Tomorrow morning he would walk right into Graham Scott’s office and quit on the spot. He wouldn’t bother to explain how his integrity had been punctured, and that this fact was proof enough that it was time to hang it up. He wouldn’t bother to try to defend himself by saying that he needed to get out before he was assigned to the new roller skating ordinance for downtown sidewalks, or the potential early closure of banks on Saturday evenings. There was still real news in this town that had to be covered, he would tell Scott, and it would only kill him not to be part of it. For example, the fallout from last year’s land bust in Redondo Beach still remained untouched. Or just the other day, the massive Santa Fe depot contract had been inked. A quarter of a mile of building to be constructed on Santa Fe Avenue, just blocks from where he stood. And every paper in town seemed to be okay with it; they ran their pieces as though the depot were one more monument to the magnificence of Los Angeles. And not one reporter or editor even wondered or questioned how the builder, Carl Leonardt, had been awarded the contract. Baker wouldn’t be suggesting that Leonardt had done anything wrong, however it should still be looked into, right? But the new journalism conspiracy seemed to be to tout anything that made the town look better (while ignoring the underside), and then rely on the mundane scandals to replace the hard news. And you go where your editor sends you, those are the only stories that you need to grab. That’s the job now. Baker would tell Scott that he would rather leave than be a restrained observer. He could only imagine the reaction. Scott would laugh and say that Baker just got his balls busted by a broad—what else is new?—but that’s no reason to quit. It’s part of being a newspaperman. And then Scott would fade into his antiquated edict about their duty to comfort the tormented, and torment the comfortable—the newsroom philosophy that only lived in the memories of men of Scott’s generation. But the truth would always be cautiously unspoken, that this was now a business with corporate interests like anything else, and that if guys like Baker wanted to stay in it, then they were going to have to learn how to adapt. Scott would lean over paternally and tell him that he had to stop taking it so seriously, because taking things too seriously only leads to taking things too personally. Baker knew that in order to avoid Scott’s lectures he was just going to have to quit with nothing other than a two-or three-sentence resignation speech. It would be his last act of dignity as a journalist.
The shadow stretched long and thin, holding him in place. He wasn’t quite ready to go home yet (and cashing it in at Willie’s also felt too predictable, with its usual drinks and slobbering pheromones—a painful confirmation of his real status). Instead Baker thought he would just sit there for a while. Maybe all night. Wait until the morning sun shone again and wiped away the shadow. Then he would head downtown to hand his career back to Scott. Throw his desk belongings into a shopping bag, then go to his Pico apartment and load up the still unpacked boxes onto the bed of a truck heading east, hitching a ride back to Phoenix. Perhaps he could herd ostriches on his Uncle Martin’s farm, and then go join the ranks of defected journalists to write a book that told the firsthand plight of the common man. In between days he might get to know his family a little more. Brag about his L.A. days, dropping the names of those he had covered, sadly reminded of his frustrations when Sarah Bernhardt was who they undoubtedly would want to know about. He would tell them. Watch their faces turn dumb with awe. Maybe submit to the lies that all memories tell, and forget the humiliation; instead embellish her importance and his role in it. After being plagued by questions about her, Baker would excuse himself for the bathroom. There he would stand before the mirror. He’d stare deep into the reflection, looking to find the remnants of the man who hadn’t been seduced and trapped by the promise of Los Angeles.
But before he went near his office or the Pico apartment, Baker knew he would have to make a slight detour. Stop off at the local offices of the Santa Fe Railway Company. Do a little digging. Drum up a cigarette. Ask a few questions. See what anybody there might have to say about Carl Leonardt.
THERE WAS NOTHING COMFORTING about the room at the King George. Although her clothes and books and papers were scattered around the room, it still felt every bit as impersonal as the hotel room that it was. Beneath the bed she spotted the edition of the
Max had said he would run down to the theater to inform the company of the delay. He would tell them to keep working, and that Madame would join them after a brief rest. After he left, she went into the bathroom and turned the faucet handles of the bath, swiping her hand beneath the stream to test its temperature. She turned it off and looked into the tub at the gentle ripples washing up against the side, banging anxiously until they eventually faded into the depth of the light blue water. She left her skirt on, but pushed the hem up past her knees, then sat herself on the edge of the tub and dangled her feet in the warm water, soaking her aching right leg. It took her back to Uncle Faure’s farm again. Seven years old. By herself at his pond. The water has been heated from the sunlight, and it is only as she steps out deeper that she will find the sudden coolness of the undercurrent. And the fish swim around her feet, tickling at the toes, and sometimes pecking the heels, as though mistaking them for food. From a patch of grass that fits just into the curve of her spine, she can watch the clouds blow across the sky, cleansing the blue like a sponge, spotless and shiny. And this is where the seven-year-old Henriette-Rosine imagines the rest of her life. The wedding, the husband, the two children, the servant, the diamonds. And she imagines her name being spoken on every pair of lips in France, and wonders how difficult it will be to shop or dine amid all the adulation. But it will not be hard on her husband because he will also be known throughout France—probably a war hero—but pity the children who are the victims of their parents’ success, until they find their own. Finally she narrows it down to being an actress—but a different kind of actress. She will be noble. A lady. And her mother will be proud (she would make sure to thank her during every interview), and Mama can even come to live with her and her family, and they will keep the spare room ready for Papa once he finally comes back from his travels in China. Under that deep blue sky, Henriette-Rosine reaches up to hug the world while kicking her feet against the water, as though the pond is ordained with a magical power.
Now all these years later she sat in a strange hotel, her tired trodden feet soaking in a porcelain tub of man-made warmth. Many of those plans that she dreamed by Uncle Faure’s pond had come true—some distorted, and others entirely mangled, if not neglected. There was no way that she could have known at the age of seven that even in dreams there are choices to be made. Everything good comes at the sacrifice of something else. And she inhaled deeply, trying to taste the pure air of the Neuilly farm, but instead took in the trailing remnants of a fresh coat of hotel paint. She had made all those plans, but had stopped there. She could not remember any time after that summer at Uncle Faure’s that she had opened her eyes and imagined something else. From the moment she had dreamed this future, ambition set in, and she went about in the most practical manners to make it come true. And now she sits, knowing that Max will soon burst through the washroom door, having calculated some way to muster enthusiasm for patron-brunch-number-one-million-and-four that will keep the dream floating along. But maybe fifty-five years later it is time to imagine something new, and then kick in the ambition to make that come true. Like really leaving acting. Just slide out of this Sarah Bernhardt skin and let Henriette-Rosine take over (but in a lucid and rational state, for once). She looked up at the ceiling and imagined it as a blue sky. She arched her back slightly and kicked her feet in the water. She saw it all as clear as a day at Uncle Faure’s. Stepping from one dream into the next.
As predicted, Max did knock on the bathroom door, after letting himself into the hotel room. She kicked the bathwater, watching the small waves tide up against the checkered tile backsplash. Let him knock another time or two. Weary him. Until her news about leaving will be a relief.
His knock didn’t lessen. He was worried about the schedule, he called out. She kicked at the water again. It was still warm. She was going to tell him. Poor Molly was about to get more than he ever could have imagined. But soon he would find that the anger and resentments were just a by-product of this lifestyle. He would thank her after he was done hating her. But hopefully he will see that it was her dream that brought Max Klein to life, and that it will be her new dream that continues to bring him life. He just needs to continue to trust.
She pulled her feet from the tub, delicately balancing while she reached for a towel. She was not going to rush. While she let the unused tub drain, Sarah rubbed the terry cloth over her left foot but forgot her right. She opened the door as he spoke her name, his voice sounding increasingly feminine. He didn’t even notice Sarah standing in a partial puddle in the lavatory doorway, with her arms crossed over her ribs.
She let a moment pass before she spoke in a calmed voice. “Molly, I am right here.”
“I just don’t want to get behind schedule is all.”
“Molly,” she repeated. It took every bit of her willpower not to tell him that he should catalog his expression. The way that his eyes seem to physically harden, his jaw bone nearly breaking out the cheeks. These were the emotions that actors treasured. Complete moments when the body has taken over the mind. She walked over to the
