of every Tom, Dick, and Harry who wanted to make their mark in moving pictures gumming up his simple story with the goddamndest stuff: jewel heists, damsels in distress, a full military band. The days of Steamboat Bill seemed far, far away, and he longed for his old scenario department. Lately the mornings had consisted of sitting around a table with a baker’s dozen of men, including Thalberg, passing around a script that grew heavier and heavier with harebrained ideas with each passing day, like a ship sinking under the weight of too much cargo.

The image of that ship put him in mind of a gag. By the time he was inside and put in his standing order of coffee and donuts with a secretary, the gag had taken shape.

Bruckman was in the room with the big table. Buster could see that he was trying to pretend that things were as normal as they’d ever been, but he looked like he felt just as much like a fish out of water as Buster did. Some of the paid writers helloed Buster and asked him if he’d had a nice weekend. 

“Sure. Did some quail-hunting in the Valley.” He smiled to himself, remembering a naked Nelly clinging to his neck in the lake. 

Two young pretty girls came into the room with the coffee and donuts. Munching a donut, Buster wasted no time in introducing his idea to Bruckman.

“Suppose I start filming with my old camera to impress my girl, but I do it all wrong. Get into the craziest scrapes. I could be near a ship as it’s getting ready to be launched, thinking I’m about to get the shot of a lifetime, only the ship launches me with it,” he said. 

“And you darn near topple off of it and lose your camera,” said Bruckman. 

“Exactly,” Buster said. 

“I’ve just written a part where your character bumps into a dame whose son has just been kidnapped,” one of the writers, a medium-height fellow with a brown mustache, chimed in. “She’s willing to give you all the tea in China if you just help her find her Billy. You’re willing to do it. It’s your chance for a ticker-tape parade if you find him. You know, to impress your girl.”

“Kidnapped?” Buster said, not sure he’d heard right. 

“Sure. It fits perfectly.”

By now, Thalberg had entered the room and seated himself at the table. He took a donut and smiled in a benevolent way that spelled trouble. 

“No, no. It’s the mob Buster comes up against. They think he’s a spy and take him for a hostage, but he’s more useful as a stooge, see?”

Buster found himself wishing he’d poured a little whiskey into his coffee when no one was looking. It was bad enough to have to put everything down on a script for the first time in his career in pictures and even worse to entertain this kind of dreck. He looked over to Bruckman, but he just gave him a helpless look. At this rate, they’d never get around to filming. 

Filming. His mind crowded with everything he was obliged to do in the next six weeks, premieres (including Steamboat ’s), parties, benefits, and not least of all traveling to New York City to begin filming. He thought sinkingly of Nelly. 

The worries continued on the drive back home late that afternoon. He worried his nails with his teeth as he thought about juggling it all.  At the Villa, he parked in the drive and bustled his way through the magnificent mahogany doors with his suitcases. Before departing from the studio, he’d checked the car for any trace of Nelly, a stray stocking, a dropped bracket, but there was nothing to give him away. As he stepped into the foyer, he was struck with an unfamiliarity that sometimes came over him. This big, clean, airy house, so cold and charmless—was it really his? He’d obsessed over it endlessly when it was being constructed, sparing no detail, never sure of what possessed him beyond the thrill that he could and a desire to impress. Impress his fellow stars? He thought, setting his suitcases down and running a hand across the back of his neck. No. 

To impress Natalie. 

He called for her. “Hello?” There was no answer and he tried again. “Hello?”

“Hello?” But it was only Eleanor, coming around the corner looking worried. “Mr. K—Buster, how are you? Shall I take your suitcases?” It had taken a while, but he’d finally gotten her to stop calling him Mr. Keaton. 

“No, I’ll take care of that. Have you seen Natalie? Is she around?”

“She’s out I’m afraid,” Eleanor said, with an apologetic smile. 

He could hear the kids outside somewhere, giggling and screaming. “Alright. If you see her, just tell her I’m home.”

He took his suitcases up to his room. It was cool and dark, and managed to smell both stale and clean at the same time. The bed was made, all the corners of the sheets tightly tucked. He drew his curtains and opened the balcony doors. 

“Hey, you hooligans!” he cried down to Bobby and Jimmy, who were running around on the lawn under Connie’s watchful eye. 

“Daddy!” they said, racing to the balcony. 

He went down to them and allowed them to wrestle him to the ground where they swarmed on top of him, then demanded to be swung around by the arms in the dangerous way that Nate disapproved of. A little voice in the back of his head lectured him about his failures as a father and husband, but he let the feeling of his sons’ hands in his smother it. 

Nelly was distracted for her entire shift Monday, remembering moments from the weekend. The assistant prop manager had to remind her to get her head out of the clouds when she fetched the wrong dinner service twice in a row. She could scarcely wait to get home, where the phone would surely ring and Buster would be on the other line asking her how her day had been. He had promised to be in touch when he’d dropped her off a block before the studio. That night, however, she went to bed disappointed. A worming doubt began to spoil her recollections of their time at the cabin. 

The phone did ring after work the next day, but it wasn’t Buster. 

“Nelly, is that you?” her mother said on the other end. Barely waiting for an assurance, she cried, “Ruthie had the baby! It’s a girl and they haven’t named her yet, but they think Violet or Virginia, which do you like better? Virginia? I like Virginia myself. She’s seven pounds even. We think she might have brown hair instead of blonde; it’s rather dark if you ask me, but of course there’s not much of it.”

“Well that’s wonderful,” said Nelly, wondering why her heart wasn’t in the congratulations. “How’s she doing? How’s Ruthie?” She’d never been able to fathom the birth process, the pushing and tearing and bleeding and all the rest. With what mothers had to go through, it was a miracle anyone ever had a second child, let alone a third like Ruthie.

“Oh, she’s tired but she’s an old hand by now. It wasn’t an hour later she wanted some chicken broth and now she’s bullied Gerald into letting her have some ice cream. Lord knows where he found it this time of year but nothing’s too good for her where he’s concerned.”

“And June and Eddie?”

“Eddie wanted a brother and declares he won’t see the poor soul, but you can imagine June is over the moon. She’s brought up her dollies’ clothes for her. Thank goodness they’re too small or we’d be in for quite a fight.”

As Nelly stood in the hall with the receiver to her ear, her mother chattered on about what time Ruthie’s labor started, how it had progressed, and what the doctor had done when he’d gotten there. She plotted with some guilt about how to cut the conversation short; she was worried she’d miss Buster if he called. 

“And you, how are you, dear?” her mother said, as if sensing Nelly’s intentions.

“Oh, I’m okay,” she said, a bit hastily. 

“How are you getting on with the moving pictures?”

Nelly explained briefly about her role in Tempest , which she’d mentioned in her last letter home. 

“What about that Keaton film? When will that come out? Your father says he intends to take the whole family to see it.”

“Buster—Mr. Keaton’s cutting it right now. April, I suspect.”

Not noticing her daughter’s slip, her mother pressed on. “When can we expect you back home?”

“I’m awful busy. Autumn?”

That was not good enough for Lena. “What’s wrong with summer? Or late spring? We miss you terribly and you know Harold Jenkins is wondering how you’ve been. I’ve given him your address so he can write. Have you gotten any letters yet?”

Nelly gritted her teeth unconsciously at the mention of Halitosis Harold. “Not yet. But Mother, I really have to be going.” She racked her brain for an excuse. “I’m having dinner tonight with a fellow I work with.”

It was the wrong thing to say, because Lena became gleeful and effusive. “Oh Nelly, you didn’t mention you were seeing someone. What’s his name? Is he handsome?”

Nelly flushed. “It’s Joseph,” she said, thinking of Buster’s given name. “He’s very handsome, but he’ll be here any minute. I really must go.”

“I’ll call tomorrow, perhaps. I want you to tell me all about your new beau and I presume the baby will have a name by then.”

“That’s fine, Mother. I love you. I’ve got to go.” With a few more I-love-yous and talk-to-you-soons, Nelly was able to hang up the phone. The conversation had left her feeling unsettled and wrung-out. She supposed she should pick up a congratulations card for Ruthie on her lunch break tomorrow. Waiting for Buster to call, she was too nervous to eat anything more than an apple. She tried to read another chapter of Mistress Nell Gwyn , but couldn’t concentrate. Her mind was lying under the stars with Buster as he strummed his ukulele. 

It was a severe blow when another night passed with no word from him. The doubts were full-blown now. Her biggest worry wasn’t that he was preoccupied with his wife or even another girl, but that their time together hadn’t meant what she thought it had and that she had handed him her heart when she should have kept it more carefully guarded, only giving it to him when they had been going together longer and he had proven his worth. 

She went to work on Wednesday morning feeling blue despite the shining sun. The sensible part of her tried to push her out of her gloominess, reminding her that it had only been forty-eight hours and Buster was liable to be busy with his work, but nevertheless she moped around the prop department, not even caring to put on the radio for a diversion. On her lunch break she walked to a corner shop, having no appetite anyway, and chose a simple card to congratulate her sister. It had a Kewpie on the front clutching a telephone and read: I heard your home is honored / By a tiny little guest / I am rejoicing with you / That you are so greatly blest . As she walked back to the studio, she tried to get her head around the fact that she was an aunt three times over now. 

She returned to the prop warehouse around half past noon. Immediately she noticed a large vase sitting on the desk where she did the books. It was heaped with a snowy mountain of gardenias, jasmine, and myrtle. She could smell the flowers from a yard away. Propped against the vase was a record in a paper sleeve, which she examined. There was a cartoon of Paul Whiteman’s fat, mustachioed face on the front of the record and on each side a different song, “ ‘Taint So, Honey, ‘Taint So” and “That’s My Weakness Now.” A small card with her name on it was tucked into the flowers. She looked around the room for a sign of who might have delivered it, but no one was in sight.

Her heart beating faster, she opened the card.

She’s got eyes of blue, I never cared for eyes of blue but she’s got eyes of blue and that’s my weakness now. 

BK 

P.S. See you tomorrow around 6?

“Got a beau now, huh?” said Gracie, one of the other girls who helped out in the department, walking into the room. Bold as brass, she leaned over Nelly’s shoulder to read the card. “Who’s BK?”

“Buddy King,” Nelly said, without a moment’s hesitation, blushing. “Did you see who delivered it?”

“I did,” said Gracie, rolling her eyes. “Florist dropped it off up front and I was the lucky gal told to bring it on back. Thought it was for me at first. ‘Course that would have been a shock. Bennie don’t do flowers or nothing like that. You’re lucky.”

“I am,” said Nelly, burying her face in the flowers. A waft of spring filled her sense and along with it a feeling that was very close to intoxication.

She was the center of attention during her walk to the tram and then her tram ride home, holding as she was such a huge arrangement of flowers. The commonest remark from strangers was, “Someone must care for you very much.”

And her face reddening, she would respond, “I guess he does.”

Chapter Text

After arriving home on Thursday, Nelly took a quick bath and brushed out her hair, pinning it up anew, and put on eyeshadow, mascara, lipstick, and rogue. Shedding her bath towel, she found the black chemise she’d intended to wear when she thought Buster would be revisiting her apartment.

She’d purchased the chemise after breaking things off with Joe. To her, the break-up had been regretful, but nothing personal. She felt she and Joe were good enough friends, but she couldn’t imagine herself as his wife try as she might. The image that came to mind was an unattractive one. She pictured herself in a big, cold house like Ruthie’s with stiff, formal children and a stiff, formal husband. When she’d rebuffed his offer of marriage, she found that he didn’t share her sensible and decidedly unsentimental feelings. He lashed out, declaring that no man would ever want her anyway and he’d just been doing her a favor by proposing. While she hadn’t believed him, the insult stung, made her feel undesirable. To prove him wrong, she’d taken a special trip into the city to Marshall Field’s a few days later and bought the most scandalous chemise she could find. She had the halfhearted notion to wear it after seducing another man far worthier of her affections than Joe, but following the breakup she found she was so relieved to be free of him she took a break from men. She’d only packed it for California because she feared her mother finding it in her room when she moved out of the house.

She stood in front of her mirror, trying to see herself as Buster might. To her dismay, her bare bosom looked matronly against the transparent window of the bodice. Her breasts lifted the chemise high on the front of her thighs accentuating their overall stockiness. The shapelessness of the outfit vanished the tuck of her waist. She looked like nothing more than a fat little pony in lingerie. Trying not to compare herself to lithe Natalie Talmadge or Buster’s latest pint-sized leading lady, Peanuts, she buttoned her cotton dress over the sensuous slide of chemise against her bare skin, intentionally not putting on any undergarments. Buster’s flowers sat on one of her side tables along with the record, which she couldn’t listen to on account of not owning a phonograph, a reminder of his feelings. Looking at herself and all of the ways that she fell short of what she imagined to be his feminine ideal, though, she doubted again her recollections of the weekend. It was too storybook to be true.

As she checked herself in the mirror from all angles, patting her hair, she heard an unmissable knock on the front door of her apartment building. Though distant, it was firm. 

She hurried through the door and down the hall, fearing one of her neighbors would beat her there first. Buster was standing outside with his head down and his hat obscuring his face, but she would never have mistook him for anyone else. He was wearing a pale blue casual jacket, a cream-colored button-up shirt, brown trousers, and a derby hat. 

“Hello,” she said quietly, opening the door. 

“Why, hello,” he said. He lifted his eyes briefly to look at her and then look over her shoulder, as cautious as a hunted animal. He kept his head down and the derby pulled low as she led him through the hall by his hand, but they were safe. No one peeped out as they passed by.

Nelly had barely closed her door behind them before he had her in his arms, kissing her neck in a frenzy and murmuring sweet nothings against it. Her own desire rising up like a sudden blaze, she pushed his jacket off his shoulders and felt for the cuff buttons at one of his wrists. He didn’t need to tell her he missed her, she could hear it in his voice and feel it in the hardness against her thigh.

“We can’t be too loud,” she said in an undertone. She undid his cuff buttons. “I don’t want the neighbors to hear.” 

Buster responded by unlatching himself from her neck and walking a few paces to the table where her radio sat. He switched it on and turned up the volume, and the sound of horns and clarinets filled the apartment. “Where’s your bed?” he said. 

She smiled, amused at his one-track mind. “Just through that door.”

He grabbed her hand and led her into her own bedroom. She sat on the white coverlet of her bed and Buster started on the buttons of his shirt. She grabbed two handfuls of his trousers and pulled him between her legs so she could take his belt off. Once she had tossed it aside, she looked up at him and made sure he was looking back before she drew a finger down the length of his prick. 

“I missed this,” she said. 

“Didja?” said Buster, a bit desperately.

She nodded. She unbuttoned his trousers and underwear, sliding his prick out. At first she just touched her lips to it, breathing softly for a few seconds, and Buster let out a groan of agony. She gave the underside a couple licks and he stumbled back. 

“Better not,” he said. 

“Why not?”

“You know why, you temptress,” he said with a lopsided smile. “If you want the main event, you’ll listen.”

The thought that he was so hot for her that he was liable to finish too early made her wild. She wound her hands behind her back to work on the buttons of her dress as Buster pulled off his shirt and untied his shoes while standing, hopping on one leg. He shed his trousers and underwear once he had his shoes off and paused to gape at her, looking ridiculous in only his hat, sock garters, and undershirt. She’d just pulled the dress over her head, though, revealing the black lace chiffon chemise with its transparent bodice.

“Something the matter?” she teased.

“No, no.” But Buster looked dazed, which pleased her. It was the effect she’d hoped the negligee would have. He picked up his discarded trousers and withdrew the familiar tin of prophylactics. She remembered how she’d been too shy to watch him put one on the first time they made love. She didn’t feel that way any longer; she liked watching his hands and the way that he touched himself. She wondered if he’d ever touched himself in private while thinking of her, as she had the night after their kiss at the party, and many more nights after. 

He sat on the bed next to her and she helped tug his undershirt over his head. The curtains of the window next to her bed were drawn, making the room darker than it would be otherwise in the waning daylight. She put her arms around his shoulders and kissed his cheek, thinking about how much she’d missed him. Buster turned his head and found her mouth with his. They kissed for several long moments, his lips soft against hers and his fingers playing with one strap of the chemise. 

Her desire built until she couldn’t take it. “Make love to me?” she said. 

“Well, since you asked so sweetly,” he said, teasing her. 

She wriggled into the center of her bed and Buster clambered on top of her as she widened her legs for him. He brushed the hemline of her chemise up around her hips, centered himself between her legs, and pushed, the sensation of him entering her just as new and wonderful as it had been the first time. He collapsed on his elbows, putting his hands behind her head and nuzzling her neck. 

“I missed this, too,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. 

“Hmm,” Buster said in a preoccupied way. He was heavy on top of her, heavy and intoxicating and smelling piquant with sweat and cigarettes. 

Nelly stroked his back and kissed the muscle between his neck and shoulder as he moved in and out of her. She was distantly aware of the radio, Ben Bernie’s Orchestra playing “Ain’t She Sweet,” and the sound of the robins’ twilight song. Buster found her mouth, bumping her cheek with his nose as he sought it. His kisses were warm and deep and wet. Nelly’s hands played up and down his back. She could imagine no greater heaven until Buster dropped his head and maneuvered one of her breasts out of the chemise so he could lick it, causing her to stifle a moan. 

She surrendered wholly to the pleasure he was giving her, clutching him close as the minutes passed by and his focus wandered from her breasts to her neck to her mouth and back again.

“I’m going to come,” he said at last, much quieter than necessary given the radio. 

“Come in me, Buster,” she said, testing the effect the naughty words would have on him. 

They were immediate. He started to cry out and she pressed two fingers to his lips to remind him, and he was reduced to panting raggedly into her shoulder as he surged forward with fitful, uncontrolled strokes. 

She lay there holding him in her arms as he sagged onto her and his breathing slowed. A few moments later he straightened up, slipped out of her, and without warning tore the chemise over her head. 

“What are you—”

But he’d bent down and buried his head between her legs, and all she could focus on then was the sensation of being carried higher and higher as if in a hot air balloon. He remembered what she’d liked. This realization in and off itself pushed her to a greater altitude. She started to tremble and a flush came over her whole body. 

“Don’t stop,” she said, carding her fingers into his hair. 

“Huh-uh,” he said, licking as if his life depended on it. 

She could sense the balloon was going to puncture. His tongue was relentless. There was no time to pause or think or feel abashed, to remember that her thighs were too fat. She was shaking, writhing, her pulse pounding in her head, and when Buster pressed two fingers up inside of her she forgot all about the neighbors and wailed with ecstacy. Wave after wave struck her and, when she was at last too sensitive to bear his attentions, she pushed him away. She laid a hand over her forehead, overcome.

The bed shifted and Buster plopped down next to her. “So much for keeping quiet,” he said, brushing the hair at her temple. 

“Oh, just you hush,” she said, but she couldn’t stop smiling. She couldn’t recall a time when a man had brought her to the brink so fast.

The room was measurably darker. Buster folded his hands behind his head and, sharing the pillow with him, Nelly stole glances at his remarkable physique. It was like lying in bed with one of the Roman statues at the Art Institute. The radio piped her favorite version of “Side by Side” by Paul Whiteman’s orchestra. 

We ain’t got a barrel of m-m-money

Maybe we’re ragged and f-f-funny

But we’ll travel along

Singing our song

Side by side

She hummed along, making lazy figure eights with her finger in the center of Buster’s chest. 

Don’t know what’s coming to-m-m-morrow

Maybe it’s trouble and sorrow

But we’ll travel the road

Sharing our load

Side by side

Buster caught her hand and brought it to his lips. When he released it, Nelly trailed her finger down to his navel. As if on cue, Buster’s stomach gurgled. 

“Have you had supper?” she said. 

Buster shook his head. “Came straight here from the studio.”

“Well I feel honored. I don’t have too much in the house though, I haven’t been the grocer’s this week. Will ham sandwiches do?” she said. 

“Wish I could take you out to dinner,” Buster said. She couldn’t quite make out his expression in the dim light.

“Why can’t you?” she said. 

“Have to keep our noses clean. It can’t get back to my wife.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling a bitter pang.

Buster rolled onto his side. “That’s the way it’s gonna have to be,” he said, looking at her. 

Nelly nodded. “I understand.”

He cupped her cheek. “Believe me, I wish I could take you out on the town like you deserve. It’s just the way things have to be, see? I know I asked you if I could, when we were at the cabin, but I wasn’t thinking.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, resolute. “If you don’t mind.”

There was a wry twist of his mouth. “I mind plenty. Just can’t see any way around it.”

“Well, do you really mind ham sandwiches?” 

“ ‘Course not,” he said, and his face was close enough now that she could see his smile.

She sat up and kissed his forehead. “Put on your clothes and I’ll make you a sandwich.”

They took turns in the washroom and Nelly put on her undergarments and a day dress while Buster got back into his trousers and undershirt. He stood in the middle of her apartment looking around him as she took the ham out of the refrigerator and began spreading butter on slices of bread. 

“Listened to the record yet?” he said, finding it next to the bouquet of flowers. 

“Oh, I don’t have a phonograph, didn’t I tell you? Thank you for it though, and the flowers too. They’re beautiful.”

“Don’t have a phonograph?” Buster said, incredulous.

“They’re expensive, aren’t they?” she said, a little embarrassed. It was easy to forget that Buster had so much money in comparison to her. “They’re hard to move from place to place, too. If I ever go back home, what would I do with it?”

“I’ll fix that,” he said. “They ain’t too much.”

“Please don’t,” she said, putting mustard on top of the butter and feeling even more embarrassed. “I said no pearls and satin, remember?”

Buster turned the record in his hands. “I’ll get you a tabletop one. That way, it’ll be easy to take with if you move house.”

Nelly laid the ham on the bread. “No satin and pearls.”  Buster came up behind her and threaded his arms around her waist. He kissed the back of her neck. “Last I checked, a phonograph’s not satin and pearls,” he said, in a triumphant tone of voice. “Besides, since I can’t take you out dancing, this’ll be the next best thing. We can dance to our favorites without having to wait for the radio to play ‘em.”

She was still very much in the process of getting to know Buster, but she could already tell when his mind was made up. “Okay.” She laid the slices of bread on top of the ham and reached into the cabinet for plates, Buster still clinging to her waist. “Here you go,” she said, turning around and handing him the plate. “I’ve got cucumbers. I can make a cucumber salad and another sandwich if you’re hungry.” 

He kissed her forehead as he took the plate. “Sounds fine.” 

Taking occasional bites of her own sandwich, she thinly sliced some cucumbers and tomatoes, dumped them in a bowl, and drizzled them with oil, vinegar, salt, and pepper, then assembled another sandwich for Buster. He sat perched on the arm of her sofa, eating and looking around him quietly. She wondered what he made of her modest apartment and its secondhand furnishings, the dining table with one stunted leg that had to be leveled with a stack of two books and the framed pictures on the wall, most of which she’d cut out of magazines. It wasn’t that she didn’t have means when she lived at home, her father being well-appointed and her part-time job as a governess providing ample pocket money, but she’d wanted to taste real independence and hadn’t asked for an allowance before striking out on her own. There was something irresistible about paying her own way. She was proud of finding a sofa for eight whole dollars (eleven if she counted the three dollars she’d paid the man selling it for delivery) just as much as if it had been bought new from the American Furniture Mart in Chicago.

Presently, she sat on this sofa after handing Buster another plate with a second sandwich and the cucumber salad, and ate the rest of her own sandwich. It would be a lie to say that she’d expected anything like this when she’d first set out for Hollywood. The most she’d had was a vague notion of meeting another extra and perhaps having a casual romance, but there’d been no intention to seduce a movie star despite her daydreams of John Barrymore. It was harder and harder for her to even see Buster as a movie star. He was so much different from the Buster on screen or even the Buster on set. 

“Any pictures on the horizon?” he said, interrupting her thoughts. 

“Just another scene or two for Tempest . They’ll call me when I’m needed. I’m mostly in the prop department right now. We’re working on Norma Talmadge’s new picture.” She paused to consider the strangeness of it for the first time. Here was Norma’s brother-in-law, who had sent a woman who wasn’t his wife flowers and a record as a present. 

“That so?” 

“Yes. Funny, I’d never really thought about—”

“Her being my sister-in-law?” 

“I hadn’t either. I forget you’re so …” She sought the word. “Connected.”

Buster gave a small smile and forked up some cucumber and tomato, but didn’t say anything.

To smooth the awkwardness of the moment, she asked, “What about your picture?”

“Still cutting Steamboat . Just a couple more days ought to do it.”

“When will it premiere?” she said. Weeks had gone by since she’d thought of the film. Sometimes it was hard to believe it had all started there: her acquaintance with Buster, getting a break in Barrymore’s film, working behind the scenes at United Artists.

“Oh, should be in April or thereabouts. Don’t worry, I left in all your scenes.”

They finished their meal, talking lightly of the film and the difficulties Buster had had with his producer, and when the conversation had dwindled a little Nelly went to the modest shelf hanging on the wall and pulled down a black box with a carrying handle. With Buster watching, she unfolded it on the table, revealing a checkers board and the pieces inside. “I know you can beat me at bridge,” she said, “but can you beat me at checkers?”

Buster grinned. “Sure can.”

He left at nine-thirty, but promised he’d be by to pick her up sometime that weekend, come hell or high water. She succeeded in beating him at checkers only twice.

Chapter Text

On the last night that Buster Collier was twenty-five, at Constance’s Santa Monica beach house, Buster got the drunkest he’d been in a long time. It was hard to say what he was out of sorts about. The melancholy seemed to have begun over the childish overalls he was wearing. All the men were wearing overalls, in fact, and the girls short pinafores with long legs all asparkle in shiny nude stockings. Jimmy and Bobby had been to a birthday party for little Thomasina Mix that afternoon at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre where all the guests were children, which had given Dutch the idea that everyone should dress like kids for Buster Collier’s birthday party. The sight of stout Peg Talmadge in a short frock with a big floppy bow on her head licking an oversized lollipop was one that he could have done the rest of his life without. But the overalls had reminded him of The Butcher Boy and he thought of Roscoe, who should have been here to enjoy the mindless merriment with everyone else. Sometimes he wondered how everyone could go on with their lives, forgetting all they owed him. 

Natalie was angry with him, so he was cooling his heels—literally—in the freezing surf of the Pacific Ocean. He struggled to remember what had gotten her so mad. He watched the water wash over his feet, which were ghost white in the light of the waning moon. They’d gone numb, but the sting of the icy water felt distant and not at all unbearable. He hummed a tune that the Henry Starr Orchestra had been playing. 

“Buster, get back inside.”

He looked up and saw Norma Talmadge heading toward him. She had a beaver-fur coat over her pinafore and her shiny black Mary Jane shoes sank into the wet sand. It was a raw night. 

“Where are your shoes and socks?” she said.

He shrugged. He’d definitely put them somewhere.

“You’ve upset Nate pretty bad.”

Indignation rankled him. “So?”

Norma fell into step beside him, just short of the licking tide. “It wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”

Buster’s head swam, but he still couldn’t remember what he’d said to make his wife so livid with him. “You’re wrecking your shoes,” he said.

“Buster,” said Norma. She tugged on his arm and stopped him. His hair had fallen forward into his eyes and she stroked it off. He closed his eyes, enjoying the touch. “Come back inside, please.”

“I don’t even remember what she’s all fussed about,” he admitted, opening his eyes again. 

“About Dutch and Buster?” she prompted.

“Oh, that’s right.” Now it came back to him. He’d made some loud remark about Buster Collier and Constance having an affair and Nate, seeing how many people were in the room to hear, pulled him aside to scold him in a quiet hiss for embarrassing her sister. He’d bawled something at her and stormed out. Neither Buster nor Constance had announced their affair yet, but it was fast becoming as obvious as Norma and Gil Roland’s. “Don’t see what the big deal is,” he said. “She’s throwing a whole damned party for him. Anyone with half an eye is gonna know what’s going on.”

“Yes, but you needn’t have been crass about it,” said Norma, frowning. Though she was just a year his senior, she had a comforting, authoritative air that sometimes made her feel as much his big sister as Natalie and Constance’s. He trusted and distrusted her in equal measures, same as he trusted and distrusted Dutch. The Talmadge sisters were fond of him, but he knew their loyalty to Natalie would always trump whatever affection they had for him.

He tried to remember why it had been so important to open his big fat mouth about Buster and Constance. He was on the verge of recalling, but the reason slithered out of his grasp. Instead, he looked down at his ghostly feet. He thought of Nelly and the lake. Only two days had passed since he had visited her at her apartment, but the memory felt years distant and like it belonged to another man. 

“Come inside. Come on,” said Norma, linking her arm with his. He fell clumsily against her, but righted himself.

The warmth of her fur-wrapped arm against his reminded him. That was it. Both Constance and Norma had now taken lovers and he had somehow ended up with the only sister who didn’t want anything to do with sex. The unfairness of it settled on him again, making him despair. 

“Apologize to Nate,” said Norma. “Make up with her.” She tugged his arm.

Buster dug his toes into the sand, resisting. His head spun with whiskey. “I don’t wanna.” 

“Don’t be childish,” she said. 

He pulled away, walking deeper into the ocean and wetting the cuffs of his overalls. “Why are you still married to Joe?” he said. “Why not marry Gil?” He didn’t expect her to answer since he was deliberately needling her, but her voice was as clear as a bell in the cold night air. 

“He’s young, isn’t he? Maybe he’s too young.”

“And Joe’s too damn old.” Farther in now, he felt shells beneath his feet. The tide hadn’t succeeded yet in washing them up on the beach. 

“Marriage isn’t always about love.” 

That remark made him stop his slow trudge into the water. As much as he had regarded Joe, still regarded him, Joe was balding, twenty years older than Norma, and far from handsome with his shapeless nose and drooping little mouth. That her marriage to him had been a business venture was an open secret. He was still surprised to hear her say it out loud. 

“ I married for love,” he said, lifting his eyes to the moon. He stumbled, his head spinning. “Least I thought I did.”

“I think I see your shoes back there on that rock,” said Norma, closing the conversation.

He waded back toward the shoreline where, numb from the ankles down, he suddenly stumbled to his knees and vomited on the wet sand. When the hot clammy crawl of his flesh had faded and he’d spit the taste out of his mouth, he looked up to see Norma standing alongside him with his shoes and socks in one hand. “C’mon, Bus,” she said, holding out her other hand. “Go inside and make up.”

Nelly bicycled down to Doc’s to get groceries on Sunday morning. Task accomplished, she strapped the bag with the eggs in the rear basket and put the other two bags in the front basket, then rode back up Fairfax Avenue, enjoying the warm breeze around her legs. She was thinking idly of the salad she was going to make when she got home, with chilled ham and hard-boiled eggs. The Circus was playing at the Fox Theatre a few blocks away, and she had the vague notion of treating herself to a matinee if she finished the salad and her sweeping.

Her heart hammered suddenly when she pushed her bicycle through the door of the apartment building; there was a man waiting around the corner at her front door. Before she knew what to do, he looked up at her.

It was only Buster.

“God almighty, you scared me!” she said.

“Hello,” he said with a small, apologetic smile.

“What are you doing here?” she said, a familiar flush crawling over her skin as he leaned in and pecked the corner of her mouth. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

He didn’t answer, but took her bicycle by the handles as she fumbled in her handbag for her key. “Thank you,” she said, pulling the key out. “Come on in.”

He walked the bicycle through the door for her and propped it against the sofa. “You are duty-bound to ignore any dust bunnies you see around here,” she gabbled, still caught off her guard. “I was going to sweep when I got home.” She grabbed the bag with the eggs and set it on the counter, and Buster followed obligingly with the other two bags. He turned to face her and it was only then she realized that he wasn’t himself. 

“Something the matter?” she said.

Buster shook his head, but he reached for her and enfolded her in his arms before she could get a chance to really study his face. She inhaled. He smelled clean, like aftershave and shampoo, but there was a sour undertone to his skin. Something was the matter, but she could tell he didn’t intend to elaborate. She stroked his back and buried her face in his neck. Another realization struck her: she’d missed him despite having seen him only three days ago. Desire also gnawed at her, but Buster didn’t seem to be in the mood, so she tried to set it aside.  

“I’m glad to see you,” she said, drawing back to kiss his cheek. 

Buster gave a half-hearted smile and stroked her cheek with a thumb. He leaned forward and kissed her, but it wasn’t a lingering kiss. 

“You’re not glum because of me, are you?” she said, insecurity getting the better of her. 

Buster shook his head. He smiled again in a tired way and kissed her. 

“You don’t have to tell me. As long as it’s not because of me. I was going to make a ham and egg salad. Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll put it together? You could help me with that darned LA Times crossword, too.”

“Alright.”

She began to unpack the groceries as Buster seated himself on the sofa. When he started to unlace his shoes, she relaxed. His unexpected appearance and strange mood were still mysteries that remained to be solved, but at least she hadn’t offended him. 

“I was thinking of going to see a matinee of The Circus . I can’t remember the last time I saw a Chaplin film,” she said. “Was the last one The Gold Rush ? You know, I don’t even remember.”

“Last one was The Gold Rush ,” Buster confirmed. “He’s lazy. The Gold Rush came out in ‘twenty-four. Imagine if I went four years between pictures.”

She glanced over and he was lying on the sofa on his back with the newspaper up to his face.  

“Have you seen The Circus yet?”

“Huh-uh.”

“What’s a bird of prey? It’s not hawk and it’s not eagle.”

“Down or across?”

“Down, I think.”

She set cans inside cabinets as Buster fell silent. She thought the small talk had failed, but—

“It’s falcon,” he said. 

“Oh. There were a couple others that were giving me trouble too,” she said. “There’s a ten-word Greek philosopher. Then there’s a clue that just says ‘a refrain.’ I have no idea what that one is.”

With the sacks unpacked, she folded them in half and set a pot of water to boil for the eggs. The silence with Buster was companionable and she hoped that the silly task of solving the crossword was taking his mind off of whatever was eating him. She began to dice the side of ham she’d left on the counter. “What’s a river in Russia?”

Buster didn’t reply. 

“Buster?” She looked back. He was fast asleep, head drooped to the side on the sofa pillow, the newspaper resting open on his midsection.

Nelly chopped more quietly, pitying him and wondering what the trouble was, whether he’d fought with his wife, was worried about his new picture, or vexed over something else altogether. She knew little at present about his day-to-day. At the cabin, most of his stories had been about gay parties, the outrageous things that guests had said and done when drunk, and his career in pictures. She felt like she knew Roscoe Arbuckle back to front now and every detail of what took place behind the scenes with Battling Butler to College , but not how Buster spent his time at the Villa. She could only imagine what his marriage was like. She was sure of just three things. One, he didn’t share a bed with his wife. Two, he wasn’t faithful to her and hadn’t been since at least last summer. Three, he seemed to believe they would be divorced in due time. She’d never forgotten his cynical remark about it the night of the party at the Villa when they’d been discussing Charlie Chaplin’s divorce. At the thought of Buster divorcing Natalie, Nelly clamped her mind closed. It was enough that he wanted her to be his mistress and sought out her company. She wouldn’t daydream about impossibilities.

The water in the pot boiled and she slid seven eggs into it, four for the salad, two for the dressing, and one for her breakfast tomorrow. Buster continued sleeping and she let him, glad that she could offer him some sort of respite. She washed the lettuce and softly shredded the leaves for the salad.

The eggs were cooling, the salad prepared, and Nelly curled in her armchair reading the latest issue of The Stage when Buster roused, asking in a voice thick with sleep, “What time is it?”

“Just after twelve o’clock,” she said, laying aside the magazine. 

He beckoned her with two fingers and she went to him, seating herself on the edge of the sofa. “Sorry I conked out on you,” he said, shading a yawn with his hand. 

“I didn’t mind,” said Nelly. “I think you must need the sleep.” She lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles. 

“Guess I must,” Buster said. His brown eyes still looked tired and a little distant, but he seemed more like himself. 

“Burning the candle at both ends?” she said, still clinging to his hand. 

He smiled. “Go ahead with your lecture.”

“Okay, I will. How much sleep do you get? You’ll wear yourself down and get ill.”

“Not as much as I should.”

Nelly pulled her legs onto the sofa and flipped around so that she was lying on top of Buster between his legs. She folded her arms across his chest, propping herself up, and he put his arms around her. His body was hard and muscled, all planes and angles. “You should get more sleep.”

“You know the last time I got any sleep worth a damn?” he said.

“No. When?”

“Those three nights with you. Slept like a baby.” He put a hand on the back of her neck and pushed, bringing her mouth down to his. 

“What are you saying?” she said, as a particular part of him twitched against her groin. 

He got serious for a moment. “Wish you could sleep over.”

“You could stay here. I wouldn’t mind, but my bed’s a little small.”

Buster shook his head, his mouth a line. “Missus expects me home at night.”

Even though she won’t let you share a bed with her . Nelly thought it, but wasn’t brave enough to say it aloud. So she said instead, “That’s too bad.”

“It is. I miss holding my Nellie Dean when I’m falling asleep.”

It was the tenderest and frankest thing he’d ever said to her, and hearing the words leave his lips, she knew beyond a doubt now that she was deeply in trouble. He’d won her heart, but his was not free to give. 

The thought evaporated as Buster’s mood turned from tender to ravenous. He began to pry at the buttons at her bodice and Nelly forgot her heart, knew only what her flesh wanted from him and was willing to give in return.

Chapter Text

The sun had set long ago and they were all crowded around a card table in Louise Brooks apartment, the radio playing “Side by Side” by the Paul Whiteman Orchestra. Sipping a glass of bourbon, Louise was humming merrily along, but Nelly’s lips were set in concentration. She wasn’t a good bridge player by any measure, but the important thing was that she was getting better. They were in no danger of hitting a grand slam, but Buster thought they might be able to get a small slam out of the game. Keeping his eyes on their cards, he tilted his whiskey glass to his lips, emptying it. 

“Top you off?” said Louise.

Buster looked at Nelly, who raised an eyebrow. “Not tonight,” he said, and saw Nelly’s shoulders relax. He kissed her behind the ear and saw her cheeks redden in the lamplight.

George laid down a seven of clubs, Buster threw in a five of clubs, Louise put in a four of diamonds, and Nelly swept the trick for them with a six of diamonds. George had a good poker face. Louise’s was skilled simply by virtue of the fact that she was usually in a good humor whether her hand was bad or good. Nelly needed to work on hers. She straightened her expression as if hearing his thoughts. 

He’d been living a double life for years now, but with Nelly in the picture, it had lately become a triple life. Buster One was the gay host always ready for sport, drink, and good company. The quiet man left in the gay fellow’s wake was Buster Two, who never forgot that Lady Luck would decide someday to be done with him, and maybe soon. Buster Three was content to spend afternoons and evenings with his girl in her small apartment where she watched him work out gags for Snap Shots and sat patiently as he gave her bridge lessons. She found him pleasing in bed, and never complained that the only dance floor he led her across was her living-room carpet and their only orchestra the tabletop phonograph he’d bought her. As February gave way to March, his routine of visiting her apartment two or three days a week for a couple hours at a time seldom changed. Twice he’d taken her for a drive into the Valley, although that was always risky in case someone recognized his car as he left town and got to wondering about the girl in the passenger seat. Last weekend they’d had their first bridge game with George and Louise, the first time anyone else had seen them together. Nelly had had the time of her life. 

Buster Three couldn’t help wanting more, though. He longed to take her to a picture or have her on his arm during a premiere or benefit, dressed to the nines. He imagined her warming his bed at night, swimming laps in his pool in the morning, and playing bridge games in the billiards room on weekday afternoons. He was finding out that a mistress was a funny thing that way. The more you got of her, the more you wanted.

He stroked her back as she looked over at his hand, deciding which card to play next. They could take at least five more tricks by his count, which would put them at eight. Whether Nelly would spot them was the question. They were playing for a nickel a point. He’d wanted to do quarters, but Nelly had complained about how bad she was and insisted on a lower bet, so he let her have her way. 

It was now getting close to ten o’clock. He knew they’d have to wrap the game up in the next half hour if he wanted to be home by midnight. It was the first time he’d stayed out so late with Nelly and not told Natalie where he was going.

“ Just Molly and me ,” Louise sang in a soft, idle voice, examining her cards. “ And baby makes three. We’re happy in my blue heaven .”

Nelly yawned and he rubbed her back. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you home soon, sweetheart,” he said in her ear. 

Nelly responded with a smile and he was gratified to watch her discard a three of diamonds in the next moment. He was pretty sure he could take the trick with a Jack of diamonds if neither George nor Louise played the Queen.

They left the apartment at a quarter to eleven, many nickels richer. Louise kissed Nelly goodbye on both cheeks. It made Buster happy to see the girls get along so well.

“How’d I do tonight?” said Nelly, as they walked through the darkness toward his Lincoln town car, holding hands. 

“You’ll be able to play pro soon at the rate you’re going.”

She squeezed his hand. “Don’t tease.”

“Well okay, but we can start playing for quarters any day now.”

“Maybe dimes,” she said, laughing. “Maybe.” Another big yawn hit her. 

“Don't fall asleep yet, you hear? I have things in mind for you.”

“What kind of things?” she said. From her flirtatious tone, he had a pretty good idea that she already knew.

“Let me take you home and I’ll show you.”

Though she was falling asleep on her feet by the time he parked on Genesee Avenue, she allowed him to walk her inside, persuade her onto the couch, and lift up her skirts. That gave her a second wind and she joined in the excursion with enthusiasm. When they were done and he’d buttoned his trousers back up, he watched her wander around the apartment in nothing but her garter belt and stockings, getting ready for bed. Apart from the nudie show, which he enjoyed tremendously, he found he’d missed watching her take down her hair and return from the washroom wearing it in braids, her cheeks shining from scrubbing her face. Tonight the routine was the same except that she was in the buff. He grinned, looking forward to having something to think about on Monday morning when the tedious conversations about Snap Shots resumed with the MGM brass and his surplus writers.

After Nelly had brushed her teeth, he followed her into her bedroom and watched her get into underthings and a pink sleeveless nightgown with ivory lace at the bodice. 

“Sticking around to tell me a bedtime story?” she said, giving him an impudent smile. 

He swatted her derrière in rebuke as she climbed into bed and drew the covers over her. “Sure. What’ll it be?” He sat on the side of the bed. 

“I don’t care. Surprise me.”

“Once upon a time Charles Lindbergh flew over the Atlantic to find the prettiest girl in the world.”

Nelly giggled. “Oh, is that what his flights are about?”

“He gets to England. Nothing worth seeing. Same story in France and Italy and Indonesia.”

“Indonesia’s not in Europe.” Nelly was laughing, but her eyes had also closed. 

“Who’s telling this story?” he said, tapping her shoulder. “So he gets back in the airplane, flies all the way across the Atlantic again. Gets to New York. All the dames he sees look like dogs practically. Well, he gets back into the airplane again and he commences to visit every state he can, Pennsylvania, Florida, Mississippi, Tennessee. You name it, he visits it. It’s no good. He never saw such ugly girls. Any how, he’s running low on fuel for his airplane and he decides to make a stop in Chicago.”

“Mmm,” said Nelly. Her lids were beginning to twitch. 

“While he’s there he goes and sees the sights. He takes an elevator up to the very top of the Tribune Tower. Guess who he meets on the top, top floor?”

“Miss Nelly Foster, that’s who. That’s how he found the prettiest girl in the world.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. She gave a vague smile at the caress, but otherwise was out like a light. “G’night, sweetheart.”

He collected his jacket and locked her front door with the key she’d given him, which was in his pocket more often than not these days. It was half past midnight by the time he made it home. He half-expected Nate to be waiting in the sitting room or at the foot of the stone staircase demanding to know where he’d been, but the house was silent and dimly lit; he stubbed his toe on his way to the kitchen to see what Caruthers had left in the refrigerator.

Standing in the kitchen eating cold roast and cold cooked carrots from a priceless bone china plate a few minutes later, he was back to being Buster Two, bewildered that this could be his life.

Buster wasn’t half bad at Shakespeare. The problem was that Nelly could barely recite her lines without laughing over his sober-faced version of Olivia, who spoke in a high, breathy voice. “ Stay ,” he would say, “ I prithee, tell me what thou thinkest of me ,” and clutch his hands in front of his heart so earnestly she would be in stitches. 

“ That you do think you are not what you are ,” she’d answer, giggling. 

She had a feeling he was trying to cut her up on purpose, but the straight face never faltered. After a half hour of practicing, Nelly called it a day. She would just have to learn the lines on her own. Buster seemed content to set aside the little green Arden Shakespeare edition of Twelfth Night . He drew his legs onto the sofa and put his head in her lap. She ran her hand through his thick dark hair as he closed his eyes. “You’re burning the candle again, Olivia.”

“Hmmph,” he said.

“Auditions are next Monday night. If I get the part, you’ll have plenty of time to help me rehearse my lines, I guess. The play doesn’t open ‘til the second week of June.”

Buster opened his eyes. “About that.” His brows were pinched.

“What?” she said.

“I’m leaving for New York on the seventh,” he said with a grim expression. 

“Oh.” She’d known in an abstract way that Snap Shots took place in New York, but somehow she’d failed to imagine that Buster might shoot on location. Knowing now how he had traveled in order to film Our Hospitality , The General , and Steamboat , it was a conclusion she should have come to. “How long will you be gone?”

Buster sighed. “July. If I’m lucky.”

“How long have you known?” she said, wondering why he had waited to bring it up to her. 

“Awhile. Before we started going together. Guess I just thought the day’d never get here.”

“I’ll miss you,” she said frankly, as she combed her fingers through his hair. 

“I know,” said Buster. “I’ve been thinking about how to get around it. Maybe I’ll send for you at the halfway point or something. You ever been to New York?”

“Not once,” she said. She briefly considered the practicalities of traveling all the way across the country while trying to keep her job at United Artists and, if her tryout with the Los Angeles Players Company was successful, star in a play at the same time. She was also thinking of his wife, who would doubtless accompany him. Buster, always so honest and hopeful when he built castles in the air, plainly had not thought of this.

“Well, I got some good news, anyway. That was the bad news. Wanna hear it?” He looked up at her so earnestly that she couldn’t resist bending her head to kiss his mouth. 

“Of course.

“I just rented a place just outside the M-G-M lot. A bungalow. Figured it’d save me some time going home every day. Plus you could stay the night. I got it all worked out.”

“Oh?” It sounded risky, but her stomach fluttered at the idea. 

“Sure. I’ll pick you up and take you there after dark. We get up before the sun comes up and no one’s the wiser. I can get you over to United Artists in the  morning.”

The scheme was more than a little hairbrained, but to Buster’s credit it worked. For two weeks before he left for New York, Nelly spent Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings at the bungalow. It was actually a double bungalow with separate entrances, the other half belonging to Edward Sedgwick, Buster’s new director, who used it as an office during business hours. Sedgwick’s half was always dark by the time Buster ushered Nelly through the door after nightfall, though. Buster’s side of the bungalow was a combination dressing room and gymnasium. The dressing room occupied the first room and contained a stove, refrigerator, and worktop so Caruthers could whip up meals. Like Sedgwick, he too was always gone by early evening, but left a hot dinner for two ready, never asking (or so Buster said) why he was cooking for two. The second room held weight equipment, a rowing machine, a punching bag, and other exercise equipment. Nelly had learned a few weeks back that Buster’s splendid physique was not the result of pratfalls, but of dedicated training. Off the gymnasium there was a small washroom, and at the back of the house a little bedroom with a double bed, a nightstand, and a chair. It was here that Nelly would fall asleep next to Buster, waking up more often than not in his arms.

The alarm clock would ring at a rude five a.m. and Buster would reach over her to silence it. Sometimes they would make love. Other times, Buster would fall back asleep and Nelly would watch him, letting him seize a few extra minutes before reluctantly shaking him awake again. Although he had every outward appearance of boundless energy when he was around her, she could tell in the droop of his eyes and the redness that occasionally invaded them that he was always tired. It was no wonder. There were bridge games with Louise and George Marshall, often stretching until midnight, and when there weren’t bridge games, he was practicing songs on the ukulele while she studied her lines, having recently gotten the part of Maria in Twelfth Night . In spare minutes, he’d tell her about baseball games, meetings with the M-G-M bigwigs, and lunches with other stars. He didn’t seem to have a second of his day that wasn’t filled. 

One subject he didn’t discuss was his wife and children. It was as if that part of his life didn’t exist, though Nelly knew that he must spend time with them. At first, she hadn’t wanted to know about Natalie because it would have curdled her with guilt to think that she was monopolizing another woman’s husband. Now she didn’t want to know because her feelings for Buster had strengthened. She could almost convince herself that if she didn’t acknowledge that other part of his life, the fairytale that was their time together could stay in place forever.

And it was like a fairytale, even the ordinary parts, like Buster stumbling out of bed so he could go into the front room and make coffee. She loved his sleep-mussed hair and bare feet, the bleary way he groped for his pack of cigarettes and lit the first one of the day, how he would shrug on a dressing gown over his underthings—if he was even wearing underthings, which was never a guarantee when they were sharing a bed. While he was thus occupied, she would get dressed for the day and throw on a dab of lipstick and a quick brush of mascara. As the coffee percolated and Buster dressed, she’d make breakfast, either wheat cakes with eggs or steak and eggs. They always kept the curtains drawn, and if any early-morning peddler knocked on the door to attempt to sell Buster vegetables, soap, and any other number of commodities, she would creep to the back door and leave Buster to turn them down.

Despite their precautions, spending the night at the bungalow still felt dangerous. Nelly knew it would take only one pair of unfriendly eyes to spot them and the jig would be up. Buster, she thought, was much too casual on this point and she always made him double-check that none of his neighbors were peeping out of their homes as she hurried into his car between six and six-fifteen-a.m., depending on how long she’d let him sleep or whether carnal matters had preoccupied them for an extra ten minutes. Even so, it was hard to stay nervous with his cheery attitude. He had only to throw her one of his beautiful smiles, upper teeth straight and gleaming, and she would be set at her ease again.

Chapter Text

New York City. Where he’d met Nate. Where he’d set sail for France. Where he’d come back from France, starved for money and girls and good food. Where he’d been the show-stealer on so many stages starting when he was just three and ending fifteen years later. Buster had once loved the city, its nightlife, gourmet grub, bustle, and the dual hum of opportunity and iniquity running like an electric current through it all.

Returning this time around, he was less enthralled. The smell of car exhaust seemed sharper, the crowds on the sidewalks noisier. It wasn’t the same city it was ten years ago, when he and Natalie had been young and in love, stealing passionate moments together before he shipped off to France. Of course, she wasn’t the same either. He was being kept at arm’s length as usual. They saw one another at breakfast and dinner, where Peg and Norma’s presence was always a buffer to any serious sort of conversation. While he filmed, the Talmadge women wandered off to Wanamaker’s, Lord & Taylor, and Saks Fifth Avenue. At dinner, they would recount what they had purchased and shipped back to California. When the conversation turned to clothes, Buster retreated into daydreams of Nelly, even though he was just as lonely for Natalie as he was for her. 

To top it off, he learned almost at once that things were very different now when it came to making pictures. He had a reputation now that preceded him. After they’d spent the first day filming a scene at Yankee Stadium and idly playing a game of ball, he and the crew decided to make the second day count by shooting a couple street scenes. Bright and early next morning, they headed over to Fifth Avenue. The script described him as just a faceless fellow trying to make a name for himself and win the heart of a girl. Everything was going according to plan with the scene until a passing trolley conductor hung his head out the window and shouted, “Buster! Hey, Buster! Buster Keaton!” The heads of all his passengers poked out of their own windows. Quick as a flash, a couple of women appeared at his elbow asking for his autograph. While he was trying to explain to them that he wasn’t carrying a pen and that he was in the middle of shooting and really couldn’t talk, two more women appeared, then some men. A trolley on Twenty-Third Street braked to a stop. Double-decker buses piled up behind it. Before he knew it, he was in the thick of a traffic jam surrounded on all sides by people, tugging on his jacket sleeves and clamoring for his attention. It made him nervous as all hell. 

“Do something, Eddie!” he called to the director, who was doing his best to push back the crowd. 

When he thought he was a goner and the throng would tear him limb from limb in their eagerness to possess some piece of him, a policeman appeared like an angel from heaven, whacking men and women alike aside with a billy club. In the distance, other policemen were taking command of the traffic. The crowd dispersed and Buster was delivered back into the arms of his crew, but the experience had shaken him. His knees didn’t feel like they would support him. Once Buster was safely inside one of the company cars and had a couple swigs of whiskey to steel his nerves, Sedgwick proposed going off to the Battery and trying their luck there once. Buster couldn’t resist plucking the script from Sedgwick’s big hand and pointing to a line for the scene they had just attempted to film: “No one in New York knows that this character exists.”

One thing that never failed to make him feel better was baseball, so when he spied an empty park near the Battery he dug for the mitt, bat, plates, and ball and whistled the crew over. They got through one inning before it happened again, the masses materializing to shout, leer, and reach for him. Luckily the policemen had followed the company and formed a human chain to keep the spectators back, but Buster couldn’t help but turn his back every couple minutes to take bracing swallows from his flask. So much for being faceless. 

Back at their suite at the Ambassador, with a few more swigs of whiskey under his belt, Bruckman at his side, and Sedgwick in bed gulping bromides, he wasted no time in calling Thalberg. His mind was made up. 

“It’s all going out the window, Irv. As soon as we start shooting today, I get spotted and there was a god damn stampede. They could have killed me. We’re gonna do some exterior shots of the city and so forth, but damn it all, that’s it. I ain’t risking my neck no more. Now authorize me to throw this cockeyed script in the ash can and shoot from the cuff here on.”

On the other line, Thalberg gasped.

“I never worked before with a script on paper, same as Chaplin and Lloyd, and I don’t have to now. Build the front for the New York City Hall out on Lot Two. We only need the lower floor. I’ll shoot backgrounds here and start for home in a few days.”

There was a long silence. 

Finally, Thalberg said, “Okay, Buster. You win. God knows what’ll happen, but go ahead.”

Of course, Weingarten was not going to bend to that without a fight. When Buster, full of the whiskey’s liquid confidence, told him the score, the producer gaped, then turned red. “You can’t throw away the script. I won’t authorize it. There’s too much time and men invested in it. It’s a sure winner. It’s perfect the way it is, I tell you. I won’t have it. When Irv hears about this, he won’t have it either.”

A smile crept onto Buster’s face. “I just talked to Irv. He agrees.”

Weingarten stomped out of the room and Buster retreated to his room to mull over the day’s events. He was relieved at the thought of leaving the city. Part of it was being rid of the crowds and that bloated script, sure, but it also meant that Natalie’s shopping trips would be throttled, not that she couldn’t spend more than half his weekly salary just fine back home too. More than that, though, Nelly was never far from his mind and he found that he was rather ecstatic at the thought of returning to her.



While Buster was gone, there was plenty to keep Nelly occupied and soften the ache of his absence. She had practice three times a week for Twelfth Night , to start. The Los Angeles Players Company had common language with her, Shakespeare and a zeal for the stage, and she felt much less of an imposter than she did in Hollywood where the rules were different and the competition stiff. While United Artists had plenty for her by way of scenery and prop work, she hadn’t seen a picture role since the three days in mid-March that she donned a headscarf, shawl, and old-fashioned floor-length dress to mill about on a soundstage made up like a snowy Moscow street for some of Tempest ’s ending scenes. She’d only glimpsed John Barrymore at a distance then, which was a relief.

Her mother now called every third day now to tell her how Ruthie and the baby, who had been named Violet, were faring. The baby had colic and they were dosing her with Chamberlain’s Colic and Diarrhea Remedy, hoping it would make a difference. In other news, as May approached the Garden Club was meeting weekly at the Foster home and Nelly’s father, as always, was absent in Chicago striking his real estate deals. Halitosis Harold had written Nelly a couple times and she dropped each letter in the wastebasket without reading it. 

In spite of her busy schedule, she was lonely for Buster. Though he was witty, told interesting stories, and could astound her at a moment’s notice with a physical stunt, she found what she missed most about him was his kindness and warmth, whether it was sending her to work with a decadent bag lunch packed by Caruthers the afternoon of the day before or serenading her in the evening with a new song he’d learned on the ukulele, slightly off-key but nonetheless charming for it. She almost threw away the letter she got from him, assuming it was more correspondence from Harold Jenkins. She saw the New York stamp on the corner of the envelope just in time. 

Sunday April 15th, 1928

Dear Nelly ,

I’m not much for writing but I will try to tell you about how things are going here . In a word, they could be better. We thought it would be no trouble to make the picture in New York but it turns out the people recognize me everywhere I go. Our second day of shooting & traffic stopped in all directions just so they could get a look at me. I was afraid the crowd would tear me apart but I was saved in the nick of time by a cop. Now I don’t want to be untrue to you but I tell you I could have kissed him. I really feel he saved my life. Anyway, it happens everywhere we go & we have had to get clever so now we go out early in the morning or when all the good folks of New York City are at church or are sleeping off the Saturday night parties (like today). But that won’t work forever for we need a full day’s shooting if we’re to finish the picture before 1937.

We all went to see “Wings” a couple nights ago at the Capital. It’s a fine picture & all was well until the scene where the military cops bust in Clara Bow when she’s changing. You can see her “bubs” & I tell you Nate got so mad about that after we walked out of the theater you’d think I was the one who told Clara to take her top off. I tried telling her I was more interested in the dog fights (they colored the explosions) & the sound affects but she wouldn’t hear it. Anyway I think you would have liked it & it was a terribly exciting picture. I have been thinking about how to work an arial fight into Snap Shots but have not been able to persuade Eddie Segwick Et Al. 

I hope you are keeping up on your bridge practice. We all play here at night (the fellows and me) & their company is fine but I like yours better. There is much more to tell you (I convinced Thalberg to throw out that damn phone book of a script) but the fellows are calling me now for a game. I will post this in the morning & you should look for a surprise from me soon.

                Sincerely yours,

                Buster

P.S. I don’t think I need to remind you but will anyway. I would love a return letter but it is not safe to write to me with present company, Etc. 

Though it wasn’t signed with Xs and Os, the letter still put Nelly on cloud nine. She went right out that night to see Wings and though she was a bit shocked to see Clara Bow half in the buff, she agreed with Buster that it was a thrilling film. It made her feel close to him watching it. Rereading Buster’s letter as April dragged on, July felt as if it was as far away as 1937.

Chapter Text

The train creaked to a stop on the Central Station tracks at half past midnight on the 27th of April. The change in speed woke Buster, who had fallen asleep in his clothes in his seat. In the car next to his, the Talmadge women would inevitably be emerging from slumber and would require an additional half-hour for their toilette, fearful of being caught unawares by a camera flashbulb even at this hour. He allowed a porter to fuss with his luggage while he smoked and waited for them. The faint sound of Peg ordering around her own porter came through the door and he added another ten minutes to his wait. He decided he ought to call Caruthers and Norma’s butler to bring the cars and searched out a telephone in the first-class lounge of the station. That accomplished, he stretched out on a cushioned bench and knit his hands behind his head. He was tired and probably more than a little scruffy-looking since it had been about thirty-six hours since his last shave. Still, his plan had always been to show up at Nelly’s apartment and surprise her when they arrived back in town. He just hadn’t expected it to be at this hour. He closed his eyes and smoked some more, debating on the wisdom of frightening her in the dead of night. It would be wiser to wait until morning when he’d slept, shaved, and eaten. 

By the time Peg and her daughters made their way toward him with several harangued-looking porters, longing had won out and his mind was made up. The ride home to the Villa with Natalie was quiet. She was dazed and travel-weary and he had nothing to say to her. He helped her into the house, but she wouldn’t let him carry her two most important bags past the threshold of her wing to the house. Just as well. It was now approaching two and he hadn’t given up his scheme. He took a few minutes to brush his teeth, comb his hair, and change into fresh clothes, then slipped down his balcony and off to the garage, making sure that a certain key was secure in his pocket. Caruthers was still busy trundling luggage into the house, but only acknowledged him with a hello and didn’t ask where he was going. Buster figured he knew anyway. He considered for a moment what Natalie might do if she called for him and found him missing. It didn’t scare him enough to stop. 

The drive to Nelly’s felt delightfully brief after days on a train and he was almost the sole car on the streets. He parked the Packard a few houses down and walked briskly up to the apartment, hands in his pocket and cap pulled low as always. When he had gone inside and made his way to Nelly’s front door, he debated whether he should knock. It would be the polite thing—he didn’t want to frighten her—but he also didn’t want to wake her neighbors. In the end, he put the key in the door and let himself inside. The apartment was dark and for a couple moments he was panicked that she wasn’t home. He had a sudden image of her in the bed of another man, some faceless extra from United Artists, and his heart took a slight tumble. When he turned on the lamp next to the sofa, though, he was reassured. There was her script and a half-eaten apple on the side table, and the apartment looked like a midden, evidence of recent occupancy. 

He turned her bedroom doorknob gingerly and pushed open the door with just as much care. Creeping across the floor so as not to wake her, he turned on her dressing table lamp. In the bed, she sighed and turned over, but didn’t wake. 

He knelt next to her bed. “I’m back,” he said, laying a hand on her upper arm. 

Nelly murmured again, but didn’t open her eyes. 

“It’s me.”

Nelly opened her eyes at last. “Buster?”

“Buster,” he said, grinning in his gladness to see her. 

“What time is it?”

“Quarter to three.”

She sat up with a shock of realization. “You said you’d be gone until at least July!”

He stooped to unlace his shoes. “Surprise.”

Nelly laughed, her voice still fogged with sleep. “Oh. This is the surprise.” She yawned and put a hand on his back. “Why are you back so early?”

“On account of me getting mobbed everywhere we went. Told Thalberg we’re doing the rest of the picture on Lot Two. There’s no other way to do it. Can’t say I’m all that fussed about it.” Having kicked off his shoes, he sat on the edge of the bed and cupped Nelly’s cheek. She was wearing her pink nightgown with the lace at the neckline. He leaned in and eagerly sought her mouth. 

She cut the kiss short. “I’m sure my breath is terrible. Let me at least find a toothbrush before you have your way with me.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed. 

“Oh, is that all you think I think about?” he said, putting on an offended expression. 

Nelly raised an eyebrow and grinned. “I know it for a fact.”

He harrumphed at her, but she was right. He already had an erection. He’d gone long stretches without sex before, but had been spoiled since he and Nelly started going together. Consequently, four weeks without now seemed like a lifetime. He unfastened his sock garters and rolled off his socks before flopping down on her bed. He was tired, but could take comfort in the fact that he would have a reprieve from filming tomorrow and that the weekend lay ahead.

Nelly returned to the room, braids over her shoulders, thighs bare and inviting. “How am I sure you aren’t a dream?” she said, getting into bed with him. 

“Wouldn’t I have shaved? In your dream?”

She brushed a finger against his stubble. “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I’m the kind of girl who likes dreams to be as real as possible.”

Buster leaned over and poked a finger into the front of her chemise, pulling the fabric forward and investigating her breasts. “These seem pretty real to me.”

In response, Nelly straddled him and began undoing the buttons of his shirt. He crossed his arms behind his head and surrendered. “You’ll have to tell me all about New York. I never guessed from your letter you’d be back so soon,” Nelly said. She tugged his left arm and then his right out of their sleeves, then rolled up his undershirt. He watched her look him over and knew she was pleased by what she saw. He’d always been secure about his appeal to the opposite sex and knew that they were crazy for him despite his disadvantage when it came to height. Still, this knowledge did nothing to soothe the fact that the one woman on the planet who didn’t think of him that way was his wife. 

His thoughts were yanked away from his marriage as Nelly’s finger strayed over one of his nipples. “New York,” he said haltingly, his powers of concentration greatly disrupted. 

“You don’t have to speak about it now. I know you’re tired,” said the little temptress, now licking that same nipple. 

He groaned helplessly and shifted his hips, which were pinned by Nelly’s weight. She moved her attention to his other nipple and he reached down into her chemise with both hands to grope her breasts. He was as hard as a rock now and shifted his hips again, seeking friction. She lifted her head and pressed her mouth to his, and he frantically unbuttoned his trousers. Breaking the kiss, she stretched forward and opened an unseen drawer beside her bed while he did his best to divest himself of trousers and undershorts. He pulled his knees up to wrestle them off his legs. 

“Don’t move,” said Nelly, with a wink. “I know you’re tired.” She settled back down and stroked both hands over his prick, and it took him a good long moment to realize she was putting a prophylactic on him. 

“Where’d you learn to do that?” he said, feeling breathless. 

“Oh, I pick things up,” she said. She lifted her bottom and eased the head of his prick into her, and he took over from there. 

The feel of her was sheer heaven. He held onto her hips and looked up at her as he fucked her. Her eyes were closed and her lips parted. Beneath the chemise, her breasts jounced with every thrust. 

“Is it good?” he said, trying to pace himself. 

Nelly nodded. 

“Good,” he said. He pressed the pad of his thumb into her clitoris and made clockwise circles. She moaned and he flushed with satisfaction. His girl , he thought. To prevent from getting too hot too quick, he spent the next several minutes concentrating on her pleasure, moving his thumb just so and watching her face for signs that she was at the breaking point and soothing himself with a few good thrusts every once and awhile. Eventually, her hips began rocking and her breath became jerky. “Is it good?” he said. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

Again, she nodded. There was a glaze of sweat on her collarbones and across her throat. 

The dirty talk seemed to be getting him somewhere, so he pushed it further. “Want you to come. Come for me. Come for me, baby.”

“Buster. Oh God, Buster.” The rocking of her hips hit a frantic pace and she cried out loud enough to wake the neighborhood as she came, stomach clenching and thighs trembling. He kept his thumb moving. “Buster, oh my God, Buster,” she uttered. 

When she was done, he seized her hips, gave a few sloppy thrusts, and came with such a violent force that he forgot Nelly’s rule about not making too much noise during sex, shouting so loudly that for the first time there was a startling thump on the other side of the wall.

“Will you kids shut the hell up?” yelled an older man. “It’s three in the god damn morning for crying out loud!”

“Sorry!” Buster called back in the midst of trying to catch his breath, and Nelly’s worried expression melted into mirth. 

“Shit,” she said, falling on top of him in a hot, sweaty heap. “I’m never going to be able to look him in the eyes again.”

“Which one is he?” said Buster. He slipped out of her and laid his hand between her shoulders. 

“Mr. Hernandez. The one who used to work for the railroad.”

“Just tell him I was taking you for a train ride.”

Nelly giggled. “Will you hush, you wonderful man?”

He drew lazy circles between her shoulders. “No.”

They clung to each other as their breathing went back to normal. He didn’t need to ask if he’d satisfied her or if she was happy he was back. He already knew the answer. 

“Are you hungry?” she said after a while. 

It had been hours since his last meal. “Starved.”

“I’ll make you some food, but you’ll have to drive me to work tomorrow.”

It was his favorite routine, ravishing her and getting fed afterwards. They put on their underwear and he followed into the kitchen to watch her put together some chicken and cucumber sandwiches for him, and afterwards he fell fast asleep in her bed, the first time he’d ever dared spend the night at her apartment. Her alarm went off a couple hours later and he resisted opening his eyes. He could have slept the weekend away without any problem, as tired as he was from New York and the train. Only the cup of coffee Nelly waved under his nose tempted him to sit up. They crept out of the apartment by seven o’clock and he dropped her off as usual a couple blocks from the UA lot, briefly pecking her on the lips after checking to see that the coast was clear. He drove back to the Villa aware that he looked like a man who’d been sneaking around on his wife, with his wrinkled clothes, mussed hair, and faint whiff of Nelly’s rosewater on his skin. A part of him dreaded Natalie seeing him that way. He sometimes wondered what it would be like to be confronted by her. Would she be calm and cold? Hysterical and despondent? He couldn’t stand the idea of a woman fooling around on him, certainly not Nate and not Nelly, either. He’d be out of his mind with jealousy. Yet his wife knew perfectly well he had other women, tolerated it even. The only cardinal sin with her was flaunting it or getting attached. Another part of him wanted her to notice it, to be jealous and to wonder who the woman was who was giving him such satisfaction.

In the end, he needn’t have worried. Natalie was sleeping late. Connie had the children indoors and was trying to give them their Friday-morning lessons, but when they saw him they shouted and tore toward him. He was glad to see the rascals and bent to hug them. He played with them for a half hour before retiring to his room for a shower and a shave. Afterwards, he swam laps in the pool for over an hour. By the time Natalie descended the front stairs, he had long since finished brunch and was as neat, pliant, and faithful a husband as she could ever desire.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

“You want me to what?” Nelly said, laughing. “I’m just about to wash my hair. I can’t.”

“Wash your hair ?” said Buster, as though he’d never heard such a preposterous thing. 

“Yes, wash my hair. I told you before, I do it every Saturday.”

It wasn’t just the disruption in her toilette that made her hesitate. If staying at Buster’s bungalow was risky, stepping across the threshold of the Villa door when he was supposedly alone was downright dangerous. She didn’t trust that an important item hadn’t been left behind and that Natalie wouldn’t pop back in at any moment to retrieve it. She could also picture a sudden return due to illness, perhaps indigestion or the heat of the May sun.

“Poppycock,” said Buster, when she aired these fears. 

“How so?”

“They left for the train station at six this morning. Won’t be back for a whole week.”

“Yes, but …”

Buster told her all the ways in which her misgivings were foolish. “You can spend the night,” he added, in a teasing, tempting tone.

“I can’t,” she said. She ignored the instant flash of heat between her legs at his words.  

“Don’t you wanna see where I sleep?” 

The heat prickled. She did. “Do you think I’m that easy?” she said, not ready to quite surrender.

Buster laughed. “I do. Anyway, you can wash your hair here. I have a bathtub, you know. And a shower.”

Nelly gave it some consideration. “You promise everyone is gone?” she said at last. She wanted to add Your children, your wife, and your servants? but trusted he knew what she meant.

“Not a soul except you and me, sweetheart.”

“Okay, I give in,” she said. “Don’t think I think it’s a good idea, though, because I don’t.”

Buster showed up forty-five minutes later, parking a few houses down on Genesee Avenue. He had tipped her off that he was coming in a black Gardner car. It was rather ordinary-looking, his butler’s personal vehicle he’d said, and she understood why he’d chosen it. In the bright morning light, one of his luxury cars would have been more conspicuous than it was in the late evenings when he usually came around. He sat in the driver’s seat almost completely concealed behind a newspaper as she approached, carrying her handbag and a small satchel with some clothing.

“Good morning,” she said, after opening the passenger door and settling herself inside. She couldn’t help herself grinning ear from ear at the sight of him. It was only the third time she’d seen him since he’d returned from New York. 

“Morning,” he said, answering her smile. He folded the paper and tossed it in the backseat. “You ready to be queen of a castle for a day?”

“I will be a guest of the castle,” she said, raising an eyebrow. Joke or not, the idea of her somehow taking Natalie Talmadge’s place at the Villa made her uneasy. Thoughts of Mistress Nell Gwyn , which she’d long since finished reading, flashed through her mind. 

“Alright, guest then.” He turned the key in the ignition and then swung the car onto the road. 

After he had shifted the car up to a comfortable traveling speed, he grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. She knew him well enough already to know that he wasn't the type to say things like ‘ I missed you ’ out loud, it just wasn’t him. The kiss said it all the same.

Truth be told, as much as Nelly was glad to see him, she was nervous to be even a guest at the Villa and not simply because Natalie could return at any moment. She could forget that Buster occupied a different world when they were at her apartment or the modest bungalow outside the M-G-M gates; she could not forget it amidst the splendor and sumptuousness of the Villa. Moreover, the Villa was Natalie’s territory, built with her in mind as Buster had once told her. It didn’t feel right sneaking around her house while she was gone. 

When Buster shifted down a gear again, he kept her hand in his so that her hand was also on the stick. He drove that way for several minutes, whistling, caressing her hand beneath his. Nelly was occupied enough without conversation, half fretting about setting foot inside the Villa, half wondering at the mansions of Beverly Hills, sprawling cream chateaus in the French and Mediterranean styles, most with red roofs. They all seemed to be variations of the Villa, or vice versa. 

Her stomach grew jittery as the meticulous, manicured hills of the Villa came into view. Buster went up the drive, still whistling cheerfully, oblivious to her discomfort. He pulled the car through the circle drive with the fountain, shifted down, and turned it off. 

“M’lady,” he said gravely when he opened her door. She handed him her satchel and he took her hand with his free one and helped her down. The fountain burbled pleasantly as she looked up at Buster’s palace. She should have been bright with anticipation, but all that she felt was a gnawing dread. 

“Sure they’re gone?” she said. 

“Sure as anything,” Buster said, burying his face in the side of her neck and kissing it abundantly. For once, it failed to distract her. 

“Alright.”

He took her hand again and pulled her up the steps and to the mahogany door with its interlocking diamond-patterned metalwork. Electric light burned in the large black iron sconces by the door even though it was day. Still holding her hand, Buster turned the door handle and pushed inside. Nelly was now back in the dimly lit vestibule with the red-brick floor. The house was cool and had a distinctive smell, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, which announced that a particular family lived there. It was larger and more sober than she remembered without its gay partygoers. She followed Buster into the foyer. With the great stone staircase and wrap-around stone balcony encompassing the upstairs, the house really did feel like a castle. 

“Loosen up,” Buster said, setting down her satchel and giving her shoulder a squeeze. 

She attempted a smile. “I’m sorry.”

“I wanna show you around,” said Buster. Nelly bent to get her satchel and he tugged her away. “Leave it. We’ll get it later. You can hang up your bag, too.”

Reluctantly, she looped the strap of her bag around the hook of an opulent hall tree. It too appeared to be made of mahogany. Their feet echoed on the marble checkerboard floor. 

“This is the breakfast room,” Buster was saying as they went up some steps and into a smallish room with a simple white wicker table and matching chairs. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows. He paused to let her gaze around her for several moments before leading her down another set of steps and into a room with a tiled floor, a trickling marble fountain topped with a cherub, and numerous palms and ferns. “And this here’s the conservatory on account of all the plants.” Nelly could only stare, marveling that there was an entire room just for plants. “The kids like playing behind ‘em, the plants, but I don’t much see the purpose of a conservatory,” Buster said, almost to himself. “That’s what it is though, and this next room’s the dining room.”

They ascended another small set of steps. Only one leaf was in the table and only four chairs were gathered around it though additional chairs sat against the walls. It was a table, in other words, for a family of four. It more than anything else she’d seen so far reminded Nelly of Buster’s other life, his real life, the part that she was shut off from. Clearly excited to be showing her around, he still hadn’t noticed her uneasiness, so she smiled and praised the pretty painted ceiling beams and the large, expensive oriental rug that the dining set was placed on.

“Servants are on this side, too, and so’s the kitchen. I’ll show you the kitchen later if you want.”

Next he took her back to the foyer and they went left into the living room. Nelly remembered from the party and said so. It was more cavernous than she’d recollected. There was the great stone fireplace, the sofa, some chairs and a side table with a fresh arrangement of flowers. She noticed another palace-sized oriental rug, a mirror, and a coal box. There were so many expensive items to catch her eye. Before she had time to adjust, Buster was pulling her in another direction. 

“I call this my playroom.” 

The playroom contained a big billiards table, a bar, and a small table the precise size for four card players. The ceiling was wood-paneled and beamed. A phonograph player and armchair sat off to one side.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, and added in a moment of honesty, “It’s a lot.”

Buster came up and put his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. He smelled like cigarettes and Brilliantine. She could tell he was feeling amorous, but she was too tightly wound to relax into his arms. “Why don’t you show me the grounds?” she said, to head him off. 

He withdrew his arms, seeming to catch on that she wasn’t in the mood. “Why, sure.”

They went out of a loggia off of the living room and Buster let her explore the grounds at her pace. For some reason, even though she was more exposed outdoors to anyone who might be around, she felt more secure. Buster’s sense of opulence was not restricted to the interior. Nelly saw the tennis court and push-button trout stream, and walked down to the extravagant pool, which looked tempting and refreshing as it glinted in the sun. She sat sideways in a pool chair and rubbed her ankle absently. “It’s a lot of space, isn’t it?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Buster agreed. He pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit it. He stood smoking and looking into the pool. 

“I’m afraid I find it all a little overwhelming,” she said. 

“Oh, I can tell,” said Buster, redirecting his gaze to her. “There ain’t no need to feel that way, you know. It’s a house, is all.”

“It’s a palace, Buster. It’s marvelously beautiful, it’s just …” She looked around her.

“Hmm.” Buster closed the space between them and sat next to her.

Nelly touched his knee. “I just forget sometimes that you’re King Charles and I’m Nell the orange-seller.”

“Bull,” said Buster. 

Nelly traced patterns on his knee and didn’t answer. The water in the pool lapped in a soothing way and smoke from his cigarette drifted into her face.

“So what’s your castle in the air, then?” said Buster, waving away the smoke.

“Me?” She looked into his eyes. “You know, silly. A Shakespeare talkie. What comes after, I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far.”

“No, I mean when it comes to real castles. What would you do different?” He inclined his head at the Villa.

“Oh, well … I’d shrink it down, naturally,” she said. “Maybe just one story or maybe a bungalow with a little room or two upstairs.” She’d never thought of what her ideal home might look like, but warmed to the idea at once. “It would have plenty of bookshelves and lots of books. Floor to ceiling. I’d have a collection of plays. Maybe I’d have a collection of records, too. There would be space to dance.”

“Even if you were a star?”

“I suppose. I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine having so much money.”

“Easiest thing in the world to spend money if you’ve got it. Everyone does when they do.” Buster flicked the spent cigarette to the marble flagstones and crushed it with his heel. 

Nelly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be cross with me. You just have to let me get used to it. It all makes me so nervous.”

“I should have figured it would, the way you were acting at my party,” he said, in a somewhat sullen tone of voice. “Guess it’s my fault for asking you over.”

She kissed his cheek. “Give me a chance to get used to it. You know, maybe a drink would help.” She hadn’t shared a drink with him since his party, but figured it was the fastest path to getting more comfortable.

“You want a drink?” Buster said, brightening. 

“Yes. Make me a drink,” she said, squeezing his hand.

They went up the white marble steps past the impeccably trimmed topiaries that lined it and decorated its center and back through the loggia and into the living room. Buster led her into the playroom. “What’ll it be?” he said.

“Something that isn’t whiskey, please,” she said, taking a seat in the armchair. 

“Gin Rickey?” he said.

“That’s fine,” she said, not quite knowing what a Gin Rickey was but happy to find out. 

She stole long glances of the room as Buster stood with his back to her and mixed the drink. She could grow to like this room, she decided. Of all the places in the house she’d seen so far, it seemed the most like the man that she knew, always eager for a game of some kind, in love with his comforts. 

“Here you are,” said Buster, appearing at her side to hand her the drink.

It was clear and bubbly, garnished with a wedge of lime. She took a cautious sip and tasted pine and lime. “It’s delicious,” she said, smiling at him.

Buster returned the smile. “Good.” He went back to the bar to pour himself a glass of whiskey. “Game of billiards?” he said, standing before her again.

Nelly took a generous swallow of the cocktail and although he was sure to have an insurmountable advantage over her said, “Sure.”

She went over to the billiards table and Buster walked over to the wall to push a button. To her marvel, a long, lavish metal light decorated with scrolls descended from the ceiling. He pushed another button and light was cast over the red-velvet billiards table. Buster smiled at her astonishment and flipped open a built-in cabinet, from which he selected a couple of cue sticks. He handed one to her. “Ready to get whupped?” he said. “Your turn first.”

“No, you,” she said firmly. “You need all the advantages you can get.”

Buster laughed. “You’re pretty confident, kid.”

It was a lie, of course. She’d never played the game well but didn’t want to show how green she was. She could at least try to mimic his form if he went first. He lifted the triangle away from the balls and went to the south end of the table holding the cue ball. She watched him place it in the left corner of the table and chalk the tip of his stick. Not missing a beat, he laid his left arm on the table and threaded the cue through his forefinger, then pulled his right arm back. It seemed as though he barely tapped the cue ball, but the pyramid of balls went scattering. “I call stripes,” he said, after watching to see where all the balls went.

Nelly took a large gulp of her drink and set it on a nearby table. She was remembering Buster shooting billiards in a film whose name escaped her. Each shot had been impossible. “How did you do those trick shots in that one picture of yours?” she said, grasping her cue stick. 

“ Sherlock, Jr .?”

“I think that was the one.”

“What’ll I get for telling?” he said, lifting an eyebrow.

“I’ll let you win, perhaps,” she said. 

That made him laugh. “It was practice. Four god damn months of practice. I had a teacher, one of the best players there is, and it still took us five days to get all the shots. Quit stalling, though. It’s your turn.”

Nelly stuck out her tongue and leaned over the table as she’d seen Buster do.

“No, no, no, you didn’t chalk your stick.” He took it out of her hands and wiped the piece of chalk around the tip. “Here.”

Rolling her eyes, she took the stick back and again set up her shot. She aimed at a solid green six-ball and shot. Instead, she hit a striped eleven-ball and didn’t get anywhere near any of the pockets.

“Oh Nelly,” said Buster, laughing. 

She didn’t mind that she was going to lose to him. It was worth it to see the way his grin lit up his face. “I’m deliberately putting you at your ease,” she said, narrowing her eyes and lifting her nose. She wandered over to her glass of Gin Rickey and finished it. 

“Want another?” said Buster, gesturing. 

She nodded.

They went on like that for the next half-hour, taking turns at the table. Buster beat her handily in three out of three games. “You can’t play at all,” he said with mild incredulity, after all of his balls were in their pockets at the end of round three.

Nelly set her drink (it was her third) on the table and hopped up onto the edge of the table. She was feeling happy and free and relaxed now. “So I told a fib,” she said, smiling and swinging her legs. “So what?”

Buster couldn’t hold back his laughter. “You’re awful bold.” He positioned himself between her legs and tilted his head up for a kiss. She pressed her mouth to his, tasting whiskey. “Want a lesson on form?” he offered. She shook her head, stroking her finger across his lower lip. “Well, what do you want?”

“You tell me,” she said. She traced a finger across his cheekbone and his eyelids grew heavy. His lips parted.

“It involve a bed?” he said, sounding dreamy.

“Maybe.” She grabbed the rest of her drink and finished it. “Where’s your bedroom?”

“Second floor. C’mon.” Buster helped her down from the billiards table and took her hand again. She followed him up the grand stone staircase and onto the landing. He paused a few moments to unlatch a heavy wrought-iron gate. He led her through it and down a short hall, then took a right into a small circular vestibule with an intercom and dumbwaiter. Before Nelly had a chance to ask where they were, he pulled her through the next doorway.

She knew at once that the bedroom wasn’t his. There were too many feminine tells: a mint-green screen decorated with flowers, a lamp with a pink shade, French perfume bottles on a bureau. Buster was nibbling her throat, but Nelly was looking over his head at the photographs of his children hanging on the walls. He steered her over to the edge of the king-sized bed and pushed her to a seated position. It sat atop a platform and was the biggest bed she’d ever seen. He sat beside her and started working on the dress buttons at the back of her neck.

“Oh, we can’t,” she said, pushing his hands away. 

“Huh?” said Buster, looking affronted. “Why not? Thought you wanted to.”

“I do, but not on your wife’s bed. Buster, it would be wrong.” She stood up.

“Look, I never once made love to her on this bed.” He appeared confused. “No one’s made love on this bed. She don’t do that. Not with me, not with anyone.”

“It’s not just that. It’s—I don’t want to take her place anywhere. I don’t want to be in her room,” she said. Her head was fizzy with Gin Rickeys, but she was never more sure of herself. She turned on her heel and walked back to the vestibule. 

Buster’s footsteps followed her. He caught her arm. “Don’t be like that, I didn’t mean to upset you.” His face was so soft and pleading that she couldn’t stay angry with him. 

“I know you didn’t,” she said, though ignorance didn’t excuse his mistake. She stood dumbly as Buster ran a hand up and down her arm. 

“Want me to take you home?” he said, voice remorseful. 

“No. No, I don’t.” She smiled at his doubt and put her arms around him, softening further. “Let’s just stick to other parts of your house, alright?”

“Alright. Well, can I take you to my bedroom?”

She had to bite back another smile at his persistence. “Sure.”

A similar round vestibule preceded Buster’s bedroom. This led to a small hall which led into the main bedchamber. Both his room and his bed were half the size of Natalie’s. The curtains were drawn, making the room dark and cool. Nelly tried not to look too hard at the photographs. There was one of his sons in front of a large dressing mirror that connected his two bureaus. 

“I built that,” he said, thinking she was admiring the mirror and dressers. “Designed it myself. Gabe helped me build it at my old studio.”

She was surprised at this bit of trivia. There were very few areas into which Buster’s talents didn’t extend, it seemed. “It’s a handsome piece of furniture,” she said. She noticed that the picture opposite his sons’ had been turned onto its face and attempted to give it no more thought. 

“Sorry the bed’s not made, but the servants are gone for the weekend.”

“You can’t make your own bed?” said Nelly, turning to him and giving him a playful pinch. Her nervousness had begun to melt away again now that they were out of Natalie’s territory. 

“What’s the point? It’s just going to get mussed up if I make it.” He returned to kissing her neck and this time Nelly tried to force her nerves away. His lips were soft, his breath was warm, and that was all that mattered. 

In no time, they’d gotten onto the bed. Buster bent over her, his leg threaded between hers, kissing her fiercely and clutching one of her breasts. She ran her hands up and down his back as his tongue entered her mouth. The bed smelled like him and she imagined, vaguely, what it would be like to wake up next to him in it, tumbled in these expensive blankets and sheets; to watch him dress and get ready for the studio; to see him off with a kiss and spend the rest of the day in idleness and frivolity, waiting for him to return home so they could go to dinner or attend a party at Pickfair. She couldn’t make up her mind whether that sort of life would be the meaning of happiness or unbearably stifling. Realizing that her thoughts had wandered again, she brought herself back to the present by sliding her finger into the seam of Buster’s button-up shirt and easing one of the mother-of-pearl buttons from its hole. Buster withdrew his hand from her breast and knit his arms behind her back so he could do her the same courtesy, plucking open buttons as they kissed. When all buttons had been accounted for, Buster sat up and pulled his arms out of his sleeves, while she stepped off of the bed and out of her dress. 

“Now,” said Buster, when she was back on the bed. “Where were we?”

“You tell me,” she said, looking down at his lap. He was still wearing his dark grey trousers. 

He grasped her by her bare shoulders and steered her onto her back. As he crouched on top of her, caging her in with his hands and knees, she reached down to undo his trousers. Her fingers brushed against his erection and he moaned, appreciative of the contact. She let her lower instincts drive her when the buttons were undone. It was natural to stroke him just so, to lick at his ear, to tell him how hot he was making her, but these actions, done of intuition, left energy for her mind to resume its peregrinations. It took so little to make Buster happy, and was no great chore to content him in bed. He liked all the usual things that men did. None of the deviations that she’d heard whispered about Charlie Chaplin during his divorce seemed to hold any interest for Buster. He never desired sex to such a degree that it was burdensome. Admittedly, she felt just as passionate for him as he did for her, but she tried to consider what it would be like if she didn’t. She still didn’t see what the harm would be in indulging him, in keeping his bed warm. Too little payment for so great a debt . 

She clung to his neck and kissed it while he inched her knickers down. He entered her with a sigh a few moments later. He hadn’t mentioned a prophylactic and she hadn’t asked. It was easy to forget sense when he made love to her. She forgot, too, what time it was and that they were at the Villa. Instead, her mind coasted along currents of pleasure, following each one to its length until she encountered the next. 

“Flip over,” said Buster, pulling her out of the reverie she’d sunk into. 

“Hmm?” she said.

He withdrew from her body and sat up on his haunches. “Right here.” He patted a portion of the bed to indicate. “But with your head toward the mirror and your feet sorta pointed at the pillows.” He tugged off his undershirt.

Her heart pounded. Save for the evening under the stars at the cabin that she’d mounted him, they’d only ever made love on their sides or with Buster on top. She unhooked her brassiere, wriggled onto her stomach, and stretched out, her head facing the mirror. 

“Now, I’d like it if you…” He sucked in breath as he dragged a finger from the top of her neck to the slight swell above her bottom. “Get up on your hands and knees.”

Her pulse throbbed. To obey him would be downright wicked, not respectable, not ladylike, but the moment Buster made the request she perceived what a superb idea it was. She rose to the position that he wanted her in and arched her back. 

Two words. “Oh, Christ.” She had never heard his voice sound like that, dark and worshipful, like he was a pauper and had been handed a sack full of gold objects. 

He lined himself up behind her, and there was a quick mutual adjustment of legs and feet before he entered her. Following instinct again, she pushed back to meet him. She closed her eyes to savor the new pleasure. As a consequence, it took her a couple minutes to realize Buster’s reasoning behind the position. When she blinked her lids open, in such a daze that it felt like she’d drunk ten Gin Rickeys, she saw them in the mirror together, Buster rising above her backside with abs standing out in stark relief, one arm stretched along her back and anchored on her shoulder. His eyes met hers and she pushed back. Not breaking her gaze, he pushed forward. She’d never seen herself in such a way before, her arms splayed, her hair starting to fall out of its chignon, her breasts swinging with every push by Buster. His breath was fast and hard. He was muttering sweet things to her through his moans, Oh darling and You’re so good . For her part, she’d never been so excited. 

He wouldn’t last like this, but she sensed that he wasn’t meant to. She gave another push back and he broke against her with a choked cry. “I can’t, Nelly, oh I can’t …!” He doubled over her and clutched her breasts, gasping as he came. She met his uneven thrusts, grinding herself against him for all she was worth, craving those last frissons of euphoria before he withdrew. She lifted her eyes to the mirror and watched him pull out and collapse on his back against the mound of his pillows, his chest heaving. Her arms were sore as she drew alongside him, but the pain was distant. 

Only when she met his eyes did she realize what had just happened. Buster’s groggy look of pleasure was changing to fear. “I was trying to say, ‘I can’t stop,’ ” he said, feeling for her hand and squeezing her fingers when he found it. 

Impossibly, she’d forgotten that there was no barrier between them. She dipped a hand between her legs and encountered the excess wetness there. 

“I’m so sorry,” said Buster. She’d never seen such an expression of worry on his face.

She propped herself on her elbows, still half in a daze from their love-making. “Do you have a—where are your pants? Your handkerchief.” She had trouble commanding the words. 

Buster slipped off the bed and picked up his trousers, feeling in the pocket. Wordless, he handed her the white square of cloth. She wiped away as much of the wetness as she could. “I’m sure it’s fine,” she said, after she’d bunched up the cloth and thrown it clear of the bed. She was now beginning to feel worried, but only because he seemed so worried. “The chances are very, very small.”

He was standing at the foot of the bed running a hand through his disheveled hair. “If it comes to that,” he said, in a halting way that told her he was still arranging his thoughts. “If it does, I’ll help you sort it out no matter what. Okay?”

“I’m sure it’s fine. Come here.” When he was close enough, she pulled his hand to her mouth and kissed it. “Don’t worry.” In her head, she was counting up the days since her monthlies had appeared last week. She came up to eleven, not quite the midpoint. The midpoint was when most women conceived. She looked up at Buster. The furrow beneath his brows was deep. “Please. Stop worrying.”

He sat next to her and knit his hands together and stared ahead. She thought she detected a peculiar luster to his eyes. 

“Darling, it’s as much my fault as it is yours. I forgot too.” She reached out and brushed the hair back from his forehead. “There’s no point in worrying unless I’m late.”

“I won’t go without a thin from now on,” said Buster, as though he hadn’t heard her. 

Her head began to ache. The Gin Rickeys had worn off. “Please. Please stop worrying.”

Without any warning, Buster threw his arms around her and clasped her tight, so much that he took some of the breath out of her. He held her like that for several long moments, not saying a thing, before releasing her. “Alright, I will,” he said. 

“Good.” She held his cheek in her hand until he looked her in the eyes and she was satisfied at what she saw in his. “Now I’m the one who’s hungry this time. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Buster seemed to cheer up a fraction. His voice sounded a bit sunnier as he said, “What would you like?”

“Oh, anything. Whatever you want. I’m sure I’ll like it.”

Nelly thought they dressed more somberly than usual this time, collecting articles of clothing from the bed and floor and pulling them on without saying a word. Despite her reassurances to Buster, the weight of her predicament was beginning to settle on her. All the canteen lunches on the set of Steamboat and at United Artists had taught her that there were two choices for girls whose famous lovers had put them into a condition. They could go away for a period of confinement and give up the child when it was born. Or they were put in touch with a doctor who could take care of their situation. 

Buster disappeared as she was buttoning up her dress and she heard the faint sound of his voice from down the hall. He was speaking to someone. She froze. Natalie must be back. She looked around in horror and spotted a doorway to the left of the bureau. She hastened through it and found herself in a bathroom. Hiding in the shower would be absurd, but it was the best place to conceal herself. She decided to wait to hear if footsteps approached first. The seconds dragged on. Her pulse thudded and her head throbbed in an angry way. At long last, she heard someone enter the room, but there was just one set of footsteps. “Nelly?” Buster called. 

She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and made her way to the doorway. “Are you alone?” she said in undertones. 

Buster, who was standing at the foot of his bed, looked toward her in bafflement. “ ‘Course I’m alone. What do you mean?” 

Relief descended and she came back into the bedroom. “Who were you talking to?”

Buster gave her an odd look. “Caruthers. Ordering food.”

Although she was comforted to hear that Natalie had not made an unexpected return, she was dismayed to hear that someone else was in the house with them. “I thought you said everyone was gone?”

“They are,” he said. “I can’t go without Caruthers, though. He does all the cooking. And I need someone to fetch things if I need ‘em. I can’t just go out like you.”

“Oh,” said Nelly, somehow not feeling satisfied with this explanation. 

Buster gave her shoulder a squeeze. “He knows about us, anyway. And before you go worrying, he’ll never breathe a word. I trust him with my life.”

She wasn’t happy to hear that Buster had given away their secret. Though the butler had been friendly the night he had driven her home, she knew that servants gossiped. Perhaps male servants didn’t do it to the extent that female ones did, but she didn’t think it was worth chancing. “If you think so,” she said, not able to keep the skepticism from her voice. 

“Buck up,” said Buster. “Anyway, how else was I supposed to get you a nice dinner tonight?”

Tonight. The Gin Rickeys, the dark room, and the torrid love-making made her forget it was still daylight out, but of course it couldn’t be past two or two-thirty. She stepped toward the mirror and took in her disarrayed hair. “If he knows I’m here, I ought to fix my hair before I go back downstairs.”

Buster smiled and looked self-satisfied. “Ain’t no need for you to go anywhere. Go on and fix your hair, and I’ll call you when the grub’s here.” He took a silver brush from his bureau and handed it to her. 

She stayed in the bathroom until Buster yelled for her, not wanting to be caught in the room when the butler wheeled in a cart of food. It would be too uncomfortable. She stepped into the bedroom but didn’t see Buster. “Where are you?”

“In here.”

She followed the sound of his voice and, feeling cautious, went down the hall and into the vestibule where she saw Buster holding a silver tray with both hands. It held two or three covered dishes. He cocked his head at a dumbwaiter she had not noticed earlier where there was a smaller tray holding glasses and soda pop bottles.

“You grab those there,” he said.

She did as she was told and they went through another door of the vestibule and onto a balcony, where there was a small table and a few bistro chairs. “Oh my,” she said, as she caught sight of the view. The balcony was directly over the east portion of the house, which stretched out at an angle beneath them. That was not what had taken her breath away, however. From here, there was a perfect view of the marble steps, swimming pool, and tennis court, and sloping away from them, the estate wandered down to the great flower bed beside the winding drive that they had come up. It wandered farther still, past the palms and shrubs, and then there were mansions as far as the eye could see in every direction, beautiful mansions so well-arranged on the hills that they looked the very picture of an Italian town. That was where all of Hollywood lived, Marion Davis, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Norma Shearer, Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, and here she was among them dining with Buster Keaton. For a minute, she felt far removed from her previous life in Evanston and her current one as a humble extra and prop manager, tasting what it must be like to be a movie star. 

“Like it?” said Buster, setting the tray on the table. 

Nelly nudged her tray next to his, considered the warm sun on her shoulders and the breeze, smelling earthy and almost living, and nodded. Maybe it was the view, maybe it was laughing and eating fresh strawberries and cream with Buster after they’d finished purée of potato soup and veal cutlets, but from that hour forward she took a better liking to the Villa and began to see it as he did. Her worries were, for the remainder of the evening at least, set aside.

Chapter Text

The idea came about as they were sitting in the semi-dark watching the previous day’s rushes of Snap Shots on the retractable projector. It was the rough stuff before the cuts, several takes of him being jostled by the crowd thronging to see the ticker-tape parade and being thrown against Marceline, falling more in love over her shoulder as he scented her perfume. Nelly laughed more than he expected her to. There were even a couple belly laughs. 

When he turned to her for an explanation, she ran her hand over the top of his head and to the base. “Oh Buster, your face,” she said, combing her fingers through his hair and caressing him. “I don’t know how you make it do that, but it always tells everything.”

Hearing that cheered him up. With the premiere of Steamboat nearing, he’d started to feel nervous about the critics again, which in turn made him nervous about Snap Shots . What if it was another turkey and the writers were right all along with their dictionary-sized script? Encouraged, he told her a little about where he thought the film was heading and she nodded, agreeing with his plot. 

“I ought to go wash my hair or I’ll lose the will,” she said, when there was a lull in the conversation. 

“Aw, forget your hair,” he said. He was having the time of his life showing her the pleasures of the Villa and was reluctant to call it night. 

“Absolutely not. Now it smells like chlorine, anyway.” 

He’d been able to persuade her into the pool before night had fallen. She wouldn’t hear of wearing one of Nate’s bathing suits, and was probably right that they wouldn’t have fit her bosom. Instead, she wore one of his one-piece suits and they splashed for an hour, challenging each other to races and engaging in a little idle necking. They hadn’t redressed afterwards, just donned cotton robes from the bathhouse and walked around the house in bare feet. Caruthers cooked ribs for dinner with asparagus and French-cooked new potatoes on the side, and they’d eaten in the breakfast room. 

“Chlorine-schmorine,” he said.

“I’m serious,” she said, withdrawing her hand. She gave him a playful but firm prod. “C’mon, Mr. Cameraman.”

“Oh, thinking about becoming a Ziegfried Girl?”

It was a joke, but as he took her upstairs to his bedroom it occurred to him that he did have a camera. He’d bought it over the winter, only to realize he had nothing to shoot. Natalie didn’t like the daredevil poses he put the boys in, calling them ‘dangerous,’ and he wasn’t about to aim the camera at her dour face after she lectured him. So he put it in a corner of one of his closets and forgot about it. A hitch of excitement went through his stomach as he entered the bathroom with Nelly. She would get into the water and she would be naked. 

“May I?” said Nelly, gesturing to the clawfoot tub. 

He nodded, throat going a little dry.

She sat on the edge and turned on the taps, keeping her fingers under the stream of water until it was to her liking, then plugging the drain. 

“I’m not going to get a lick of privacy, am I?” she said, lifting an eyebrow. 

He shook his head. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.” 

She rolled her eyes and half-smiled at him. While the tub filled, she stood at the porcelain sink and went through the familiar motions of letting down her hair. He sat on the toilet seat looking up at her and smoking a cigarette, pretending not to be as interested as he really was. She brushed her hair with his silver hairbrush after unpinning it. It was halfway down her back, and so thick she had to hold sections up to brush the under layers. Once she’d finished with her hair, she turned off the bathtub taps and gave him an exasperated look, although he could see she was teasing. The cotton robe came off. He didn’t have much of a chance to admire the way his bathing suit looked on her much curvier frame before she shucked it down. He whistled.

“Hush,” she said, dipping a leg into the tub. She put the other leg in, sat down, and examined his selection of shampoos and soaps. He could have offered her Natalie’s more expensive shampoos, all scented like flowers, but knew she wouldn’t have it. So cocoa nut oil shampoo it was. She drew up her knees and disappeared into the tub, dunking her head, and sat up with her hair drenched. He looked at her bubs, the rich brownness of her hair, and knew he wanted to fix the sight forever. He ignored her questions as he stepped out of the room, went into the hall, and turned on the lights in his closet. The camera and tripod were where he’d left them. He grabbed them and stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on his way back to the bathroom. 

Buster liked Nelly for so many reasons, and to them he added the fact that she didn’t bat an eye when he returned to the room with the camera. “I hope you’re not thinking of using those photos for Snap Shots ,” she said coolly, as he set the tripod up a yard from the bathtub. He opened up the camera, withdrew the bellows, and fixed it in place.

Nelly hummed, scrubbing her head with shampoo. “ We’re all alone, no chaperone, can’t get our number. The world’s in slumber—let’s misbehave !” she sang. 

He laughed. “I’m trying, but it takes an age to set this damned thing up.” He screwed it on the tripod and inched it forward to adjust the focus.

“ They say the spring means just one thing to little lovebirds …”

“ We’re not above birds ,” he countered. 

“ Let’s misbehave !” they finished together, and laughed. 

“Okay, think I’ve got it just about right,” he said. He felt for the cable of the shutter release and clicked it. 

“Say, where are you going to have these developed?” she said, pausing in her lathering. “I don’t want anyone else to see them.”

He clicked the shutter again, capturing her quizzical expression and the way her raised arms lifted her bubs. “Got a darkroom of my own, honey.” There was one in the detached shed on the Villa grounds where he cut film, though he’d never used it. 

“Oh.” She resumed lathering. “That’s fine.” 

He noticed that she couldn’t pile her hair atop her head when she washed it, but rather started at the top and worked her way down to the long coil lying against her shoulder. For a minute, he didn’t click the shutter, but simply watched her add shampoo and lather, humming “Let’s Misbehave.” A feeling swam in him that had nothing to do with lust. He shook it off and said, “Look at me. Chin up.”

Nelly pursed her lips and thrust her chin at him, giving him a saucy look. He clicked the shutter. She laughed at herself in the aftermath and he clicked the shutter. She crossed her arms across the edge of the bathtub, her bubs settled across them, and his lust returned lightning-fast. 

“You’ve got great tits,” he said, wanting to see if he could get her to blush on camera. He knew she half-hated, half-loved when he used language like that with her. 

“Bus,” she admonished. As predicted, there was the blush. 

He clicked. “What about touching one of ‘em?” 

She clucked her tongue, but cupped one breast and stared at him like she couldn’t wait to be fucked. His pulse was starting to thud in his ears. He straightened from his crouch and moved the tripod closer. Nelly gathered her hair in a bunch at the crown of her head and thrust her chest at him, smiling. It was a beautiful pose. “Now I’ve got to do the part that takes forever, rinsing.”

Buster peeked out from behind the camera. “You could rinse out in the shower.”

“If I do, will I have company?” She leaned forward on the tub again, her bubs so full and inviting he could practically feel them in his mouth. 

He nodded, his throat dry again, and stood so he could start the shower. When he announced the temperature was right, Nelly scurried, dripping, across the floor and into the metal cage. She flung her head back and the white shampoo foam sluiced down her hair and into the drain. Buster shed his robe and bathing suit and stepped into the shower, and she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him, slipping her tongue into his mouth. She was soft, warm, and slippery and he wanted nothing more than to make love to her again, but he intended to keep his promise about the prophylactics.

When her hair was rinsed and the water ran clear, he lowered himself to his knees. He always treasured the look that came into her eyes when she realized what he was about to do. She was slick and he pressed a finger into her as he swirled and flicked his tongue. It no longer took him very much time at all to make her come. On cue, she quickly began to writhe. If he could snap a photo of them doing this, he would.

She almost drowned him when she came, clutching his head against her and making the water flood into his face at an uncomfortable angle, but he didn’t care. He licked her until she pushed him away. 

“I want you,” she said with a whimper, when he rose again. 

The beast in him agreed, wanted to take her right then and there. He growled against her neck and rubbed himself on her. “Not without a thin,” he said, trying to be sensible. He also didn’t know if he could manage the angle. “You could kiss me,” he suggested, feeling breathless. 

Her eyes were heavy. She tugged at his prick. “Here?” 

“Mmm-hmm,” he said, his heartbeat drubbing in his ears. 

She sank to her knees. He watched her hollow her mouth over him, the fringe of her eyelashes downcast, hair fanned down her back and over her shoulders. His hand went to her hair and his eyes closed without him even knowing it. He endured the sweet torture of the silk heat of her mouth for all of two minutes before his climax roared up on him and he was a goner. Nelly kept him in her mouth and by the time he opened his eyes again, he wasn’t sure whether she had spat or swallowed. 

“That enough misbehaving for you?” she said, standing with a groan. 

He nodded, feeling weak and leaning back into the spray of the shower. 

They shared the soap and washed up. He found towels for them in the linen cabinet. Nelly twined her hair up in one and knotted the other between her breasts. She aimed the tripod at him as he toweled his hair. “Oh no,” he said. “Not in my birthday suit.”

She ignored him and fiddled with the focus. “You’ve got some of me in my birthday suit.”

“ ‘Cause it’s your birthday next week,” he said, tying the towel around his waist in haste. 

She gaped at him. “How on earth did you remember that?”

He’d filed it away during their weekend at the cabin, although he wasn’t about to ‘fess up. She wasn’t aware yet, but he’d planned a surprise for her at next Friday’s party that she didn’t know she was attending. “ They say the spring means just one thing to little lovebirds …” he said, pulling his toothbrush out of the porcelain holder in the wall. 

Nelly clicked the shutter. “Fine, don’t answer. I do want a picture though. It’s only fair. Are you going to misbehave for me or not?”

He laughed at her persistence, and turned around and loosened his towel, but draped it in front of his prick instead of losing it altogether; he wasn’t interested in looking small in the picture. He gave her the deadpan that came so natural whenever a lens was aimed at him.

She laughed. “You’re so damn somber.”

He stared at her, deadpan. 

“Okay, just one more and I’ll leave you alone.”

As soon as she’d taken the picture and stood up, he offered her a full smile. He laughed as she swatted his rear end, and handed her a spare toothbrush. Nelly sat on the end of his bed and braided her hair a few minutes later, dressed in the cotton robe again. He busied himself carrying a down bedspread onto the bed on the sleeping porch and turning down the sheets. 

“Aren’t we sleeping in here?” Nelly said with an expression of concern when he took her hand. She was probably worrying he’d take her back to Natalie’s bedroom. 

“Uh-uh.” Once they were on the porch, she relaxed. There was a nip to the night air that was going to make the down comforter just the thing. He patted the bed. “Take off your robe.” She bared herself to him again and he was reminded afresh what a good idea it had been to take a mistress. He took his off and pulled the bedspread up to their shoulders. Nelly snuggled close, smelling like coconuts. Though he’d sneaked girls into his room several times before, he’d never dared bring one onto the porch.

The state of his marriage was always nagging him, like a cut he kept bumping and reopening, but snug under the covers with Nelly with the cold breeze playing against his face, he forgot it for the time being. 

Chapter Text

Buster tried his darnedest to get her a date for the party. He first suggested John Barrymore, apparently forgetting (or not caring) that Barrymore had once been his greatest rival for her affection. Nelly’s opinion of him hadn’t changed since Tempest ; hanging onto the arm of a crude drunk all night was not her idea of a good time. She said no. He next suggested Buster Collier. She’d never met him, but he’d been in so many pictures that she knew his face well, though she couldn’t say what the films had been about. Buster Collier had been going with Constance Talmadge until recently. The break-up wasn’t personal; Buster told her the two were still friends. 

“Certainly not, then,” said Nelly. “She’ll want to know who I am, how he met me—no. She’ll know something’s fishy.”

The suggestion of Charlie Chaplin followed. She gave more consideration to it. Charlie was charming and easy to talk to. In the end, he was out of the question given the many rumors about his sexual excesses and questionable behavior with women. She didn’t think it was a wise idea and Buster had to agree. The two were friendly but not pals, and he admitted he didn’t know how far to trust Charlie either. In desperation, he floated the idea of his brother, Jingles. 

“Are you kidding?” she said. Buster had told her enough about his family that she’d gotten a pretty good picture of Jingles, who lacked his big brother’s confidence in all areas of life and was a hopeless failure with women. “No one will believe that for a second.”

“Well, I’m out of ideas,” said Buster, sounding annoyed on the other end of the phone. 

“Let me ask Bradford. He was my dance partner for Tempest . I’m pretty sure he doesn’t go for girls, anyway, so he’d be perfect.”

Nelly didn’t know that her proposition was any better than Buster’s. To his guests, Buster had treated her presence at his party in October as no big curiosity, a matter of course, but she couldn’t help but wonder what he’d say now to them now, what he’d say if Natalie in particular asked why he’d invited two big nobodies like her and Bradford. Natalie might rightfully wonder why they among hundreds of aspiring actors were there. Buster’s quick mind would probably come up with an explanation that passed muster, but Nelly worried. He’d mentioned once, an offhand comment that was far more significant to her than it was him, that Natalie had fits of jealousy over him. Nelly’s instincts told her that attending the party was a bad idea, that she’d be too much temptation to Buster and he’d give their affair away with a look or a word or, worse still, a tender caress. Regardless, she couldn’t refuse even if she’d wanted to. He’d hinted about a birthday surprise and she couldn’t let him down, not to mention she was dying to know what he’d cooked up. Aside from the tabletop phonograph and occasional record, he’d stuck to his promise not to shower her in gifts and she knew he wasn’t about to present her with something in front of his wife and guests. 

Uneasiness gnawing, she directed Bradford to the Villa at dusk on Friday night. He was just as keen as she was to break into pictures, so he’d agreed to drive her to the party and be her date without hesitation, especially after she explained she only wanted to go as friends. He’d gotten a minor role in the newest D.W. Griffith, the picture she’d tried out unsuccessfully for, and was happy to tell her about it while they drove, far less stoic than he’d been with her on previous occasions. His chattiness, she guessed, was due to his eagerness to meet and charm as many stars as possible and he was having trouble controlling his excitement. As Bradford recalled how he’d spoken briefly to Griffith on the set earlier in the week, she wondered, as she’d been wondering lately, about her career path in Hollywood. There were murmurs at the United Artists canteen about a Mary Pickford talkie with Sam Taylor directing, not Shakespeare. It gave her mixed feelings. On the one hand, maybe Mr. Taylor had forgotten about directing Pickford and Fairbanks in The Taming of the Shrew . On the other, she’d been relegated to the prop house for Lady of the Pavements , the new Griffith. A niggling fear had begun to creep on her, that her much more mundane talents at management and organization were impeding her career as an actress.

As the long white drive of the Villa became visible in the distance, she asked Bradford the question she’d been dreading, knowing he’d have his own questions in turn. “When we get there, would you pretend like we’re going together?” she said. 

“Pretend like we’re going together?” said Bradford.

“Yes,” she said, running her fingers over the thin chain-metal handle of her handbag. “Just, you know, hold my hand or put your arm around my waist while we’re there. Dance with me more than the other fellows. Maybe a kiss on the cheek once and awhile, that kind of stuff.”

“I’ll do it if you really want me to, but why?” he said, sounding mystified. 

Nelly weighed whether to tell him the truth and decided she didn’t have a choice. “I’m seeing someone who’s going to be there and I don’t want his wife to get suspicious,” she said, being careful with her words. 

Bradford chuckled. “Now I get it. I was wondering why you asked me of all people.”

She felt defensive. “You’re the closest I have to a friend, a friend who’s a fellow. I’ve been too busy to get to know very many people. It’ll be no different than if you were acting.”

“Relax,” he said, leaning over to elbow her in a friendly way. “You think I’d miss this? I don’t care what you want me there for, frankly. I’m at your beck and call.”

Her shoulders relaxed; she hadn’t been aware that she was clenching them. “Thank you,” she said. “I do like you just fine, I just didn’t know who else to invite. You’re the first fellow who came to mind.”

“Relax,” said Bradford again. He continued talking amiably as his Ford crept up the Villa drive. He wanted to know how she knew Buster and she reminded him of her involvement with Steamboat . “When’s that coming out, anyhow?” he said. 

“Any day now from what I’m told,” she said, her mind only half on the conversation. Butterflies tickled her abdomen from the inside. 

The circle drive with the fountain in the center was ringed with expensive cars, Packards, Rolls Royces, and Lincolns. There was a man leading a woman wrapped in a white fur stole up the steps and into the house. Bradford grinned like a little boy as he drank it all in. He helped her out of the Ford which was dismally out of place, but there was no sense in worrying about it now. She reminded herself that she was an actress and could every bit pretend to be a person who belonged to the ranks of the stars. With this in mind, she ascended the steps with her arm hooked in Bradford’s elbow and let him open the door for her. “Thank you darling,” she said, practicing that acting as he took her arm again. She hoped that the figure dressed in the beaded navy-blue dress and standing beyond the vestibule had heard it. Natalie was greeting the guests ahead of them. Seeing her, Nelly felt a little on the faint side. She’d rented her dress at Carmela’s again, this one $25 and less eye-catching. It was sleeveless and of bright purple damask. It had no beading or ruffles, just modest ruching around the waist. She’d accented it with her own glass amethyst pendant necklace and ivory silk stockings. She had wanted to look less noticeable, but the light in the vestibule made the satin threads in the dress dazzle and flash. She’d done a formidable job of keeping worry about her mistake with Buster at bay the past week, but Natalie’s nearness and realness brought it home. Slim though it was, a chance existed that this woman’s husband had made her pregnant. Before Nelly had time to gather her wits about her on this matter, she and Bradford were advancing to greet Natalie. 

“How do you do?” said Natalie, and Nelly and Bradford echoed her. 

Bradford answered Natalie’s unspoken question. “We work with Mr. Taylor at United Artists.”

Nelly could only manage a desperate smile as she took in all the flesh-and-blood details of Natalie and remembered how Buster had looked in the mirror as he’d thrust himself into her. She wondered if Natalie recognized her from the party last autumn and was relieved at the sound of the front door opening behind them and the excuse to move on from the hostess so she could greet her next guests.

“Holy mackerel,” Bradford said under his breath, as he led her into the foyer and looked around him. 

Nelly took stock of who was at the party already. She saw Norma Shearer, Bebe Daniels, Marion Davies, Pickford and Fairbanks, and before her eyes had gotten any further, Buster. Her heart went at a clip at the sight of him. She’d expected him to be upstairs and make a grand entrance as he’d done at the previous party. He was wearing a smart brown suit and his hair was neatly combed, every errant strand in place. He swirled a glass of whiskey and took a sip, talking with Norma Talmadge and a dark-looking man with Spaniard features. “That must be Gilbert Roland,” she said, mostly to herself. 

“Hmm?” said Bradford. 

“Norma Talmadge’s boyfriend. She’s married, but everyone knows she’s seeing Gil Roland,” she said, reciting the gossip she’d heard from Buster. 

“You’re back,” said someone cheerfully. 

She turned and beamed when she recognized Charlie Chaplin. The sight of him reminded her how fun it was to be among the brightest stars in Hollywood and her discomfort about Natalie eased. “Hello again,” she said. She held out her hand to his extended one and he kissed it, his lips soft and cool on the back of her hand. She giggled, thinking she really would have been in trouble if she’d attended the party with him. “This is Bradford. He’s with me at United Artists.”

“Oh, that’s simply heartbreaking. Don’t tell me you’re taken!” said Charlie, his hand going to his heart. 

“I’m afraid so,” she said, leaning her head on Bradford’s shoulder briefly to demonstrate. “I’ll still save a dance for you.”

“If you’d be so kind,” he said, his accent rich and irresistible. “But why haven’t I seen you at United Artists?” 

Nelly smiled and squeezed Bradford’s arm. “We’re undiscovered I’m afraid, but D.W. Griffith has his eye on Bradford. They spoke just this week. Me they’re keeping locked up in the prop department right now, but just you wait.”

Charlie winked. “Well, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we? Will you be about next week?”

She could hardly believe it. And she’d been so worried about her career. “Of course.”

“Good. It’s settled. I’ll catch you when the band starts, hmm?” he said. “Lovely to see you.” He pressed her hand and turned away, disappearing into the crowd. 

Her head whirled. One minute she was worried about Natalie Talmadge finding her out, the next Charlie Chaplin seemed to be promising her some sort of a future in films. And there was a band! 

“Drink?” said a butler she didn’t know, stopping in front of them with a tray on which were arranged a number of delectable-looking drinks, all of oranges, deep reds, and yellowish creams.   

“Thank you,” she and Bradford said, choosing drinks after a few moments’ consideration. She went for the cream-colored one. 

Another butler materialized with hors d'oeuvres . She plucked up one of the bite-sized trifles and popped it in her mouth. She tasted dill and some kind of fish. Bradford sampled one too before returning to his drink. She didn’t recognize the butler. Buster must have hired help for the party. Bradford wound a hand around her shoulder. “Thanks for all this, darling,” he said. The endearment was scripted for anyone within hearing, but he meant the words. 

“You’re welcome,” she said, sipping her drink. It had the flavor of pineapples, a California taste if there ever was one. 

Her eyes roamed over the guests again. She recognized Constance Talmadge, Harold Lloyd, Buster Collier, John Gilbert, and Gloria Swanson. There were many men she didn’t know, some of middling looks, some downright unhandsome; those were the directors and big shots. Her gaze flickered to Buster just as he looked over at her. He gave a small, unsmiling nod and returned to his conversation. A mild pang struck her at the coldness of his acknowledgment, but she was relieved that he was being careful. She and Bradford kept to themselves, smiling and responding in kind whenever a guest nodded and said hello. She missed Louise Brooks and wished she had a girl friend to keep her company. 

They were on their second drinks when attendees began to nod at each other and move in the direction of the living room. Exchanging looks, Nelly and Bradford followed. The living room, fully decorated when she’d last seen it five days ago, had been denuded of all furniture. Against the loggia on the southwest wall, a full orchestra was arrange in a suite of chairs. The members held instruments of all sizes and shapes, violins, saxophones great and small, trumpets, clarinets, a drum kit, a piano, an upright bass, even a huge tuba sitting somewhat uneasily in one man’s lap. There were at least two dozen men in the band at Nelly’s quick count, dressed alike in black tuxedos and bow ties. With the furniture and grand piano moved out, the living room was more spacious than ever.

“Why, it’s Paul Whiteman’s Orchestra!” Bradford said into her ear, voice hushed. He nudged her and flicked a finger in the direction of a fat man with a round face standing to the right of the orchestra. 

Nelly was dazzled. The realization that one of her favorite bands in the room burst through her like a beam of sunshine. She couldn’t find words for her awe, but clutched for Bradford’s hand and squeezed it. The orchestra was burbling in a tuneless way as violinists tested strings and trumpets and saxophones tried out notes. A kind of restlessness pervaded the scene, musicians keen to begin, partygoers eager to dance. This went on for a few minutes until Buster threaded his way through his guests and stood facing the crowd with his back to the band. 

“Nate and I want to thank you for coming tonight,” he began. “It’s an honor and a—” He looked over the crowd for a few moments as though he were thinking about what to say next. “An honor, a pleasure … you know, that kind of stuff. Anyway, I’d like you to give a hand for this gentleman and his little band here. They’re not very well-known, but if you’ll just, uh, pretend a little I’m sure it’ll make them very happy.” He straightened his tie, took one step forward, and fell on his face. There was laughter. As Buster stood up and brushed himself off, Paul Whiteman took his place. He was even less a man of words than Buster, saying only to the guests, “Thank you very much for having us tonight.” He walked to the left of the musicians and addressed them. “Gentleman …”

Two men assembled at the front of the orchestra near the upright piano. Nelly wondered for a second how they transported it from gig to gig, but forgot the question when Whiteman lifted his baton, held it in the air, and dropped it. The two men and the one at the piano began scatting a capella. 

Wot-dot-dot, doh-dot, dot-dot-doh 

Wot-dot-dot-dot, dot-dot-doh … 

The man at the piano laid his hands on the keys just as one of the singers started in a smooth baritone, “ You’ve heard of the Charleston, the Black Bottom .”

“ I’ve got a rhythm that’s really got ‘em ,” chimed the other singer. “ It must be something new .” 

“ Gonna start it for you ,” sang the man at the piano. It goes like, One, there it is.

His companions joined him:

One-two, there it is,

One-two-three, can’t you see where the merit is?

One-two-three-four, everywhere it is, 

One-two-three-four, five steps!

At this, the snare sounded a beat and the whole orchestra burst into voice. Bradford grabbed Nelly’s hand and waist and swung her into motion. She yelped with delight. The rhythm was too fast for her to think about whether her feet were doing five steps; she just clung to Bradford and tried to keep up with the foxtrot he was leading her in. Over his shoulder, she could see that all the other dancers were smiling, Marion Davies dancing with Charlie Chaplin, Gloria Swanson paired with John Barrymore. She felt a sudden, uncanny sense of belonging as she and Bradford galloped along. A clarinet soloed, followed by a violin in a high, reedy voice like a grasshopper. 

One, there it is,

One-two, there it is,

One-two-three, can’t you see where the merit is?

One-two-three-four, everywhere it is, 

One-two-three-four, five steps!

One, got to learn,

One-two, got to learn, 

One-two-three, there is not such a lot to learn,

One-two-three-four, aren’t you hot to learn?

One-two-three-four, five steps!

As the singers carried on, it was all Nelly could do to keep her rhythm and her breath. She was panting and laughing when the final note sounded. She and Bradford withdrew from the dancers to get a drink of punch from the bowl on the table in the foyer. As soon as their thirst was quenched, though, she took Bradford’s hand and hurried back into the room. She wasn’t going to miss a moment of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra’s set if she could help it. 

The orchestra had begun a sweet, wistful melody led by trumpets. She recognized it at once as “Mary,” one of her favorites. Rather than dancing, she stood on the edge of the crowd with Bradford and watched. The trumpets piped and her heart was overfull as she soaked in the music and her surroundings with all of her might. Dancers kicked up their heels in a slower foxtrot as the full orchestra echoed the trumpets’ melody. She could have watched all the beautiful stars before her in their tuxes and brightly colored dresses, but she had eyes only for the orchestra and Whiteman’s graceful conducting. It was a marvel the way he brought different sections of the band to life with just a flick of his baton. 

One of the singers stepped forward as a violin finished off the melody. He was perhaps a little taller than Buster, but slightly husky, with ears that stuck out and eyes as blue as a spring sky. 

What are you waitin’ for,

What are you waitin’ for, Ma-ary?

What are you thinkin’ ‘bout,

Who are you thinkin’ ‘bout, Mary?

The bees are buzzin’,

They’re buzzin’ right in my ear,

And they keep on asking,

Hey, what’s the big idea?

He was the one with the smooth baritone like poured honey. All his notes flowed together without a single hitch. She recognized his voice from many of Whiteman’s records.

“He’s incredible,” she said, standing on tiptoes to whisper it in Bradford’s ear. He nodded in return. 

Why do you lead me on,

Why do you be so con-trary?

You wouldn’t let my castles

Come tum-tum-tumblin’ down

Think of the things in store,

What are you waitin’ for, Ma-ary?

The violins concluded the melody and the brass took it up again. Her senses were filled with trumpets and the snare, then the orchestra singing as one voice.  

She didn’t notice how spellbound she’d become until applause startled her back to reality. She clapped along with everyone else and the singer gave a bow and a modest smile. Bradford was bending to say something about the music when Nelly felt the cloth of a suit on the bare skin of her left shoulder. She turned to see Buster. He looked ahead, nonchalant, and her heart gave a fond trot. 

“How d’ya like your birthday present?” he said quietly, still looking ahead. 

“Oh, don’t kid me.” Even as she said it though, she knew in her heart of hearts that he wasn’t joking. The band was for her. 

Still not looking at her, he gave the slightest of smiles. “Pretty good joke, huh?”

Her eyes welled. “I don’t know whether to kiss or kill you. You’re out of your mind and I don’t know how I’ll ever begin to thank you.” When she looked at him again, he was finally looking back, his brown eyes so affectionate she was in danger of throwing her arms around him in front of all of Hollywood, including his wife. 

“Who’s your boyfriend?” he said, but his tone was curious, not suspicious.

She wiped the trace of tears from her eyes and turned to Bradford, who by then had noticed their conversation. “This is Bradford,” she said, laying a hand on his upper arm. “Bradford, this is Buster.”

“How d’you do, Mr. Keaton?” said Bradford, extending a hand. He glanced from Buster to her as they shook hands and she saw him connect the dots. Her insides went hot and cold. In hindsight, her casual introduction of Buster was a dead giveaway. 

“Where’s Louise?” she said, moving on and trying not to punish herself for her mistake.  

“Brooks? Or my sister? Sis is here somewhere. Probably trying to corner Ramon Novarro by the punch bowl.” He removed his cigarettes from his breast pocket and pulled one out. “Brooks, you know the score. Wife thinks there’s some funny business going on between us and if I invite her to another party I’m dead meat.”

Trying to be friendly or playing an angle, Bradford butted in. “How’s your new picture, Mr. Keaton?”

“Buster,” he said, taking a drag off the cigarette. “Going alright I guess. Can’t complain. You in pictures?”

Bradford chattered away about D.W. Griffith and Nelly looked around them briefly to see if anyone was paying attention to their interaction. None of the Talmadges were near. She spotted Natalie and Norma chatting with Douglas Fairbanks across the room. Constance was standing nearer and speaking to a man Nelly didn’t recognize, but her back was turned to them. 

“Wanna dance?” said Buster, fingers curving into her elbow. 

She gave an anxious glance at Bradford, worried about him overhearing, but remembered he already knew. She said in an undertone, “I don’t think we ought to. Not for a few more songs at least. You should dance with a couple other girls first.”

Buster squeezed the crook of her arm and dropped his hand. “Alright, if you say so. I’ll be back.”

Half an hour later, he had taken her advice. The band had played “I’m Coming Virginia,” “Mississippi Mud,” and “Grandma.” Her next two dances had gone to Bradford and she’d sat “Grandma” out. Buster had danced with Constance Talmadge, Bebe Daniels, and Marion Davies. The crowd of guests had gotten louder as more cocktails circulated. Nelly had accepted a third drink, but was tempering herself and had taken only a sip. The blue-eyed singer stepped forward and commanded the crowd’s attention.

“We just added this one to the repertoire. It’s from a musical they’ve got in New York right now called Present Arms . Harry and Al and me, we’ll introduce you to it,” he said in a smooth, affable voice. He smiled, showing white, even teeth and snapped his fingers at the orchestra to cue them, eyes on the audience. 

She was so focused on him that she was startled when someone seized the drink from her hand. Buster walked away from her and set her drink on a side table on the periphery of the room. “Come on kid, I’ve waited long enough,” he said, setting his hand on her waist when he returned. The orchestra was in full swing, the brass section taking up a melody that the strings underscored and singing out cheerfully. A clarinet butted in every several measures, rich and mellow. Nelly had danced with Buster a dozen times in her apartment and his bungalow, but as he folded her hand into his, she remembered just their first dance at the party in October. She’d been spooked then about her changing feelings for him and nervous lest Natalie think something was afoot. Now that they were really having an affair, the dread and nervousness were like a thousand pin-pricks to her skin. She was sure it must be obvious that Buster and she were more than simply acquaintances.

Buster led her in a medium-tempo foxtrot, his eyes cast upward, as though dancing with her among all the other women was no big deal. Only his thumb massaging her palm gave him away. He smelled like aftershave and cigarettes. She tried to pay attention to the dance, the rhythm of her hips and her feet and not the sensation that every person in the room was staring at them and wondering about the girl Buster was dancing with. 

He leaned in, his cheek almost resting against hers. “Loosen up,” he said in her ear. 

She put her mouth by his ear in turn. “I feel like everyone’s watching us.”

He gave a calm, closed-lipped smile. “Everyone’s too busy getting ossified and cutting a rug to pay us any, baby.”

“I still don’t feel—”

“Hush,” he said. “Just enjoy yourself.”

The brassy trumpet and an oboe bantered for a while before the full orchestra cut back in. 

I’m a sentimental sap that’s all

What’s the use of trying not to fall?

I have no will

Aw, you made your kill

‘Cause you took advantage of me

It was the blue-eyed singer again. In the background, the two others crooned softly. Nelly closed her eyes for a beat and watched herself as Natalie might, were she able to peer inside Nelly’s head. Buster. The Villa. The Paul Whiteman Orchestra.

I’m just like an apple on a bough

And you’re gonna shake me down somehow

So what’s the use?

You cooked my goose

‘Cause you took advantage of me

Her purple dress. A room full of stars. 

I’m so hot and bothered that I don’t know

My elbow from my ear

Suffer something awful each time you go,

Much worse when you’re near

Playing billiards in Buster’s game room. Buster enclosing her in his arms on his bed.  

Here I am with all my bridges burned 

Just a babe in arms where you’re concerned

Buster’s lips and tongue and fingers and hands. His prick. 

So lock the door and call me yours

‘Cause you took advantage of me

The shower. The down blanket and the stars sparkling over Beverly Hills. Buster’s body warm against hers. 

The brass section sang out again, boisterous, confident, the strings wrapping its melody. Nelly moved her feet, scarcely conscious of the dance. Her head was still planted in the clouds when it ended and Buster’s hands let go. She couldn’t help glance around her, wondering who’d been watching. To her relief, the one person who caught her eye was Bradford, who had just let go of Marion Davies. He kissed Marion’s hand and said something in her ear that made her laugh, then walked back over to Nelly.

“Don’t make me jealous now,” he said, kissing her cheek. 

“Look who’s talking!” she said, giving him the smile and all the weight of feeling she would have to Buster had she been able. 

“Don’t forget your Orange Blossom,” said Buster, pressing it back in her hand. “I’ll be back for you in a little bit.” He turned away and she saw him catch John Gilbert by the arm and demand something that made Gilbert roar with laughter. 

“How’d you enjoy your dance with Miss Davies?” said Nelly to Bradford. 

“Oh, I expect I’ll be playing the lead in her next picture,” Bradford said, winking to show that his boast wasn’t serious. “How was your dance with Mr. Keaton?”

“He dances well,” she said, playing along. 

A cool hand on her arm made her turn. Nelly blanched when she saw who it was.

“Have we met?” said the blonde woman, her smile warm. 

“I don’t believe so. You’re Constance Talmadge.”

Constance smiled. She had a small, prim mouth outlined in a rose-colored lipstick. Her hair was waved and golden, her throat sparkling with a sapphire and diamond choker. 

One of the singers was singing, “ Baby face, you’ve got the cutest little baby face … ”

“That’s right. And you?” said Constance. 

Nelly reminded herself that she could act with the best of them. She put a hand on Bradford’s back. “Bradford and I work with Mr. Taylor at United Artists.”

“I’m in the new D.W. Griffith,” Bradford offered.

“Oh, that’s fine,” said Constance, sounding interested. “What’s your role?”

Bradford smiled. “Well I’m just an extra at the moment, but Mr. Griffith said Thursday he’s going to fit me into more scenes. He found out I can play piano and thinks he can use me for a bigger role.”

“I loved you in Breakfast at Sunrise ,” Nelly said to her. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

“Why thank you.” Constance was as friendly as could be, but there was something about her appearance that made Nelly uneasy. “Is this your first time at one of Bus and Nate’s ‘dos?” she asked. 

Nelly put on her best casual smile. “My second. I was here last fall.” She didn’t offer to explain how she knew Buster and hoped that Constance wouldn’t inquire. Distantly, she heard the orchestra and saw the bodies around them moving in time to the music. 

“Oh, then you’re old hat. Have you tried the crab croquettes?”

Nelly said that she hadn’t. She was wondering where the conversation would go next when Bradford broke in. “Miss Talmadge,” he said, his voice brimming with charm. “Would it be too forward to ask you  to dance?"

Constance smiled. Nelly could tell she was genuinely charmed. “Even if it was, I’ll say yes.”

“Wonderful.” He palmed her waist which was clothed in blue silk and chiffon. Glancing at Nelly as he took Constance’s small, white hand in his, he said, “Sorry, darling. Don’t be jealous.”

Nelly could have kissed him. With only one thought in mind, she elbowed her way out of the crowd and to one of the butlers, she helped herself to a minty green drink from his tray. She tossed it back, grabbed an Orange Blossom, and gulped that too. To his credit, the butler was too well-bred to react. She would have explained to him if she could that she wouldn’t be able to enjoy another second of the party without being drunk. The encounter with Constance had brought her jitters to a fever pitch. Nodding her thanks to the butler, she took another Orange Blossom in hand and went to track down the washroom. 

The blue-eyed singer’s baritone followed her down the hall.

Birds are singing merrily

The sun is shining peacefully

Because my baby don’t mean maybe now

She locked the door behind her and set the drink on the edge of the sink as she relieved herself. Her make-up needed no touching up, and her cheeks were flushed with drink. Buster had engaged the Paul Whiteman Orchestra as a birthday gift to her and she was going to relax if it was the last thing she did. Technically it wasn’t her birthday for a few more hours, but even if they didn’t know it, everyone out there was dancing in honor of Nelly Foster’s twenty-seventh year on earth. She exited the washroom feeling more secure with this thought. Bradford was playing his part perfectly. The Talmadges didn’t suspect anything. It was okay if she loosened up as Buster had urged her to do. 

[To be continued ...]

Chapter Text

The song was winding down as she reentered the living room. She looked for Buster and saw him among a group of men, smoking a cigarette and talking. Judging by their heavy builds and ordinary looks, they were directors. Ramon Navarro bumped her and Orange Blossom went over her fingers. “Oh!” she said. 

“Goodness, I am so sorry. Just a moment, miss, just a moment.”

When he’d returned with a couple cloth napkins and she’d wiped the drink from her hand, his profuse apologies gave her an idea. She threw back the remainder of the drink and said with a smile, “Give me a dance and call it even?”

The tall, dark man with the Spanish accent smiled gleamingly upon her. “Miss, I will gladly dance with you.”

She couldn’t tell if the drinks made her a better or worse dancer. In any case, she wasn’t as stiff. As the orchestra took up a cheerful rendition of “My Pet,” she shuffled her feet with energy and abandon. It was a quick dance and Mr. Navarro was smiling and gracious.

The orchestra took a break following their dance. The crush of guests seemed to double in size as the many orchestra members made their way to the foyer. Nelly located Bradford speaking to a tall, broad man with a large stomach.  A thin, small pale man with dark hair and eyes stood with them. He seemed to be about Buster’s age and was about two shades, she reflected, from being terribly good-looking. Not that he was bad on the eyes as he was. Feeling quite free and happy, she introduced herself. 

“Nelly Foster. I’m Bradford’s girlfriend.”

The men who shook her hands were Eddie Sedgwick and Irving Thalberg. Mr. Sedgwick, who took her hand second, smiled. “I know you. You’re the girl from Buster’s place.”

Even through the sheen of liquor, Nelly’s stomach felt like it dropped straight out of her body. She had never seen Mr. Sedgwick in her life; Buster always made sure Segdwick’s half of the bungalow was unoccupied before smuggling her over. All she could think of to say was, “Oh yes. I’ve visited once or twice.”

Mr. Sedgwick winked at her. “Say no more,” he said jovially, swishing a glass of what looked like Scotch and taking a sip. 

Bradford’s arm curled around her shoulder, but it was too little too late. How many other people at the party knew about her and Buster? “Mr. Thalberg’s just telling us about this new thing called Technicolor they’ll be using in a talkie next year,” said Bradford. “It’s a musical too. Says they’ll need a lot of extras and we ought to try out.”

Nelly tried to listen as Bradford, also on another drink, carried on with enthusiasm with occasional remarks from Mr. Sedgwick and Mr. Thalberg, but all she could concentrate on was how exposed she felt. A thing like an affair never stayed quiet for long once a third person was in on it, a fourth if you didn’t count Buster’s butler. She nodded and smiled in the appropriate places. She couldn’t do anything else, knowing how it would look if she fled to Buster, which was her impulse. She wanted his reassurance that it was a case of mistaken identity with her and Mr. Sedgwick. It was a silly explanation to wish for, since that would mean the presence of another woman at Buster’s bungalow.

She did not have to wait long for Buster. “Whatever they’re saying about me’s a god damn dirty lie,” he said, strolling over to them. He took a puff from his cigarette.

Mr. Thalberg laughed and Mr. Sedgwick slapped Buster on the back. Buster pretended that the force was so great it bowled him over and not missing a beat he slipped and fell flat on his back. The whiskey in the glass in his hand rocked a little, but not a drop had spilled. He looked up at Nelly and pressed his glass into her hand to hold while he rose to his feet. She didn’t appreciate it. It was another gesture of familiarity that gave them away. She wondered if Irving Thalberg knew about them too. Mr. Thalberg and Mr. Sedgwick were too busy laughing to notice her discomfort, though. She had an awful gnawing in her gut that she didn’t think any amount of drink could assuage.

“Ready for that second dance,” Buster said to her in an undertone, once he was back on his feet. 

“Mr. Sedgwick knows,” she hissed back, feeling pale. 

Buster cleared his throat and took a sip of whiskey. He pretended to listen to Sedgwick’s retelling of an incident that had happened during the filming of Snap Shots , one in which Buster had convinced a number of the extras and crewmembers that he’d been run over by a car, the stunt being carefully orchestrated beforehand with the car driver. After several moments, he shrugged. “So he knows,” he said. His breath smelled like whiskey. 

“If he knows then who else does?” she whispered, feeling galled. Even speaking to him in such a knowing way was a sign of a deeper acquaintance. She felt surrounded by booby traps. 

“Just relax, alright? He won’t say nothing.”

Nelly wasn’t convinced. For the first time since they’d been going together, she found herself truly mad at Buster. It would seem that nothing would make him realize that they were treading on thin ice. She turned her head away from him and watched the other guests. No one was paying the slightest bit of attention to her. Gradually, she was able to settle back into a drunken indifference, although any pretense of enjoying herself had vanished. The orchestra was setting back up again. The blue-eyed singer passed by some of the guests a few feet from her and Gloria Swanson stopped him to talk. He was carrying a cocktail and laughed as she made a joke Nelly couldn’t hear. Like Irving Thalberg, he wasn’t bad-looking either despite his ears and being a bit on the stout side. His smile was nice, his eyes were nice, and most of all his voice was nice. When Miss Swanson let him go, Nelly was seized with a whim to introduce herself and ran to catch up with him. 

“Sir,” she said, touching him on the shoulder. 

He turned. “Why, hello.” He smiled. 

“Sir, you’ve got the most wonderful voice. I’m a tremendous fan of your music. I’ve got so many of your records.”

“Oh,” he said, the white smile never faltering. “Well, thanks for that. You’re pretty kind.”

“I’ll let you get back to singing I suppose,” she said, not knowing what else to say. It would have been hard for her to further describe how his music made her feel. It was humming to herself in the prop shop during the summer of Steamboat Bill , playing bridge in Louise Brooks’ apartment, lying alongside Buster after they’d made love, and dancing a tight foxtrot on the rug in the confines of Buster’s bungalow all bound up in one. 

“Oh, I can chat,” he said. “They’re giving our pipes a little rest for the next couple numbers. Gonna do a couple instrumentals.”

Almost on cue, the orchestra’s uneven murmuring cohered. The full ensemble burst into boisterous song. She recognized it as the Black Bottom Stomp after a few bars. Hardly thinking, she grabbed the singer’s hand. “C’mon, you ought to enjoy yourself too.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, his feet planted. “Slow down a little, kid.”

“I need to dance or else I’ll scream.” As soon as the words left her lips, she realized what was driving her wasn’t a desire to make Buster jealous or even sow suspicion in the minds of those who might have been looking askance at Buster and her; it was to conquer the nervous energy that had been building in her all day. 

“Boy, if you insist,” the singer said. He handed the closest guest—Buster Collier—his glass and whirled her into the riotous press of bodies. They tromped up and down the length of the room several times. She let the horns and clarinet carry her away. The more her heart pounded, the better she felt. She didn’t look at any of the other guests, simply watched her dance partner who was grinning despite his professed reluctance. Like most of the men she’d encountered in Hollywood, he was a good dancer. Although sweat shone on his forehead, Nelly wasn’t aware of the answering moistness of her skin. She didn’t feel tired in the least, just full of strange energy. 

When the song ended and their feet stopped moving, there was a round of clapping. Nelly looked around her. They were being applauded by Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford, John Barrymore, and at least one of the Talmadge girls; Nelly thought it was Norma rather than Natalie, but didn’t look long enough to confirm. 

“Thank you,” she said to her audience, with a vague embarrassment mostly tempered by the liquor. 

The singer grasped her hand and bowed, and Nelly followed. 

“Well I simply must have the next dance with this lovely creature,” said Charlie Chaplin, winding his arm around her waist. 

“Thank you for the dance!” she called after the singer, who was headed back toward the stage. 

“ Enchantée !” he shouted back, with a wave, smile, and befuddled shake of his head.

Rather than burn off like gasoline, the liquor head somehow soaked in more and Nelly leaned her head against Charlie’s shoulder even though a voice in the back of her head warned that he was a Dangerous Man. His shoulder was thin and slight, and he felt almost wispy compared to Buster. She began to feel like she was fading out until Paul Whiteman set the band in motion and a loud, energetic version of “Darktown Strutters’ Ball” rang out. She found energy to bounce up and down the room once more, clinging to Charlie, although her reserves had finally begun to dwindle. It was a relief to focus on each dance and each dance partner and not worry about Buster, but Buster would not stay away. At some point Charlie was no longer with her, another drink (her seventh? eighth?) was half-gone in her hand, and she was squinting with drunken brazenness at the crowd wondering why she shouldn’t ask John Barrymore to dance. 

“Time to cool your heels,” said a voice. Fingers pulled the glass away from her hand. One of the fingers was shorter than the rest, missing a knuckle. 

“I presume I can take care of myself,” she said, looking over her shoulder and aiming a beliquored glare at Buster.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, but it’ll be quite a tale if they find me holding your hair in the bathroom while you’re upchucking.”

Nelly thought back to the first time he’d seen her in over her head and done just that. “Hmmph.”

Buster tossed the rest of her drink back into his mouth and an obedient butler standing at the wait nearby dispensed with the glass. 

At that moment, Whiteman’s voiced boomed out. “I’d like to welcome The Rhythm Boys back to the stage. Over here’s Harry Barris”—he gestured at the dark-haired singer with the center part who’d been doing most of the scat singing—“This is Al Rinker”—pointing to the brown-haired singer with thick lips who had been on piano—“And to top it off, Mr. Bing Crosby.” At this, he inclined his head toward the blue-eyed singer. 

“What an odd name,” said Nelly. 

“Any odder’n Buster?” said Buster. 

“Nobody’s odder than Buster,” she quipped, and he pinched her. 

“Ow,” she said. Her worry about being seen being too familiar with him resurfaced. She was going to chastise him, but the saxophones, trumpets, and horns had started a familiar tune, shortly joined by the strings. “Oh, it’s this one,” she uttered. She could feel her eyes shining in amazement. 

“It’s this one,” said Buster with a pleased smile. 

She remembered that the band was a birthday present, the most generous, thoughtful present she’d ever been given, and wasn’t sure she wouldn’t cry if she spoke further.

Buster put a hand about her waist and folded her back into the dancers with him. The foxtrot he took up had a gentle rhythm to suit the song. The saxophones played a teasing melody that all the brass instruments and violins followed with a loud, plucky answer. It was one of the songs from the first record Buster had given her and they’d danced to it regularly. Buster always teased her with the lyrics, staring into her eyes as he sang, “ She’s got eyes of blue, I never cared for eyes of blue .” Every time she looked in the mirror now and noticed the color of her eyes, she was reminded that she had become a weakness for Buster, a thought that made her spirits swell.

In brief pauses, The Rhythm Boys scatted. But-duh-dut-dut-dut duh-dut duh-dut-dut . Buster looked casual and collected. She was relieved there was no strong emotion from him, still worried one of his guests might put two and two together. 

Shhhhhe’s got eyes of blue , went The Rhythm Boys in a singsong, their S sibilant.

I never cared for eyes of blue
But she’s got eyes of blue
And that’s my weakness now!

Shhhhhe’s got dimpled cheeks
I never cared for dimpled cheeks
But she’s got dimpled cheeks
And that’s my weakness now!

Oh me, oh my …

If they had been an ordinary couple going together, she would have leaned forward to kiss him, to thank him for giving her this. 

Shhhhhe likes to bill and coo
I never liked to bill and coo
But she likes to bill and coo
And that’s my weakness now

Buster’s hold on her waist was firm. As the Rhythm Boys sang “ Shhhhhe likes” and “ I never liked ” and the instruments filled in the blanks with suggestive retorts, he leaned in and said, “…to pet and play.” Nelly blushed and went warm. He stroked her hip with his thumb and she put her mouth to his ear and told him to stop, but on purpose grazed her lips against it. On the next refrain of “ Shhhhhe likes,” he finished “…to fuck and flirt.”

“Buster,” she said, but the warmth increased. 

“You wanna go outside for a breath of fresh air?” he said. 

“No,” she said, even though she wanted him with a sudden desperation. 

“Sure?” he said. “We can bill and coo.”

She shook her head. “You go dance a little more. Perhaps you can see me out when Bradford and I leave.” Although she’d been at the party for less than three hours, it felt much longer. With so many cocktails, her body had begun to feel leaden.

When the song had finished and Buster had let her go, she left the crowd and used the washroom again, returning to the living room in time to see a slow dance in progress. Some couples waltzed gracefully like Norma Talmadge and Gil Roland, others like John Barrymore and Bebe Daniels, who had had too much to drink, were shambling. 

I’ll be loving you, always
With a love that’s true, always

Nelly scanned for Bradford and Buster. Bradford was in the far corner of the room talking again to a cluster of men, one of whom might have been the director Harry Beaumont; she couldn’t quite tell. Her eyes felt heavy. Buster wasn’t dancing, but was talking with Harold Lloyd, holding another glass of whiskey and looking composed. 

Days may not be fair always
That’s when I’ll be there, always
Not for just an hour
Not for just a day
Not for just a year
But always  

The lyrics pinched her in the chest somewhere. She was struck by the ephemerality of the whole scene. It seemed only yesterday she’d been seventeen, dead bored with high school and dreaming of what lay beyond. As the years passed, most of her friends married and found their always, and she minded the grandchildren of her mother’s friends and haunted stages by night. Here she was a blink of an eye later, her life already a third lived. Always was an illusion, one that Hollywood said it believed in and didn’t, actors dying, divorcing, and becoming forgotten by the week. Yet the pinch was for what a pretty thought it was: not for just an hour, not for just a day, not for just a year, but always . Every woman, she supposed, wanted something like that. She couldn’t bring herself to think that anything of the sort would ever be possible as long as the man she was seeing was married.

The song ended with a wistful singing of the strings, the brass providing a soft accompaniment. 

“This here’s another slow number,” said the blue-eyed singer, Bing. “By a fella by the name of Jimmy McHugh. What a name, huh?” He paused. “His mama oughta have called him something a little more traditional, something sensible, y’know? Like Bing.”

The audience roared at the joke. 

He waited for the laughter to die down before finishing. “Anyway, this one’s called ‘I Can’t Give You Anything but Love’ and it’s a pretty one if I do say so myself. Grab your guy or your girl and hold ‘em close, folks.”

A clarinet warbled a sweet, jazzy introduction with the piano accompanying and Bing leaned into the microphone. 

I can’t give you anything but love, baby
That’s the only thing I’ve plenty of, baby
Dream awhile, scheme awhile, we’re sure to find
Happiness
And, I guess, all those things you’ve always pined for 

Nelly’s eyes flickered to the dancers and her stomach seized. Natalie and Buster were swaying close together, Buster’s hands gripping her small waist, her arms wrapped around his neck. They were a handsome couple, Natalie’s tiny frame setting off Buster’s modest brawn, both their hair dark and wavy. What gave Nelly the greatest pang, though, was the way that Buster looked at his wife. His face was all tenderness, something she was shocked to see given what she thought she knew about their marriage. She looked away, heartsick, and sought out Bradford. He put his arm around her when she approached, pausing just for a second or two to say hello before returning to his conversation with the director and the other men. She closed her eyes and nuzzled her face into the side of his chest. Tears stung behind her lids. Buster still loved Natalie. How she’d never realized this, she didn’t know. 

‘Til that lucky day
You know damned well, baby
I can’t give you anything but love

“You okay, baby?” Bradford said, noticing that something was wrong.

She opened her filmy eyes and shook her head. 

“What’s wrong?” Even in her unhappiness, she had to hand it to him. He sounded exactly as a concerned boyfriend would. 

“Too much to drink, I think,” she said, quickly wiping away the tears from the corner of her eyes. 

Bradford rubbed her arm. “Let’s get you home.” He dipped into the side pocket of his trousers. “Here’s my card.” He passed one to each of the three men. She watched them exchange pleasantries, and could see that Bradford was glowing with excitement and charisma. A wave of regret hit her for taking him from the party. 

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, I won’t hear of it,” he said, perfectly good-natured. “Wouldn’t want to wear out my welcome anyhow.”

There was no one for her to say goodbye to. Everyone but Buster was close to a stranger. Bradford’s arm through hers, they walked away from the room of partygoers and the beautiful noise of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra. She tried to cheer herself up with the good parts, dancing with Bradford and Buster and Bing, hearing all her favorite songs, hobnobbing with stars. The orchestra was her birthday gift too, a dear secret only she and Buster shared. Even with these reminders, she still felt miserable. A part of that, maybe not an inconsiderable part, was the result of too much to drink. Her stomach ached dully. Her vision was dizzy. Her eyelids sagged. She thought with longing of changing into a clean nightgown, drinking several glasses of water, eating some crackers, and collapsing into bed. Bradford held the great mahogany door for her and she stepped out into the brisk May night. The air smelled like peonies and was cold against her bare face and arms. It made her feel a little better. 

She and Bradford were a few paces away from the door and walking in the direction of his car when a voice from behind them cried, “Nelly, wait!” She turned to see Buster rushing toward them. “Where’re you going?” he said when he’d caught up to them. 

A lump climbed into her throat. “I’m feeling ill,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie. 

Buster looked confused. “Feeling ill?” He looked to Bradford. “Mind if I borrow her a minute?”

“Go right ahead Mr. Keaton.”

Buster took her by the arm and led her to a shadowy patch of topiary to the east of the front door out of hearing of Bradford. “What’s really the matter?” he said. 

Nelly shook her head. “I drank too much.”

“Ah, gee. Wish you hadn’t. I was going to propose we slip off in a few minutes here.” He stroked her cheek.

She realized he was referring to amorous activities and she couldn’t help but be amazed by him. He’d just been enjoying a romantic dance with his wife and yet was scheming to seduce her at the same time. “We couldn’t even if I felt well,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

“Sure it is. I’ve done it plenty.”

With her brain sluggish with liquor, it took his words a few moments to make sense. He was saying he’d sneaked women into the Villa under his wife’s nose before. She felt horrible all over again. “No. Not tonight.”

“What about tomorrow? You gonna come to the premiere?”

Nelly had been so fixated on the party, she’d forgotten about the premiere of Steamboat Bill altogether and Buster’s offhand suggestion a few days back that she attend. She shook her head. “It isn’t safe. If Mr. Sedgwick knows about us, we can’t draw any more attention than we already have. We should be safer from now on.” She stopped short of telling him that coming to the party was a mistake too; she didn’t want him to think that she wasn’t grateful for her birthday surprise.

Buster searched her eyes and she knew he was trying to puzzle out her gloomy mood. “Okay, if you say so. Is this character gonna get you home safe?” he said at last, looking over at Bradford. 

“Of course. He’s been the perfect beau.”

He narrowed his eyes. “See to it he don’t get too perfect.”

“Buster,” she chastened. She had to hand it to them, it was some damn Shakespearean plot they’d woven, Bradford in disguise as her paramour and she and Buster playing the parts of two star-crossed lovers. 

Buster kissed her hand. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

She gave him a half-hearted smile. “You can always call.”

“Remind me to tune my ukulele before I sing you the birthday song,” he joked. He held her hand in his, running his thumb over her palm. 

A wave of gratitude sunk her. Hiring the Paul Whiteman Orchestra had to say something about how he felt for her, no matter the doting way he looked at Natalie or his experience sneaking around with other women at the Villa. She leaned into his arms and put her hands around his neck. “Thank you for tonight and the band. I had the time of my life.” 

He put a hand in the center of her back and touched her cheek with his free hand. “I’m a sentimental sap, that’s all,” he said, then in a quieter voice,“Can I kiss you?”

“Okay, but make it quick.” She glanced toward the front door. No one had come out since Buster, but she remained on her guard even though the drinks urged her to throw caution to the wind.  

Buster leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her breathless. She tasted cigarettes and whiskey on his tongue. She tried to make her answering kiss say what she couldn’t put into words, what she’d thought of during the first dance they’d shared earlier, the stars, his lips, and a Paul Whiteman phonograph record crackling softly in the background. “No funny business with that beau of yours, you hear me?” he said when he pulled back. His voice was thick in the way it got whenever he was in a carnal mood. Nelly embraced him again. The lump in her throat held sadness as well as gratitude. She never wanted to let him go. 

Minutes later, Bradford’s car was bouncing over the roads out of Beverly Hills. The night was black and starless. Bradford gushed about Irving Thalberg, Edward Sedgwick, and all the other directors and production men he’d flattered and wooed. He didn’t say a word about Buster and her. Her foggy mind drifted over Twelfth Night . Although she was having no trouble learning her lines for the play, she knew now why her heart had not been in it since she’d gotten the role of Maria. It had nothing to do with her ambition of in talking pictures or that she was too overburdened at United Artists to play such a substantial role in a play. In her head, she ran over three of Viola’s lines again and again. 

She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought.

Viola had met Duke Orsino, but his love was still fixed on Olivia.

Chapter Text

When Buster walked into Nelly’s apartment building, she was on the phone in the hallway. She turned her head at the sound of the door and said, “Oh!” He walked to her and tapped the thin brown paper box in his hands, drawing her attention to it. Inside was a big fat chocolate cake. 

“No, it’s just Joseph,” she said to the person on the other  line. He raised an eyebrow. “Well, I ought to get going now … Yes I’ll write soon … No, I haven’t yet. Yes, I will. I love you too. Goodbye.” She hung up the phone and turned to him with perplexity written across her face. 

“Happy birthday,” he said. “Who’s Joseph?”

“Hush. Get inside before someone catches you standing there.”

Beneath the box was the Paul Whiteman Orchestra’s most recent record, “You Took Advantage of Me,” the one they’d performed during his first dance with Nelly last night, and inside the sleeve a photograph he almost hadn’t developed. He set both box and record on Nelly’s broken dining table, making a mental note to get her a new one one of these days. “How’s the birthday girl?” He turned back to her. 

“Oh, just fine,” she said with a smile, although it looked a little strained to him. Her eyes were tired, a milder echo of the hangover he knew was also written across his face. 

“Not very convincing,” he said, putting two fingers under her chin and tilting it. Her soft lips pulled his thoughts in a different direction, and her bedroom was west on the route. “Shouldn’t have kept you out so late or letcha drink so much.” He stroked her cheek and looked into her eyes. 

She smiled again. This time, there was no question it was forced. His stomach did a mild flip as he recalled their liaison at the Villa a week ago in which he hadn’t used a thin. Maybe she was feeling sick because— He dismissed the thought. It was too early for that. While he wasn’t an expert on the finer points of the birds and the bees always, he was sure things didn’t go that fast. He cupped his hands over her shoulders and gave a little squeeze. “Say, what’s the matter? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were sad it’s your birthday.”

She shook her head and shrugged. “I’m always sad on my birthday. When I was a girl, it was because I thought it never lasted long enough. I wanted a whole week of birthday. Now that I’m grown up, time goes too fast. I always wonder what I’ve got to show for all those years. Not much.”

“Aw, c’mon. You got plenty. Steamboat opens tonight and you’ve got that Barrymore picture too. And your play,” he said. 

She smiled weakly again. “I suppose. Lately I have this feeling that everything I ever try just sort of drains out of my fingers, like water. Maybe it’s just middle age talking.”

“Oh, that’s all bull and you know it.” He kissed her forehead. He didn’t tell her he knew exactly how she felt, his marriage and career in pictures like water through his fingers. Instead, he just said, “You ain’t middle-aged, either.”

“Look where you were when you were twenty-seven, though. You were on top of the world. You were—” She stopped and thought, brow furrowed. “Help me out,” she said with a laugh, when nothing apparently came to her. 

He did some quick math. His twenty-seventh year would have spanned 1922 and 1923. Day Dreams , The Balloonatic , and The Love Nest all came out around then. It had all been films in those glorious years, barely a moment’s rest between shooting and cutting. They did The Three Ages in ‘23 he was pretty sure, and they’d definitely done Our Hospitality . Jimmy was still very much a baby and Bobby went from a twinkle in his parents’ eyes to a person whose kicks could be felt through Natalie’s stomach by the time his papa’s twenty-eighth birthday came around in October. There’d been a house in there too, but he struggled to remember which one. 

“Doing my first full-length features,” he said, wandering over to the sofa and sitting on the arm. “That was the year we did Three Ages and Our Hospitality . Went to Oregon for parts of Hospitality . We built a real Stephenson’s rocket for it—that was the train. Back then they’d just hook a few coaches to an engine. Stagecoaches I mean.”

“Was that the one with your wife? And it was a little like The General ?” said Nelly, sitting on the opposite arm of the sofa. 

“Well, not too much like The General ,” he objected. “The story’s different. Much different. But yeah, Nate was the leading lady in that one and I grew my hair out for that one too.”

“You must love her very much,” she said politely, giving that same small sad smile. 

Understanding hit. He could guess why she’d seemed so sad when she left last night and why she was sad now. They were at a crossroads. Ambling along the path of their affair, he hadn’t seen it coming up this soon. He wasn’t sure he was ready for it. It meant deciding whether to change direction or keep walking along in the same one. Feeling his heart in his throat, he stood back up and went back to the table. He wanted a cigarette. “Aren’t you wondering what’s in the box?” 

“Is it cake?” she said. 

“Palazzo Bakery. You only get a piece if you guess the flavor though,” he said. He went to fetch a long knife and some plates from the kitchen as Nelly called, “Chocolate!”

He laughed. “Lucky guess.”

At the table, he cut a big slice for each of them. “You forgot the forks,” she said, as he handed her a plate. He set his own plate on the side table and lifted her slice of cake between his fingers and held it to her lips. She giggled and took a bite, getting chocolate icing all over her mouth.

“Guess I'll go get those forks,” he said, planting a big kiss on her chocolatey lips and licking the sweetness from his own as he went back to the kitchen for forks. 

Nelly gave a sigh of contentment when she set aside her empty plate. “I could almost go for another.”

“You oughta since it’s your birthday,” he said, taking his last bite. 

“Twenty pounds, remember?” she said. She had a straight face, but he could tell she was teasing. 

He set aside his plate and jumped on top of her, bouncing her back against the sofa cushions. “Okay, if you wanna bring that up again I’ll make you laugh the weight off.” He tickled her ribs as she squirmed and shrieked and tried to fight him off. He pinned her wrists by her hip with one hand and used the other to assault her underarms and waist. 

“Stop!” she said, laughing. “Uncle!”

As soon as he made the amateur mistake of letting go of her wrists, she turned on him, dancing her fingers over his stomach so fast he was caught off guard. He was laughing too hard to grab her hands. Then, as quick as the assault had happened, it was over and Nelly was pulling him on top of her in a heap. 

“Mmmmm,” she said, chuckling and rubbing her nose into his throat.

“Mmm?” he said. He tugged on a strand of hair that had come free of her chignon. 

“Mmm,” she said. She ran her hand through his hair and upset his hat, which she flung to the floor. 

The image of a crossroads floated through his mind again, unbidden. To drive it out, he put his hand under her dress and fiddled with the strap of her garter. She sighed as he unhooked the forward part of her stocking and slipped his hand around to the back of her thigh to undo the other. He did the next two clasps using two hands, and drew off the stockings slowly, appreciating the shape of her legs. She seldom shaved her legs and he liked the hair there, faint brown and baby-fine. For his next trick, he reached back under her skirt and slid a hand inside the leg of her knickers until he found her bare hip. She murmured. He wanted to take her mind off the crossroads too. He stroked her hip with his fingertips, teasing. Slowly, slowly, he slid his fingers into her pubic hair. The hangover that had been beating inside his head was forgotten as all his concentration went to one of his favorite pastimes. He trailed his fingers first over her mound, then down each of her outer lips. Nelly gave a quavering moan. He wouldn’t touch her where she wanted to be touched, though. He circled back to her mound and she pressed her hips forward to receive more of his touch. 

“It’s your birthday, you get to call the shots. What do you want?” he said. He drew two fingers down both her lips simultaneously and looked at her face, watched her mouth part. Her only answer was a soft, feminine moan that ratcheted up his own arousal. He withdrew his hand from her knickers and stretched his body on top of hers, making sure that she could feel his erection. 

“What do you want?” he asked again, pressing against her. 

“You,” she said, opening her eyes a slit. 

“Specifics?” he said. He wanted to do what would make her happiest. 

“Oh Bus, just fuck me. Please.”

She’d never, ever used that word before. It reduced him to a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. He stood up to get rid of his pants and drawers, while Nelly pulled up the skirt of her dress and peeled down her white cotton knickers. He’d never put on a prophylactic so fast. 

“Don’t hold back,” she said, seeking out his eyes as he put a knee onto the sofa. “I want to be ravished.”

He took his prick in hand and guided the tip into her. He had to think of something else for the first few breaths. Eddie Sedgwick’s face came to mind and that worked. He slid all the way inside her, now not in immediate danger of coming but still not far out of peril. “Give me a minute,” he said, hands gripping her bare knees. He thought of unsexy, ordinary things: the side of bacon he’d had with breakfast, changing the tire of Jingles’ car with him, a new pair of rubber waders he’d bought for fishing. After a minute, he was able to get back down to business. He slid his hands over her thighs and began to make love to her in steady strokes, watching the way her brow creased and her nostrils flared. “This good?”

“Will you go faster?” she said, her hands encircling his wrists. She pulled him flush on top of her. 

He laid as flat as he could get, elbows on the sofa cushion and hands over the crown of Nelly’s head, and gave her all he was worth. 

“Oh yes. Yes, yes,” she said, the pitch of her voice rising. She sounded desperate. “Harder.”

No amount of contemplating Jingles’ tire could have held him back now. He bore down on her as fast and hard as he could go, and his orgasm came just as quick and hard, one of the best he could remember having. He was aware they were both shouting loud enough to alert every damned neighbor in the building, but he couldn’t help it. He stayed inside her until every residual pulse of pleasure was gone before he pulled out. His muscles went slack and he was surely crushing her, lying on her like he was, but she didn’t complain. He wasn’t aware of falling asleep. The slamming of another door in the apartment building woke him and he startled. He pulled himself to his elbows. “Shit. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Nelly, though, was also blinking awake. “What’s the time? You’ve got to get to the premiere,” she said. 

He looked at his wristwatch. They’d only been out ten minutes. “Oh, that’s still a few hours away.” It was only half past four, and the premiere wasn’t until nine. 

“How do you think it will go?” she said. 

He climbed off of her and went into the kitchen area to dispose of the prophylactic. “Keep thinking it’ll have to be a smash. I said it before, that ending’s second only to The General .”

Nelly disappeared into the bathroom, but didn’t close the door. “Hmm,” she said. He picked up his pants, pulled the handkerchief out of the pocket, and wiped himself off. He was dressed when she returned and smoking a cigarette on the sofa. 

“Hmm?” he prompted. 

She shrugged. “I think so too, but I don’t have the least bit of experience with audiences. Or critics.”

“Sure you do. Don’t your plays get reviewed?”

“Oh,” she said. “I never thought of comparing them to pictures. They’re so different, aren’t they? The critics were usually on the same page as us and the audience for the most part. The only one that got us panned was Processional .” She stopped to pick up her knickers and began to put them on.  “The director was in love with it. Mr. Zweigle. We knew from the get-go the audiences would hate it. It was very—what’s the word. Avant-garde? Abstract? Went whooshing straight over their heads and we ended the run early. It really didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me either. Maybe it would have played better in New York City. I don’t see what’s not to like about Steamboat , though.”

“My production man tried telling me the people whose folks had died in floods would cause trouble for me, that’s why we switched to the cyclone idea,” said Buster. “What I don’t understand is that more lives are lost each year to cyclones. I guess we might get panned there.”

“It will go fine. Everyone will love it,” Nelly said, sitting next to him. 

He put an arm around her shoulder, feeling comforted. “Why don’t you go put on the new record I got you?” he said. He’d remembered the extra birthday gift. 

She frowned. “You shouldn’t have gotten me another record. You got me a whole band last night.”

“Blah blah blah,” he said, waving her off. 

She glared at him in mock anger, but went to put the record on the phonograph that sat on top of her desk. She changed the needle and slid the record from its sleeve. The photograph slipped to the floor as he’d expected it would. He wanted to warn her about it before he left. “What’s this?” She picked it up and turned it over, and her face reddened. “I didn’t think you’d really develop that,” she said, laying it on the desk. 

“Just see you don’t leave it lying around for Bradmont or Mr. Hernandez or whoever to see,” he said. He’d never given a girl a naked photo of himself before and wasn’t in love with the notion, but he had so many wicked photos of her now it had seemed only fair to trade her one of him. 

“Bradford,” Nelly corrected. “I owe the night to him. He was very good to me.”

Buster still thought she’d been over-cautious bringing Bradford along but didn’t see the point in arguing it. “Who’s Joseph?” he said, since they were on the subject of names. 

She blushed as she placed the record into the phonograph. “You. I was trying to get Mother off the phone one day and told her I had a date, but it was the wrong thing to say because then she asked what his name was and said Joseph. It just came out. Now she thinks I’ve got a beau named Joseph.”

“Well you do. Strictly speaking, my name is Joseph.”

Nelly bit her lip, her back to him as she pulled out the arm of the record. The phonograph scratched and hissed to life. Horns and strings rang out. Next to the real Paul Whiteman Orchestra, the recording sounded subdued. 

“Charlie Chaplin said he’d see me this week,” Nelly said. “I told him I worked in the prop department at United Artists and he said he’d have to change that.”

He wondered why the change of subject. “That’s good. Ain’t it?” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. Charlie had the habit of promising things he had no intention of giving, but he wasn’t going to set her straight. 

“I suppose. Shouldn’t I feel more thrilled?” She came and sat on the sofa next to him. 

He stubbed his cigarette into the cracked saucer she kept on the side table for him. “Should you?”

“My heart isn’t in Twelfth Night either,” she said fretfully. “At first I thought it was because I didn’t get Viola. You know, because I’ve done Maria before and I don’t have to work so hard to learn the lines. It’s not much of a challenge. Then I thought, I work so much maybe I’m just too tired to do a play right now.”

He noticed her picking the skin around one of her fingers. “What are you saying?”

“Let’s just dance,” she said, grasping his hand. 

He stood up and put both hands on her waist. From the phonograph, the singer with the funny name crooned, I’m a sentimental sap that’s all, what’s the use in trying not to fall ?

His hangover was placated that evening by two glasses of whiskey before the premiere, which reunited three-fourths of the guest list from his party the night before, Chaplin, Lloyd, Fairbanks, Pickford, and so forth.  From their faces, Buster could tell they felt about as wrung-out as he did. Only Natalie didn’t seem hungover, although it hardly mattered. She was so sulky he began to wonder if Nelly’s mood was catching. 

With the theater favorably packed with his friends and fellow actors, Steamboat was guaranteed to be a smash hit. That said, Buster could tell fake laughter from real belly laughs. Steamboat ’s reception was real. The men in particular found the cycle sequence howlingly funny. The scene with the house drew a collective gasp that satisfied him to his core. Natalie laughed little. He couldn’t figure it out, but was determined not to let her sulkiness get under his skin and basked in everyone’s praise afterwards. There were shoulder claps and back pats galore. Finally he was back to delivering hits again and could go to Irv and tell him to sack the army of writers. It was that thought he slept on that evening. 

When he woke up the next morning, the hangover had disappeared and he felt more cheerful than he had in days. He whistled “Daisy Bell” as he dressed. It wasn’t until he’d gotten downstairs that he sensed danger. Natalie was waiting for him in the breakfast room but there was no breakfast on the table. She’d been crying. Her eyes were puffy and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. 

“What’s this about?” he said. 

Her voice trembled. “We need to talk.”

The four worst words a woman could say to a man. “Okay,” he said, putting his hand on the back of a chair and preparing to sit down. 

“I don’t want the help hearing.” She stood up. 

He caught her elbow as she came around the table. The crook of her small arm was hot and moist. Dread had replaced hunger in his stomach. They headed for the living room. When he stepped into it and saw Constance and Norma sitting on the sofa with tight, cold expressions, he knew right away what it was about. Constance stood and took Nate from him. Natalie was tucked between her sisters like a chick between mother hens. Buster sat in the armchair diagonal to them, feeling out of his body. 

“How’d you find out?” he said. Outwardly, he was calm. Inwardly, his pulse was hammering.

Constance curled a protective arm around Natalie as Natalie dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. 

“It’s been going around a couple weeks, that you’ve had a girl at your bungalow,” said Norma. She twisted a handkerchief between her fingers, but was not crying and did not look as though she planned to.

He tried to remember who knew. Caruthers didn’t count; he’d been entrusted with more sordid details than the affair with Nelly. Louise Brooks and George Marshall knew. From what Nelly had said, Eddie Sedgwick. It must have gotten out through Eddie. He pulled his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and extracted one, concentrating on every detail. It gave him the excuse not to look the Talmadges in the faces for a few moments. 

“Norma said you wouldn’t be stupid enough to bring her to the party,” Constance said, voice full of scorn. “I said you would.” Her eyes blazed. “I was right.”

Nestled between her sisters, Natalie sniffled. Even if there had been rumors, he didn’t know how they’d connected him to Nelly specifically. As if anticipating this question, Norma said, “Dutch followed you when you left the party last night.”

“That girl?” Buster said. “No. She’s got a boyfriend.” He didn’t think the lie would get him anywhere, it just came out before he could stop it. 

Constance laughed. “That preposterous boy she was with? You could tell from a mile away he doesn’t favor girls.”

He lit the cigarette. He’d forgotten he was holding it. As he took the first drag, he started to formulate a strategy. He would willingly accept whatever punishment they meted out and from now on be more careful with Nelly: no parties, no more overnights at the bungalow, no more being gone for stretches longer than two hours. He avoided looking at Natalie. That chewing guilt was working at him again and he didn’t want to fall into that endless circle of trying to figure out where their marriage had gone wrong. It was her fault things were this way. No, his. No, hers. No, his.

He looked at his sisters-in-law. “So?”

“You know the rules, Bus,” Norma said gently. She looked sad. 

He hated the feeling that he was letting her and Dutch down as much as Natalie. He tried not to show it. Blowing out a cloud of smoke, he said, “So I got a little careless. I’ll keep it under wraps from now on.”

Norma shook her head. “You got attached.” When Nate had decided on separate bedrooms and he’d gone to Peg to declare to her that he intended to have his needs satisfied come hell or high water, she had agreed—with the smallest of conditions: keep it discreet, don’t get attached, don’t spend any money.

“Even if I do care for her a little, so what?” he said. “I’ve hardly spent a dime on her. She don’t want that. Told me from the beginning no satin and pearls.” It felt strange to bring Nelly out in open conversation after hiding her for so long.

“You don’t understand,” said Constance. Her eyes sparked. 

He looked at Natalie, wedged under Norma and Dutch’s shoulders. He wanted to  see how she felt about all of this. She refused to meet his eyes, though, only looked down and wiped at her eyes with her handkerchief. 

He scoffed. “Understand what? I get it, it’s an interrogation. I’ve done a lowdown, mean thing to my wife. You want me to apologize and make amends. Well I’m sorry.” As soon as he said it, he was sure he wasn’t. He was only sorry he was careless and they’d caught him. “I have needs. You can’t expect me to go without. Don’t know why we keep going in circles about this.”

Constance reached behind her and flung several pieces of paper at him. Some landed on the coffee table and others on the floor.  His brain took a moment to catch up with his eyes. Nelly was staring at them all from the photographs, breasts fully bared, clearly sitting in the Keaton bathtub. His heartbeat trilled like a military drum. In a solitary photo, there he was holding a towel in front of his prick, gazing at the girl behind the camera lens. The last he’d seen those photos, they’d been in his bedside table drawer. He hadn’t bothered hiding them. He hated that his private, intimate moment with Nelly was now seared into the Talmadge girls’ minds. He felt like a scolded, whipped little boy. As with his parents when he was a tot, he knew that nothing he could say to them would convince them that he had a side too. So he didn’t say anything. He looked down at the photos, then up at them. He was grateful for the blank pan that came so easily.

Now Norma stood up and did a funny thing. She gathered all the photos, squared them like a stack of cards, and put them in the little leather handbag at her feet. “I’m sorry,” she said. She did really look sorry as her eyes searched his. “You know the rules. I made some calls this morning. She’s no longer working for United Artists.”

“Huh?”

“We had her fired,” said Constance. She looked smug and triumphant. 

Buster sat upright. “You did what?”

“She simply cannot work in pictures any longer. I’m sorry,” said Norma. 

“You’ve got no right to do that,” he said, voice rising. “She didn’t do none of this. It was all me. Why’s she getting all the blame?”

“That slut knew you were married,” Constance said. “She oughta have seen it coming.”

He stood up. The cigarette seared his fingers and he dropped it, shaking his hand. It had burnt down without him noticing. “Don’t you call her that word,” he said. “She ain’t like that.”

“I call ‘em like I see ‘em,” said Constance. The expression on her face dared him. 

“Buster, the cigarette,” said Norma.

He dared. “You’re the one who’s the slut,” he shot at Constance. “Buster, Jack, Michael, Ricky—want me to go on?”

Constance just smiled. “ I’m not fooling around with married men. Nor am I married.”

“Pick up the cigarette, c’mon,” Norma said. “The carpet, you’re ruining the carpet.”

“Yeah? What about Norma? She’s married. She’s going outside her marriage.” He knew even before the protests were out of his mouth that they’d make no difference. The only thing that mattered to them was Natalie. As long as Natalie had been wronged, he could object until the cows came home. He picked up the smoldering butt and ground it out on the coffee table, daring them again.

“Sit down,” said Norma. Again, her voice was gentle. “I’m sorry, but Natalie comes first. You must tell this girl that it’s over.”

“Nelly. Her name’s Nelly.” They must have known her name if they were able to find out where she worked, but it still felt fitting to say it out loud. This was a person they were talking about, not a chess piece to be moved off the board. 

“Please tell Nelly it’s over,” Norma said. She looked apologetic. 

Buster looked at Natalie. Her head was still down. He wanted to barter with her. Let me keep seeing her. What do you care anyway as long as you have your furs and your fancy parties? He looked at Constance who had a half-smirk on her face, like she knew something he didn’t. 

“If I don’t?” He could already tell by the look on Constance’s face that they had him checkmated. He just didn’t know how yet. 

“We’ll go to Mr. Mayer with the pictures. It’s as simple as that,” Norma said. She twisted the handkerchief. 

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re kidding. You’d ruin my career over something like this?”

“It’s you who’s ruining it, not us,” said Constance.

“What would happen to Nate then, huh? What’d happen to this house? All the parties?” He refused to accept that they’d pull the pin over something so trivial. If there was one thing he was sure Natalie did like about him, it was his handsome paychecks. 

Between her sisters, Natalie began to cry audibly.

“We’ll take care of Natalie and the boys,” Constance said, with a dismissive wave. 

He considered it. They were both still successful in pictures. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. 

“Just tell her it’s over,” Norma encouraged. “We don’t want to go that far.”

He knew too, sure as he knew anything, that they’d make sure Nate got more than her fair share in a divorce. She’d get the house, the kids, and whatever alimony could be squeezed out of him after he was ruined. He felt frozen. Nelly would take him even down-and-out; her line about diamonds and satin wasn’t a bluff. He just didn’t know if he could live with himself knowing he had messed up her career and he couldn’t offer her a darned thing with his gone too. It was selfish, but he didn’t want to give up everything he’d worked so hard for either, the plum gig at M-G-M, the Villa, and most of all his boys. 

“Alright. I’ll tell her.”

Checkmate. King vanquished. Three queens crowned.

Chapter Text

She would remember it so clearly. She was stretched out on the sofa reading But Gentlemen Marry Brunettes by Anita Loos, the west-facing window was open, admitting a cool breeze carrying the smell of lilacs, and the radio was playing a Ukulele Ike song. Her mood was better than it had been the day before. She had no plans except to read, study her lines, and maybe treat herself to Street Angel , which was playing downtown at 6 p.m. 

A knock on the door made her jump. She didn’t have any time to tell whoever was on the other side that she was coming before there was the rattle of a key turning in the lock. She sat up straight as Buster staggered through the door.

“Goodness, what’s wrong?” she said, throwing her legs over the side of the sofa and setting the book down. As he lurched toward her and sat on the other end of the sofa, she could smell what was wrong. He appeared to have taken a recent swim in a bathtub of whiskey. 

“Something happened,” he said without preamble, not looking at her. He took off his cap and played with the brim.

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” she said. Whatever it was, it was bad. She would wonder later why she didn’t guess what it was. It was simply apparent to her that in his state, he was in need of immediate attention. She filled a glass from the tap and set it on the coffee table in front of him. He didn’t touch it. She sat next to him and laid her hand on his arm, but he refused to look at her as he went on.

“I’m awful sorry about this and I just don’t know how to tell you.” His nose sounded plugged and his voice was thick and nasal, his words a beat or two slower than normal. She wondered how much he’d had to drink.

“I hope you didn’t drive yourself,” she said. 

He looked at her at last and his eyes were glazed. “Well who else was gonna do it?”

“Your butler,” she said. “You can’t drive like this. You could get in a wreck and hurt yourself. Or someone else.”

“Aw, to hell with my driving. I need to tell you something important.” He looked back down at his hands. 

She realized then what it was. “Oh,” she said. Her mind was a blank. There was no before or after, only that moment suspended in time like a dragonfly in amber as she waited for seeming eons to hear what he would say next.

His expression was sorrowful. “The girls found out about us.”

Her heart pounded. “What girls?”

“The Talmadges,” he said. “Natalie’s sisters.”

She knew then by his voice and by the depth of his drunkenness it was over. Later, she would feel surprised by her reaction. She was neither heartbroken nor devastated, she only wanted to soothe him. “How did they find out?” she said softly, but she knew. Somehow Constance had pieced it together after her dance with Buster at the party.

“It’s been going around about you and me. Guess some folks knew about you being at the bungalow and word got around.” His thumbs massaged the rim of the hat. 

She put her hand between his shoulders. Eddie Sedgwick. Maybe others too, peering out of their curtains as she hurried into Buster’s car with her head ducked. It didn’t matter. “And they told you it’s her or me,” she said. In her daydreams, insofar as she had allowed herself daydreams, Buster renounced Natalie voluntarily. She’d daydreamed it all wrong. 

“Oh, it’s worse than that. I don’t know how to tell you, Nell.” 

He’d never called her Nell. She bit her lip, feeling hot and numb.

“You see, about those pictures. I took those pictures of you, ‘member? The girls got suspicious and god dammit they went through my room and they found them.”

Nelly felt the color drain from her face. She rubbed Buster’s back, trying to give him the strength to go on. His voice was so heavy and nasally. 

“Must have made them pretty sore ‘cause they say they’re going to take them to the papers if I don’t break it off with you. They’ve got me skewered. Mr. Mayer’s the type who wants all his stars minding their Ps and Qs. No scandals and they know it.”

Nelly nodded mechanically. She felt like she was floating above her body looking down on them both. “It would cause a big scandal if they took the pictures to the papers,” she said. 

Buster echoed her nod, sucking in his lower lip. “Uh-huh. ‘Cause they’ve got one of me too. I’d lose everything.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Gets worse.”

Her heart thumped. 

“They had you sacked.” His hands clenched over the hat. “There ain’t a fucking thing I can do about it either. I’m real sorry. I hate to tell you.”

Her hand fell from his back. “Oh.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to take everything in. Her head was swimming. 

“It’s all my fault. I dragged you into this and now I’ve gone and wrecked it all for you.”

She opened her eyes and he’d turned his head away from her. 

“No.” She felt an unexpected courage fill her. He needed her to be brave. She would. She rested her hand on his knee. “It’s my fault too. I knew the risks. It was—well, it was bound to happen. I’ll be just fine.”

Even as she said that, it dawned on her that her options from here forward were limited and menial. As long as the Talmadges held those photographs in their possession, she’d have no chance in pictures. She could always get a job as a typist or a telephone operator, but what was the point of staying in Hollywood to be a typist? How could she carry on knowing she’d fallen so far? Carrying on in the same town as Buster as if nothing had happened? They sat there in silence. She decided. She would be brave for both of them. 

“I’ll just go back home,” she said. “Don’t worry, it’s for the best. I don’t want you to get in trouble. It’s not worth throwing anything away for me.”

Looking back at it, she couldn’t believe how calm she was, how resolved. A deep-seated clarity was upon her.

Buster’s face was still turned away, but she could see him swallow hard. “I’ll be fine,” she assured him.

“I don’t like that one bit,” he said, clearing his throat. 

“Well, what else can we do?”

He wrung his cap. “Just—cool it for a bit. Take a break for a few weeks. Then we’ll be extra careful. We can just keep it here, at your place. No more’n a couple hours at a time, maybe once a week or something.

She shook her head. “They’ll be watching you like a hawk now. Then we’re back to square one and they’ll ruin your career. I don’t want you to throw it all away for me. You don’t want to throw it away all for me. You don’t have to pretend you want to. I know you still care for …” She didn’t want to say Natalie’s name. “It’s alright,” she said instead. 

“Ah, hell,” he said, squeezing his eyes closed. “What about your career in pictures?” He put his head in his hands. The cap in his right hand shielded his face from view.

Nelly put a hand between his shoulders again. “Let’s be honest,” she said with a forced laugh. “It wasn’t going so well even before this. I’ll go back to the theater. It’ll work out.” She tried to make her voice light and reassuring.

They fell silent again. The radio was playing the Coon-Sanders Orchestra’s “Everything is Hotsy-Totsy Now.” The song was boisterous and happy. Sparrows twittered in the bushes outside the windows. Buster took a deep breath and blew it out heavily. She didn’t want him to leave. She tried not to think about the reality that this was the last time she’d see him. She had to be brave.

The minutes ticked away. The radio played a slow, sultry number from Annette Hanshaw. Just another night, nothing in sight, nothing but grieving. When I go to sleep, memories will creep, making me blue … 

She could feel sadness seeping in with each minute. She was in danger of making some kind of irrational plea. “I should pack,” she said. “You need to get home before you get in more trouble.”

Again, every detail would stick in her memory. She walked Buster to the door, but kept him at arm’s length. She knew if she embraced him, she would lose control. He wasn’t crying, men didn’t cry, but he didn’t look like himself at all. His face was dazed, like someone had just punched him in the face. He put his cap on and stumbled as he reached for the doorknob. She told him to drive slowly and watch for other cars. If she could have driven him home herself, she might have considered it, but she didn’t know how to drive. He was almost out of the door when he turned around. 

“I can write you, can’t I?” he said, with a sudden passion. He patted his breast pocket for a pen, looking lost.

She nodded. A hard knot had come into her throat and she could feel the reserves of her bravery diminishing. She tore a piece of paper from a steno pad and wrote her parents’ address down as he waited in the doorway. Their fingers touched as she handed it to him. She swallowed. “You drive safely, you hear?” she said, her voice somehow steady, blithe even. 

Buster nodded. He looked into her eyes for a moment. Then she was shutting the door and his footsteps were going down the hall. For a whole half hour, she just sat on the sofa feeling stunned. At any moment, Buster would come running back down the hall and pound on the door, telling her he’d reconsidered. When that didn’t happen, she rose after a while and pulled her wardrobe trunk out from a corner and began to gather her clothes. 

In contrast to her final encounter with Buster, her last days in Hollywood were indistinguishable. She was so busy, so overburdened and fatigued, her grief was compartmentalized for the time being. There were ads to place for her sofa, secondhand set of china, and other household odds and ends, and knocks at the door to answer as strangers showed up to buy or turn down her possessions; her landlord to notify and her May rent check to hand over even though two-thirds of the month still lay ahead and she wouldn’t be occupying the apartment for it; a telegram to send to her mother and father announcing her return home; a visit to the Los Angeles Players to tell them a sudden death in the family meant that her eager understudy would have to take her place; a decision to make about the phonograph and its two dozen records. There was no room in her wardrobe trunk or suitcases. She thought of leaving them behind, but couldn’t stand the idea.

That was the sharpest memory from that time, arranging to ship the phonograph and records back to Evanston. It was the first time she’d cried since Buster’s visit. She’d knocked on Mr. Hernandez’s door, not knowing who else to trust with one of her dearest possessions. He had always been friendly, though lately she always put down her eyes and mumbled her helloes when they met at the mailbox or in the hall. She wasn’t worldly enough not to be embarrassed by his hearing her in the grip of ecstasy more than once. 

“Well,” she said, sitting in one of Mr. Hernandez’s floral armchairs holding the cup of coffee he’d insisted she have. “I’m leaving town.”

Mr. Hernandez was somewhere south of sixty, with a brown, weather-beaten face that added ten years to his age. His father had helped build the railroads in the Sierra foothills and Mr. Hernandez had followed in his footsteps, though in eastern Nebraska. He had come back to his native state for retirement, his two sons having grown up and his wife died fifteen years prior.

“Sorry to hear that. Where you heading?” he said, upon hearing her news. 

“Back home to my folks,” she said, uncomfortable that she had an angle with the visit. “That’s why I came by. I’ve got a phonograph, some records too, I can’t take with me and I’m afraid it’s all too heavy for me to carry to the post office. There’s no room in my luggage. I hate to impose, but I’d pay you ten dollars. I don’t like to ask. I never did make any friends here.” She took a gulp of coffee for courage and burnt her tongue. 

“I’d be happy to, but what’s the hurry?” 

He had, she’d reflected, the older person’s ability to read the young person like a book. It piqued her, but she didn’t want to be rude, especially since he’d just agreed to ship her records. “I’m not having much luck with pictures here,” she said. “Thought I’d go back to the theater for awhile.” She offered an apologetic smile.

“What about that fella of yours?” said Mr. Hernandez, sipping from his coffee. “What’s he gonna do? I seen him once. Looks a lot like that movie fella. Harold Lloyd, I think that’s the one.”

She colored crimson. “Oh, he—” She didn’t know how to finish. Left because he still loved his wife and his two famous movie star sisters-in-law were blackmailing him? She couldn’t tell that to an old man she barely knew. As she struggled to come up with an excuse, she had remembered Buster coming up the hall with a box of birthday cake and the record that read on one side “You Took Advantage of Me.” The sorrow was like a wall of water that rose up from nowhere and slammed her off her feet. She burst into tears.

At one point during the torrent, she was aware of Mr. Hernandez kneeling by the chair and offering his handkerchief and a comforting arm. “There, there. I didn’t mean to upset you. This fella, forget it. Not worth all this. You’re a pretty gal. You’ll find a fella who cares more and this’ll all be forgotten.” 

She nodded, agreeing, and cried some more. 

The crying had not slowed at all when her train left Central Station and began its eastward trek. With no rent or bills to worry about any longer, she used some of her savings to buy herself the privacy of a bedroom compartment so she wouldn’t have to cry around strangers and face their questions or sympathetic looks. A black porter named Sam attended her. He was alarmed that she wouldn’t eat, and tempted her at regular intervals with grapes, baked chicken pie, and rice pudding with raisins, but food had become disagreeable. She could force only two or three bites. She stared out the window during the daytime and saturated her supply of handkerchiefs with tears. She didn’t know what she was sadder about, her silly dream of becoming somebody on the silver screen—or Buster. It was hard to believe the affair had lasted just three months and that he’d been in New York for a third of it. It felt so much longer, so much more consequential. It seemed like just yesterday that they’d kissed on the lawn of the Villa under the stars; it seemed like a lifetime ago. Her fitful dreams were filled with her own tears and wild pleas. In some, Buster was at a party or premiere with Natalie nearby, laughing for camera bulbs and ignoring her entirely. In others, he was hardened to her. She begged for him back but he wasn’t moved in the slightest. He’d look at her with a stone face and return to whatever he was doing, making it clear that she was bothering him.

She felt like a mummified husk of a woman when the train pulled into Union Station two days later. She’d cried so many tears that her mouth was dry and she was constantly thirsty. What little sleep she’d gotten had not been restful due to her tormented dreams and the thrashing of the train from side to side as it roared through the night. Sam the porter loaded her wardrobe truck onto a handcart and she took the suitcase, and together they made it up to Canal Street. It was almost noon. Sam hailed a taxi cab and helped load her luggage into the taxi, and she tipped him twenty dollars against his protests. To the cab driver, she said, “Ashbury Avenue, Evanston. I don’t care what it costs.” She could have had him take her to the L Stop, but the idea of having to have her luggage loaded and unloaded again exhausted her. The cab driver took her right to the doorstop of the slate blue house with the cream windows and the connected third-story dormers and heaved her luggage up the red-brick drive. She knocked on the door and Jennie answered. When Lena came bustling to the door at Jennie’s call and saw who it was, she squealed and threw her arms around her daughter. Nelly buried her face in her mother’s shoulder and cried.

“I’m home, Mama.”

Buster dealt with the sudden end to his affair with Nelly the best way he knew how, by drinking. He was so plastered by Monday morning that he had Caruthers drive him to the studio. When he swayed his way onto Lot Two, he didn’t care who noticed. He thought he was doing okay holding his own until he dropped a weight on his left foot in the middle of a gag and Sedgwick ordered him to the infirmary, where a doctor iced the swollen appendage, which had already turned blue and green. “You’ve got to be crazy, thinking you can get away with acrobatics when you’ve had this much to drink,” the doctor lectured, the cigarette in his mouth bobbing as he talked. He wrapped the foot tightly in an elastic bandage and told Buster to stay off it for at least the rest of the day. Buster took another nip from his flask as soon as he’d hobbled out of the infirmary, then went and explained the score to Sedgwick. He was in every scene, so there was no point in filming as long as he was out of commission. They called it a wrap for the day even though he knew Weingarten would catch wind of it and give him hell. As he might have predicted, Sedgwick gave him the same lecture the doctor did. “It’s Monday, too. I don’t know what in the hell you’re doing drinking on a Monday morning.” Buster smiled grimly and said nothing.

He did ease off the next morning, though his hangover cried out for something to soothe it. His foot was painful and so swollen he could barely stuff it in his shoe. As they filmed that morning’s scenes, he had to use all his effort not to limp when the cameras were rolling. The pain, the willpower, not to mention the aching hangover, kept his mind off of anything else. That night was a different story. It belonged to Buster One. He invited the whole M-G-M stable to the bungalow and drank to his heart’s content. He couldn’t remember a single thing about the party when his alarm went off the next day, but he was still drunk and had the creeping suspicion he’d only been in bed for a couple of hours. Again, he gritted through the pain in his swollen foot as he dashed around the New York set with his Pathé. As long as he had the film to concentrate on, he didn’t have much room to think about anything else. Well, other than his foot. 

After shooting wrapped on Wednesday, Ed Brophy, Buster Collier, and Cliff Edwards, his newest acquaintance, met him back at the bungalow, where Caruthers treated them to steak dinners and as many cocktails as they wanted before they sat down at the table for a bridge game. A couple girls wandered in, budding starlets looking for their “in” into pictures. One sat in his lap and played with his hair, and although he wasn’t much interested in anything having to do with girls, he thought of Constance and Norma and didn’t push her away. They couldn’t tell him what to do. 

Around midnight, there was a strong knock at the door. He was losing badly to Brophy and owed him at least three thousand dollars, but with as fried he was, it wasn’t bothering him any. “Come in!” he yelled.

The large frame of Edward Sedgwick lumbered into view. He was wearing blue-striped pajamas. Buster blinked at him, confounded. 

“Has it occurred to you that you’re supposed to be on set in six hours?”

The girl in his lap giggled and shifted. He caught a whiff of cheap perfume and sweat. 

“C’mon, Junior. I didn’t know you were next door,” he protested. “We can keep it down.”

“We’ll keep it down,” echoed the girl. 

“No one asked you,” said Buster, scooting up in his chair a little. She was starting to hurt his thighs. 

“My sleep’s the least of my worries right now.” The director seized Buster’s cocktail glass and dumped it down the drain.

“Oh brother have you caught it,” said Cliff, with a laugh. 

“Put a sock in it,” Buster replied, reaching for the whiskey bottle. That too was contraband for Sedgwick, who upturned it in the sink. The bungalow was still amply stocked with spirits, but Buster got the point. “Alright, alright, we’re calling it a night. You satisfied? This is costing me three thousand clams.”

“Three thousand fifty,” said Brophy in his high-pitched New York brogue. 

“Up,” said Buster to the nameless girl, pressing against the back of her waist with both hands. Under Sedgwick’s watchful eye, he cut Brophy a check for his winnings and grimaced at Cliff, his mediocre partner. Cliff just laughed, taking a swig of gin for the road. Pretty soon, he and Sedgwick were almost alone. The girl who’d sat in his lap was the last to leave. She caught his eye as she backed out the door, trying to communicate something. “Get lost kid,” Buster said, by way of farewell. When she was gone, he lit a cigarette and said, “Be sure you mention her to Norma and Constance next time you see ‘em.”

“What in the devil are you talking about?” said Sedgwick, sounding confused. He was standing in the doorway, so big he filled the whole frame.

“Never mind,” said Buster. He took a drag from the cigarette. 

“What’s eating you lately?” said Sedgwick.

“Nothing. Just having a good time. Guess I lost track of the hour.”

“No, no, no. You’ve been plastered since Monday. Whatever it is, we can’t make a picture like this. Not when you can hardly stand up straight.”

Buster limped across the room for an ashtray. He couldn’t think clearly and he liked it that way. “I thought I was fine today.”

“You were better than you were Monday, but worse than you were yesterday.”

“I’ll split the difference tomorrow,” he joked. He sank into an armchair and ashed his cigarette. 

“Give it a rest. Go to bed.” Sedgwick’s tone was firm. 

He left and Buster was too tired to do anything but obey. He brushed his teeth, undressed, passed out as soon as he pulled up the covers. 

The hangover was back with a vengeance Thursday and no amount of black coffee could take away its bite, but at least Sedgwick couldn’t accuse him of being drunk. They filmed in the newsroom set and his consolation for the hangover was getting to shatter the fake plate glass (made from sugar) of the entry door several times. After filming wrapped, he took a few swigs from his flask and tucked it into his jacket. For no particular reason, he found himself driving uptown to the small hotel where Joe lived. 

“Hey Pop,” he said, when Joe opened the door. One half of his father’s face was covered in shaving cream and the other half was shaved. His tie was looped loosely around his neck, not yet tied. 

“Come on in, son,” said Joe. He didn’t seem surprised by the unannounced visit.

Buster walked in. The Yanks game was on the radio and there was a glass of bourbon on the desk.  

Joe noticed him looking. “Want a glass of the good stuff?” he said.

Buster shook his head and pulled out his flask, holding it up for him to see. Joe picked up the glass of bourbon and Buster had a pull of whiskey. Joe motioned him toward the bathroom and Buster stood in the doorway as he finished shaving. It was a funny thing. He owed his whole career, in a way, to his pa shaving at a mirror. Back in the Three Keaton days, Joe would lean forward, scraping delicately at his neck with the razor, and the basketball that Buster was innocently swinging on a rubber hose would get closer and closer until it finally popped him in the back of the neck and he’d bash his head into the mirror. Joe would roar, Buster would catch hell, and the audience would be in stitches. 

“What’s eating ya?” said Joe. Buster must have looked surprised, because Joe said, “Look, just ‘cause I haven’t lived with ya since you was twenty-one, I can still read ya like a book. You’re my kid.”

Buster took a long swig of whiskey and lit a cigarette before he answered. Might as well come out with it. “I had an affair,” he said. It was the first he’d mentioned it to anyone. “Norma and Nate and them caught wind and so Norma and Dutch blackmailed me into calling it off. Happened Sunday. She had to leave town. She was working for United Artists and they had her fired.”

Joe slopped a wad of shaving cream off his razor and into the sink, and turned to scrutinize him for a few moments. He turned back to the mirror and angled his head, scraping the right side of his jaw. “You want my advice, forget about her as fast as you can. Women are a dime a dozen. You’ll learn to be more careful next time.”

The advice wasn’t comforting, but Buster couldn’t argue with it. As far as he was concerned, Joe had written the book on affairs. It was his old man who’d taught him about Della’s back in the summer before his nineteenth birthday. Buster shrugged in response, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“I can see you’re hurtin’,” Joe said.

Buster found an ashtray on the desk and returned to the doorway.

“I did that a few times,” Joe continued. “Fallin’ in love.”

The child in Buster still didn’t like to hear his father talk about his infidelity. As he’d grown from a boy into a teenager, he knew that Joe stepped out on Myra—and Myra knew it too—but somehow it got under his skin even now. He wondered if Jimmy and Bobby would feel the same way about him once they were grown.

“It goes away after awhile though. Ya get over it. Ya find another one.”

“Uh-huh,” said Buster. He held the smoke in his lungs, wanting the calm of the nicotine to linger just a little longer.

Joe splashed his face with water, patted it with a towel, and dabbed on some aftershave. “If ya want, you can come down to blind pig with me.”

His weeknight routine was unchanged from the latter Three Keaton days. Come five-thirty, he could be found getting ready for a night at the bar shooting pool, playing poker, and getting toasted. The only difference now was that Prohibition had driven the bars underground and the good stuff was scarce at the speak-easies, but Joe didn’t mind moonshine as long as the company was good.

“Nah,” said Buster. All things being equal he preferred to be alone. 

“Suit yourself,” said Joe, then, “ Oh !” The Yanks had just scored a run against the Browns.

He ended up driving Joe to the bar and dipped into his wallet for a couple General Grants after he parked. “Thanks,” said Joe, pocketing the bills and patting Buster’s shoulder before he got out of the car. He never made a fuss over Buster paying his monthly hotel tab and giving him a generous monthly allowance, but Buster felt his gratitude all the same. He looked ahead through the windshield at his father disappearing into the bar and swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. More than half-cocked from the whiskey now, he thought of going to Nelly’s to be petted and consoled. When he remembered that her apartment was empty, he squeezed his eyes shut hard and pulled out the flask.

Chapter Text

Next to California, Evanston was cold. The naked grey branches of the larger trees had their first diaphanous dressings of light green, while the smaller trees were wrapped in sprays of white, purple, or pink. The lilacs that had been full-blown in Los Angeles were only beginning to consider blooming here. All of this Nelly had been able to determine by visiting the window two or three times a day. Otherwise, she kept the curtains drawn. Her head and eyes ached from crying so much and were sensitive to light.

It was Tuesday. That made nine days since she’d seen Buster and three days since she’d been home. She felt turned astern, and being surrounded by the trappings of her girlhood made the sensation worse. Here was the mustard-gold wallpaper with the thin black stripes and the pink and red rose blossoms running down the center lanes. Over there, the white bureau with the oval mirror. There was the bookshelf holding the well-loved childhood books: The Secret Garden , A Little Princess , Heidi , Little Women , Anne of Green Gables , Black Beauty , The Princess and the Goblin , A Girl of the Limberlost . There were the Evanston Township High School yearbooks filled with the scrawled well wishes of fellow students she’d mostly forgotten the names of and girlfriends who had lost touch with her in pursuit of their blue heavens. If she looked in the closet, she would find her collection of teddy bears and Barney the mohair tiger. She had stowed them there at fourteen or fifteen, too big of a girl to have them arrayed on her bed any longer, too little of a girl to let them go for keeps. The closet also held a scrapbook full of playbills, pictures of John Barrymore and other stars cut from newspapers and  magazines, and ticket stubs from every picture she’d ever seen with titles in neat pencil beneath. Undoubtedly many of those titles were Buster’s."

Her regression could hardly have been more complete. Having tumbled through the looking glass into Hollywood’s Wonderland, she’d been shoved back where she belonged. Surely there had been other times in her life when she’d felt so utterly ruined, but if so she had forgotten how sharp the pain could be. Day and night, there was no relief. Her career, such as it had been, was dead for good. She’d lost Buster, and having lost him, there was such a vast set of second guesses with which to torment herself that she found it hard to sleep for longer than three or four hours at a time. She should never have stayed overnight at the bungalow, gone to the Villa while Natalie was away, or attended the second party and let Constance Talmadge figure out who she was. She should have never … 

Oh, don’t fool yourself , said her cruelest inner voice.

That was the voice that reproached her several times a day for being stupid enough to fall for a married man in the first place. Any idiot could have predicted how it would have turned out. 

When she wasn’t wondering what she could have done differently, she was weighing the affair on a pair of scales in her head. On the scale that measured Buster’s fondness for her, she piled the following facts: he had stayed true to her throughout their affair; bought her a phonograph and records; asked her to spent time with him at the bungalow; taught her to play bridge; introduced her to Louise and George Marshall; told his trusted butler about her; had written her from New York; came to see her an hour after arriving home from said city; invited her to his house and showed her around; taken pictures of her; danced with her, sang songs for her, practiced her lines with her; engaged the Paul Whiteman Orchestra especially for her birthday. The scale would droop toward the ground and she would begin to feel consoled, only for an inconvenient fact to splat on top of the other scale and upset the balance: he had broken it off with her and she hadn’t heard a thing from him since. That was the fact that trumped all the others. Even if he had cared, he had decided not to leave his wife or give up his career. The miserable thing was that she understood perfectly. There was no other way for it to be.

A small consolation was that she had gotten her monthlies the day before. On the train, she had worried about being in a condition more than she’d worried about it the entire month. Buster’s assurance that he would help her no matter what meant nothing now that he was far away. Before she had a chance to work herself into more of a state, the familiar red bloom appeared in her knickers and soon enough she was standing at the sink washing the stain out with cold water and soap as she did every month and winding rags between her legs. Her trips to the washroom to refresh her rags and rinse the old ones were her only exercise apart from trips to the window. She hadn’t planned to exile herself, but after those first few hours home, when her tears had been soothed for the nonce by her mother and she’d told quarter-truths—the acting jobs had dried up, “Joseph” had broken it off with her for another girl—she found Lena’s questions and chatter oppressive. The pain was something she wanted to digest in solitude. 

Her mother let herself into Nelly’s room every few hours bearing new temptations much as Sam the porter had, carrot soup, chicken on a white roll, chiffon cake, a cranberry mousse. Nelly didn’t have the stomach for any of it and the few bites she swallowed were tasteless and felt like papier-mâché going down. She’d set aside the tray until Jennie came to collect it. The embarrassing arrangement made her feel even more like a child. She’d gone from a self-sufficient woman with a steady boyfriend, career, and home of her own to a cosseted girl indulged by her mother and waited on by a maid. She didn’t know what to do with herself now that her dreams had all gone up in a puff of smoke.

She was in the midst of her endless weighing again when she heard multiple sets of footsteps on the stairs and children’s voices. Before she could as much as sit up, the doorknob turned and the door was pushed open without announcement. Her niece and nephew were the culprits. They hung in the doorway, shy.

“I told you to wait for me,” said Ruthie, the closeness of her voice indicating that she had just arrived at the top of the stairs. “You could have broken your necks tearing up the stairs like that.”

Nelly sat up and groped for her wrap. The intrusion incensed her. She didn’t want the children to see her this way, pale and puffy and fragile.  Her tongue felt cottony and her eyes were swollen and sore. Dried tears had made the skin of her cheeks stiff. “I don’t want company,” she mumbled, as Ruthie entered the room with June and Eddie following. 

“Well I don’t want all these children, but you don’t hear me complaining,” Ruthie said dryly. She was bouncing a gurgling baby.

June took a running jump onto the bed, crying, “Aunt Nelly!”

“Miss June Doris Henninger!” Ruthie scolded, although it sounded half-hearted.

June put her arms around Nelly’s neck and nuzzled her face into her chest. “Oh, she’s fine,” Nelly said, a sudden love for her niece flooding her. “I missed you.” June giggled and looked up at her, then nuzzled her chest again. Nelly stroked her golden-brown curls. 

“You’ve got an awful big box downstairs. Mother said it just arrived. Jennie had to fetch Ferd to carry it in.” Ruthie folded herself into the wicker chair on the other side of the bedside table and continued to bounce the baby. 

“It must be the phonograph,” she said. 

Ruthie raised an eyebrow. “How much money were you making out there?”

She blushed and looked down. “It’s only a tabletop.”

“Still! What are those? Seventy-five, one hundred dollars?” 

“I don’t know,” she said, feeling miserable all over again as she considered the amount of money Buster must have spent on it. 

“How can you not know? You bought it, didn’t you?” The eyebrow crept higher.

“I don’t remember.” She pretended to be preoccupied with June’s curls. 

Eddie sat on the carpet and rolled around a toy truck. The only sound was June kicking her feet against the bedclothes. It was awhile before Ruthie said, “So why’d you come home?”

“It’s a long story,” said Nelly. Ruthie was one of the last people she wanted to explain her downfall to, with her big tidy house, rich winsome husband, and neatly ordered children.

“I have time,” Ruthie said, bouncing the baby. Nelly realized she hadn’t seen its face.

“Let me see the baby,” she said, holding out her arms.

“Her name is Violet,” Eddie piped from the floor. He stood up to watch as Ruthie rose and placed the baby in Nelly’s arms. June sat back on her heels on the bed. 

The baby had hair a shade darker than June’s and wore a simple white cotton gown with lace at the hem. Ruthie hovered for a moment, arranging the baby’s clothing and giving her head a stroke as if to satisfy herself that she was safe in her childless sister’s arms. “She turned three months old last week.”

The baby’s head swiveled to Ruthie. She put a hand in her mouth with a jerky arm and chewed. “She’s beautiful,” said Nelly, feeling awestruck. She stroked the baby’s velvet-soft cheek and fat arm. June leaned in and shook the baby’s free hand. 

“June, don’t,” said Ruthie. “Just let Aunt Nelly hold her.”

Eddie was standing at the side of the bed, fingers in his mouth in an unconscious imitation of the baby. Nelly smiled at him and said, “She’s nice, isn’t she?” Eddie nodded dumbly. 

She had been so busy chasing her dreams and trying to make something of herself that she’d almost completely forgotten her niece and nephew. She was glad she’d come back before the third one had grown much bigger.  She held Violet for several minutes while Ruthie relayed details of the colic, giving her up when the baby began to root against her chest. Ruthie took her back, unbuttoned her collar one-handed, and arranged the baby at her breast. Eddie had gone back to his car and June was playing with the sleeve of Nelly’s wrap. 

“What are your plans now that you’re home? Mother says you just sit in here all day and you don’t eat.”

Nelly felt a cloud shadow the buoyant feeling that holding the baby had briefly imparted. She remembered that Buster was gone and the inescapable pain stabbed again. “I don’t know,” she lied. “I’m tired from the train and I have my monthlies too.”

“What are monthlies?” asked June. She was now lying the wrong way on the bed and her feet pounded the pillow next to Nelly. 

“If you don’t sit up straight right now, June Doris, I am going to strap you,” Ruthie said calmly. Redirecting her attention to Nelly, she said, “Well, you’re welcome to sit in this bedroom alone until you’re an old maid, but I could use a governess right now.”

Nelly had to smile as Buster’s line about angles went through her head. “You’ll learn about them when you’re older,” she said to June, who was sullenly rerighting herself. To Ruthie, she said, “Who says I don’t have something else lined up?”

Ruthie waved her off and shifted the baby at her breast. “You don’t. You just said you didn’t have any plans. It doesn’t have to be forever, just a month or two until we find someone else.”

“What happened to the one you had?”

“Oh, we had to fire her,” she said nonchalantly. “Please give it some thought. I could really use the help. It can’t be worse than moping in here all day.”

“I’m not moping,” she said, irritated. 

“Sure you’re not,” Ruthie said. At her breast, baby Violet loudly smacked. “You’d have your own room, all meals, and we’ll pay you a little too. At least enough you can go out to the pictures whenever you want. We won’t pester you about Harold Jenkins either.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Nelly, even though she didn’t want to think about it. For eleven glorious months, she had been full-time in pictures, even if the balance of that time wasn’t in acting. Her former part-time occupation as a governess had been left in the past where, in her opinion, it deserved to stay. She didn’t want to go back to women’s work, even if it was her own nieces and nephew, and she hesitated to live under the same roof as Ruthie again. They were so different. 

“ Pllleeease ,” said June. 

She sighed. “I’ll give it some thought,” she told her niece. 

Ruthie said she’d be by the next day and ushered the children downstairs. Nelly burrowed back in bed, the gloom settling back over her like a fug. She missed Buster with such a ferocity she didn’t think it would ever go away. Tears burnt the corners of her eyes. Pictures made the misunderstandings of lovers seem romantic and desirable, but all she wanted was to forget the whole affair and heal as fast as possible. No matter how much she tried though, her mind kept going back to him and the ache didn’t dull.

It was Natalie’s first time at the bungalow.

Constance was throwing a party that night for Norma and Peg before they left for Hawaii the following morning, so she proposed that she and Natalie come into town early to see the bungalow and visit the studios. “Sure,” Buster said. The crew was getting ready for the Newport Bay shoot on Monday, so he wasn’t filming. It was the first thaw since the confrontation over Nelly; he and Nate had been avoiding each other except for when dinner parties and the Sunday barbecues threw them together and they were obligated to carry on like a happily married couple.

The women showed up in cloche hats and knee-length coats trimmed with fur even though it was June and he gave them a tour of his modest accommodations. They remarked on how tidy and cosy it was, but he could see them peering a little too close at everything and knew they were looking for evidence of other women. They wouldn’t find it. He hadn’t come around to the idea of other girls just yet, though he was beginning to get itchy as he did any time he went too long without certain necessities. Occasionally, he would remember Nelly amidst the frantic pace of films, the luncheons of twelve to sixteen people at the bungalow, and the nights of whiskey and bridge and his jaw would tighten. He’d pick up his toothbrush before bed and recall them making faces in the mirror at each other as they brushed their teeth or catch himself waking up in the middle of the night and reaching across the bed for her. Sometimes, he wondered if he should give in to Mayer and just move into the M-G-M enclave like a good little boy since there’d be no danger of running into memories in a new house.

In the second week after Nelly had gone, after he’d sobered up some, he’d had every intention of writing her. The trouble was that everything he could think to say fell so short of the mark he couldn’t bring himself to say anything at all. He’d ruined her career and everything she’d worked so hard for and let her leave knowing that she might be pregnant, not even offering her money for the train. Sorry didn’t come close. He didn’t know what the point of a letter would be, either. We can’t be together anymore, but how are you doing? Sorry I wrecked it all for you. Hope I didn’t knock you up. Yours sincerely, Buster . By the time June rolled around, he’d talked himself out of it, lying and telling himself she’d reach out if she was pregnant. His pop was right. There wasn’t anything to do but move past it.

That morning went by as though Constance had never blackmailed him and he’d never accused her of being a slut. After the bungalow had been appraised, he drove the women to the New York set in his Lincoln so they could admire its scale and examine the colorful wooden head of the dragon that the Chinese people of Los Angeles had lent for the parade sequence. “It’s the second largest they have,” he told them with pride. He peeled up his shirt and undershirt to show them the bruises that dotted his torso from the slugs fired in the Tong War scene the day before. He looked at Natalie’s face for a spark of attraction or at the very least some sympathy for his war wounds, but she showed only mild interest. They drove over to The Tide of Empire set once the women tired of poking around. An enormous miners’ camp sat square in the lot, looking right out of 1849. Remembering the Civil War encampment for The General and its rows of white tents and Johnny Rebs sitting at campfires, he was impressed by the breadth and accuracy of the scene. Allan Dwan came over for introductions and handshakes. “Say, how’d you like to be an extra for the day?” he said. “I bet we can find you a small part.”

Buster liked the idea a lot. When he saw Natalie exchange a disapproving look with Dutch, he liked it even more. A costume girl gave him some baggy trousers, a checked yellow shirt, a dark checked vest, and floppy cowboy hat, and a makeup girl sat him down in a chair to put a goatee and drooping mustache on him and add some strategic makeup to make his face look dirty. He looked every inch a hardscrabble cowpoke. 

“Now let’s see,” said Dwan. “We’ve got a part in the script that calls for a drunk to be thrown out of the saloon. How’d that suit you?”

In no time, George Duryea was throwing him out of the swinging doors and he was tumbling head over heels onto his ass. Between takes and camera adjustments, it took about forty-five minutes. He was sweating in a pleasant way when he was done and posed for a picture with Nate, Dutch, Dwan, George Duryea, and Renée Adorée. He sat back down in the makeup girl’s chair to have his face scrubbed down and the hair pulled off his chin and upper lip. She was cute, with a waved blonde bob and plump cheeks. 

Looking to make sure Nate wasn’t paying attention, he asked on a wicked whim, “What’s your name?”

“Gertie,” she said, sponging some fake dirt from his forehead. 

He searched her face and tried to determine whether she was interested in him. “Me and some of the M-G-M folks are getting together Monday night at my place, if you’d like to come by.” In reality, he had laid no such plans.

Gertie looked down and a smile played on her lips. “Okay.”

“10132 Grant Avenue. Eight o’clock,” he said. 

“10132 Grant,” she said. 

“That’s right. Monday.”

He got back into his clothes feeling triumphant. Before they departed, Dwan handed him a $5 extra’s check. He laughed. “This is going in a frame on my wall.” When they returned to the bungalow, Caruthers prepared a late lunch. Over green beans and lamb, the women chatted about clothes, the children, and a book Dutch had just read about a lighthouse. Buster picked at his food, not really listening.

Ten days had gone by since his anniversary. He’d always stuck to easy stuff when it came to presents for the occasion, a new fur or some unreasonably expensive jewelry selected by a helpful shop girl who usually had her commission in mind. Natalie used to delight in giving him traditional gifts. The first year was paper, a framed letterpress poem by Wordsworth or Longfellow or someone like that. He no longer remembered the poet or poem, just that it had gone missing years ago in one of their many moves. The second gift was a bespoke shirt of the finest California cotton, followed the next year by wingtip Oxford shoes of kid leather, and silk pajamas from Saks Fifth Avenue the next. Gift number five had been a mahogany smoking stand. Last year’s gift was a cake, which he’d been disappointed in, maybe because it seemed to have taken little thought compared to the previous years’ gifts, maybe because Natalie had left it on the table without fanfare and only bothered much later to wish him a happy anniversary with a single tepid peck on the cheek. This year, he’d been at the bungalow on their anniversary and had not arranged for any gifts to be delivered to the Villa. Similarly, there was nothing waiting for him when he returned home the next night. He tried to remember what the traditional gift for a seventh wedding anniversary was. Salt, maybe, though he thought that arsenic would have worked just as well. 

“What are you so glum about?” Constance said. 

“What, me?” he said, blinking out of his thoughts. Natalie was looking down at her plate as if she were hardly paying attention. “Oh, I ain’t glum,” he said quickly. “Just tired from the Tong War. I took a hell of a licking.”

He wondered when they would stop treating him like a guilty man. A whole month had passed since Nelly had skipped town, yet they still behaved as though he had her concealed somewhere. He gave up on his lunch and called for Caruthers, who was smoking on the front porch. Barely two words were exchanged before the butler was mixing up a martini. Buster drank it in two gulps, chewed the olive, then cocked his head for another. 

By the time the grandfather clock in Constance’s parlor at the Gaylord struck nine, he was ravenous and tucked into his buffet supper with appetite. He’d expected Polynesian grub to be served, brightly colored fish or something with coconuts, but the silver dishes laid on a long table contained the usual French fare of the upper crust, all butter, cream, and potato. Each place setting included party favors of miniature potted palms and candied pineapple. In what was probably an act of deliberate cruelty on Dutch’s part, he was seated between Peg and Norma, whom he mostly ignored in favor of the Brophys and Junior who sat opposite him. Under most circumstances Norma was one of his favorite people to chat with, but he hadn’t forgiven her for the confrontation over Nelly. Ebba was next to Peg and across from Junior. Further down were Buster Collier, Constance, and Nate, while Gil was on Norma’s other side. Fanny Brice, James Cooley, and Roger Davis rounded out the group. 

The conversation tripped around, Felstead’s win at the Derby, trans-Pacific airplane flights, and the explosion at the Russian Eagle Café by some mad Russian. Jack Dempsey had been there when the fire had broken out and so had Colleen Moore and Charlie Chaplin, who grabbed a garden hose to try to help firemen put out the flames. 

“Renée Adorée was there too. Mentioned it this afternoon,” he said, taking a drink from his glass of Scotch. Even with a full stomach, the martinis he’d had earlier and the whiskey that had chased them were still in hearty swing. 

“Renée Adorée?” Norma said, with a slight lift of her eyebrow.

He felt an accusation in her question and bit back a response he would regret. 

“He took us to see them shoot their Western picture this morning,” Natalie broke in, coming to his rescue and surprising him. “Of course, he had to get in costume and join them.”

“Made five dollars.” He smiled and swished his Scotch. 

“Oh, now there’s a heartbreaker,” said Sedgwick, with a chuckle. “Being unfaithful to us?”

“Naturally,” said Constance. “As Nate can tell you he’s very good at that.” Her joke descended uncomfortably, if it was a joke. Eddie and Ebba laughed, the other guests were silent.

“Don’t spoil your own party, dear,” Buster replied, taking a drink. Outwardly, he sounded calm, but his jaw had tightened. 

“How do you feel now that your new picture is done?” Ebba said to Norma, leaning forward. 

“It’s a relief, of course, but Gil and I had an awful lot of fun filming it,” Norma said. Gil gave a smile and kissed her cheek. 

Suddenly everyone was interested in Norma’s story to the exclusion of other conversation. Eddie raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged. Constance had been thorny with him before over his extramarital exploits, though this was perhaps the thorniest she’d ever been. It was a wonder she hadn’t dug into him while they were at the bungalow and studios, though she hadn’t been drinking champagne then. He avoided looking at Peg. He decided he didn’t want to find out from her face how much she knew. Even if she didn’t know, she probably suspected enough. He thought of the makeup girl, Greta or Gretchen or whatever her name was, and felt satisfied with himself. He tipped the rest of the Scotch back. 

He retired in the lounge with the fellows to smoke cigars and talk about the picture. Gil, James, Roger, and Buster Collier listened as he and Ed Brophy described the dressing room scene. “Oh, it was damn hard to keep from laughing. You should have seen him in there, huffing and puffing and carrying on. I thought he was going to deck me for serious,” Buster said.

“Don’t forget what you did with the swimming pool.” Sedgwick leaned back in the armchair he was sitting in and took a drag from his cigar. “The writers tell him he’s going to get gum stuck to the seat of his drawers and rip them in front of the girl. Big laugh, right? ‘No,’ says Buster. ‘That’s too easy. Not embarrassing enough.’ So he decides he’s going to lose his bathing suit when he dives in the pool. You can’t imagine how many extras we’ve got in that pool, dozens of girls, and there’s Keaton without a damn stitch on.”

Everyone roared with laughter. Buster beamed.

Constance’s butler Richmond refilled his glass so many times he lost count, then Buster Two was in full flourish. He returned to the parlor, where The George Olsen Orchestra was playing on the radio and the women were gossiping, and whisked Fanny Brice into his arms. Of course, he didn’t think of Fanny that way and she didn’t think of him that way, he just wanted to dance and he was still in hot water with the Talmadge women. He hummed along: “ Blue skies, nothing but blue skies all day long .”

The next song was Gene Austin’s “Forgive Me.” It would have been fitting to gather Natalie close and sing it in her ear as they swayed slowly on the rug. If they had been along, he would have. He felt a swoop of sadness at the thought, but forgot it after he took Ebba by the hand and set her giggling by pretending to woo her as Austin crooned sentimentally. When the song was finished and he’d finished his courtship by staggering back on the carpet with his hands clutched to his heart, he saw Natalie’s expression and the tightness of her lips. He was embarrassing her again. His solution was to perform a wild solo Cossack dance to “Hard-to-Get Gertie,” which brought applause raining down on him except from Peg and her daughters.

Gertie. That had been the makeup girl’s name. She hadn’t been hard to get at all.

Sometime later, perhaps it was five minutes, perhaps an hour, he opened a window, wrestled off the screen, and sat in it. He was holding his potted palm for reasons unknown. He swung his legs, his heels hitting the stone facade of the building. Constance was talking about him in low tones from across the room. He remembered dangling out such a window with Al St. John during a lunch break at the studio on 48th Street, clinging desperately to the window ledge with fingers slipping as everyone in the room panicked, not knowing about the cornice beneath the window. One of the women in the room fainted dead away. He didn’t think it had been Natalie, though she’d struck him as so delicate then that he could see her doing such a thing. He hadn’t taken much notice of her in those early days. She was a wallflower to the bursting peonies that were Dutch and Norma, and besides he and Alice were screwing each other silly when he wasn’t busy eating, drinking, and sleeping pictures with Roscoe.

The potted palm was of course much heavier than a baseball, but he still pretended it was one as he hefted it in his right hand and swung it down to the street below where it landed smack-dab on someone’s car, shattering the windshield. 

“My goodness, what on earth was that?” Peg said from behind him. “Buster?

“ I’m so hot and bothered I can’t tell my elbow from my ear ,” he sang. “ Suffer something awful each time you go, much worse when you’re near. Here I am with all my bridges burned, just a babe in arms where you’re concerned … ”

“Come on, you’ve had your fun,” one of the men said. Rough hands seized him under the arms and pulled him free of the window. He tumbled onto the carpet, a real tumble. He would have protested, but dinner was about to come up. He managed to get to his feet and to the window in time. Someone grabbed him as if to pull him back again but thought better of it as all that fine French food went spilling down his throat and to the sidewalk nine stories below.

Chapter Text

A month went by and Nelly’s tears came infrequently. She rarely tripped over memories of Buster anymore. The pain of losing both him and her dream of being in pictures was increasingly blunted, walled off. She pictured herself penning it in with field stones, daubing the cracks with mud, building the wall higher and higher each day. She was doing alright. 

She could thank Ruthie and the children for it. She hadn’t wanted to move in with them, but even a week with her mother had worn on her nerves. So while Ruthie fed the baby and tried to soothe her colicky cries, Nelly taught the children their lessons and minded them throughout the day. June was bright and already knew all her letters. She was sounding out short sentences in primers and getting better at copying words: CAT, BALL, SKY, DOLL, CAR, BAT. Eddie could write his name in spidery, uneven letters, some ballooned in size, others cramped. Both children weren’t very good at their numbers, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Much of the time she just read to them or watched as they played on the lawn or in the room that June and Eddie shared. She gave June Barney the mohair tiger and Eddie his pick of her teddy bears. He chose a medium-sized cream-colored one that she’d called Julius and renamed it Freddy Teddy. 

Because music reminded her of Buster, she hadn’t used her phonograph since California. Seeing it on the table in her room for the first time, though, the children begged. Ruthie didn’t own a phonograph (“What for when we have a radio?”) and neither did Lena, who frowned at jazz and had never developed a taste for Stravinsky, Strauss, or Chopin. Nelly caved to their pleas and played them Gene Austin’s “Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue.” June insisted on being taught how to operate the phonograph by herself. Although Nelly wasn’t sure she was old enough to be careful, she nonetheless folded her hand over her niece’s and showed her how to wind the machine until the handle caught. She taught her how to extract the shellac record from its paper sleeve and place it gently on the turntable. She showed her the three sizes of needle, soft, medium, and loud, and warned her how sharp the ends were. She revealed how to untwist the bit of metal that held the needle in, carefully extract the old needle, and place it inside the recessed tin for disposal. She showed her how to put a new needle into the tiny hole and tighten the piece of metal back up, and to release the catch that set the turntable spinning. Finally, she taught her how to fold down the metal arm of the machine and drop the nose that held the needle down at the very edge of the record, which brought Bix Beiderbecke and the Frankie Trumbauer’s Orchestra “Singin’ the Blues” to vivid life. She couldn’t help but remember how Buster had walked her through all the steps in much the same way, putting his hand over hers to show her how far to wind the machine and warning her to always change the needle after two plays, no exceptions.

June was in raptures. Every day after math lessons, they took a break and Nelly allowed her to play both sides of one record. Eddie begged to be taught too; Nelly said that phonographs were only for five-year-olds, but that when he turned four in October she’d let him put a record on the turntable and see how it went from there. Unknown to the music-hungry children, who demanded to hear at least two new songs a day, a substantial number of her records remained sitting in a wooden crate in the closet of the second-floor room she occupied at Ruthie’s. She couldn’t bear to hear The Paul Whiteman Orchestra anymore. Stuffed deep in a trunk beneath the records were two other objects that she didn’t want to look at, the photograph of Buster standing in his bathroom in nothing but a strategically draped towel and his best Mona Lisa stare and the navy-blue suit jacket he had tucked around her shoulders the night of his party last October. 

Still, progress was progress. She stayed distracted with the children and borrowed stacks of books from the library to keep herself busy during her free evenings, avoiding Photoplay and the gossip section of the newspaper. She had no complaints about the new rhythm of her life until her mother invited Harold Jenkins to Sunday dinner. She followed Ruthie and Gerald into the dining room early on the evening of the tenth, carrying Eddie, and there was the carbuncle himself sitting opposite her place at the table. Aghast, she looked at Lena who sat at one end of the table. 

“Nelly,” Harold said, standing up. “It’s sure swell to see you!”

Nelly poured Eddie into the seat on Ruthie’s right and turned just as Harold came around the table to shake her hand. “Oh Harold,” she said. “This is unexpected.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek before she knew what he was doing. She had half a mind to slap him for his brazenness, but she was angrier at her mother.

“Hello, Harold,” said Ruthie, looking amused. 

“How do you do?” said Gerald, shaking his hand. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Have you?” said Harold, beaming. He took Nelly by the elbow and pulled her toward her seat, but she shook him off. 

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, offering her most poisonous smile. When Harold wasn’t looking, she shot a frown at Lena, but her mother didn’t notice. 

In addition to his overpowering breath, Harold was no beauty. His hard slab of a face looked like it had been chiselled from granite. Even in an expensive suit with his hair impeccably combed, he was an uninspiring figure. A devout Catholic, he loved to talk at length about the latest spiritual failings of his colleagues and clients at the law firm where he was a junior partner. He knew absolutely nothing about her and had had it in his head for a good three years that she would make the perfect wife. Nelly imagined that Lena still held out hope that her remaining daughter would marry into the Church since Gerald was a Presbyterian.

She pulled out her chair and sat across from him, half-tempted to pretend that she’d only recently been released from an asylum. 

“So you just got back from California,” he said, scooting in his chair and smiling.

Nelly’s father walked into the room. She’d only seen him once since being back home. He lived most of the time in the city, too busy with work to come home in the evenings and sometimes the weekends as well. 

“Hello, Mr. Foster,” said Harold. 

William greeted him in kind and sat at the head of the table. Since Ruthie and Gerald had married, Sunday dinners alternated between their house on Maple Avenue and the Foster home. This week was the Fosters’ turn. As soon as William was seated, Jennie came out of the kitchen and began to lay shallow bowls of soup before everyone. Nelly smoothed her napkin in her lap and tucked in as soon as her soup was put down, knowing perfectly well what a breach of manners it was to start before everyone had been served and hoping her mother would notice. Her appetite had begun to creep back over the past two weeks. No doubt she owed that in part to Eddie and June, whom she chased all over creation in between lessons. She had no intention of answering Harold’s question about California. 

“Wasn’t it a lovely sermon this morning?” said Lena to Harold. Nelly looked up and saw her mother give her a sidelong glance as if to say, Manners . She smirked to herself and dipped her spoon into the soup again. 

Harold took up the conversation at once. She gathered it was the parable of the mustard seed. All one needed to do was have a single grain of faith and it would lead to heavenly rewards. Gerald and Ruthie listened politely and June and Eddie fidgeted. She noticed her father’s concentration seemed to be unusually focused on the celery bisque. It had never occurred to her that he might not believe what her mother did. Having been away for a year for the first time in her life, her family’s rituals and habits had an element of strangeness to them as they hadn’t before. She’d always been aware that her family was typical and that she was the odd one out with her yearning for the stage, but she’d never realized how strange their ordinariness was. Church, garden clubs, sewing circles, afternoon teas—that was how Lena and Ruthie whiled away the hours.

The main course came, ham with a bourbon glaze with buttered new potatoes on the side. Again, she ate as soon as she was served, determined to put Harold off of courting her once and for all. 

“So how did you find California?” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts. 

She was tempted to answer with a mouthful of food, but good breeding won out and she swallowed first. “I liked it,” she said, hoping that the intentional lack of details would shut him down.

A smile appeared on his face. “Of course, I’m glad that things took a turn for the worse. You’re better off back here where you belong. Hollywood’s got a long way to go when it comes to morals.”

“Who said it took a turn for the worse?” She set down her fork. 

“Oh.” He exchanged a knowing smile with Lena. “Mrs. Foster told me all about it. You came back in a dreadful state. You must have seen what it was really like. The papers are filled with it, you know. All those dreadful divorces and affairs and deaths. I was reading just yesterday about an explosion in a Russian cafe in Hollywood. They say it was an attack on the stars who go there. Charlie Chaplin was there. Of course, everyone knows about him. An adulterer of the first degree. It’s no place for a Catholic girl, Hollywood.”

“Well I danced with him at a party once,” she said, without a second thought. “No, twice. He was a perfect gentleman.”

The conversation screeched to a standstill and she felt more satisfied than she had in weeks. The only sound to hear was the scrape of forks against china. She gave a polite smile at Harold, who was staring at her like a chicken that had been clubbed over the head. 

“You danced with Charlie Chaplin?” Ruthie said, leaning past Gerald to give her an incredulous look. 

“Yes,” she said, taking a bite of ham. 

Harold cleared his throat. “I was simply meaning to say that it’s not a safe place for a respectable woman. I’m sure we see eye to eye on that.”

She smiled and swallowed her food. She was enjoying herself at last. “Who said I’m a respectable woman?” 

Harold gaped. Lena spluttered, “Now really, Nelly!”

“I just think that if Harold intends to court me, if he’s to know certain details of my life, he ought to have the full facts.” She widened her eyes innocently and glanced at everyone at the table to see their reactions. Lena was telling her with an expression only mothers seemed to possess not to say another damned word. William was engrossed in his food and showed no intention of intervening. 

Eddie poked Ruthie in the arm. “What’s a ‘spectacle woman, Mama?”

Ruthie brushed his hand away. “I’ll tell you later, darling.” Contrary to what Nelly expected, her sister didn’t look mortified but intrigued. 

“Come now, I know you don’t mean that,” said Harold, smiling as he regained himself. “You don’t have to try to be shocking simply because you’ve been in Hollywood for a year. I wasn’t implying that you had fallen into vices. Not at all! Your mother told me it was a failed romance. Unfortunately, men without morals—”

A sudden ringing in Nelly’s ears blotted out all other sounds. For a dreadful moment, she was afraid she might swoon. The audacity of her mother to tell Harold anything about her personal business, especially when it came to her love life! When it came to her downfall! Feeling her face grow hot but her courage grow hotter, she composed her face and said quite evenly and serenely, “I’m afraid I must disabuse you of the ideas you’ve gotten about me. You see, I was the one without morals. I knew Joseph was married. I thought it would be better in the end if I came back here and found a respectable man like you.”

William made a choking noise that could have been a cough or a laugh.

“ Nelly !” said Lena. Her face was beet red. 

Nelly smiled and pushed her chair away from the table. Without looking at Harold’s reaction, she scooped Eddie out of his chair and said, “Come on, I’ll buy you ice cream and teach you about spectacled women.”

“Me too, me too!” June slid feet first out of her chair and crawled out from beneath the table. 

Neither child had finished their dinners and Nelly knew she’d be in trouble with Ruthie, but unlike them she was a big girl and could do as she pleased. She took their hands and walked them out the door, telling them to keep their voices down so they wouldn’t disturb Violet, who was sleeping in the parlor in her white wicker basket. They walked the fifteen minutes to Clark Street and enjoyed vanilla ice cream cones while watching the cars drive by. By the time they returned over an hour later, Harold was gone and William informed her that Lena had gone to bed early with a savage headache. Nelly thought she saw a twinkle in his eye. Her walk back with the Henningers to their house was quiet, save for the children’s chatter. She figured she was in for a fiery lecture from Ruthie, but she didn’t care.

Violet sounded colicky again and Ruthie busied herself trying to comfort her, so Nelly put June and Eddie to bed, reading them another half chapter of Winnie-the-Pooh until they fell asleep. She brushed her teeth and hair after she left the children, then retired to her room across the hall.  There were seven bedrooms total in the house, which had been built in 1880 by the illustrious Latimers. The patriarch had died in 1924 and Ruthie and Gerald became the house’s second owners. Her bedroom had originally been meant for Eddie, but Ruthie found he wouldn’t sleep unless June was nearby so his bed had been moved into her room.. 

She got into her nightgown and got into bed and put These Old Shades by Georgette Heyer in her lap. Her mind wandered from the words to dinner and her victory over Harold. She knew that her mother thought she’d gone out of her mind. She didn’t know what her father or Gerald or Ruthie thought. She could picture Gerald pulling her aside at some quiet moment after he returned from work tomorrow and making her promise to set a better example for the children.

She didn’t have to wonder for very long what Ruthie thought. There was a knock on her door.

“Come in?” she said. 

Ruthie closed the door behind her quietly. “I finally got Violet down.” She looked tired and Nelly, pitying her, felt a sudden conviction that returning to Evanston had been the right decision. Ruthie folded herself onto the foot of the bed as she had sometimes done when she and Nelly had just turned teenagers, before they’d drifted apart. “You were just saying that to shock Mother, right?” she said.

Nelly closed the book and set it on her bedside table. She drew her knees up. “Which part?”

“About having an affair with a married man.”

Nelly thought about it for the briefest of seconds. She could laugh it off and lie. Pity for Ruthie prodded her toward the truth. “No,” she said. “He was married.”

Her sister raised an eyebrow. Rather than offer an opinion, however, she said, “Was he in pictures?”

This time, Nelly went for a half-truth. “Just an extra. Like me.”

“And you loved him?”

“Yes.” She’d never said it out loud.

Ruthie twirled her wedding ring. “Did you really dance with Charlie Chaplin?”

She smiled at the memory. “I did.”

“How?”

“I went to a couple parties where all the big stars were,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “There was this small man, English. His eyes were very blue. He had wavy hair. I thought he was handsome. He asked me to dance and I hadn’t the slightest idea who he was. He made me guess. I couldn’t believe he was Charlie Chaplin. I always thought the Little Tramp had brown eyes.”

Ruthie shook her head in disbelief. Nelly had known for years that Ruthie was the prettier sister. She had the slim, almost angular figure so many women desired. Her hair was fashionably bobbed. Tonight, though, she looked ten years Nelly’s senior. The area under her lower eyelids was discolored. She was too thin and the bones of her chest were visible at her neckline in the dim light. Nelly’s pity deepened.

“What made it end?” said Ruthie. 

“What made what end?”

“Your affair, silly.”

“Oh.” The choice hovered again, the lie or the truth. Nelly lowered her eyes. “His wife and sisters-in-law found out."

“Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this?”

She raised her eyes to her sister’s. “Well, you were so busy with your own life. The children and the house. I thought you’d disapprove.” She knew now from Ruthie’s tone that her assumption hadn’t been true. 

“I’m your sister.” Ruthie wrapped her arms around her knees and the shadows changed. Nelly could almost believe she was fifteen now and not the thirty-five she looked just moments earlier. 

“I thought you didn’t approve of Hollywood and being an actress,” she said lamely. 

“For someone like me, maybe. Not for you.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t think of how to respond. 

“Of course, you know I did worry a little,” she said, hesitating. “Everyone’s heard the stories about what girls must do to get ahead. And I remember Fatty Arbuckle. What he did to that girl.”

“Oh, but that didn’t happen. Not in the way they said. She was sick before she went to his party,” Nelly said. “He never hurt her. It was just a horrid rumor.”

Ruthie looked at her strangely. “How do you know?”

She realized she was speaking with Buster’s conviction when he’d told her about Roscoe’s fall from grace. “I had a—friend. Who was friends with him. He said he wouldn’t hurt a fly. It just wasn’t like him to do that sort of thing.” She flushed.

“When you came back …” said Ruthie. She rested her chin on her knees and didn’t go on.

“What?” she said. 

“I was afraid something had happened. That you’d been taken advantage of by a director or maybe, I don’t know. You hear such dreadful stories about the things that go on.”

“Goodness no,” she said, a little stunned. “Perhaps that does go on, but I never made it anywhere near that far, far enough to find out. I didn’t get to find out. I was just an extra in two films. Most of the time I handled the props or helped with scenery.”

“You went to parties with the stars, though,” Ruthie said. “How did you …?”

“Joseph had connections,” she lied. “But I asked him from the beginning not to do me any favors. I wanted to see if I could make it on my own. You can see how that turned out.” She gave a short laugh. “I guess it all serves me right and you think I’m wicked, going with a fellow who’s married.”

Ruthie shrugged, her expression inscrutable. 

“I’m sorry I made a scene with Harold tonight. I shouldn’t have dragged the children into it. I imagine Mother won’t be on speaking terms with me for weeks.”

That made Ruthie laugh. “Harold had that coming for years! Mother, too. Every time I’d see her when you were away it was, ‘Harold this, Harold that,’ Nelly needing to get married and settling down. I tried telling her he wasn’t for you and that you’re not the marrying kind, but she never listens. Father and I both howled about it after she went up to her room.”

Nelly was gratified to hear that Ruthie and her father were on her side. The comment about marriage niggled her, though. She took a deep breath and sighed. “I don’t know that I’m not the marrying kind, I just haven’t found the right man yet. It’s what I told Bus—” She caught herself. “One of the fellows I was friends with out there. Someday, maybe.” She stretched out her legs beneath the covers; they were getting sore. 

“Don’t rush into it,” said Ruthie, pinching Nelly’s big toe. “It isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. They stick you with the babies while they go out and have all the fun. They don’t have to give anything up. Not one damn thing.” 

Taking in the bones of her sister’s chest, the circles beneath her eyes, Nelly knew what she meant. “I’m sorry.”

“I wish I’d done some of that before I married Ger. Sown my wild oats. Was he handsome, Joseph?” Ruthie said wistfully.

She swallowed. She didn’t want to think about Buster more. “Very,” she said, hoping Ruthie wouldn’t press her.

“What’d he look like?”

She could pull one of her old issues of Photoplay from the closet. He’d be there somewhere in the pages, looking grave and elegant, his big eyes not telling what he was thinking. Those sober portraits weren’t the real Buster. They wouldn’t show Ruthie his beautiful smile and straight white teeth or the way his eyebrows crept up in the center when he belly-laughed. “Some other time,” she said, feeling her throat tighten. She looked down at her hands, and her eyes and nose stung as tears threatened to come.

“You really did care for him,” said Ruthie sympathetically. She pressed Nelly’s foot. 

She nodded, blinking the tears away.

“I need to get some sleep before Violet wakes up again.” The bed lifted as Ruthie slid off of it. She surprised Nelly by kissing her forehead. “Things will get better.”

Nelly squeezed her sister’s hand. “They’re sure to now that Harold’s out of the picture.”

They laughed, and somehow she felt better than she had since leaving California.

Chapter Text

After his Sunday game of baseball, this one in a lot near Newport Beach with Eddie playing catcher and Harold Goodwin shortstop, Buster pulled a tweed cap low, shrugged on an overcoat, and drove back to the Southern Seas Club. When he entered the suite he was sharing with Constance and Natalie, he found the former holding court with a woman reporter. He held back a sigh as he hung up his hat and overcoat. He’d suspected lately that the Talmadges were undertaking a publicity campaign to head off any rumors of his marital troubles. The Friday before last, Beulah had shown up to the suite to get an article, which was to be syndicated. 

“Now Buster,” she’d said, scooting forward on the settee opposite him. “What is your idea of real happiness?”

“A grand slam in the ninth inning,” he’d said, lighting a cigarette. 

“I was rather hoping you’d answer seriously,” she’d said. 

“Alright, a grand slam in bridge when you’ve been losing all night.”

Beulah frowned. He smoked. Natalie and Constance’s laughter trickled through the open door of the adjoining lounge, distracting him. 

“Let’s try again. I thought you might speak to the domicile.” 

He’d fidgeted, sure then that Constance had put her up to this. “You want a serious answer?” he said. 

“If you’d be so kind as to give one.” 

She wasn’t stupid, Beulah. It took real brains to be a publicist and know what the readers would lap up. He knew what she wanted him to say. Real happiness was being a father to two little rapscallions and a husband to the devoted Natalie Talmadge. “My idea of real happiness …” He looked through the door, but the women were out of sight. 

“You were a nomad in the vaudeville days,” she’d prompted. “No real home. There must be something to be said for settling down the way you have. Everything you could possibly want. The Villa must fulfill your every dream.”

His mind drifted away from the Villa.

“It’s a ranch home in the San Fernando Valley,” he said slowly, picturing it before him. “There’s an orchard, peach and apple trees. Some cherry trees. We’ll have a cow. I’ll milk her before I leave for the studio every morning. Chickens, too. A whole damn flock. Our own eggs and milk for breakfast. I’ve built a state-of-the-art henhouse that’s fox-proof. I might try my hand at a vineyard. And inside, a floor where you can dance. All the records in the world in shelves on the wall. I’d build the shelves myself.” He’d stopped there.

Beulah had given him the funniest look. Questions had hung in the air as thick as the smoke from the cigarette burning down in his fingers. “Perhaps,” she’d said, “it would be agreeable if I simply wrote the article with what I know of you. After all, we’ve been acquainted for quite a long time.”

He’d crushed out the cigarette and nodded, feeling unsettled by the blurt of honesty. “Okay.”

The article was published on Father’s Day, the syrupiest pap he’d read in years. Distant fields are always supposed to be the greenest, and the world in general is usually credited with wishing for something it hasn’t got, but in my own case, I am happier now than I would be under any other circumstances or in any other clime , it began. Briefly, my idea of happiness is this: to have a happy, healthy family, and to be engaged in work like this. I am grateful beyond words that I have them all.  

It ended: So, with (pardon me for boasting) the finest wife, the finest sons, the finest friends and the finest work—helping keep the world in a cheerful mood—I am the most contented man in the world . 

“Mr. Keaton,” the new woman reporter said presently. “I’m Elsie McCormick.” She stood up and held out her hand. She’d been sitting near Constance who was sprawled in a settee in getting a manicure from a plain, thin-lipped woman he’d never seen before. Dressed in green silk pajamas, she looked every inch a Roman empress in repose.

“Hello,” he said to Elsie, on his guard. He offered her a stiff smile as he pressed her hand. 

There was a knock on the door and Constance called, “Come in!”

“It’s such a pleasure,” she said. The suite was its usual hive of activity. Wherever the Talmadges went, so did comforts and luxuries galore. Fresh arrangements of flowers and new hats littered the small tables that dotted the suite. Even now a bellboy was bringing in a box of chocolates the size of an elephant. Natalie appeared from the next room to collect them. “Hello, Nate,” he said, catching her arm so he could kiss her cheek. She gave him a real smile. She loved this kind of hubbub. He knew it made her feel on equal footing with Norma and Constance. 

“I was told you didn’t smile,” said Elsie, settling back into a chair. She was in her thirties, businesslike and Midwestern.

“By who?” he said, though he could guess. He took a chair opposite her and pulled out a cigarette.

“Oh, really. It was only a joke, Buster,” Dutch said breezily, glancing at them.

He could tell from Elsie’s tone that Constance had meant the “joke” to be taken seriously and frowned. The reporter’s questions came one after another in the usual pattern. How did he get the name Buster and what was his real name? Where was he born? When did he first get his start in show business? So he really did smile? 

He answered. Harry Houdini. Joseph Frank Keaton. A church. He gave the cyclone story and said he’d first appeared on stage balanced on a platter when he was all of a day old. Even though these were yarns, his pa had always told them in order to drum up extra interest and there was something to be said for keeping tradition going. Yes, of course he smiled and the frozen face wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. For example, people alleged that his teeth were rotten, he was a moron, or was cold and glum. Silence fell in between questions as Elsie scribbled on a steno pad. Constance hummed in an absent way while the woman spread pink lacquer on her nails. A telegram arrived and Natalie was summoned into the room to receive it. “Oh, just Norm and Mama,” she said, when Dutch interrupted the interview to ask who it was from. 

There were further questions about Jimmy, Bobby, Natalie, their home, and his salary. He recited the one about Nate giving up a promising career in pictures in favor of staying home to press her husband’s shirtwaists, cook his meals, and raise his sons. It had some roots in truth, he guessed. She’d dabbled in a little of that when they were first hitched, but now the cook, maid, and governess absolved her of homemaking and childrearing. The promising career in pictures was a tall tale and so was the happy little marriage. He wouldn’t dream of telling Elsie that in that very suite, the two sisters were sharing the room with two beds and he was sleeping by himself in the master bedroom. Though he couldn’t sneak girls into his boudoir as long as the Talmadge women were bunking with him, that hadn’t stopped him in the three weeks past from entertaining Gertie the makeup girl, Florence, Clara, and other girls whose names he’d already forgotten at his bungalow or in his dressing room. They had all been good, pleasant girls who never stayed the night or asked more of him than he wanted to give. He wouldn’t tell Elsie this, either. 

He did tell her in general terms that the filming of The Cameraman was moving along at a nice clip. It was going so well, in fact, that even pessimistic Buster One wondered if Charlie Chaplin and Harold Lloyd had sounded the death knell for his career too early. It was true that Weingarten was still a thorn in his side, as much of one as Harry Brand had been, and that there were too many suits, schedules, and scripts for him to be at total ease, but he’d managed to wrest back about three-quarters control and figured that was about as good as it would get at M-G-M. They would probably wrap in late July. Another reason for cheer was that enthusiastic reviews for Steamboat rolled in almost daily. The LA Times praised the cyclone finish and said it had the best effects since The Navigator . The Los Angeles Evening Post-Record went further and called it funnier than The Navigator . The Santa Ana Register raved about its originality and fresh gags. Even old Jack Barrymore was moved to comment publicly about how much he admired Buster, throwing out the word “genius.” In response to the excitement of filming and good reviews, his brain fizzed with ideas as it hadn’t since the days with Roscoe. Sitting in the bathtub, shaving, or bicycling the four miles to the Studio Two lot every morning, new gags and novel shots spun through his head. He could barely wait to talk to Irv about the story he had in mind for his next picture, one starring Marie Dressler. 

And yet . And yet . 

Those two words provoked him in the quiet moments when he wasn’t wrapped up in pictures, girls, baseball, and bridge. He didn’t wonder why; there were plenty of reminders during the dinner parties or premieres when Natalie dressed in her finest and pretended to love him. Buster Two played along with the charade. He hadn’t much choice. But in the quiet moments, Buster One unscrewed the flask. He was coming around to the fact that there was no going back to the way things had once been with her. She would simply never be interested in him in the way he desired, in the way, for the first few glorious months of their marriage, she had been. He saw now that it had been a fool’s errand to try to reconcile with her the previous autumn in the hope of getting that back.  

And yet.

During the quiet moments, his mind went back to the night of May 31st seven years ago. He and Nate were alone in their cabin on the train back to California. The porters had pulled down the cushions of their seats while they were at dinner and transformed them into a bed for two. Slipping his robe off and climbing into bed next to her in his pajamas, he was the shyest he’d ever felt with a woman. The lights burned with a dim glow and the room was shadowed. Both of them knew what was expected on a wedding night. He’d been thinking about it since their engagement, but the last time he’d been with a virgin was when he was a virgin himself. He wasn’t sure how to start. It struck him, as he stared up at the polished mahogany ceiling of the Pullman car, that he didn’t know the woman next to him. Not counting the brushes he’d had with her when he was working at Comique or the dates they’d had over the past month, they were strangers. 

The train swayed eastward into the night, rocking them back and forth, bumping them together beneath the sheets. He wanted to apologize, but caught himself. It was, after all, perfectly natural for them to touch now. Natalie was stiff, staring at the curtains as if she could see through him. They would be in Pennsylvania by now, maybe Ohio. He sat up and grabbed for the glass of water sitting in a holder near the foot of the bed; his mouth was as dry as a desert. The movement pulled the covers from Natalie. Her nightgown was sleeveless and the color of champagne, with a high neckline. He’d apologized and laid back down, his mouth only slightly wetter from the water.

He remembered talking to her then, but not what he said. It was nervous gibberish. The only thing he recalled for sure was the defining question that came at the end of the babble: “Can I kiss ya?”

They had kissed before, but always chastely. Natalie would press her lips to his, but didn’t seem to know where to take it from there. Afraid of frightening her off, he never showed her what to do next. Now that she was his wife, he was determined to teach her.

She was uncertain at first. He nudged her lips open for a deeper kiss—no tongue, but showing her it didn’t have to be papery. She mimicked him. He ran his fingers through her hair as they kissed. He touched her white throat. Her skin was soft and his pulse thudded. Minutes went by and she seemed to get up some courage. She felt his cheeks and ears with her fingertips. Her hand skimmed through his hair and touched the back of his neck. With the utmost caution, he touched the tip of his tongue to hers and withdrew it to see how she would react. He thought he might die right then and there when she responded with the softest of sighs.

Still he went slow. He traced her body through the silk of the nightgown, staying away from the places he longed to touch most. She wasn’t plump and sturdy like Viola or willowy and strong like Alice, but slender and frail. He could feel every bone of her hip, spine, and shoulders. This was his wife. His wife.

After what seemed like a long time, she asked “How is it done?”

His cheeks were on fire and he trembled. He wanted her as no man had ever wanted any woman, but he knew he must go slow. Some words must have been exchanged, for they removed their pajamas. Natalie was shivering and he rubbed her arm, concerned. 

“I’m afraid it will hurt,” she said. “Dutch and Norm said it might.”

“We’ll go very slow,” he promised. 

The sheets were pulled down to their waists. She looked at his chest and he looked at hers. Her breasts were small, low-set, and somewhat flat. He touched them and, when she responded favorably, licked them. He kissed her stomach and dipped his tongue in her navel. He ran his fingers over her hip bones. She explored his shoulders, arms, and chest. Finally, he cupped a hand between her legs and wanted to hurrah when he discovered she wanted him. 

It was a blessing in disguise that he needed to go slow. He was so keyed up he would have finished immediately at a normal pace, especially because she took his prick in her hand and said, “I’ve never seen one before.”

He rolled on top of her and pushed just the barest inch of himself inside her. She was as rigid as a board and he could feel her holding her breath. He kissed and kissed her, not moving any deeper. “Does it hurt?” he said, fearing the answer.

Her voice was a whisper. “Not as much as I thought.”

He kissed her and touched her breasts until she softened, then tried another inch. Moments later, he was all the way inside her. He stilled, as much for his sake as hers. The train rattled over the rails and rocked them together. He wondered if the sound would be a turn-on from now on. He tried a shallow thrust. “That ain’t too bad, is it?”

“No.”

He kept his thrusts slow and shallow, but even with an attenuated pace he didn’t last very long. He had to grit his teeth as he came, struggling not to go fast lest he hurt her. When it was over, he swabbed her gently with a handkerchief. The fluid came away with a pinkish tinge, but he was gratified to see there wasn’t any real blood. 

That was the memory he returned to most in the quiet moments, although there were equally nice ones from that summer going into the autumn. It was his idea of real happiness for a time, even if she didn’t yield to his suggestion about the small ranch in the San Fernando Valley. She never learned to be an adventuresome lover, but he loved her too much to care. She let him make love to her on nights when he wasn’t too tired from filming from dawn to dusk and he thought she enjoyed it. Sometimes, she had corned beef and cabbage or another homey meal ready for him when he dragged himself through the door. She did press his shirtwaists. They talked about the baby they knew would result from their nocturnal activities. By Christmas that year, she was pregnant. It had been a blue heaven, for a time.  “Come in!” Constance yelled at the door, where there had just been a knock. 

Elsie looked up from her scribbling and Buster’s reverie evaporated. It was a bellboy with a hatbox. “Mrs. Talmadge?” he said. Dutch cocked her head toward the doorway of the adjoining room. “I’m not the missus. Hey, Nate!”

“Coming!”

She emerged from the other room with haste in her step and collected the hat box from the bellboy, tipping him a quarter.

“Let’s see what's inside,” said Elsie.

Natalie removed the lid and angled the box toward them. Within it was a black velvet cloche hat with a medallion of pheasant breast feathers in the center and long tail feathers swooping off to the sides. She stroked them with reverence, looking as proud as a mother showing off a new baby, and Buster was gripped with a thought that chilled him. If he were to lose it all next week and with it the ability to keep her well-stocked in hats, bon-bons, flowers, and new clothes, she would have no reason to be his wife at all.

Chapter Text

Nelly was entertaining June and Eddie in Gerald’s study when her father unexpectedly stepped into the doorway.

“Father.” She got to her feet. She’d been sprawled on the rug playing the Junior Auto Race Game with the children. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” 

“Grampa!” the children cried. They rushed over to hug his leg and tug at his arms. 

“I could have telephoned,” he said with a twitch of a smile, “but your mother’s in a terrible temper with Jennie. Apparently the woman spoiled the caramel custard we’re to have for dessert. I’m optimistic it will have blown over by the time I walk back.” He ruffled Eddie’s hair absently.

“Telephoned about what?” 

Her father crossed the room and relaxed into the leather wing chair where Gerald did his evening reading. “We’re going to celebrate our little actress tomorrow evening. As a family.” He gave a self-satisfied smile. “At the Varsity, six o’clock. Then we’re going for egg foo young at the Phoenix Inn.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and held out a folded scrap of newsprint to her. She unfolded it and her stomach flipped.

BUSTER KEATON AND ERNEST TORRENCE STAR IN

‘STEAMBOAT BILL, JR.’

THE LAUGH FEATURE OF THE YEAR

IT MAY EVEN BLOW YOU AWAY

An unhandsome cartoon of Buster in his sailor suit pulling a smiling girl who didn’t look much like Marion Byron out of a tornado was beneath the credits.

She quickly remembered her acting and steeled her features. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” she said, beaming. She turned to June and Eddie, not knowing if her expression looked entirely natural. “These urchins have me so busy I forgot all about the picture.”

She had not forgotten about the picture.

For weeks she’d been dreading someone in her family suggesting they go see it. She’d been hoping by some miracle that they’d be so tied up with their own lives that it would escape them.

“Can I go?” June said, her voice pitched to a whine as if she knew already that the answer would be unfavorable. 

“Me too!” said Eddie. 

Nelly wasn’t sure they even understood what a picture was, but they sensed from their grandfather’s tone that it was not to be missed. “I don’t know,” she said, exchanging a look with him which said, Aren’t they something else ? “Pictures are for grown-ups. It’s up to Grampa.”

“Please, Grampa, please ,” June said, placing her hands on his knees and hopping up and down. 

“ Please !” said Eddie, jumping in place. 

June, who had turned six two days before, would probably be fine, but at not-quite-four, Eddie was the wild card. William looked to her for the answer. Ignoring the curdling sensation in her stomach over the prospect of seeing Buster on screen, she nodded. She was a soft touch.

On the walk to the theater the next night, Ruthie reviewed the rules of conduct with the children: stay in your seat, sit up straight, whisper if you need the bathroom, don’t talk during the picture, and don’t—I mean this—talk during the picture. They’d been drilled several times throughout the day and now said “yes’m” and “no’m” to each severe warning. Violet had been left in the care of one of Ruthie’s maids, Kitty, with goat’s milk to tide her over. Nelly was glad that Ruthie’s warnings and the children’s excited chatter occupied so much of the walk. While she had dressed in her peach silk dress and a nice cloche hat, borrowing a real strand of pearls from Ruthie, the careful touches to her appearance were a masquerade. She felt just as heartsick as she had the previous day. She dreaded having to sit through the whole picture pretending as though she was having the time of her life. She didn’t want to see Buster, the expressions that would now be so familiar to her, the vivid memories of his private company.

When her father drew up to the ticket counter of the Varsity and asked for seven tickets, he proudly told the teller, “My daughter’s in this film.” He gestured to Nelly and she gave an obligatory smile at the girl in the booth, who looked at her with wide eyes and said, “No kidding!”

“No kidding,” William said, as the girl took his five-dollar bill. 

“You’re not the lead?” she said, craning her head to try to see one of the posters flanking the triple sets of doors on either side of the booth. Nelly had glanced at the poster as she’d passed and saw that it was another illustration of Buster and Peanuts on a miniaturized steamboat, with Buster holding an inside-out umbrella over her head.

“Oh, no no no no. I was just an extra,” she said, flushing. Her stomach swooped sickly. She’d barely touched breakfast and had skipped lunch. 

“I haven’t seen it yet but I’m going to look for you. What scene are you in?”

“It’s really nothing,” she said, her face growing hot. “Buster is walking down the street looking for his girl and I’m in the background going down one of the sidewalks. I’d be surprised if you could tell it’s me.”

The teller slid William’s change and the paper tickets toward him, still looking completely unconvinced by Nelly’s modesty. “That’s awful neat. I’m going to look for you just as soon as I see the picture. Everyone’s saying it’s an awful good one. Did you ever meet Buster Keaton?”

“No. It was a very big production. There were hundreds of us on the set. I only saw him at a distance,” she said, wanting to escape.

“Now Nelly, that isn’t so. You met Mr. Keaton. You said so,” her mother objected.

Nelly’s heart raced. She didn’t want to see the picture. She didn’t want to talk about Buster. She wanted to be far, far away. Before she could say anything, Ruthie took her arm. “She’s just shy about it, is all, and she’s dying to get inside and see the picture. I hope you don’t mind.. Maybe we’ll catch you when we leave.” With that, she marched Nelly through one of the doors.

“Thank you,” said Nelly under her breath, as they entered the theater. 

“You feeling okay?” Ruthie said, scrutinizing her.

“Just a stomachache,” she said. 

To Nelly’s relief, after the lobby attendant had torn their tickets, Lena’s remarks about not seeing the point in lying about meeting Buster were lost as they pushed through the interior doors into the theater and the children erupted in shrieks of delight. The Varsity was less than two years old and Nelly had only seen a few pictures there before departing for California, but it was as grand as she remembered and grander (she thought) than some of the theaters she had patronized in Sacramento and Hollywood. The auditorium’s blue-velvet seats were centered in what looked like the courtyard of a sixteenth-century French chateau. Plaster reliefs shaped in the white exterior of a chateau with red terra cotta roofs decorated the side walls. Castle turrets rose in the corners on both sides of the stage and the proscenium arch was sculpted in the facade of a castle, with the stage an open drawbridge. The reliefs were studded with sconces that burnt orange as if with true fire and the walls above them were painted dark blue. Minute lights hidden in the upper walls and ceiling above sparkled like stars. The entire effect was so striking that Ruthie scolded Eddie and June only halfheartedly for their outburst.

They found seats toward the front and center, Nelly sitting between her mother and Eddie, with Ruthie and June to her right and William and Gerald to her left. The picture opened with a Laurel and Hardy two-reeler she’d seen before, Flying Elephants . They played cavemen warring for the affections of the same cavegirl. She was too distracted to concentrate on the film, but June sat spellbound and Eddie bounced and flapped his hands. When the short ended, Ruthie dipped into her purse and quietly handed the children a Baby Ruth candy bar apiece. She gave four candy bars to Nelly to pass around. Nelly handed hers back. Ruthie raised an eyebrow and she shook her head. “Stomachache,” she said in a whisper. 

Her stomach was genuinely knotted as the title card swam into focus, JOSEPH M. SCHENCK presents BUSTER KEATON in STEAMBOAT BILL, JR ., and the organist struck up a cheerful, whimsical tune. 

She watched the first few minutes with hot dread. Although the picture was only setting the scene, showing a panoramic view of the river and introducing the other characters, it was somehow worse than seeing Buster off the bat. The anticipation tightened the knot in her stomach. She couldn’t appreciate the realism of the crowds greeting the steamboats (a scene she’d witnessed in person what seemed like years ago) or the street Peanuts whizzed down in her car. The film moved on to a scene of passengers disembarking from a train and Ernest Torrence scanning for his long-lost son, whom she knew would be Buster. She felt faint, as though she were going to be sick. 

The train pulled away and there he was, standing on the wrong side of the tracks with his back to the camera in the ridiculous outfit he’d been wearing at their first encounter in his dressing room. She had to blink back tears when he turned around. She’d forgotten how much she missed him. Dozens of memories flooded back, his hands going to his belt buckle in the dressing room, his arm looped in hers as he led her out of the prop house to join the other extras on the street scene, the first dance with him at the Villa, the whiskey and cigarette taste of his mouth during their kiss beneath the stars, the solidness of his shoulder as she cried on it the day she found out about The Taming of the Shrew , his nervous smoking on the car ride to the lakeside cabin, the way he’d pulled her on top of him after they first made love and asked with some anxiety how she’d liked it, his showing up to her apartment in the middle of the night after filming for a month in California, the warmth of his body next to hers in the bed at the bungalow.

Her stomach burnt and she sagged in her seat. The film had barely begun. Two months ago, she would have been delighted for Buster at the audience’s reaction. They laughed at his preposterous outfit, they laughed when the barber whisked his pencil moustache off with the razor, they laughed when he tried on hats, they laughed when he strode onto the rustic steamboat wearing a fancy tailored Navy uniform, but she sat in a state of misery, unable to muster even fake laughter, wishing the children’s joy was infectious. They went into stitches at the hat scene. She tried to think of excuses to leave, but short of becoming physically sick, nothing was plausible. The film wore on. Everyone loved it except for her. 

A little over halfway through, she felt obligated to lean over and say quietly to her mother, “This is my scene.”

“Oh, this is Nelly’s scene,” said Lena to William and Gerald, so loud it was evident she wanted the surrounding rows to hear.

“This is Aunt Nelly’s scene,” Nelly told the children. “Watch the end of the sidewalk.” She pointed. “I’ll be right down there.”

They had done an admirable job of staying relatively quiet to this point, but the sight of the figure on the screen—and really, no one who knew her would be able to tell it was her, she was so far away from the camera—they pointed and shouted, “It’s Aunt Nelly! It’s Aunt Nelly!” She was gone as quickly as she was glimpsed, just two brief shots was all, but the way her family carried it was as though she was the next Bebe Daniels.

“Hush,” Ruthie told the children, but Nelly could hear pride in her voice.

It gave her momentary satisfaction, but that was washed away as more scenes of Buster unspooled. As the picture built toward its climax, she still couldn’t muster any interest. It seemed to last forever. Still the memories came: pushing her broken table against the wall with him so they could do a foxtrot in the confines of her living room, opening a bag lunch he’d had Caruthers prepare for her and finding roast duck and angel food cake, being surprised at devilish things he could do with his tongue when he ducked beneath the bedcovers, watching him stand in the middle of the bungalow acting out gags for Snap Shots , listening to him strum his ukulele and sing “Baby Face.” On screen, he was sliding around on an infirmary bed, dodging falling buildings, and standing nearly horizontal in the wind. She remembered how she’d stood off to the side as the cameras rolled during the facade scene and hoped he wouldn’t be crushed to death. He would have loved the reaction the daredevil stunts were getting, gasps and cries of “Oh my!” The children were clapping and squealing. 

Finally, the film was done. Buster rescued Peanuts’ father from the river, was rewarded with a kiss, and went to fish a preacher from the water so they could be married. Everyone in the theater applauded.

The Fosters were bursting with chatter as they stood with the rest of the audience and made their slow way up the aisles. 

“That was wonderful, Nelly,” said her father. 

“Real fine picture,” Gerald said, shaking her hand. 

Even Lena said, “I did very much enjoy that!”

Only Ruthie seemed to cotton that something was amiss. “Sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Fine,” she said. She put on a smile and was relieved that the ticket taker wasn’t in her booth as they filtered out of the theater. 

“Now onto the Phoenix!” William said, puffed with success. 

The idea of sitting with her family for at least the next hour having to discuss the film was the thing that shattered her brave face. Tears filmed her lower lids and a lump pressed its way into her throat. 

“What’s wrong?” said Ruthie, taking her by the elbow. 

The tears shivered and rolled fatly down her cheeks. She shook her head. “I can’t go out to eat. I can’t.”

“Why not?” Ruthie looked into her face with concern. 

“Why Nelly, what’s the matter?” said her mother. 

“What’s wrong with Aunt Nelly?” Eddie asked Gerald. 

She could sense a scene coming on. She didn’t want a scene. She wanted to be at home safe in bed crying her eyes out. The tears came fast, dousing her cheeks and chin and upper part of her throat, and her nose began to run. Ruthie put her arm around her shoulder.

“I have a stomachache,” she choked out. “I might be sick.”

“We don’t have to go to the Phoenix. I could run and fetch the car and take you home,” said her father. “It will take me twenty minutes, but if you wait here I can bring the car.”

“No,” she said. “Eddie and June—they’re looking forward.” The tears spilled. “I’m okay. I’m just fine. It’s only my stomach. I don’t want to spoil it for everyone.” She felt like a child having a tantrum, but she couldn’t stop the tears or the attention she was drawing. 

“I’ll sit with Nelly for a spell,” Ruthie said firmly. “You go on ahead and I’ll catch up when she feels better.”

“Maybe she ought to be taken home to bed,” said Lena, her forehead pinched. “Anna can give her some peppermint.”

“Mother, it’s just a stomachache,” she managed. “I’m going to be okay.”

With Ruthie’s insistence, the Fosters were persuaded to continue on foot to Davis Street. It was now perhaps a half hour from sunset. The air was warm and the light golden as Ruthie put her arm around Nelly’s waist and steered her left, then left again into the wide alley between the theater and Saville Flowers. Finding a clean spot on the bricks, she pulled her down to the ground with her and extracted a handkerchief from her purse. Nelly was too upset to fret about the silk of her dress snagging on the brick. 

Ruthie waited without a word as she finished crying. She was vaguely aware, blowing her nose into the handkerchief and wiping her eyes, that Ruthie had struck a match and was now smoking a cigarette.

She looked over. “You smoke?” she said through her tears. 

Ruthie gave a rueful half-smile. “You’re not the only one with secrets.”

It was surprise over this more than anything that staunched her crying. She blew her nose a few more times and opened her handbag to find her mirror. As Ruthie smoked, she drew her eyeliner back on and brushed her lashes with mascara. She scrubbed the watery black tracks of makeup from her cheeks and dusted on some powder. Her face was swollen, but no one would be able to tell she’d been crying unless they looked closely. 

“So what really happened to you?” said Ruthie, after she’d stubbed her cigarette out on the bricks. She was trying to sound casual, but her voice was sober, its tone clearly suggesting that Nelly had concealed some dark ruination from her. 

Nelly had to laugh. “I wasn’t lying. No one took advantage of me.”

Her sister looked skeptical.  

“Well, one night some fellows tried,” she said, recalling the night at the blind tiger. “I got invited to a speak-easy and drank more than I have in my life. They tried to get me into a room with them. They weren’t stars or directors or anything, though, just crew. It was awful stupid of me.”

“My God,” said Ruthie. Her face was pinched with worry. “How’d you get out of it?”

“A knight in shining armor showed up. I don’t remember it. I just remember I woke up in a hotel about to puke my guts out. He got me to the bathroom just in time, then he put me back to bed and he spent the night on a sofa.”

Ruthie’s expression became knowing. “That was Joseph.”

Nelly nodded. She looked down at her feet. She was wearing her Oxfords with the low heel, a habit she’d adopted after she’d started seeing Buster regularly. She wondered whether to be honest with Ruthie. 

“His real name is Joseph,” she said after a few moments. 

“Whatever do you mean?” said Ruthie, looking at her queerly. “Whose real name is Joseph?”

“It’s Joseph Frank Keaton. Mother called one day and I wanted to get her off the phone. You’d just had Violet. I told her I was having dinner with Joseph. We’d barely even begun seeing each other then, it just came out.” 

Ruthie looked as confused as ever, but in a few moments understanding sank in. “You mean Buster Keaton?” she said.

Nelly nodded. “No one calls him Joseph though, not even his mother and father.”

“You were seeing Buster Keaton,” Ruthie repeated in flat disbelief. 

“Oh, don’t make me feel guilty,” she said. “I never in a million years dreamed of it. When I went out there I was thinking about John Barrymore. He’s really how this all got started. I wanted to be in this Barrymore picture once we wrapped up with Steamboat and I called Buster—I got his number from Bert, he managed the prop house—I hadn’t seen him in weeks by that time. I felt so foolish after he rescued me at the blind tiger. He sat there watching me throw up, for God’s sake. He even held my hair for me. He told me I took off my stockings and tossed them out the window because I was hot. I was an utter mess. And then I told him he was stupid for doing that scene in the picture where the house falls on him, when we were on set. It could have killed him. It really weighed two tons. So we weren’t on the best footing. The Barrymore picture, though, I heard they were casting and I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d be able to help me get my foot in the door.”

Ruthie was staring at her, stupefied. 

“I can go back to the beginning, if you want to hear it,” she said, aware that she probably wasn’t making a great deal of sense. 

“Of course I want to hear it!” said Ruthie, squeezing her knee. “I want to hear everything. Every detail. He’s terribly handsome, isn’t he?”

The sun went down and the shadows grew long as she told the story of Buster mistaking her intentions and wounding her feelings when she showed up to his dressing room, the apology that had come in the form of an invitation to be an extra, her rescue from the blind tiger, the angle she’d played trying to land a role in Tempest and the unexpected invitation to his party that had resulted, the kiss underneath the stars, the months of not hearing from him, the collapse of her dream about The Taming of the Shrew , the kiss on her sofa, the invitation to the cabin beside the lake, the things they’d done there both torrid and ordinary, and everything that had come after, down to the ill-fated visit to the Villa while Natalie was away and the Paul Whiteman Orchestra. The shadows grew so long that they moved to an ice cream parlor farther down Sherman Avenue. Ruthie got a root beer float and Nelly drank a cream soda that settled her stomach and prodded at a hot fudge sundae that melted as she finished retelling everything. It felt good to confide in someone after so long. Ruthie listened with only occasional interruptions. Contrary to what Nelly had expected, her demeanor made it plain that she did not disapprove.

When she was done saying what she had to say, Ruthie said simply, “I wish you’d told me before.”

Her sundae was soup by now, but she sipped some of it from her spoon. “I thought you’d be scandalized. I thought you were—well, like Mother I suppose. You’ve done it all as it should be done, by the book.”

Ruthie laughed. “Because I got married too young?”

Nelly took in this eye-opener. “I never knew you thought it was too young. You did what all girls want. The children are beautiful—”

“—and an awful pain in the neck—”

“—and Gerald is—”

“—boring as all get-out.”

“—so good at what he does.”

She stared at Ruthie, whose lips were tight. Although she’d soon realized over the past few weeks that her sister didn’t have it as easy as she once imagined, she’d never thought Ruthie was unhappy.

“He’s a dreadful bore, Nell,” she said, a resigned expression on her face. “All he does is talk about Mr. So-and-So who’s defending Mr. What’s-His-Name and Mr. What’s-His-Name Who’s prosecuting Mr. So-and-So and torts and claims and motions. He’s a cold fish in the bedroom. Sometimes I could just scream.”

She didn’t know what to say.

“I’d rather be a mistress than a wife,” Ruthie continued. “You have it right. Don’t ever go thinking the grass is greener, because it isn’t.”

“I didn’t know,” said Nelly. It was all she could come up with. 

“Did you ever consider maybe Buster cared for you more than his wife?” Ruthie said. 

“No,” she said, stirring her sundae soup. “I think he cared for me, but now that I think of it I don’t think he ever meant to leave her. Stars get divorced left and right in Hollywood. Nothing would stop him. I saw the way he looked at her at his party. He loves her.”

“Then he’s a coward. If she won’t see to his needs, why does he bother with her? He should face facts. He ought to have stood up to those Talmadges. You’re ten times the catch she is.”

Nelly shook her head, feeling conflicted. “I don’t think it’s that easy. They had him over the barrel with our pictures.” She blushed. She considered whether to tell Ruthie about the picture of Buster. In the spirit of sisterhood, she decided to be open. “I have his still. High up in the closet where the children won’t find it, of course.”

“Oh, you must show me,” Ruthie said, her face lighting up with real eagerness.

Nelly stared at her for a moment, then they both burst into giggles. “It’s so wicked, isn’t it?”

“You could go to the Tribune with it,” Ruthie said with a smirk. “He should have written you. It would serve him right, the coward.”

Even though it was a joke, she said, “I wouldn’t do that to him. And after all, he wanted to find a way to keep it going. I was the one who insisted on coming back home.”

Ruthie glanced around the soda shop as if to make sure no one was listening, although only one other table was occupied and the soda jerk was wiping the countertop. It was close to closing time. “I’m going to say something serious now. I know it will shock you, God knows it’s easier having you around, but don’t be a governess forever.  Don’t give up on your dream just because some jealous old actresses chased you out of town.”

Nelly laughed. “I have every chance of getting into pictures as I do marrying Charles Lindbergh. That’s hardly Buster’s fault.”

“So go back to the theater then. You were always so good at it.”

She finally pushed aside her melted sundae. Since she’d been home, she had avoided all thoughts of acting. It would mean facing the aimlessness of her future and the limitations on it. She already knew she would never return to Hollywood. Though her forced exile from California still made her miserable, she could also see things from a practical perspective. The competition simply could not be overcome. Not only were most of the girls prettier, they were frequently more experienced and many were willing to submit themselves to directors and other powerful men for advantages. Of course, even if she wanted to give it another try, she had been blackmailed. Returning to the theater would be a final admission of defeat in her dream of being on the screen. 

She also feared that if she returned, she would find it staler than it had been before her departure for California. She had never been very excited about her short-lived role in the Los Angeles Players Company’s production of Twelfth Night .

“I don’t know,” she said. 

“I do know,” said Ruthie. The bell on the door of the ice cream shop jingled. “Oh look, it’s Gerald.”

“I was starting to think you’d been abducted,” he said, his brow pinched as he walked over to their table. He looked relieved to see them. “Walked all over creation trying to find you.”

“Don’t be dramatic, dear,” Ruthie said, as he leaned in and pecked her cheek. She rolled her eyes at Nelly. 

“How are you feeling Nelly?” he said, sliding into the seat next to her. 

“A little better than I was. I had a soda.”

“But didn’t touch your ice cream. We’ll have to get you out to the Phoenix next weekend. The children went mad for the chop suey and egg rolls. I was very sorry you were missing it. Well, we should get going so Mr. and Mrs. Foster know you’re both alive,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. 

They walked out of the shop with Gerald between them, their arms in his, and he drove them back to Ashbury Avenue. Ruthie caught her eye a couple times and they both laughed. When they had satisfied William and Lena that Nelly was okay, they collected June and Eddie and drove home. Ruthie persuaded Nelly to have a cold chicken sandwich before she retired to bed, exhausted. Yet even after she was under the covers with her teeth brushed and hair braided, she couldn’t sleep. There was too much to think about. For the first time in weeks, she thought for a long time about her affair with Buster. Ruthie had regarded him as a mixture of debonair, villainous, and cowardly. She was almost sorer about his behavior than Nelly had ever been. Her fondness for him had left him blameless after their affair ended, and she considered for the first time whether she should have been angry with him. Ruthie was persuasive. If he truly had cared for her, maybe he should have fought harder against the Talmadges and pleaded for her not to go. And why hadn’t he written?

Then there was marriage in general to ponder. Was anyone actually happy with it or was everyone just having affairs or dreaming of someone else? She even questioned her parents’ marriage. William was in the city most days of the week. Who was to say he didn’t have a penthouse and a mistress there which enabled him to come home on weekends and tolerate Lena and her frothy, excitable ways? Was the choice as bleak as that, being a mistress who was never quite fulfilled or a wife whose husband either roamed or bored her to death? Her mind turned to the theater, too. Would taking a role in a play be an admission of defeat or a triumphant return? She tossed and turned. All she was certain of was that she missed Buster again. Her chest ached with what she’d lost. She fell asleep after midnight, and her dreams were pained. 

Chapter Text

Filming for The Cameraman wrapped in late June and to Buster’s surprise the M-G-M brass allowed him to cut it without much interference. He spent July snipping and pasting, then running the edited reels again and again until he was satisfied with what was on screen. He previewed a few rushes for Irv Thalberg and other bigwigs that month. When it came to the dressing room scene, every one of them howled until he thought their sides would split. Irv pumped his hand before he left. “It’s a guaranteed hit,” he said effusively. 

A couple weeks later, he cornered Irv at his office, positive that he could leverage the success of The Cameraman for a new picture with Marie Dressler he’d been brainstorming. At the height of the Old West and in search of better opportunities, Marie would make preparations to join a wagon train, but an unfortunate delay would leave her at the mercy of her nincompoop nephew (him) to navigate her west and protect her from wolves, treacherous crossings, and marauding bands of thieves. He hadn’t gotten to the middle or the end yet, but it was a sure winner. He could just see them now, Marie with her stout, imposing figure wrestling a mountain lion into submission with her bare hands while he, the weakling, all but fainted.

Irv heard him out, but Buster realized sinkingly that none of his own enthusiasm was being reflected back at him. He promised politely to give it some serious thought. Buster knew the answer, though.

You’ll lose , Harold Lloyd said in his head. 

He gave in and moved into the M-G-M compound after filming at the beginning of August. Partly he was hoping that being an obedient little movie star would convince them to let him do the picture with Marie Dressler, partly he was just sick of locking horns with Louie Mayer over the Grant Avenue bungalow. The new house was a shotgun shack built specially for him. It had white clapboard siding and was only wide enough for a double window and a door. It was sandwiched between Rehearsal Hall A and the Short Subject building where until recently John Gilbert had lived. He had only to walk a few yards and he could see the rear of the buildings in the New York City backlot where he’d filmed that spring. Perhaps the idea was that he couldn’t get up to much mischief in such a little house in the view of so many eyes, but if that was the studio’s thinking, it was sorely mistaken. 

Within two days, he had tracked down Gabe and had a sign carved and hung between two porch beams: KEATON’S KENNEL. If they were going to keep him penned inside their fortress like a dog, he wanted it known that he didn’t care for it. He started spending more and more nights away from the Villa and half the time didn’t bother telling Nate what he was doing or when he would be home. At times, the activities keeping him away were innocent enough, bridge games long into the night with the liquor freely flowing. Other times, they weren’t fit to talk about in front of polite company. He didn’t even have to go looking for the girls anymore. Sometimes they’d be waiting on his front steps, other times lingering in his dressing room without any clothes on, such were the perks of being part of M-G-M’s stable. 

At first he liked the bungalow. The flow of friends and fellow stars was constant and there was never any shortage of diversions. With Caruthers there to whip up whatever cuisine or drinks struck his fancy, all his needs were taken care of. He got to liking it less, though, when a girl he was petting with on the sofa one July evening in the sitting room pointed to the empty glass-fronted bookcases lining all three walls and said, “You should put some books in there.” Thereafter, he hated the sight of them but couldn’t put his finger on why. 

On a night in late August when the party at the Villa was breaking up, he decided to follow Buster Collier back to his house for a nightcap. Louise Brooks was waiting there, her ban from the Villa still effective. She and Buster had started going together again—or so he’d been made to understand by Buster. As far as he had been aware, she was still seeing George Marshall.

“You coming?” he said to Cliff, who was having trouble figuring out which end of his hat should face forward. “Don’t forget this.” He nudged the ukulele case at Cliff’s feet with his toe. 

“Am I coming?” Cliff said, his face red with effort. He finally got the hat pointing the right way.

“Where are you going?” said Natalie, appearing in the foyer.

“Uh-oh,” said Cliff. 

“To Buster’s place,” he said. He looked over his shoulder at her. She was the color of Cabernet Sauvignon tonight, Cabernet lipstick, Cabernet beaded dress. Even if he hadn’t been in the middle of a comfortable drunkenness, he wouldn’t have been able to figure out why she cared if he stayed out late. Even when he was home, they rarely took breakfast together anymore. He slept late on the weekends and she was always out for afternoon teas or Sunday lunches when he finally pulled himself together.

“At this hour?” she said. 

“At this hour,” he confirmed. He turned to kiss her cheek and a spiteful impulse seized him. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t like sleeping without me.”

Her frozen look might have chilled him in the not so distant past. Now he found he didn’t care at all. 

“What was that all about?” Cliff said, settling into the passenger seat of his Lincoln. Without waiting for him to answer, he said, “Irene gives me the same grief. Women, though. What can you do about ‘em?” He was having problems with the missus too, Buster knew.

He turned the key over in the ignition and steered the car southeast, then west, then southeast again. In five minutes, they had arrived on North Bedford Drive. He parked on the street near a knotty-trunked palm tree on the boulevard. 

Buster Collier and Louise were already inside. A phonograph was playing loudly in the sitting room just beyond the foyer. Louise greeted them with some Gin Rickeys. She was wearing turquoise satin pajamas, the top long-sleeved and the trousers wide-legged. 

“Kill that,” Cliff said, uncurling his forefinger from his glass and pointing at the phonograph as they walked into the sitting room. He sat down on the sofa opposite the armchair where Buster Collier was sitting and unlatched his ukulele case. Buster sat next to him and Louise sat on Buster Collier’s knee after obeying Cliff’s request to turn off the phonograph.

“Aren’t we just a merry bunch?” Cliff said. 

Buster felt merry enough. He was warm, carefree, and serene. 

“To dissipation!” Louise said, raising her glass. 

He didn’t know what she meant, but he tapped his glass against Cliff’s and downed the contents. Like a good girl, Louise was soon back with another for him. 

One o’clock came and went. They discussed the latest gossip, Frank Urson’s drowning, Joe Schenck predicting that talkies were a fad, an all-talking horror picture being put out by Warner Brothers in September. Marie Prevost was back with her husband. John Gilbert was going with a new girl, an actress named Ina. It was rumored that Jack Barrymore would soon marry Dolores Costello. Harold Lloyd’s mansion was almost completed.

Cliff sang in between lulls in the conversation—

“ One of the days when I would yell and cry, my Lovey went away …”

And Louise read from a volume of poetry—

“ Oh, is it, then, Utopian,

To hope that I may meet a man

Who’ll not relate, in accents suave,

The tales of girls he used to have ?”

They laughed and drank. 

And Cliff strummed his ukulele and sang—

“ I’ll let her take it right in her hand,

‘Cause I know she’ll stroke it so grand … ”

And Louise read—

“ The ladies men admire, I’ve heard, 

Would shudder at a wicked word. . . .

They do not keep awake till three,

Nor read erotic poetry …”

And Cliff sang—

“ The captain said to me, ‘You’re just a little runt.

As long as you’ve been playing you’ve never touched a cunt .’ ”

And Louise read and Cliff sang and two-thirty was not very distant when Buster stumbled outside to take a long leak into the bushes, laughing to himself over the bawdy songs and poetry. He was seriously drunk.

Louise slipped out the back door as he was buttoning up. The moon was a little over a quarter full and beaming whitely through the palm trees. The air was warm and sweet. He hoped vaguely that she wouldn’t try to kiss him. He’d gotten the sense before that she liked him, but she wasn’t his type. She was too young for one, but more than that she was an intimidating combination of sophistication, jadedness, and naïveté he wasn’t keen to get mixed up with. 

“Are you okay?” she said, laying a hand on his arm. Her palm was soft and cool. 

He risked a look at her. She seemed genuinely concerned and he decided she probably wasn’t trying to seduce him. “What do you mean?” He’d been singing along with Cliff and guffawing at the poetry.

“You just seem a little—” She felt for the word. “Saturnine.”

“Satur-what?”

“You know, melancholic. Down in the mouth.”

He was surprised. He hadn’t been aware of moping. 

“Is it Nate?” she said. 

Ah. So the rumors had begun. He smiled grimly, thinking of the Talmadges’ publicity campaign. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.” She linked her arm in his and looked up at the moon. He dipped into his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter and she kept her arm there, friendly, but not flirtatious. He didn’t know what to say. He lit his cigarette. 

“Want one?” he said.

“No thank you.”

The breeze carried the smoke backwards. In the thick of his inebriation, he was aware of a heavy sadness somewhere within him. He was impressed by Louise’s powers of observation.

“It’s not as hard as you think, divorce,” she said. “I guess it’s hard enough, though. Not as hard as staying.”

He remembered that hers had only recently happened, June maybe. Her ex-husband had played one of the cops in Tillie’s Punctured Romance . “That so?” he answered. 

“How’s Nelly? I thought you would pick her up tonight.”

At her name, a jolt of anguish licked through him. He didn’t know what to say. “She left town,” he said eventually. He took a long drag of his cigarette. 

“Why?” She didn’t seem to care that she was prying. 

“ ‘Cause of me,” he said. He was too drunk to beat around the bush. “Norm and Constance found out, ratted me out to Nate, blackmailed us, and that was the end of it.”

“I’m sorry.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I liked her.”

“Me too.”

There was nothing more to say on the subject, but that sad place in him sagged like a physical weight now. He had been trying so hard to forget. As he smoked, Louise kept her arm in his and hummed. The door opened behind them and they turned. It was Buster Collier.

“I was wondering where you’d both gone off to.”

“Buster had to pee,” said Louise. “And now we’re being mooncalves.” 

He walked over to them and kissed her cheek and stood and watched the moon with them as Buster finished his cigarette.

They went back inside, but the gay mood had changed. Cliff was strumming mournfully on his ukulele, singing the saddest version of “I Can’t Give You Anything but Love” that Buster had heard yet. “ Who knows? Someday, I will win, too. I’ll begin to reach my prime. Now though I see what our end is, all I can spend is just my time .”

“You pick one to read now,” said Louise, setting a book in his hands.

He sat back on the sofa looking at it. The tan cover had a burgundy pattern like veins or thin, ropy spatters of blood. He turned to the title page, which told him the collection was Enough Rope and the author Dorothy Parker. He flipped to the contents, looking for a title that stood out and discovering it on the second page of contents. He flipped to page sixty-three.

“Out loud,” Louise prompted. “You have such a nice voice.” She was sitting in Buster Collier’s lap in the armchair.

“ ‘Day-Dreams,’ ” he said. “ We’d build a little bungalow, / If you and I were one, / And carefully we’d plan it, so / We’d get the morning sun. / I’d rise each day at rosy dawn / And bustle gaily down . . .” He shut the book, realizing what he was reading. For a moment, he felt dizzy. A strange sense of being outside himself struck him. It was as if Louise had scripted it, never mind that she had no way of telling which poem he’d choose or that he was remembering with fierce pain about Nelly’s castle in the air. 

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothin’ ,” he said. “Just don’t feel like reading’s all.”

“ Dream awhile, scheme awhile, we’re sure to find happiness and, I guess, all those things you’ve always pined for … ” sang Cliff.

“Give it a rest, Cliff,” he snapped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Louise and Buster Collier exchange a look. 

“Do you want another drink?” she said. 

“Let’s have one at my place. The bungalow,” he said, standing up. His head was reeling. 

They piled into the Lincoln, Cliff in the passenger seat again holding his ukulele and Louise and Buster Collier tumbled in the backseat. It was a half-hour crawl to M-G-M. He wasn’t quite sure where he was at times and twice turned down the wrong streets. Cliff was still moaning in song, “ I can’t make her happy, but I’d love someone to make her happy—that old girl of mine .” 

“Can’t you sing something else?” he said, turning so sharply to look at Cliff that the car veered to the right and nearly hit the curb. 

“Watch out,” Louise said in the backseat, her voice small and scared, as Cliff shouted “Hey!” in alarm. She put a hand on his shoulder and it brought him back to himself. 

“Sorry,” he said, training his eyes back on the road and slowing down. His heart was pounding. It was best just to take it slow. 

Obligingly Cliff started scatting and swung back into song. “ Oh boy, my Lovey came back. I feel so good I wanna knock wood! Oh jiminy gee, my Lovey came back to me .”

Buster joined him. “ I don’t know where she hid or what she did, all I know is she was breakin’ my heart. She returned, her kisses burned, somebody else made her terribly smart … ”

A ghost of the good feeling returned and on the next chorus they all bellowed, “ My Lovey came back … !”

The night watchman let them through the M-G-M gates, waving them on looking tired and unamused at their revelry, and Cliff began a new song. “ Love, love, love, love, what did you do to me ? The things I never missed are things I can’t resist ,” his cheerfulness restored. Buster hummed along, steering the car southeast along Washington Boulevard. “ Love, love, love, love, isn’t it plain to see? I’ve just had a change of heart; what can it be ?”

As he slowed the car, scanning for the narrow facade of his bungalow, Cliff’s song hit him like a good one-two punch. “ She’s got eyes of blue, I never cared for eyes of blue, but she’s got eyes of blue … ”

He pulled the car over and threw it into park, jarring them all forward. 

“Easy, Bus,” said Buster Collier. 

“ Oh my, oh me. I should be good, I would be good, but gee. She likes to bill and coo … ”

He slammed the car door behind him, blind with feeling. It was such a strong feeling, he couldn’t even tell what it was.

Louise jumped out of the car, followed by Buster Collier. “Ooh, it’s so cute,” she said, heading up the sidewalk toward the house. She was still wearing her pajamas. Overhead, the moon shone bright as a streetlamp. The ground tilted like the floor of a funhouse as he trailed Louise. He was deeply, deeply drunk . His eyelids felt very heavy. Buster Collier and Cliff’s footsteps sounded behind him on the sidewalk. 

It took him several tries to get the key in the door. Hazily, he thought that it would make for a funny gag, a drunk trying to unlock a door. Maybe at gunpoint, sweating as he dropped the keys, tried the wrong ones, and couldn’t find the lock. He could work it into the picture with Marie Dressler. 

“ She likes rainy days, I never cared for a rainy day …”

They were inside. He flipped on the lights. 

“ She likes a vestibule, I never stood in a vestibule … ”

His bat was resting against the wall and he picked it up. It felt heavy and good in his hands, the oiled wood shining like honey in the dim light.

“ Oh gee, poor me. I can hear the clock strikin’ one-two-three !”

He swung it back and slammed it against the glass of the nearest bookcase. The glass burst inward, making a sound like bells. He heaved the bat into the other door of the bookcase. Again and again, he smashed the bat against the bookcases until, looking at all three walls of the room, he was satisfied that every pane had been destroyed.

He could feel his breath coming fast and hard. Cliff had stopped singing. Glass glittered on the floor. The bat fell from his hand and the room lurched.

Before he passed out, he was aware of Louise guiding him to the sofa and putting her arms about him. His face was pressed into her collarbone. “Oh darling,” she said, stroking his head.

He thought he may have been crying.

Chapter Text

“ Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I 

am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I

would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard