“He’s a monster,” Clara moaned. “He’s inhuman. Raging around at everybody, seizing on the tiniest stumble in a twenty-line speech, hurling his lunch at his assistant’s head if he doesn’t like the potatoes.”
“Why don’t you complain to someone?” I asked her.
“Well he’s also a genius!” Clara said. “I really am lucky to be working with him. And anyway, you know all artists are off their rocker.”
“I’m worried about you,” I told her.
“Don’t be worried about me! I’m happy as a clam. Just a little tired, that’s all.”
“Be careful,” I said.
I didn’t have to remind her that she had asthma and was prone to vicious colds or even pneumonia if she didn’t take proper care of herself.
“I'm very careful,” Clara said blithely.
But that wasn’t always true, not really.
2
As soon as I got off the train, I went to the Forest Lawn Mortuary to make arrangements for Clara’s funeral.
I came out to California thinking, I’ll take Clara home.
But I soon remembered that Clara and I didn’t really have a home.
We were born in Brooklyn. We lived there till we were six and eight, until our father was killed in an explosion at his brewery. Our mother took us to stay with her aunt in Danville, then she got a job as a teacher in Cincinnati.
Clara never liked either of those places. After our mother died, she couldn’t wait to get away. She only stayed in Cincinnati another year to help support me while I finished school. She worked as a typist, loathing every minute of it. The moment she was free, she caught the train to Los Angeles.
She asked me to come with her, but I had just received my acceptance to the Linguistics department at the University of Chicago. Clara wished me luck, and as soon as she started getting work on film sets, she sent as much cash as she could spare to help pay for my books and tuition.
Now I was faced with the question of where I should bury my sister.
Clara loved New York, but we never went back after our father died. We had family in Danville, but Clara hated how conservative and dull it was—she wouldn’t want to rest forever on our aunt’s farm. We didn’t know anyone in Cincinnati anymore.
I could take her back to Chicago with me. That’s what I was most inclined to do, so I could at least visit her grave. The problem was that I had just graduated that spring. I had stayed put because I was in the process of translating a bunch of old family journals for my employer, Mr. Bates. When that job ended, I had no idea where I’d go.
The whole world was in chaos. People said America might enter the war. I spoke French, Italian, and German fluently, so I had considered seeking a job with the state department.
In the end, I thought I better hold the funeral and burial in California. Clara had been happy there. It had been her home for eight years.
Mr. Campbell was waiting for me at the mortuary. He was short and balding, with a mournful, sympathetic face—a necessity in his industry, I supposed. He offered his condolences, then took me to the room where Clara had been laid out. His staff had already performed the embalming and other preparations, as we discussed over the phone.
Still, even with all that time to prepare, it was an ugly shock. Clara’s energy and animation were such an integral part of her personality that to see her so flat and still, so robbed of the qualities that defined her . . . it made me wonder for a moment if a mistake had been made. Could that really be my sister caked in ugly white face powder, wearing that awful high-necked gown?
“Apologies,” Mr. Campbell said quietly. “We had to make some accommodations in light of your sister’s injuries.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“There was some discoloration of the face . . . and the throat . . . we weren’t able to conceal enough to allow for the dress you requested.”
“Oh,” I said dully. “Thank you. I’m sure you did your best.”
“What a terrible thing,” Mr. Campbell said. “My wife enjoyed your sister’s films very much.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Whenever you’re ready, we can go over the arrangements for the service,” Mr. Campbell said. “Take your time.”
He left me alone with Clara.
I came all this way wanting to see my sister once more. Now I almost wished I hadn’t. I didn’t want the image of the stiff, garish figure in the casket to imprint over my memories of Clara as I always knew her: brash, mischievous, laughing.
I walked closer to the casket to touch Clara’s hand where it lay folded on her breast. Then I wished I hadn’t done that either—it was as waxy and lifeless as a doll’s.
I went back to Mr. Campbell’s office to review the details for the funeral: Clara’s favorite flower (lilies), her favorite hymn (“All Creatures of Our God and King”), her favorite color (green).
“And what denomination of minister would you prefer?” he asked.
Our family had never been religious. Actually, Clara could be quite derisive on the subject. I tried to think what would offend her least.
Seeing my hesitation, Mr. Campbell said “Father Brennan of the Episcopal church is a very gentle man—no fire and brimstone.”
“That sounds fine,” I said.
When Mr. Campbell showed me the balance for what all that would cost, including the plot in the Forest Lawn Cemetery, I wrote a check for the deposit, promising to pay the balance promptly.
I didn’t actually have the money to pay the rest, but I hoped I would soon. I intended for Paramount Pictures to pay at least part of it. In fact, I had a meeting with Mr. Heller next, to address that very point.
I took a cab to the Paramount Pictures studio lot at 5451 Marathon Street. It was a long, low, sprawling complex, almost like a tiny city unto itself—building after building, all uniformly plain from the exterior so it was difficult to tell how it might be divided on the inside.
A security guard kept watch from a booth at the entrance of the parking lot. He was reading a newspaper and only looked up when I asked him the way to Mr. Heller’s office. I was quite certain I could have strolled right past him without the guard noticing a thing.
I gave my name to Mr. Heller’s secretary, then waited on the little sofa just outside his office. I could hear Mr. Heller shouting at somebody over the phone. Since the secretary continued typing without batting an eyelash at the blazing row going on behind her, I could only assume that was a regular occurrence.
I had come in near the end of the harangue—some kind of contract dispute, something about percentages only to be paid out under certain eventualities. It wound up without any clear resolution that I could hear, and Mr. Heller slammed down the receiver. His secretary took the opportunity to press the buzzer on her desk, saying in a calm and robotic tone, “Mr. Heller, Alice Bloom is here to see you.”
“Send her in,” Heller barked.
He stood up from his desk to shake my hand. He was medium height, a little stout, with a three-piece pinstriped suit and a pocket square. His hair was parted on the left, heavily Brylcreemed to remove as much of the curl as possible, and slicked over to the right. He had a round face in which his long, bulbous nose came down to the lipless vertical line that was his mouth. He wore a pinky ring and a gold wristwatch.