furniture in the parlor, fringed throw rugs were on the floor, and white lace curtains—one of the few feminine touches—diffused the sunlight from the windows. The place wasn’t especially neat, but it was clean and in better repair than the exterior of the building; what disorder there was—some clothes on the furniture and records on the floor—just made it seem all the more homey.
Marguerite pulled a billowy white handkerchief from a shirt pocket and blew her nose with a resonant honk.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Nooo ...” was her barely audible answer. She folded her hands in her lap and looked down as her fingers twisted and squeezed the handkerchief. Her slim tanned wrists looked smooth and feminine in contrast to the masculine clothes. “She was my friend and I couldn’t help her,” she said plaintively.
“There was nothing you could have done.”
“I could have talked to her. I tried for a while, but then ... I just gave up.”
I wasn’t sure how talking to someone could save her from drowning. “What do you think happened?” I asked.
“I’m not sure ... she just changed after her husband died. She wouldn’t talk to me anymore.”
I’d meant what happened the night she drowned, but if it made her feel better to talk about her friendship with Miss Hampton, that was okay with me. “The two of you were close?”
“I thought we were. We used to talk about everything. Just after I started with the studio, Vitagraph went on location to Port Jervis. Beautiful mountains and forests there. We made westerns and Indian pictures and anything else we could think of to use that scenery. The whole company stayed at the Caudebec Inn, and Libby and I shared a room. She took me under her wing—”
“Who’s Libby?”
“That’s what I called Florence. It was a wonderful time. We’d stay up until two or three in the morning chatting like schoolgirls.”
“When did you start in the movies?” I thought it might be a good idea to steer the conversation away from Florence Hampton for a while, at least until she looked less likely to break into tears.
“Three years ago. Three years.... I never thought the picture craze would last this long. Someday I’m going to show up for work, and the studio will be closed. Something new will catch the public’s fancy and my career will be over. Like Libby’s ... hers is all over. Everything is over for her.”
Changing the topic sure didn’t work. Maybe it would be better to let her go on about Florence Hampton and get it out of her system. “You said Miss Hampton changed after her husband died?”
“Mmm ... yes. Could I call you Mickey?”
The question caught me by surprise. “Yes, of course.”
“Good. And I’m Margie. Elmer Garvin makes us call everyone Mr. and Miss at the studio—he keeps trying to make us behave respectably, improve our reputation. Actors are thought to have low morals, you know. Oh, but you must run into the same thing, being a baseball player. Anyway, it sounds so unfriendly to me. So please don’t call Libby Miss Hampton.”
“Okay.” I didn’t think it proper to refer to her by Margie’s private nickname for her though. “How’s Florence?” I suggested.
Margie’s face froze and she stared into the air. “She’s dead,” she said. Then she burst into humorless giggles. And then the giggles turned to harsh heaving sobs. I just looked at her, sympathetic but powerless to stem her sorrow.
Sudden shouts from the apartment next door came through the thin walls. Then a door slammed and a picture on Margie’s wall slid askew. Dozens of framed portrait photographs, showing the kind of grim-faced people who wouldn’t be displayed unless they were relatives, covered the wall. They were all crooked.
“They’re always fighting,” Margie said, staring toward the source of the noise. Then she turned to me and started to talk dispassionately, as if reciting a tale of people who were strangers to her. “Libby met
Marguerite pulled a billowy white handkerchief from a shirt pocket and blew her nose with a resonant honk.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Nooo ...” was her barely audible answer. She folded her hands in her lap and looked down as her fingers twisted and squeezed the handkerchief. Her slim tanned wrists looked smooth and feminine in contrast to the masculine clothes. “She was my friend and I couldn’t help her,” she said plaintively.
“There was nothing you could have done.”
“I could have talked to her. I tried for a while, but then ... I just gave up.”
I wasn’t sure how talking to someone could save her from drowning. “What do you think happened?” I asked.
“I’m not sure ... she just changed after her husband died. She wouldn’t talk to me anymore.”
I’d meant what happened the night she drowned, but if it made her feel better to talk about her friendship with Miss Hampton, that was okay with me. “The two of you were close?”
“I thought we were. We used to talk about everything. Just after I started with the studio, Vitagraph went on location to Port Jervis. Beautiful mountains and forests there. We made westerns and Indian pictures and anything else we could think of to use that scenery. The whole company stayed at the Caudebec Inn, and Libby and I shared a room. She took me under her wing—”
“Who’s Libby?”
“That’s what I called Florence. It was a wonderful time. We’d stay up until two or three in the morning chatting like schoolgirls.”
“When did you start in the movies?” I thought it might be a good idea to steer the conversation away from Florence Hampton for a while, at least until she looked less likely to break into tears.
“Three years ago. Three years.... I never thought the picture craze would last this long. Someday I’m going to show up for work, and the studio will be closed. Something new will catch the public’s fancy and my career will be over. Like Libby’s ... hers is all over. Everything is over for her.”
Changing the topic sure didn’t work. Maybe it would be better to let her go on about Florence Hampton and get it out of her system. “You said Miss Hampton changed after her husband died?”
“Mmm ... yes. Could I call you Mickey?”
The question caught me by surprise. “Yes, of course.”
“Good. And I’m Margie. Elmer Garvin makes us call everyone Mr. and Miss at the studio—he keeps trying to make us behave respectably, improve our reputation. Actors are thought to have low morals, you know. Oh, but you must run into the same thing, being a baseball player. Anyway, it sounds so unfriendly to me. So please don’t call Libby Miss Hampton.”
“Okay.” I didn’t think it proper to refer to her by Margie’s private nickname for her though. “How’s Florence?” I suggested.
Margie’s face froze and she stared into the air. “She’s dead,” she said. Then she burst into humorless giggles. And then the giggles turned to harsh heaving sobs. I just looked at her, sympathetic but powerless to stem her sorrow.
Sudden shouts from the apartment next door came through the thin walls. Then a door slammed and a picture on Margie’s wall slid askew. Dozens of framed portrait photographs, showing the kind of grim-faced people who wouldn’t be displayed unless they were relatives, covered the wall. They were all crooked.
“They’re always fighting,” Margie said, staring toward the source of the noise. Then she turned to me and started to talk dispassionately, as if reciting a tale of people who were strangers to her. “Libby met
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