Minnie Flynn/Chapter 6
THE Biograph studio was in the loft of a ramshackle building on Twenty-sixth Street, near Broadway. Minnie felt at home in this neighborhood; it was similar to her own noisily crowded settlement. How differently she had approached the studio in Fort Lee; it seemed far out in the country and the country frightened her. The bare branches of the trees, denuded by the winds of late autumn, throw fantastic shadows on the dusty roads; the quiet had some of the awesomeness of a darkened church. But here it was different. Life exploded at one's elbow; children scuttled across the street like black beetles; peddlers shouted their wares; voices rose shrill to answer other voices; the gongs on cars clanged; horses' hoofs pounded on the cobbles; men and women with tense, hard faces hurried past on their way to work. Here and there at the dark entrances of office or factory buildings they were herded together for a moment, then, as if swept by a gust of wind, disappeared.
Minnie paused in the doorway of the studio, waiting for the elevator. Others swarmed in and soon the hallway was jammed by the onrush of people. Minnie saw many familiar types; eager, aggressive faces; young, timid, appealing faces; white and terrible faces. When the elevator door opened she sprang inside. She was hemmed in by the frantic crowd all fighting not to lose one of the minutes which seemed so precious. Only so many places to be filled, twice as many people to fill them.
As the elevator slowly climbed upwards a child's scream startled them; someone had stepped on her foot. They strained to back away from the mother and the crying youngster. One man leaned down and lifted her to his shoulder but her screams only mounted higher. The elevator came to a standstill and they swarmed out of it. The man abruptly set the child down and edged his way into the long queue that stretched from the barred window of the casting director's office.
Minnie fell into line, the mother and child in hack of her. Jerking the child's arm, the mother whispered threats of punishment.
"Look at your face all swollen, you bad girl," Minnie heard her say, "you've spoiled yourself. You won't get any gumdrops today just for that. Shame on you, making such a fuss about nothing at all."
"He hurted me."
"Stop that crying, do you hear me?"
"Not crying," in a wee, small voice.
"Then put your hands down. Look at you. You've mussed your hair. You're a bad, bad girl I tell you."
The stifled sobs became hiccoughs which wrenched her tiny body but she smiled mechanically when she saw Minnie looking down at her.
"Powder, mama?" she asked when she saw her mother's hand searching through the huge misshapen bag she carried over her arm. The mother didn't answer but under the screen of Minnie's back she drew a powder puff over the child's face, then applied a little rouge to each cheek. She brushed the little tight curls, pale and brittle with too many applications of peroxide.
The line was moving one by one as the people were being turned away from the window. Some went wearily toward the elevator, others through the door which led to the dressing rooms. By the time Minnie's turn came her body was damp with a cold sweat. Where was Reeves? Who was that man in his place? Would he know that Reeves had promised her she was to have work. Binns' card, how far would that take her?
Reeves' assistant was a tall young man who peered at Minnie with near-sighted eyes through his thick, distorting glasses. Without a word he handed her a card to fill out, then started to walk over to the ledger in which was filed the names of the extra people.
"Just a minute please," she called to him. "I'm Minnie Flynn. I seen Mr. Reeves on Tuesday and he said I was to work today."
"What name was that?" asked the young man in an uninterested tone.
"Mineola Flynn," she corrected quickly. "He said I was to work on the Pickford set."
"Oh, he did, did he? Well, I think they've got all the people they can handle. Fill out the card, young lady, and be sure to put down your phone number. I'll call you when we have anything for you."
Minnie's knuckles wrapped upon the iron grating, "Please, just a minute," she repeated in a quavering voice, "but he promised it to me. I been countin' on it. Look, here's a card from Mr. Binns. That's how he come to see me. He promised!"
"Step aside just a minute, you're blocking up the line, I'll see Mr. Reeves and find out if they can make room for you."
The mother slid eagerly into her place and raising the child onto the ledge of the window, introduced herself as the mother of little "Buddy" Green who had done such remarkable work for them in the Marguerite Clark picture. Buddy was ill with the mumps but she had brought his little sister "Peaches" along as she knew they would be delighted to discover another infant prodigy . . . which brought no response from the impersonal young man other than slight jerks of his head and a request that she fill out a card stating age of child, experience, child's telephone number, etc.
Minnie waited fifteen minutes before she was again called to the barred window. He had very little to say to her, asking briefly whether she had brought an afternoon dress. She nodded eagerly and held up the brown paper parcel. Motioning that she was to go through the door into the dressing rooms he handed her an admission slip and turned again to the swelling line.
There were a dozen girls in the dressing room when Minnie entered, but no one looked up or paid any attention to her. The first call to the set had been shouted down the corridors and there was no time to lose. They were painting, powdering, white-washing arms and necks, sliding into rustling costumes or sheer, delicate dresses.
Minnie put on her makeup quickly. Then she lifted out of the paper parcel the shimmering evening gown and held it up, surveying it critically as if she didn't quite approve of it. A swift glance around the room told her there wasn't another dress to compare with it, and Minnie couldn't resist the temptation to flaunt it before them. She was hoping someone would exclaim over it so she could answer as Eleanor had done, "Yes, it's a sweet little thing but simple, quite simple."
A man came to the door, evidently an assistant director. He spoke in a low, well modulated voice. "All the girls will please see Mrs. Letts before going downstairs," he said. "Kindly report on the stage as soon as possible."
No loud voice, no freshness, no slamming of doors as he went out. What a strange fellow for an assistant, Minnie thought. Were there others like him in the movies?
She followed a group of girls hurrying toward the wardrobe room where Mrs. Letts held court. She didn't keep them long, merely looked them over, tied a sash here, adjusted a corsage of imitation flowers there, removed superfluous false jewelry, hair ornaments, a diamond stomacher from one girl, huge flaring buckles from the slippers of another, and so on down the line until she came to Minnie. She leaned back and smiled approvingly.
"I don't think I've ever seen you before," she said warmly, "that's a very pretty gown, dear. A little elaborate—but nice lines. Mr. Dorsey's set, of course."
"I don't think so," Minnie answered, "the man downstairs said the director's name was Porter." With a nod of triumph, "I'm going to play in Mary Pickford's picture."
Mrs. Letts threw up her hands and uttered an exclamation, "But someone has made a mistake!" she cried. "It's an afternoon tea."
"That's it," cried Minnie eagerly, "that's what I'm to be in."
"But, my dear," protested Mrs. Letts, "look at the gown you've got on."
Minnie's words were almost inaudible, "What's the matter with it? Ain't it good enough? It cost sixty-seven dollars at a sale. It photographs swell. I"
"It's an evening gown," interrupted Mrs. Letts, "don't you know that you can't wear a gown like that to an afternoon tea?"
"Oh, my Lord," and Minnie reached over to grasp Mrs. Letts' hand. "It don't mean that I can't work today, does it, ma'am? Honest, I'll go crazy if I got this far and can't go through with it."
Inexorable laws which dare not be broken. . . .
"If I had any kind of a dress in this wardrobe room I could give you, my poor child," said Mrs. Letts, "I'd do it in a minute. But I've used everything we have in stock. I'm sorry, dear, but I can't pass you. However, I'll be able to give you a very good recommendation and if you like I'll speak to Mr. Reeves personally and tell him how well you look in an evening gown. Don't be discouraged, you'll probably be called within a day or so."
Minnie turned and fled from the room. Hastily she undressed and wrapped the gown in the brown paper. Again in her suit she rushed through the corridor and out to the elevator. It was only 8:45 and if she reached the Vitagraph Studio before nine by some unexpected good fortune they might be able to use her.
But the casting director at the Vitagraph told her to drop around again in a day or so.
It was five o'clock before Minnie arrived home. She had been walking the streets since two. She had gone to a pawnbroker with the dress. "Four thirty-five, though it's worth only two," he told her. Her courage failed when she started to hand it across the counter . . . the first pretty thing she had ever owned. With that money, though, she could silence those bitter tongues, Pete's and Nettie's and her mother's. They couldn't flaunt her failure at her again. She would give them to understand the money was paid her for work at the studio. The following day she planned to try to get her old position back. She wouldn't even have to go to her father and ask for help. Her father . . . the memory of his trembling arms around her, his unhidden joy when called upon for sympathy touched some latent depths of tenderness in her nature. It steadied her; it gave her a clearer vision; a keener, more incisive determination to see her failure through courageously.
There was a trace of satiric gleam in the pawnbroker's eyes as Minnie gathered up the bundle and flung out of the store, head up, chin round and firm, eyes looking straight ahead.
"She'll come back tomorrow," he said to himself.
Nettie and her mother advanced to meet her as she opened the door and went in.
"Well, dearie," said her mother, "I see you got good news for us. When you didn't return by ten me and Net knew everything was all runnin' smooth and nice. Did you act today, Min?"
She faced them (she felt there was something very dramatic about this) and told them how she had gone from one studio to another without finding work, that she was ready to give up because she could afford to gamble no longer, with Nettie out of work and no funds to buy the wardrobe which was so necessary to success.
They did exactly what she expected them to do. Nettie's raucous voice filled the room with lamentations and curses. Her mother looked upon the disappointment as punishment meted out to her alone, another cross to carry on her poor, frail shoulders. Then when she could bear it no longer Minnie went quietly out of the house and down the street. . . .
She didn't know that Billy saw her the first time she passed Hesselman's shop. He ducked behind the counter to avoid what he thought would be an awkward meeting. The second time she passed she walked more slowly, all resilience gone from her step. How pale she was, how deep the circles under her eyes. Dissipation no doubt. . . . Billy had heard that the movie crowd were a fast lot. Must be, the way Minnie looked. He had never seen her walk with lagging steps before. He rose from his hiding place and dodged behind a huge quarter of beef. What in the devil was Minnie stalling around the butcher shop for? To make him miserable, he asked himself? What a chance! What a fat chance. It was she who had wiped off the slate. Now he was going to stay where he was put. No girl could make a fool twice out of Billy MacNally.
He stepped from out his hiding place as indifferently as if she weren't strolling past the window, stopping to look in to see if her skirt weren't slightly hiked in the back. It was almost closing time. He would put on his new brown derby, walk out past her, tip his hat, smile, keep on whistling and walking until he came to the doorway of the French Bakery where Madge Connors would be waiting for him.
Minnie was also fighting with her pride. If she hadn't made that unprofitable and expensive trip to Fort Lee she would have had enough money to walk right into the shop, ask for fifteen cents' worth of Hamburger and give Billy the chance to make the first overtures. But she knew she would stand there ashamed before him if he suspected her motive.
Billy was glad he had worn his best suit and a white collar. He hoped Madge was sporting the new sealskin coat she had bought at the store for a hundred and twenty-five bucks. Guess that would set Minnie back somewhat, as he and Madge walked away from her, arm-in-arm to the Hungarian restaurant where they were to dine. . . . The only thing that took away from the pleasure of hurting Minnie was that tired, unhappy look in her eyes.
Minnie, bitterly disappointed, slowly rounded the corner and bumped right into Madge Connors.
"Why, Minnie!" cried Madge, her first impulse to rush up to her former friend with that careless caress which has become so much a woman's habit. Suddenly, instinctively they both withdrew, Madge embarrassed because she was sure she had taken Minnie's place in Billy's heart; Minnie because of that sealskin coat! They stood there, rigid, chilled by the reproaches in each other's eyes.
Then Minnie, in icy tones, said, "How do you do, Madge, you're lookin' very well."
"Thank you," replied Madge in much the same tone. "It's cold tonight, ain't it?"
Minnie laughed ironically. "Maybe for you, Madge, but not for me."
As if rooted to the spot they stood there teetering slightly, Madge buttoning and unbuttoning her sealskin coat.
Finally she spoke, "I seen somebody that was talkin' about you the other day."
"Oh, was they?" said Minnie arching her eyebrows, and holding out her hand in Eleanor's accepted style. "Well, good night, Madge."
"Good night."
Minnie had heard Billy's thumping footsteps behind her. Her face was red. If Billy saw it he would guess what lay in her heart. She quickened her steps . . . someone running in back of her. . . .
"Min! Wait a minute. I got something to say to you."
"To me, Billy?"
"Yeh, don't get sore, Min. I just wanted to ask if you'd have dinner with Madge and I."
"What's the idea? Think I want to be the extra spoke to the wheel? Not me!"
"You'd never be an extra spoke where I'm concerned, Minnie, and you know it. Tell me the truth, honest now. I want to know why you walked past the store tonight. Did you want to see me, Minnie? Did you?"
"I always exercise before dinner," she answered. "It's good for the complexion. Your friend's waitin' for you, Billy. She seems to be sufferin' from cold in spite of her swell new coat. So long! Drop around to the house some time, the folks would love to see you."
"Minnie!" He caught her by the arm and drew her toward him. "Got anything on for tonight?"
She knew what he intended to ask . . . if her spirits hadn't been so low she would have turned away from him.
"Sure, but only a dinner date."
"So've I, but I mean after dinner?"
With a shrug of her shoulders Minnie feigned indifference. "Nothing definite. My gentleman friend's goin' to a theayter party uptown. I had a headache this evening, I didn't feel like joinin' 'em. Surely Madge ain't the kind of a girl that's goin' to pass you up after you've fed her, is she?"
She was thinking, "Poor Billy is still stuck on me." The lids of his eyes drooped at the corners giving them a lugubrious expression. Sympathy for Billy almost equaled her sympathy for herself.
"Do you really want to see me," she asked him, "very much?"
"Oh, God, Min."
"Don't look at me like that, Billy, your friend might see you."
"I don't care who sees me, Minnie, the whole world for that matter. Listen, I can break that date with Madge. It won't hurt her feelings. I want to see you. I want to see you something fierce. There's lots I got to talk over with you. What do you say if I meet you in front of Sullivan's at seven-thirty? Is that too early for you, Min?"
"Make it eight," said Minnie, who figured she would have time to get out to Eleanor's and back.
"Eight! Say, I'll be there, Minnie, with bells on."
"So long, Billy . . . dear."
Minnie was strangely, unexpectedly contented for the first three weeks of her married life. It was a relief to get away from the untidy Flynn home into the small but comfortable sky-parlor of Mrs. Schultz's rooming house. The rooming house was only two doors from Hesselman's butcher shop, so Billy often ran home, making quite a happy interlude in her long, quiet day. Minnie seldom went home. It always meant an hysterical scene. Elsie and Pete were living there, Mrs. Flynn having moved into the bedroom with Nettie, so Elsie and Pete could sleep in the living room.
With Pete out of a job, they sat around like half-doped creatures from morning until dinner time, talking about Minnie. They despised her because they felt she had lied to them and cheated them. She had promised so much and given nothing.
Minnie wanted to go back to work, but there was no opening in the Odds and Ends. Jeeps, the floor-walker, told her that he'd have her in mind when one of the girls left, and would recommend her to the manager of the basement. Jeeps did not mean to be unkindly when he said to her, "Never expected to see Miss Flynn back in the Odds and Ends. Certainly expected to see Miss Flynn in the movies. Certainly expected to pick up a paper and see Miss Flynn's photo in it"
Minnie wanted to scream at the thought of their hidden laughter. She was a failure, and because of it she had lost her popularity. In such moments of loneliness and ostracism, Minnie, filled with self-pity, sought comfort in Billy's arms. He held her on his lap, and they rocked back and forth in the squeaky rocker. She could close her eyes, relax, and dream of the future. Billy was nice—and nobody's fool. He would do very well in a few years. . . . Hesselman had no relations and he couldn't live on forever. . . . Billy and she would have a flat in the Bronx. Children, of course. And on Saturday night they'd all go to a vaudeville show. . . . She'd probably get fat like her mother. But Billy was like her father. He would never forget how she had looked when she was young, and he would always love her, work for her, fight for her, and protect her. . . . If only he didn't sleep with his mouth open, and soap could rub from off his hands the odor of cold storage meat and the entrails of fowl and animals. . . .
Talking about meat was another thing that sickened Minnie. And Billy talked of nothing else. Cuts, ribs, livers, bones, the rise in beef, the fall in lamb, the weight of each new carcass. He took great pride in the new meat grinder Hesselman had bought. He urged Minnie to come into the shop late one afternoon just before closing time to see it. With a proprietary air he led her over to it. It was red, and the knives were new and highly polished.
"I'll let you turn the handle, honey, while I throw the meat in. Just old scraps so we won't waste nothin'."
Minnie turned the handle. Billy, grinning, passed in several pieces of discolored meat. Minnie turned away.
"Look at it, sweetheart," triumphantly from Billy. "A few whirls of the knives and out it comes minced fine enough for sausage."
"No, Billy. Don't make me look at it! I can't!"
"Why, Minnie!"
"I can't bear it! It makes a squishy sound. It makes me sick to my stummick."
Billy was disappointed. She would never make an A-Number One butcher's wife. Before Mrs. Hesselman died he remembered how much pleasure she took in working with her husband, how cleverly she had learned to use the big knives and cleavers. She could go to the wholesalers and pick out better cuts than old Hesselman himself. Billy gave up all hopes that Minnie would be what his father had always called his hard-working mother, "a good wife." But she was a dear little wife, pretty, full of fun, and he was proud of her.
Minnie turned for companionship to the cheap novels which were lying on a dusty shelf. But the fine print hurt her eyes, and she preferred to sit there with her hands hanging listlessly over the rungs of an old armchair and stare into space, reviewing as in a daze her experiences at the studios. How drab and colorless the every-day reality seemed by comparison to the glitter of the "movies." This very room she was in, a bedroom; a great oak-stained, sway-backed bed covered with coarse sheets, cheap blankets, and a crazy quilt; oak furniture, crumbling mantelpiece . . . gas jets! How different it was from the bedroom built on the stage at the studio; the one they called the boudoir. Minnie had slipped in unaware one afternoon and slid her hand over the pink satin coverlet. A gilded bed with a canopy overhead, trailing its silken draperies to the floor. Pink lamps. And a polar bear rug before a fireplace. A room fit for a queen, Minnie thought, the kind of setting any woman could be absolutely happy in—provided, of course, she had the right man. Minnie could never see Billy in a room like that. Al Kessler might be at home there, but never Billy. His hands would taint the satin coverlet. She shuddered when her imagination pictured Billy's old working suit, blood-stained, lying over the back of one of those gilded chairs.
One afternoon Elsie came to see her, and when she stepped out of the murky shadows of the narrow hallway into the sunlit room, Minnie uttered a sharp cry. Elsie's face was so distorted, that Minnie, though stricken with pity for her, felt an uncontrollable impulse to laugh. One eye was discolored, her right cheek swollen and her thin lips puffed into a tragic pout.
"He beat you, the dirty swine!" Minnie cried compasionately, drawing Elsie with a swift caress into her arms. "Oh, you poor kid, you. Why didn't you hit him back, Elsie? Believe me, I'd o' killed him. . . ."
Elsie had struggled away from Minnie's embrace. "No, Min, it wasn't Pete! Honest to God! I fell down the stairs."
Minnie knew she was lying, but felt no admiration for this loyalty. The women that she had known took a personal pride in their loyalty to their men, and some of them accepted their punishment as part of a thorough martyrdom. Others welcomed abuse as a proof of their husbands' love. Michael Flynn had never struck his wife, and once Minnie overheard her mother speak of this almost regretfully, as if she had been cheated out of one of the essential pleasures of married life.
This was the first time Minnie had actually come in contact with a woman whose man had beaten her. There came over her a strange, inexplicable desire to talk about it, to probe deep into the other woman's emotions, and enjoy them vicariously.
"Don't tell me Pete didn't do it, Elsie, because I know you're lyin' about it. Pete told me so himself—he was awful sorry he done it"
"Oh, Minnie," and the guileless Elsie fell into the trap. "I didn't want to give it away. Even your own mother ain't on to it"
"It's a dead secret with me, Elsie, so you needn't worry about it. I cross my heart to die. . . . Why did he do it?"
"I don't even remember, Minnie, but he was so terrible sorry for it he"
"Did you cry out, Elsie, or did you just stand there and take it all? Did he hurt you very much?"
"Somethin' fierce, Minnie. Once he hit me so hard I screamed—and fell down on the floor"
Minnie leaned closer to Elsie; her whisper was almost inaudible. "Wasn't your heart poundin' somethin' terrible?"
"Yeh, I couldn't speak—I laid there in Pete's arms with him cryin' over me and it seemed as if I was floatin' through space—what with the awful pain I was in and the way Pete was kissin' me"
With unsteady footsteps Minnie walked over to the bed and sank down, gripping the foot-board with taut, trembling fingers. "I don't think Billy'll ever beat me," she said after a strained silence. "I don't think I am ever goin' to get much of a kick outa Billy MacNally."
"Love is a wonderful thing," sighed Elsie, who had now chosen the rocking chair and was rocking back and forth. "I'd rather be dead than live without him."
They sat there in silence for a few minutes, Minnie staring at Elsie resentfully. This girl whom she had despised and pitied knew a phase of life that she was cheated out of. She knew what it was to love unrestrainedly, to give unquestioningly, to be possessed wholly. . . .
She was roused from her reverie by Elsie's sharp cry, "Minnie, can you imagine—lookit!" She was pulling a long envelope out of her pocket. "Here's why I'm over today. And I almost forgot it! It's for you. It says 'Mammoth Studio, Elite Productions,' on the envelope. Do you think"
Minnie snatched the envelope away from her, tore it open, and her face grew pale. She read aloud in a high-pitched voice:
"'Dear Miss Flynn:
"'We are very eager to have you get in touch with us regarding a part in Mr. Deane's next picture. Will you kindly telephone at your earliest convenience so we can make an appointment with Mr. Deane?
"'Sincerely yours,
"'Elmer Phelps,
"'Casting Director.'"
"At your earliest convenience" was the phrase that intrigued Elsie. It distinguished Minnie as nothing had ever done before. "What're you goin' to do about it?" For Minnie's blank expression gave no clew to her sensations.
"I dunno," she said dully. "It might be all a fake."
"A fake, rats! Nobody fakes a letter that's set up in that style."
"In Deane's picture—a part, it says"
"'At your earliest convenience'"
"Oh, Els, wouldn't it be wonderful if"
"If what?"
"Nothin'! But some people run into the rottenest luck. Why didn't it come before. . . ." She checked herself before she said aloud "I married Billy." "Elsie, have you got any o' that rouge left, I'm awful pale."
"What you gonna do, hon?"
"It's one-fifteen. . . . Guess I can make the two o'clock ferry to Fort Lee."