Tyler and Elizabeth were standing at the foot of the bed, locked in an awkward embrace. Tyler’s hair had been tousled, his cheeks were flushed, and his shirttails were hanging, untucked. And Elizabeth—she didn’t seem to realize or care that someone had turned on the light. Even as I stepped into the room with Vail right behind me, she continued doing what she was doing, which was trying to undress Tyler, one hand moving feverishly under his shirt and the other trying to open his belt buckle. She pressed against him and lifted her lips to his face, and he attempted to draw away.
“Elizabeth, Elizabeth, you must pull yourself together.” Then, looking over at us, “Elizabeth, somebody’s here.”
She did not seem to register this statement at first, for she continued to push against him. Then she turned, saw us standing there, and started to cry. She lowered her head now and began striking Tyler’s chest, and I could not look upon them anymore. I felt as if my gut had been ripped open. I did not know whether I was more upset with Tyler or Elizabeth; I just knew I had to get out of that room, to try and erase that image from my mind. All Elizabeth’s claims to the contrary were irrelevant now, and I did not wish to speak to her. It didn’t matter what denials or pleading would come. I had seen what I had seen.
But perhaps I had not really seen what I had seen; perhaps the shock of sight obscures understanding. When I think back to that night with the wisdom of hindsight, I remember things that did not occur to me at the time. Like the fact that Elizabeth was fully clothed, and that Tyler’s voice and words were not consistent with the tone of seduction. Even as Tyler’s arms were circled around her, I later realized, he was not embracing her with the passion of a man embracing a woman, but with the care of someone holding something fragile together and trying to keep it from falling apart. Perhaps I did not fully understand what I had seen, but on the other hand, I understood enough. For whatever Tyler’s intentions toward Elizabeth were, her own true desires were clear.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It is impossible to say what might have happened for Elizabeth if the next few months had been different. Although her time as a star might have ended regardless, perhaps she could have taken smaller roles. Or perhaps she could have retired from the screen altogether and moved on, as some did, to a different kind of life full of friends and charity functions, even family. Certainly either of these outcomes would have been more desirable than the one that finally awaited her.
But it is morose to dwell on the end of Elizabeth’s career when there is much to consider now about my own. For despite my discomfort with the young Josh Dreyfus, he turned out to be true to his word, and someone from Perennial called me earlier this week to schedule me for a screen test. After our lunch at Castillo’s, I wasn’t confident that Dreyfus would contact me. But perhaps he had further discussions with Bellinger, or he was able to see some of my films, for the woman on the phone was extremely polite and sounded pleased about my imminent return.
I am not ashamed to admit that I feel quite nervous, which is not surprising given the nature of this opportunity. I’ve found myself increasingly preoccupied of late with matters that have nothing to do with acting—things like what kind of clothing one wears for a screen test, and how early one should arrive. Less trivial are questions about how I should prepare, for while I am confident of learning my lines—and while I have experience with dialogue from my time in the theater—I have never, of course, spoken in front of a camera. Maybe it would be useful to attend a film or two in the coming days, so I can study how the actors use their voices. If I knew how one went about such things, I might even consider hiring a voice teacher, as did many of my fellow actors from the silent era during the swift transition to sound. I feel—oddly—more uncertain about this screen test than I did about my very first film, or even about the first play I put on at the Little Tokyo Theater. On the other hand, one could say that my lack of fear on those occasions was a mark of youthful ignorance, and I am all too aware now of how fortunate I was; of how quickly even the biggest stars can be forgotten.
And yet, despite my hopefulness about this new film, I cannot let go of my recollections of the past. It has been years since I’ve reflected on what happened to Elizabeth, but I’ve found that, particularly since my conversation with Owen Hopkins, my thoughts keep turning to that time. And as I ponder the strange directions in which our lives sometimes take us, as I consider the opportunity that lies ahead of me now, my memories of developments in Elizabeth’s life give way to thoughts of certain moments in my own. For there were several key events in the months after my Independence Day party, events whose importance I tried to minimize at the time. They might not, in themselves, have been significant turning points. But at the very least, they presented themselves like markers on the road, signs that indicate where one might expect to arrive if one continues along the same path. Certainly one of those signs was my lunch with Gerard Normandy in October of 1921.
We met at a restaurant in Hollywood, a new place that had opened in the rapidly expanding western part of town. As I waited for
