Melting the Snow on Hester Street

Eleanor was – how old? She’d lied about it so often, she honestly didn’t know any more. What did it matter? She still looked young. They could make her look young: with the best flat lighting, she didn’t look a day over twenty-five.

There was absolutely nothing to worry about.

Even so, she chose not to open the package. Not just yet. Instead she leaned back against her lovely plumped-up pillows, on her magnificent, giant bed, in her beautiful sun-filled bedroom; sipped the tea which her maid had delivered, and mulled over the events of the previous evening.

Max was quite right about the party’s success. Except for the unpleasant interlude with Dougie – Dougie, of all people! – and then the dreadful moment with the candelabra, it had been a splendid night: better than previous years, for all sorts of reasons, not least the unexpected presence of Marion Davies. Which was quite a coup, whatever way you looked at it.

Not just a coup: a pleasure.

Marion had pulled Eleanor aside after dinner, pulled her right off the dance floor, thrust a cocktail glass into her hand, clinked their two glasses together, winked at her. And downed her drink in one. ‘That was a lovely thing you did b-back then,’ she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

‘It was?’ Eleanor was confused. She hadn’t done anything. ‘W-what you said to Dougie …’

‘But I didn’t! I didn’t say anything!’

‘I mean to say, the way you looked at him. The way you refused to laugh.’

‘Oh! But I wanted to do so much more! Only I wasn’t sure if you had even heard him, and then I thought it was better not to fuss – I am so sorry, Marion. I can’t apologize enough …’

‘You m-made him feel like a sap.’

‘You think so?’

‘Ha!’

There was a long pause, a peculiar pause, as if Marion were on the point of saying something else, something terribly important. But then, at the last second, she seemed to balk at it. ‘… I just wanted to tell you, th-thank you,’ she said instead. ‘That’s all. And I was thinking. Well, I was thinking it anyway. But I wanted to ask you up to San Simeon. Would you come to San Simeon if I asked?’

‘Of course!’ Eleanor had replied. ‘We would love that, Marion.’

‘Next week or something,’ she mumbled. ‘Real soon. I’ll fix it up for the week after next. Are you free?’

‘Well …’ Eleanor laughed. ‘Absolutely. We’re free. We’ve both just wrapped.’

‘I know you just wrapped.’ Marion winked at her. ‘It’s too perfect, isn’t it? Next Monday then. How about it? I’ll get a good crowd up, I promise. And I’ll send you all the stuff you need. Tickets and so on … Don’t worry about any of it.’

‘Next Monday … Max will be delighted.’ And then, suddenly, with the smallest hiccup, Marion had lurched forward and enfolded Eleanor in the tightest, warmest embrace. It lasted several seconds. She rested her head on Eleanor’s shoulder, squeezed her, clung to her and then, just as abruptly, released her and without looking at Eleanor again, quickly swung away.

It was, Eleanor decided, looking back, a most peculiar moment and, because of the warmth, one of the high points of her evening. Marion had mentioned the invitation to San Simeon again as she was leaving. She would send a car round with the train tickets later on in the week. So maybe, Eleanor thought – maybe she actually meant it?

Other than that, Marion had kept herself perfectly busy, of course: smooched half the night with Charlie Chaplin, until Charlie spotted the little Von Stroheim protégée, barely in her teens, poor little thing …

She’d danced with Gary Cooper for a while, but he was in the middle of a movie and had slipped away early; staggered across the garden in the moonlight, and taken a back route home through the Beecham grounds to avoid fans at his own gateway. After that, she’d latched onto John Gilbert. It would have been perfect – except of course then La Garbo decided to kick up the usual stink, which was pretty rich, reflected Eleanor, considering Greta hadn’t even arrived with John Gilbert that night. Considering Greta had actually spent most of the night in a hot, dark corner with Miss Lilyan Tashman … Eleanor smiled to herself. Holy cow, if her public could have seen her! If Irving could have seen her! Too bad he’d already left … The girl only had a handful of movies behind her – and not even a talkie among them, yet Greta Garbo acted like the Queen of Sheba.

Eleanor glanced again at the script package on her breakfast tray. Greta was ten years younger than she was, that was the truth. And beautiful. Just too damn beautiful. Nobody could compete. Nobody stood a goddamn chance …

She wouldn’t open it. Not yet.

Her mind turned, before she could stop it, to Little Miss Blanche Williams, chief feature writer –

Much better to open the script.

There it still was, lying there. So what was stopping her? Mermaids had grossed over $1.3 million, for crying out loud.

Meanwhile Greta hadn’t even made the transition to talkies.

Over $1.3 million!

There’d been three other pictures since, of course, each one grossing less than the one before. And then came the last, the real turkey, disdained by viewers and reviewers both.

‘Whatever has become of this once vibrant actress?’ wrote the critic in American Mercury. ‘Eleanor Beecham’s performance is her most dull and lifeless yet. Maybe it’s time the good people at Lionsfiel pulled the curtain on a talent long since spent, before La Beecham’s name becomes a by-word for Films You Definitely Want to Miss!’

Fuck.

Fuck all of them. Eleanor felt sick.

What was Blanche Williams doing, sitting in place of honour, anyway? Why had she come at all?

Because Max had insisted upon it. That was why. He’d told Eleanor he owed it to Blanche, after the write-up Blanche gave his last movie. So maybe he did owe it to her. He owed all sorts of people all sorts of things. He hadn’t invited them and it wasn’t why he invited her. He invited her because he was screwing her. And probably because she insisted on it. And because she had the sort of hold on him any woman has on a man when he particularly, especially, enjoys screwing her.

Eleanor didn’t want to think about that. Not this morning. Not today. She didn’t want to think about Max. She didn’t want to think about the studio. She didn’t want to think about her failing career, her fading looks, her philandering husband …

Deliberately, she turned her mind to Butch.

Sometimes it helped to think about him. But not this morning. This morning his name conjured nothing but guilt and sadness – and a churning of lust – and nothing …

And then unbidden, inescapable, always in her mind, always there, always waiting, came the face of Isha, three years old, waxy with the fever, sobbing –

Only the nice letters made it to Eleanor’s breakfast tray, generally. Invitations were allowed through, and personal notes (and the scripts, of course, because they were unavoidable). And then, every few months – less and less often, actually –

This.

Her heart missed a beat.

5

Eleanor stared at the letter. Postmarked Reno, as it always was, wrapped in the same dull brown envelope, and with no name above the address. She tore it open.

Dear Miss Kappelman,

As one of our most valued clients [she read], I am writing to inform you of sad recent events.

After 25 years’ devoted service to this Bureau, which Bureau, you are no doubt aware, he himself founded, my beloved father sadly passed away last month. Since then, as he and I had always arranged, I have left my employment with Reno City Police and taken up the reins. It is a sad point in time for me, but also a point in time I have long awaited and I am eager for the challenges that lie ahead …

Eleanor skipped on impatiently.

… Madam, you will observe from the enclosed that our rates have increased …

Yes, yes, yes.

… I note that progress in the case has, to date, been somewhat slow. Not least as a consequence of the limited information you have provided. Nevertheless, please rest assured that we are dedicated to discovering the truth, and continue to work tirelessly, leaving no stone unturned. I can tell you that already we are making definite strides forward.

Please do not hesitate to contact me here at your convenience, should you have any questions regarding the case, or should any further information come to light that you feel might aid us in our work. Or, if you would like to pay a visit to us at the bureau here in Reno, I can assure you of a warm welcome. Of course I understand however that it is a long way to travel. In the meantime I will make it my business to keep you abreast of each and every development by post.

I would be grateful if you could attend to the enclosed invoice at your earliest convenience.

Respectfully yours,

Mr. Matthew Gregory

Eleanor reread the letter once, twice, three times, desperate to discover any hidden message behind the lines – but it seemed the more she read it, the more cryptic it became. So Gregory Senior was dead. She had never met him. She didn’t feel much sorrow at the news. Perhaps the new man would be more efficient? He sounded as though he might. He certainly sounded optimistic – didn’t he? Yes he did. And it was wonderful.

Perhaps a fresh pair of eyes might yet be able to see something new, something they had all been missing? Perhaps he truly had made some strides forward? Perhaps … Perhaps … After all, a fresh pair of eyes …

Perhaps, after all, it might even do some good for her to visit him in Reno?

She laughed at the idea. And then suddenly stopped. Asked herself again – after all, why not?

He would recognize her. That was one reason why not. He would know who she was. There would be questions. It would be dangerous … But she would find a way around them, after all these years. Of course she could.

Why not?

Why not indeed? A minute ago it had seemed like sheer madness. Now, suddenly, it was not only possible, but imperative.

She could feel, from nowhere, the slow burning of hope – the faintest trace of the tidal wave she had been keeping in check for so long. She needed to talk to Max. She needed to explain … He didn’t know about Mr Gregory – Junior or Senior. But she would tell him. Now. This morning. She would tell him – that she had never given up. Even if he had.

And he could come with her or not. She wanted him to come more than almost anything. But if he wouldn’t come, she would travel alone. She had waited long enough. Suddenly she could not wait a moment longer.

She called him at work, though she didn’t like to, and was put through to his secretary. ‘Why Mrs Beecham!’ the woman cried when she heard Eleanor’s voice, ‘I’ve been longing for you to telephone us, all this time! Only so I could say to you in person how much I adored your last picture. And I know Mr Beecham mentioned it didn’t do so well as some of the others. Well, I know it didn’t because of course we keep a track on all that sort of thing here. It’s our business, isn’t it? Who’s doing what, where. It’s all madness, isn’t it! But I swear, I thought it was splendid! You had me weeping from start to finish.’

‘My gosh – thank you,’ said Eleanor, with her beautiful manners. ‘That’s so good of you… . Always so good to hear. Thank you … Could you—’

‘And the lilac dress in the final scene! I never saw anything so stunning!’

‘Yes it was a lovely dress—’

‘And how was the party last night? It was last night, wasn’t it? Mr Beecham was pleased as punch with his new jacket – we had the costume girls in doing last-minute adjustments yesterday morning. You should have seen them – running around like little crazy things. Yes, Mr Beecham, no Mr Beecham. Anything for you, Mr Beecham!’

‘Mrs Monroe – Is he about?’

‘Is he about?’ She sounded confused.

‘Only I need to speak to him rather urgently. Could you – can you possibly find him for me? Please.’

‘Well. I can certainly try …’

‘That would be so kind.’

‘But you know he’s not here.’

‘Not in the office?’

‘Why, no! He’s not coming in today. I thought he was with you.’

‘With me?’

Too late, Mrs Monroe realized her mistake.

‘Oh, but what am I saying? I’m nothing but a butter brain, Mrs Beecham! He’s probably in with … probably just bashing something out with Mr Silverman right next door, just like he always is! Shall I take a quick peek? If you wait right there …’

‘No,’ Eleanor said quickly. ‘Thank you, Mrs Monroe. It doesn’t matter at all. I’ll find him later.’

She hung up. Took a deep breath, and another. It was nothing new. There was nothing new about it.

After that, she didn’t allow herself to wallow. Eleanor never allowed herself to wallow. She simply dressed and packed. She fetched one of her personalized cards from the drawer of her dressing table, and beneath their curly, gold-embossed initials, entwined, wrote her husband a note:

Darling,

I called the studio, but you were busy, busy! Mrs Monroe offered to go in search, but then she said you might have gone out of town on reconnaissance and really I couldn’t wait. Darling, you remember I showed you a letter once from a little detective I had found in Reno and you thought so little of him? Well, I never mentioned him again because I knew it made you so cross but I went ahead and employed him, because … well, of course you know why. Matz, he died. But now his son has written, and I think he has something important to tell us. He has asked me to Reno to meet with him and of course I must go. I will call you the first moment I have any news.

Your ever-loving wife,

Eleana

She placed it, carefully, at a jaunty angle on her sunny dressing table, paused, and looked at it again. She looked at it for a long time.

When had she last called him Matz? Seeing it written, and her own, Eleana, beneath it, took her by surprise; brought a stab of pain. She had no idea what had possessed her to use their old names. She snatched up the card and ripped it into pieces. She opened the drawer, took out a fresh card, and started again:

M,

I shall be gone for a few days. I think it’s about time we talked, don’t you?

E

She placed the card, carefully, at a less jaunty angle, on the same sunny dressing table, pinned beneath the heavy gold-framed photograph. She picked up her bag, leaving the rest of her post unopened, the script unread, the forgotten jewel, more precious than last year’s, half hidden beneath a cold, dry piece of toast. And then she left the house before she had a chance to think better of it.

6

‘It’s probably gonna sound funny,’ Blanche Williams was saying, a couple of miles down the road. ‘But I have respect for your wife. I have a lot of respect for her. I thought she looked just about as classy and dazzling as a girl can look in that emerald-green get-up last night.’

He had his head between her legs; his tongue inside her sweet, juicy knish … Half a second ago she’d been purring like a pussycat … Dammit. He put a soothing hand on her stomach, gave her ass a little pinch, and stayed right where he was, just as if she hadn’t spoken.

But once Blanche started on a topic, as by now he knew quite well, there was rarely any chance of her dropping it.

‘She’s beautiful,’ Miss Williams continued, ‘she’s mysterious. God knows, she’s a terrific actress … at least, that is, when she wants to be. And you know with all that, I got to ask myself –’ Blanche hoiked herself onto an elbow to look at him – ‘what in hell you’re doing spending your time with a Little Miss Nobody like me?’

He paused. Stopped. Lifted his head. ‘What’s that, sweetie?’ he muttered.

‘I was just saying …’

Max gave up. He stretched across her naked body for the cigarette pack, lit up two, one for each of them, and lay back on the pillow beside her. ‘… I heard what you were saying, baby.’

‘So?’

Max exhaled, disguising a small, dull sigh inside the smoke: ‘So … what?’

‘So … what are you kicking around with a dozy little broad like me for? When you have a class act like Eleanor Beecham waiting for you back home?’

It took a beat before Max replied. Blanche noticed it, even if he didn’t. ‘Baby,’ he said, ‘because I love “kicking around” with you.’ He laughed. ‘And you’re hardly “a dozy little broad”.’

‘But you never talk about her.’

‘Why would I talk about her?’

‘Because she’s your wife. Is why. And because I am your lover. And everybody knows you two adore each other. And because of the way you kissed her last night. And the way you two looked at each other. And because I am just jealous as hell. Is why.’

Max smiled into her pretty, honest eyes, and dropped a kiss on her pretty shoulder. ‘You have nothing to be jealous about, sweetheart. If you did, I wouldn’t be here.’ His hand returned to her slim stomach, and slowly continued on down. She paused – before reluctantly pushing his hand away. ‘You’re not being fair, Max.’

‘Baby,’ he murmured, not giving up just yet; nuzzling her neck, returning his hand. ‘… And nor are you … what are you fretting for, hmm? You have nothing to fret about, baby … just enjoy yourself …’

She pushed him away again, with more conviction this time, and climbed out of the bed. They’d spent the whole morning enjoying themselves in her bed already. And much as she would have loved to spend the rest of the day there with him, she needed to check in with the office. She had an interview with a new girl over at Columbia at three o’clock – some soon-to-be-big, Little-Miss-Girl-from-Nowhere, with a freshly invented life story to plug – and the Columbia people were keen for Blanche to do the big write-up. Added to which, she was determined that she and Max didn’t part company without having had at least a semblance of a conversation. In bed, Blanche was more than happy to be treated like a dirty little sex machine. Actually it suited her just fine. But out of bed, there had to be something between them to make her feel like a decent human being again.

Blanche was ten years Max’s junior, easily young enough to produce a litter of children if she wanted them, except she was adamant she didn’t. Her independence, so hard fought and still so fresh, was something she could never envisage surrendering. Blanche was a woman of her time, and proud of it. She paid her own way, made her own path – lived alone in her snazzy little apartment (very ‘moderne’ she told her disapproving family, back home in Oregon), in a spanking new apartment block just above Sunset. She and Max had been lovers, on and off – with two short breaks during which Blanche attempted to wean herself from him – since she interviewed him for the magazine five years ago.

7

Nineteen twenty-four, it would have been. Or thereabouts. Almost a year after he joined Silverman. They met for lunch at Musso & Frank – without the marketing guys, because Max insisted on it. He was supposed to be telling her about his first picture since being lured away from Lionsfiel. The film was called The Girl Who Couldn’t Smile, and it went on to gross more for Silverman Pictures than any movie they had yet released. But Blanche had been instructed by her editor not to ‘go too heavy’ on the new movie angle, since readers were unlikely to be terribly interested, and instead to concentrate her questions on the Big Split.

Max’s move from Lionsfiel to Silverman had astonished the Movie Colony because he left behind not only his long-time producer and friend, Butch Menken; but – even more intriguing, at least to Blanche’s readers – his movie-star wife. Until then the three of them – producer, director and star – had made not a single film without each other. They were a winning formula – no one doubted that, and everyone had always assumed the trio was inseparable.

So Max had talked to Miss Blanche Williams about the Split that Rocked Hollywood (as her magazine later entitled the article). And with or without the marketing men to prompt him, he had stuck to the official version of events. Which, with a few vital omissions, wasn’t, after all, entirely divorced from the truth. And Blanche was a good listener – an accomplished interviewer. Over steaming, unwanted bowls of the famous Musso & Frank pasta, and a bottle of Château Margaux, provided by Max and poured by him, under the table, into Musso tea mugs, Max talked with disarming warmth and eloquence about his sadness not to be working with his beloved wife any longer. He and Eleanor had agreed that the moment had come for them both to spread their wings … It was time for Eleanor to experiment with different directors and, for Max, with different actors and actresses. He didn’t mention Butch Menken.

‘What about Butch?’

‘Butch Menken?’ Max waved a dismissive arm. ‘Butch is a good guy.’

‘That’s what I heard.’

‘But creatively, we had taken it as far as we could. Butch is good guy. I have a lot of respect for him.’

‘So there was no fall-out?’

‘There was no fall-out. Whatsoever. Butch and I remain the greatest of pals.’

‘So the rumours …’

He cocked a smile, looked his little interrogator dead in the eye. ‘What rumours would they be?’

She blushed, which didn’t happen often. His gaze was disconcertingly direct. Made her want to wriggle in her chair. He was, she reflected as she recovered herself, without doubt the most attractive man she had ever had lunch with.

‘Well, the rumours that … Heck, Mr Beecham, I’m sure you know what people are saying! That you dumped him. Despite being the oldest and best of friends. Because he just wasn’t up to it … You had creatively outgrown him.’

‘Ahh. Those rumours.’ He smiled. She would never have known it, never have guessed. Under the table, he refilled her mug with red wine, and felt his heart begin to beat again. ‘Butch is a fine producer,’ he said, making a show of picking his words with great care. ‘It goes without saying. Butch is a good producer. But as filmmakers we were travelling different paths. That’s all. We wanted to make different kinds of movies. And consequently we were finding it difficult to agree …’

In any case, Max explained, redirecting the conversation, the offer to join Silverman Pictures was too exciting to turn down. Joel Silverman had promised him more autonomy, bigger budgets, freedom to choose his own scripts. ‘And I have to tell you, Joel Silverman has kept to his word! Ha! And it’s not so often you hear that said, is it? Not in this town!’

‘But why didn’t Mrs Beecham come with you?’ Blanche persisted. ‘She’s such a great actress. Didn’t you want her to come with you? Or was it her? Maybe she didn’t want to come?’

Max shrugged. ‘Of course I wanted her to come. Of course …

‘But you … Maybe you wanted to create some space between the two of you. Is that it?’ Blanche asked, aware that she needed some sort of explanation for the piece, and that he didn’t seem willing to offer one himself. ‘A separation between work and home,’ she said, already writing it down. ‘Yes. I think I can understand that.’

He didn’t know what it meant, and neither – when she thought about it – did Blanche. What ‘space’ between them? The space between them was already immeasurable.

‘That’s right,’ he said vaguely. ‘Creatively.’

She scribbled it down. ‘And tell me,’ she added, still scribbling. ‘Tell me how it happened. Did the two of you sit down and discuss it? Were there tears? Or was it … kind of civilized? Can you tell me a little bit about how it all went down? My readers are longing to know.’