The Biograph Girl Read online

  “Flo! Flo!”

  In the swirling darkness, it was my mother calling to me. We were in St. Louis, and she was snapping a horrible vial of ammonia under my nose. It was only a matter of seconds that I was out, but in that time, I became utterly convinced I was back in St. Louis on the platform of Union Station, and Mother was there, and Harry, too—

  But this wasn’t my mother. This was Doris, and it was the scent of coffee that awakened me—coffee and something else even more pleasant.

  Doris’s perfume.

  “Get her some water,” Doris was instructing the well-dressed man, who stood over me with his wife, staring down with startled looks on their faces. It took him a second to obey her command, but then he moved off with a sudden burst of energy.

  “Here,” Doris said, when the man had returned with a glass. “Drink this, honey.”

  She was cradling my head in the crook of her arm, supporting my back with her strong hand. I tasted the water. It was cool and clear, and it revived me immediately.

  “I’m fine,” I insisted, attempting to stand up.

  “You’re going to sit over here,” Doris told me, helping me over to a booth. I slid in along the blue leather seat. I tried to sit up straight, but found I needed to rest my head against the back. My skin was warm and clammy.

  “Flo, I’m going to call a doctor,” Doris whispered to me.

  “No,” I said. “No doctor. I’ll be fine.”

  She looked at me with those great dark eyes. “Sister, you need some rest, a good bath, and maybe a doctor’s attention.”

  “I need to get to San Francisco,” I said.

  She just shook her head. “What’s there? Why can’t it wait?”

  The man and his wife were eager to get out of there. He coughed behind Doris to get her attention. “How much do we owe?” he asked.

  She hurried over to the cash register and took their money. They departed as quickly as they could. I heard the engine of their car start, the crunching of gravel as they backed out of the lot and found the road again. Doris returned and sat across from me in the booth.

  “You in trouble with the law?”

  I considered the question. I averted her gaze. “No,” I answered finally. “I don’t believe I am.”

  She looked at me intently. “What are you running from then?”

  “Just myself.” I met her eyes, then smiled.

  She smiled too. “Guess I can understand. Did some running of my own a while back.” She shook a cigarette out of a pack she held in her front pocket. She offered me one, which I gladly accepted. She put both between her lips and lit them with one match, handing mine to me across the table. I inhaled, the delicious taste of tar and smoke reviving me even more than the water.

  We smoked in silence for a few minutes. “Who’s Molly?” she asked.

  “Just a girl,” I said.

  She nodded. We were quiet a few more minutes. “You sure you don’t need to see a doctor?” she asked.

  “Not sure,” I said, exhaling smoke in rings the way Ducks had taught me. “But for now, I don’t want a doctor. I’ve got my reasons.”

  “You’ve got to get out of those clothes,” Doris said. “Looks like you got sick all over your blouse.”

  I stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray.

  “Can you walk?” she asked.

  “I think so.” My feet and calves ached, but I stood up, gathered my balance and followed Doris into the back room. There, she gave me a new blouse and brassiere, a fresh pair of panties and a different dress. There was a small tub, and she drew some water for me to bathe in. She took my torn underwear, stained with dried brown blood, held them in her hand and looked at them, then tossed them into the trash.

  “How much will you give her for it?”

  When I came back into the diner, Doris was leaning across the counter toward a rotund man with a cigar clenched between his teeth. The man was turning the pocket watch over in his plump pink hands.

  “Don’t try to con her, Winnie,” Doris told him. “I’ll know if you do.”

  He grinned, turning to me. “Are you our mystery lady?”

  “There’s no mystery to me,” I told him, sitting down beside him on the next stool. “Not any more than most women.”

  He was young. Late twenties, I presumed. Quite fat, maybe three hundred pounds. He seemed to perch precariously on his stool. He smoked a foul-smelling cigar and wore a bright red necktie and a wrinkled, peach-colored suit. His broad-brimmed hat sat on the counter beside his sandwich. He was dangling the watch in front of his face, squinting at it.

  “Five dollars,” he said finally.

  “Winnie, give the damn thing back to me,” Doris said.

  He looked hurt. “All right. Seven.”

  “Make it ten and you have a deal,” I said. Doris looked over at me, a little surprised, then turned her gaze back at him.

  He sniffed, plopping the watch down on the counter, and reached for his wallet inside his coat. He produced a ten dollar bill and handed it to me.

  “Just a minute,” Doris said, snatching the bill and holding it up to the light. She narrowed her eyes at it. Apparently satisfied, she handed it over to me.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “So,” the man said, raising a corner of his ham and cheese sandwich to his mouth, “what’s your name?”

  “I told you,” Doris said. “That’s Flo.”

  “Flo what?” he asked, chewing.

  For a second, I was frightened. Did he recognize me? My hair was combed now, my face washed, the caked blood scraped out of my nostrils. “Flo Bridgewood,” I said at last, choosing the least traceable of my names.

  “Bridgewood,” he repeated. “Not from around here?”

  “Originally from Canada,” I told him. It wasn’t necessary to lie, not when there were so many truths to pick from.

  “Well, Miss Bridgewood, allow me to introduce myself. I am Winston Pichel, and my good friend Doris here tells me you are heading to San Francisco.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, perhaps I can save you bus fare, my good lady. I am heading there myself.”

  “Thank you, but I think I’ll purchase my own ticket.”

  Doris refilled my cup with coffee. She winked at me in sisterly camaraderie, then moved out into the kitchen through the swinging doors, leaving us alone.

  “Well,” Winston Pichel shrugged, raising his own cup to his lips, pinky extended, “have it your way.” He set his cup back down, patted his mouth precisely with his napkin. He lit another cigar and looked over at me. “I called you ‘Miss’ earlier. Should that have been ‘Mrs.?’”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m divorced.”

  “Ah,” he said, eyes lighting up. “A divorcée.”

  I studied him. “And are you married, Mr. Pichel? No, I don’t imagine you are.” I smiled. “You’re a homosexual.”

  He looked stunned. Remembering the look on his face, the pallor that suddenly washed over his complexion, I don’t think he was upset so much by my guessing the truth, but rather by the way I’d snatched control of the conversation right from under his cigar.

  “You needn’t worry,” I told him, still smiling. “I’ve nothing against homosexuals. Been around them most of my life, in fact. Your secret, such as it is, is safe with me.”

  He seemed to gather his wits. “My dear lady, I am highly offended—”

  I laughed. “Don’t be. If you choose, forget I said a word. Tell me all about your wife back in Toledo, the one whose picture you no doubt carry in your wallet, and I’ll believe you if you want me to. Tell me how much you miss her since you spend so much time on the road, selling whatever it is that you sell, eating your dinners in lonely roadside diners such as this, even on New Year’s Day.” I leaned in closer to him and whispered, “What would you say if I told you I’d seen Clark Gable in his skivvies?”

  “I’d say you were mad.” He took a long puff on his cigar in an almost defiant gesture.
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  “On second thought, Mr. Pichel,” I said, smiling again, “maybe I will take you up on your offer for a ride. Can always use this ten spot for cigarettes and coffee.”

  He was looking deeply into my eyes. “Who are you, Florence Bridgewood?”

  I laughed. “That, my friend, is what I’m aiming to find out.”

  “You plan on making it on your own in San Francisco?”

  “Looks as if she’s been making it on her own for some time,” Doris said, coming back out from the kitchen and lighting another cigarette for me.

  I inhaled it deeply, then let out the smoke and looked Winnie in the eyes. “I’ve still got everything I had twenty years ago,” I told him, then grinned over at Doris. “Just a little lower—that’s all.”

  Doris laughed. “I like you, Flo. Too bad I’m not going with you.”

  What keeps her here? What keeps so many people rooted to the spot?

  She was my first friend in my new life. I never saw her again after that day, but she was the one who made everything that came after possible. I like you, Flo, she’d said.

  When I went to pay her for my breakfast with the few dollars I had in my purse, she held up her hand. “Consider it a birthday gift, honey. I remember my own running days all too well.”

  Outside Winston Pichel was revving up his shiny red convertible. “Ready, Mystery Lady?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” I said. He reached across the seat to hold open the door for me. I slipped in beside him. “When I was a girl,” I told him, “we were always on the road. We had a motto. ‘Look ahead a little, and gamble a lot.’”

  He grinned at me.

  I held my purse securely in my lap. “Drive on, Mr. Pichel,” I told him. “Drive on.”

  The Present

  “If you see a McDonald’s, stop,” Richard says, looking up from the papers on his lap.

  “Uh, hel-lo, Mr. Bodybuilder. Fat and cholesterol check,” Anita says. She’s driving Richard’s car, a ’94 Saab Turbo convertible, top up, because it had looked like rain when they set out. Richard had asked her to drive because he wanted a chance to read over all the materials Rex had found for him. He’s been absorbed by them ever since they left the city at six A.M., but now suddenly he’s lifted his face from his lap and become interested in food.

  “Oh, please, tell me about it,” Rex says from the backseat. “Honey, really—McDonald’s? You won’t even let me make fish sticks for supper anymore. Used to be your favorite. Mrs. Paul’s, baked beans, and Tater Tots.”

  Richard grins. “That was what Mom used to make Ben and me every Friday.” He pats his stomach, flat as a plain in Iowa. “But beauty does require sacrifice.”

  “So McDonald’s?” Anita asks. “What’re you gonna eat? Just the sesame-seed bun?”

  “I’m just really hungry,” Richard laments. “I’d eat an Egg McMuffin at this point. We should’ve stopped before we left the city.”

  “I just want to make sure we get to Buffalo early enough,” Anita says. “This interview could go on for a while. I don’t want to drive back when it’s dark.”

  “I’ll drive, I’ll drive,” Richard promises. “Where are we now?”

  Rex is playing navigator. He hauls up the Allstate Motor Club Road Atlas, crinkling its pages as he seeks out their place. “Heading into Elmira,” he says.

  Anita nods. “Okay. We can stop for a quick bite there.”

  Outside, the gray asphalt of the metro area has given way to soft golden hills and miles of orange maple trees stretching into the horizon. The threat of rain is gone. It’s a screamingly beautiful autumn day, the scents of burning leaves and apples and fresh-cut hay in the air.

  “You finding anything in those photocopies I made for you, hon?” Rex asks, leaning over the seat to rest his chin on Richard’s shoulder.

  “Hard to say, Nooker,” Richard tells him. “I mean, it can’t be. But still …”

  Ever since they’d told him about Flo, Rex had had a hunch he’d heard of her. “Baby Flo, the Child Wonder Whistler,” he’d mused out loud, leafing through the tattered old movie books he’d had since he was a kid. They were stacked in two bookcases and piled high along the walls in his and Richard’s second bedroom, a room Richard had converted into a writing space. “Let me see, Baby Flo, Baby Flo …” Rex had said, researching.

  “It can’t be the same person,” he’d said after about an hour as he handed Richard three books with pages marked. “But read for yourself.”

  Sitting on Richard’s lap now were several photocopied pages. The first one read:

  FLORENCE LAWRENCE. Born 1890, Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. The first performer to have her name revealed to the public, making her the world’s first movie star in 1910. Began career on stage in vaudeville and touring companies as a child, being billed as Baby Flo, the Child Wonder Whistler. She worked for Edison, Vitagraph, and finally Biograph under D.W. GRIFFITH, where she obtained international fame as “The Biograph Girl.” Lured by CARL LAEMMLE to his independent film company, IMP, in 1910, she began being billed under her real name, thus launching the STAR SYSTEM. Her career declined in the midteens. Forgotten by the industry she had helped to create, she was put on the payroll at MGM as an act of charity. She killed herself by swallowing ant paste in 1938.

  All of the entries on Florence Lawrence read the same, with just scraps of information on who this woman was. “It can’t be the same person,” Richard echoes now.

  “No way,” Anita agrees.

  “It’s pretty weird, though,” Rex says, leaning over the seat, hands folded under his chin. “You gotta admit that.”

  “It’s definitely weird,” Anita says.

  “I mean, everything fits. The Child Wonder Whistler. The age. That she was born in Canada.”

  “Maybe she knew her,” Richard says. “Maybe there’s—some connection.”

  “Maybe she didn’t really die,” Anita offers, switching on the radio. Sheryl Crow warbles about all she wants to do is have some fun. “Maybe it’s been a mistake all these years.”

  “You’ve been watching too many soap operas,” Richard scolds. “Or acting in them.”

  Anita pouts. “I didn’t get the part,” she tells them.

  “On All My Children? Aw, Neet,” Rex commiserates.

  Richard smirks. “Hey, don’t feel so bad. Maybe you can play Marge Schott.”

  Anita glares over at him. “Can you believe he really wants to do that?” That’s all the excuse she needs to go off on Ben. “I mean, really. He’s had some lame ideas in the past, but this one—” She sighs as if she’s not sure whether she should continue, but decides to plow on. “It’s getting hard, guys. It’s getting really hard.”

  “What are you going to do?” Richard asks.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice has dropped and her lips have pursed; Richard detects the little sad lines that creep in around her eyes. They make her look old. She looks old whenever she talks about Ben these days.

  “I love him,” she’s saying. “I’ll never stop. But he just can’t seem to get it together. If he were happy just editing those video commercials over at the ad agency, I wouldn’t care if he never made another film. But he’s not happy. Not content. And it’s hard to wake up to that, day after day after day.”

  “My brother has never been content,” Richard says. “But he’s never had the wherewithal to do anything about it either.”

  “Who knows?” Rex sighs. “Maybe we’ll all be sitting with egg on our faces a year from now when he accepts the Academy Award for best documentary for Hard Ball.”

  Richard scoffs. Sheryl Crow sings about the sun coming up over Santa Monica Boulevard.

  “Hey, there’s a Mickey D’s,” Richard calls out. “Pull off and let’s eat.”

  He gripes about all the grease, of course, but scarfs down his hash browns in about two bites. He doesn’t talk much, doesn’t hear Anita going on and on about how unhappy Ben is, how goddamn stubborn he is. He doesn’t need to hear—he knows it all
already. Instead, he keeps studying the photocopies.

  Florence Lawrence. Florence Bridgewood.

  They pile back into the Saab and continue on. It’s such pretty country, the hills now fall away into sharp-cut gorges. It’s about as far away from the hardscrabble terrain of Hollywood that one could get. What would an old movie actress be doing out here? The very idea is absurd.

  It doesn’t matter. Richard doesn’t need her to be anything other than what she is: a great old lady with a sharp mind and wit. It’ll be a fantastic interview. What are the paths taken over a long life? How does one start from one place and end up in another? What happens in between? What gets left behind?

  But still, if there’s a connection …

  They arrive in Buffalo a little before noon. “There it is,” Anita says, coming round the bend. St. Mary’s looms through the trees. The day has darkened again; rainclouds obscure the sun.

  “It looks like something out of Dark Shadows,” Rex says in a hushed voice.

  “Tell us about it,” Richard agrees, grinning.

  They park the Saab in the lot. There are five cars already there: four big black shiny Buicks—and one aquamarine Bel-Air, circa 1957. Convertible.

  “Wonder who owns that?” Anita asks.

  “Probably Flo,” Richard quips.

  From the backseat, Anita gathers the bouquet of black-eyed Susans they’ve brought for Flo. “Well,” she chirps, “let’s go get her.”

  They make their way up the walk and climb the front steps. Once more the great bell reverberates inside the walls. Again old Sister Augustine opens the door and welcomes them. “Oh, Flo’s got bows in her hair just for you.” She smiles, her ancient face crinkling in a thousand directions when she smiles.

  “Geez,” Rex gushes to Richard, looking around at the chandelier and marble floor and gold-gilt banister. “What is this? Buckingham Palace?”

  “At least the Church is putting the collection plate to good use for a change,” Richard whispers. They follow Sister Augustine up the stairs.

  Sister Jean is standing in front of the day room to greet them. Richard thinks she looks particularly bright and pretty today: a yellow blouse and a blue wraparound skirt, her cheeks flushed high and her face free of makeup. “Good morning, Ms. Murawski,” she says, shaking Anita’s hand. “And how are you, Mr. Sheehan?”