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busterkeatonfanfic · 3 years

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Chapter 31 Pt II

The song was winding down as she reentered the living room. She looked for Buster and saw him among a group of men, smoking a cigarette and talking. Judging by their heavy builds and ordinary looks, they were directors. Ramon Navarro bumped her and Orange Blossom went over her fingers. “Oh!” she said.

“Goodness, I am so sorry. Just a moment, miss, just a moment.”

When he’d returned with a couple cloth napkins and she’d wiped the drink from her hand, his profuse apologies gave her an idea. She threw back the remainder of the drink and said with a smile, “Give me a dance and call it even?”

The tall, dark man with the Spanish accent smiled gleamingly upon her. “Miss, I will gladly dance with you.”

She couldn’t tell if the drinks made her a better or worse dancer. In any case, she wasn’t as stiff. As the orchestra took up a cheerful rendition of “My Pet,” she shuffled her feet with energy and abandon. It was a quick dance and Mr. Navarro was smiling and gracious.

The orchestra took a break following their dance. The crush of guests seemed to double in size as the many orchestra members made their way to the foyer. Nelly located Bradford speaking to a tall, broad man with a large stomach. A thin, small pale man with dark hair and eyes stood with them. He seemed to be about Buster’s age and was about two shades, she reflected, from being terribly good-looking. Not that he was bad on the eyes as he was. Feeling quite free and happy, she introduced herself.

“Nelly Foster. I’m Bradford’s girlfriend.”

The men who shook her hands were Eddie Sedgwick and Irving Thalberg. Mr. Sedgwick, who took her hand second, smiled. “I know you. You’re the girl from Buster’s place.”

Even through the sheen of liquor, Nelly’s stomach felt like it dropped straight out of her body. She had never seen Mr. Sedgwick in her life; Buster always made sure Segdwick’s half of the bungalow was unoccupied before smuggling her over. All she could think of to say was, “Oh yes. I’ve visited once or twice.”

Mr. Sedgwick winked at her. “Say no more,” he said jovially, swishing a glass of what looked like Scotch and taking a sip.

Bradford’s arm curled around her shoulder, but it was too little too late. How many other people at the party knew about her and Buster? “Mr. Thalberg’s just telling us about this new thing called Technicolor they’ll be using in a talkie next year,” said Bradford. “It’s a musical too. Says they’ll need a lot of extras and we ought to try out.”

Nelly tried to listen as Bradford, also on another drink, carried on with enthusiasm with occasional remarks from Mr. Sedgwick and Mr. Thalberg, but all she could concentrate on was how exposed she felt. A thing like an affair never stayed quiet for long once a third person was in on it, a fourth if you didn’t count Buster’s butler. She nodded and smiled in the appropriate places. She couldn’t do anything else, knowing how it would look if she fled to Buster, which was her impulse. She wanted his reassurance that it was a case of mistaken identity with her and Mr. Sedgwick. It was a silly explanation to wish for, since that would mean the presence of another woman at Buster’s bungalow.

She did not have to wait long for Buster. “Whatever they’re saying about me’s a god damn dirty lie,” he said, strolling over to them. He took a puff from his cigarette.

Mr. Thalberg laughed and Mr. Sedgwick slapped Buster on the back. Buster pretended that the force was so great it bowled him over and not missing a beat he slipped and fell flat on his back. The whiskey in the glass in his hand rocked a little, but not a drop had spilled. He looked up at Nelly and pressed his glass into her hand to hold while he rose to his feet. She didn’t appreciate it. It was another gesture of familiarity that gave them away. She wondered if Irving Thalberg knew about them too. Mr. Thalberg and Mr. Sedgwick were too busy laughing to notice her discomfort, though. She had an awful gnawing in her gut that she didn’t think any amount of drink could assuage.

“Ready for that second dance,” Buster said to her in an undertone, once he was back on his feet.

“Mr. Sedgwick knows,” she hissed back, feeling pale.

Buster cleared his throat and took a sip of whiskey. He pretended to listen to Sedgwick’s retelling of an incident that had happened during the filming of Snap Shots, one in which Buster had convinced a number of the extras and crewmembers that he’d been run over by a car, the stunt being carefully orchestrated beforehand with the car driver. After several moments, he shrugged. “So he knows,” he said. His breath smelled like whiskey.

“If he knows then who else does?” she whispered, feeling galled. Even speaking to him in such a knowing way was a sign of a deeper acquaintance. She felt surrounded by booby traps.

“Just relax, alright? He won’t say nothing.”

Nelly wasn’t convinced. For the first time since they’d been going together, she found herself truly mad at Buster. It would seem that nothing would make him realize that they were treading on thin ice. She turned her head away from him and watched the other guests. No one was paying the slightest bit of attention to her. Gradually, she was able to settle back into a drunken indifference, although any pretense of enjoying herself had vanished. The orchestra was setting back up again. The blue-eyed singer passed by some of the guests a few feet from her and Gloria Swanson stopped him to talk. He was carrying a cocktail and laughed as she made a joke Nelly couldn’t hear. Like Irving Thalberg, he wasn’t bad-looking either despite his ears and being a bit on the stout side. His smile was nice, his eyes were nice, and most of all his voice was nice. When Miss Swanson let him go, Nelly was seized with a whim to introduce herself and ran to catch up with him.

“Sir,” she said, touching him on the shoulder.

He turned. “Why, hello.” He smiled.

“Sir, you’ve got the most wonderful voice. I’m a tremendous fan of your music. I’ve got so many of your records.”

“Oh,” he said, the white smile never faltering. “Well, thanks for that. You’re pretty kind.”

“I’ll let you get back to singing I suppose,” she said, not knowing what else to say. It would have been hard for her to further describe how his music made her feel. It was humming to herself in the prop shop during the summer of Steamboat Bill, playing bridge in Louise Brooks’ apartment, lying alongside Buster after they’d made love, and dancing a tight foxtrot on the rug in the confines of Buster’s bungalow all bound up in one.

“Oh, I can chat,” he said. “They’re giving our pipes a little rest for the next couple numbers. Gonna do a couple instrumentals.”

Almost on cue, the orchestra’s uneven murmuring cohered. The full ensemble burst into boisterous song. She recognized it as the Black Bottom Stomp after a few bars. Hardly thinking, she grabbed the singer’s hand. “C’mon, you ought to enjoy yourself too.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, his feet planted. “Slow down a little, kid.”

“I need to dance or else I’ll scream.” As soon as the words left her lips, she realized what was driving her wasn’t a desire to make Buster jealous or even sow suspicion in the minds of those who might have been looking askance at Buster and her; it was to conquer the nervous energy that had been building in her all day.

“Boy, if you insist,” the singer said. He handed the closest guest—Buster Collier—his glass and whirled her into the riotous press of bodies. They tromped up and down the length of the room several times. She let the horns and clarinet carry her away. The more her heart pounded, the better she felt. She didn’t look at any of the other guests, simply watched her dance partner who was grinning despite his professed reluctance. Like most of the men she’d encountered in Hollywood, he was a good dancer. Although sweat shone on his forehead, Nelly wasn’t aware of the answering moistness of her skin. She didn’t feel tired in the least, just full of strange energy.

When the song ended and their feet stopped moving, there was a round of clapping. Nelly looked around her. They were being applauded by Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford, John Barrymore, and at least one of the Talmadge girls; Nelly thought it was Norma rather than Natalie, but didn’t look long enough to confirm.

“Thank you,” she said to her audience, with a vague embarrassment mostly tempered by the liquor.

The singer grasped her hand and bowed, and Nelly followed.

“Well I simply must have the next dance with this lovely creature,” said Charlie Chaplin, winding his arm around her waist.

“Thank you for the dance!” she called after the singer, who was headed back toward the stage.

“Enchantée!” he shouted back, with a wave, smile, and befuddled shake of his head.

Rather than burn off like gasoline, the liquor head somehow soaked in more and Nelly leaned her head against Charlie’s shoulder even though a voice in the back of her head warned that he was a Dangerous Man. His shoulder was thin and slight, and he felt almost wispy compared to Buster. She began to feel like she was fading out until Paul Whiteman set the band in motion and a loud, energetic version of “Darktown Strutters’ Ball” rang out. She found energy to bounce up and down the room once more, clinging to Charlie, although her reserves had finally begun to dwindle. It was a relief to focus on each dance and each dance partner and not worry about Buster, but Buster would not stay away. At some point Charlie was no longer with her, another drink (her seventh? eighth?) was half-gone in her hand, and she was squinting with drunken brazenness at the crowd wondering why she shouldn’t ask John Barrymore to dance.

“Time to cool your heels,” said a voice. Fingers pulled the glass away from her hand. One of the fingers was shorter than the rest, missing a knuckle.

“I presume I can take care of myself,” she said, looking over her shoulder and aiming a beliquored glare at Buster.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, but it’ll be quite a tale if they find me holding your hair in the bathroom while you’re upchucking.”

Nelly thought back to the first time he’d seen her in over her head and done just that. “Hmmph.”

Buster tossed the rest of her drink back into his mouth and an obedient butler standing at the wait nearby dispensed with the glass.

At that moment, Whiteman’s voiced boomed out. “I’d like to welcome The Rhythm Boys back to the stage. Over here’s Harry Barris”—he gestured at the dark-haired singer with the center part who’d been doing most of the scat singing—“This is Al Rinker”—pointing to the brown-haired singer with thick lips who had been on piano—“And to top it off, Mr. Bing Crosby.” At this, he inclined his head toward the blue-eyed singer.

“What an odd name,” said Nelly.

“Any odder’n Buster?” said Buster.

“Nobody’s odder than Buster,” she quipped, and he pinched her.

“Ow,” she said. Her worry about being seen being too familiar with him resurfaced. She was going to chastise him, but the saxophones, trumpets, and horns had started a familiar tune, shortly joined by the strings. “Oh, it’s this one,” she uttered. She could feel her eyes shining in amazement.

“It’s this one,” said Buster with a pleased smile.

She remembered that the band was a birthday present, the most generous, thoughtful present she’d ever been given, and wasn’t sure she wouldn’t cry if she spoke further.

Buster put a hand about her waist and folded her back into the dancers with him. The foxtrot he took up had a gentle rhythm to suit the song. The saxophones played a teasing melody that all the brass instruments and violins followed with a loud, plucky answer. It was one of the songs from the first record Buster had given her and they’d danced to it regularly. Buster always teased her with the lyrics, staring into her eyes as he sang, “She’s got eyes of blue, I never cared for eyes of blue.” Every time she looked in the mirror now and noticed the color of her eyes, she was reminded that she had become a weakness for Buster, a thought that made her spirits swell.

In brief pauses, The Rhythm Boys scatted. But-duh-dut-dut-dut duh-dut duh-dut-dut. Buster looked casual and collected. She was relieved there was no strong emotion from him, still worried one of his guests might put two and two together.

Shhhhhe’s got eyes of blue, went The Rhythm Boys in a singsong, their S sibilant. I never cared for eyes of blue But she’s got eyes of blue And that’s my weakness now!

Shhhhhe’s got dimpled cheeks I never cared for dimpled cheeks But she’s got dimpled cheeks And that’s my weakness now!

Oh me, oh my …

If they had been an ordinary couple going together, she would have leaned forward to kiss him, to thank him for giving her this.

Shhhhhe likes to bill and coo I never liked to bill and coo But she likes to bill and coo And that’s my weakness now

Buster’s hold on her waist was firm. As the Rhythm Boys sang “Shhhhhe likes” and “I never liked” and the instruments filled in the blanks with suggestive retorts, he leaned in and said, “…to pet and play.” Nelly blushed and went warm. He stroked her hip with his thumb and she put her mouth to his ear and told him to stop, but on purpose grazed her lips against it. On the next refrain of “Shhhhhe likes,” he finished “…to fuck and flirt.”

“Buster,” she said, but the warmth increased.

“You wanna go outside for a breath of fresh air?” he said.

“No,” she said, even though she wanted him with a sudden desperation.

“Sure?” he said. “We can bill and coo.”

She shook her head. “You go dance a little more. Perhaps you can see me out when Bradford and I leave.” Although she’d been at the party for less than three hours, it felt much longer. With so many cocktails, her body had begun to feel leaden.

When the song had finished and Buster had let her go, she left the crowd and used the washroom again, returning to the living room in time to see a slow dance in progress. Some couples waltzed gracefully like Norma Talmadge and Gil Roland, others like John Barrymore and Bebe Daniels, who had had too much to drink, were shambling.

I’ll be loving you, always With a love that’s true, always

Nelly scanned for Bradford and Buster. Bradford was in the far corner of the room talking again to a cluster of men, one of whom might have been the director Harry Beaumont; she couldn’t quite tell. Her eyes felt heavy. Buster wasn’t dancing, but was talking with Harold Lloyd, holding another glass of whiskey and looking composed.

Days may not be fair always That’s when I’ll be there, always Not for just an hour Not for just a day Not for just a year But always

The lyrics pinched her in the chest somewhere. She was struck by the ephemerality of the whole scene. It seemed only yesterday she’d been seventeen, dead bored with high school and dreaming of what lay beyond. As the years passed, most of her friends married and found their always, and she minded the grandchildren of her mother’s friends and haunted stages by night. Here she was a blink of an eye later, her life already a third lived. Always was an illusion, one that Hollywood said it believed in and didn’t, actors dying, divorcing, and becoming forgotten by the week. Yet the pinch was for what a pretty thought it was: not for just an hour, not for just a day, not for just a year, but always. Every woman, she supposed, wanted something like that. She couldn’t bring herself to think that anything of the sort would ever be possible as long as the man she was seeing was married.

The song ended with a wistful singing of the strings, the brass providing a soft accompaniment.

“This here’s another slow number,” said the blue-eyed singer, Bing. “By a fella by the name of Jimmy McHugh. What a name, huh?” He paused. “His mama oughta have called himself something a little more traditional, something sensible, y’know? Like Bing.”

The audience roared at the joke.

He waited for the laughter to die down before finishing. “Anyway, this one’s called ‘I Can’t Give You Anything but Love’ and it’s a pretty one if I do say so myself. Grab your guy or your girl and hold ‘em close, folks.”

A clarinet warbled a sweet, jazzy introduction with the piano accompanying and Bing leaned into the microphone.

I can’t give you anything but love, baby That’s the only thing I’ve plenty of, baby Dream awhile, scheme awhile, we’re sure to find Happiness And, I guess, all those things you’ve always pined for

Nelly’s eyes flickered to the dancers and her stomach seized. Natalie and Buster were swaying close together, Buster’s hands gripping her small waist, her arms wrapped around his neck. They were a handsome couple, Natalie’s tiny frame setting off Buster’s modest brawn, both their hair dark and wavy. What gave Nelly the greatest pang, though, was the way that Buster looked at his wife. His face was all tenderness, something she was shocked to see given what she thought she knew about their marriage. She looked away, heartsick, and sought out Bradford. He put his arm around her when she approached, pausing just for a second or two to say hello before returning to his conversation with the director and the other men. She closed her eyes and nuzzled her face into the side of his chest. Tears stung behind her lids. Buster still loved Natalie. How she’d never realized this, she didn’t know.

‘Til that lucky day You know damned well, baby I can’t give you anything but love

“You okay, baby?” Bradford said, noticing that something was wrong.

She opened her filmy eyes and shook her head.

“What’s wrong?” Even in her unhappiness, she had to hand it to him. He sounded exactly as a concerned boyfriend would.

“Too much to drink, I think,” she said, quickly wiping away the tears from the corner of her eyes.

Bradford rubbed her arm. “Let’s get you home.” He dipped into the side pocket of his trousers. “Here’s my card.” He passed one to each of the three men. She watched them exchange pleasantries, and could see that Bradford was glowing with excitement and charisma. A wave of regret hit her for taking him from the party.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, I won’t hear of it,” he said, perfectly good-natured. “Wouldn’t want to wear out my welcome anyhow.”

There was no one for her to say goodbye to. Everyone but Buster was close to a stranger. Bradford’s arm through hers, they walked away from the room of partygoers and the beautiful noise of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra. She tried to cheer herself up with the good parts, dancing with Bradford and Buster and Bing, hearing all her favorite songs, hobnobbing with stars. The orchestra was her birthday gift too, a dear secret only she and Buster shared. Even with these reminders, she still felt miserable. A part of that, maybe not an inconsiderable part, was the result of too much to drink. Her stomach ached dully. Her vision was dizzy. Her eyelids sagged. She thought with longing of changing into a clean nightgown, drinking several glasses of water, eating some crackers, and collapsing into bed. Bradford held the great mahogany door for her and she stepped out into the brisk May night. The air smelled like peonies and was cold against her bare face and arms. It made her feel a little better.

She and Bradford were a few paces away from the door and walking in the direction of his car when a voice from behind them cried, “Nelly, wait!” She turned to see Buster rushing toward them. “Where’re you going?” he said when he’d caught up to them.

A lump climbed into her throat. “I’m feeling ill,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie.

Buster looked confused. “Feeling ill?” He looked to Bradford. “Mind if I borrow her a minute?”

“Go right ahead Mr. Keaton.”

Buster took her by the arm and led her to a shadowy patch of topiary to the east of the front door out of hearing of Bradford. “What’s really the matter?” he said.

Nelly shook her head. “I drank too much.”

“Ah, gee. Wish you hadn’t. I was going to propose we slip off in a few minutes here.” He stroked her cheek.

She realized he was referring to amorous activities and she couldn’t help but be amazed by him. He’d just been enjoying a romantic dance with his wife and yet was scheming to seduce her at the same time. “We couldn’t even if I felt well,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

“Sure it is. I’ve done it plenty.”

With her brain sluggish with liquor, it took his words a few moments to make sense. He was saying he’d sneaked women into the Villa under his wife’s nose before. She felt horrible all over again. “No. Not tonight.”

“What about tomorrow? You gonna come to the premiere?”

Nelly had been so fixated on the party, she’d forgotten about the premiere of Steamboat Bill altogether and Buster’s offhand suggestion a few days back that she attend. She shook her head. “It isn’t safe. If Mr. Sedgwick knows about us, we can’t draw any more attention than we already have. We should be safer from now on.” She stopped short of telling him that coming to the party was a mistake too; she didn’t want him to think that she wasn’t grateful for her birthday surprise.

Buster searched her eyes and she knew he was trying to puzzle out her gloomy mood. “Okay, if you say so. Is this character gonna get you home safe?” he said at last, looking over at Bradford.

“Of course. He’s been the perfect beau.”

He narrowed his eyes. “See to it he don’t get too perfect.”

“Buster,” she chastened. She had to hand it to them, it was some damn Shakespearean plot they’d woven, Bradford in disguise as her paramour and she and Buster playing the parts of two star-crossed lovers.

Buster kissed her hand. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

She gave him a half-hearted smile. “You can always call.”

“Remind me to tune my ukulele before I sing you the birthday song,” he joked. He held her hand in his, running his thumb over her palm.

A wave of gratitude sunk her. Hiring the Paul Whiteman Orchestra had to say something about how he felt for her, no matter the doting way he looked at Natalie or his experience sneaking around with other women at the Villa. She leaned into his arms and put her hands around his neck. “Thank you for tonight and the band. I had the time of my life.”

He put a hand in the center of her back and touched her cheek with his free hand. “I’m a sentimental sap, that’s all,” he said, then in a quieter voice,“Can I kiss you?”

“Okay, but make it quick.” She glanced toward the front door. No one had come out since Buster, but she remained on her guard even though the drinks urged her to throw caution to the wind.

Buster leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her breathless. She tasted cigarettes and whiskey on his tongue. She tried to make her answering kiss say what she couldn’t put into words, what she’d thought of during the first dance they’d shared earlier, the stars, his lips, and a Paul Whiteman phonograph record crackling softly in the background. “No funny business with that beau of yours, you hear me?” he said when he pulled back. His voice was thick in the way it got whenever he was in a carnal mood. Nelly embraced him again. The lump in her throat held sadness as well as gratitude. She never wanted to let him go.

Minutes later, Bradford’s car was bouncing over the roads out of Beverly Hills. The night was black and starless. Bradford gushed about Irving Thalberg, Edward Sedgwick, and all the other directors and production men he’d flattered and wooed. He didn’t say a word about Buster and her. Her foggy mind drifted over Twelfth Night. Although she was having no trouble learning her lines for the play, she knew now why her heart had not been in it since she’d gotten the role of Maria. It had nothing to do with her ambition of being in talking pictures or that she was too overburdened at United Artists to play such a substantial role in a play. In her head, she ran over three of Viola’s lines again and again.

She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought.

Viola had met Duke Orsino, but his love was still fixed on Olivia. Notes: Soundtrack to this chapter: “The Five Step,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AyW73Zdqqzc

“Mary,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fse_J4WcAVY

“You Took Advantage of Me,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_o01n3vVEss “My Baby Don’t Mean Maybe Now,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGBzOuLmaAc “My Pet,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9nJZlg66io There’s no version I can find of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra doing the Black Bottom Stomp, but I imagined them playing a lively version like Jelly Roll Morton’s original: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcgIrAyNGGM Similarly, for the “Darktown Strutters’ Ball,” I imagined them doing this version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k22IKM3PFoQ “That’s My Weakness Now,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAfVQpzQB3g And for “Always,” the George Olsen version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dGRWlgXqcwU “The Darktown Strutters’ Ball,” “Mississippi Mud,” and “I’m Coming Virginia,” though they were extensively covered by black artists, are racist songs. However, I felt that omitting them would be a bit of whitewashing since songs like this were heavily popular and would undoubtedly have been in regular rotation for a popular orchestra. (Buster actually danced to “Darktown Strutters’ Ball” in coordinating his dance sequence in The Playhouse.)

#Buster Keaton #Fan fiction #RPF #Actor RPF #Silent film #Golden Age Hollywood #Bing Crosby

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