Chapter 7 Don’t Yell at a Swarm of Bees
Don’t Yell at a Swarm of Bees
The next morning, Frankie wakes in the guest room and checks on Jack before she leaves.
Spread out on top of his bed, he’s got his right arm flung over a pillow.
Meanwhile, the shotgun—minus its bullets—is on the chair against the wall, so he can put it wherever it belongs when he wakes.
She takes in the dark gleam of the gun and Jack’s closed eyelids, the slight part of his lips and the slow-paced rise and fall of his rib cage.
Wake me, her mother used to say, between shifts of work, when Frankie had to guard her so she could steal a nap: at a bus station, in a park, in the far back booth at a café.
Sleep, Frankie decided during those hours of watchful protection, was a design flaw.
That something so necessary would require the body to be so exposed, so defenseless, made no sense.
Such irony in that the only way to be strong is to first be so weak.
Today there is a long stretch of interviews, all leading up to the Desert Son premiere tomorrow night.
At work, Frankie immediately orders the studio doctor to visit Jack, claiming that something he ate had him up all night, knowing she’ll get a quote from the man later to give to the press to explain Jack’s absence.
Then she asks June to do what she can alone.
June, who looks pale and as though she didn’t sleep last night either and who, at times, is held upright by her sister, who walks with a steadying hand on her elbow.
“June, June,” a male reporter says, sidling up to them. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “I heard you’ve started the eighteen-day diet, is that true?”
The eighteen-day diet—otherwise known as the Hollywood Diet—consists of a grapefruit at each meal, and severe restrictions, which is the last thing June needs.
Frankie steps in front of the man. “Questions happen in a few minutes, and they’ll be about the film, not food.” She stands firm, waiting till he’s gone. When she turns back to June, June looks as though she’s struggling to process what he just said.
“Yesterday I wanted a grapefruit.”
Ida smooths a finger down a wave of her sister’s blond hair.
She’s only three years older than June but looks much older, her features harsh, lines honed with a sort of fierceness.
Coffee-brown eyes, hair that’s bluntly cut and raven dark.
While my mother entered me in beauty contests, June once told Frankie, Ida got stuck working in the kitchen at Rick’s Easy Morning Café, and trust me, there was nothing easy about Rick.
Now June looks down at the floor. “I didn’t know anyone was watching.” Her thin shoulders drop. “It was just a grapefruit.”
“It’s when they stop watching that you need to worry,” Ida says before taking June’s hand in hers. Discreetly, she presses something into the center of her sister’s palm. “Go to the couch and relax a minute.”
Frankie tries not to look as June raises her hand to her mouth, then swallows dry what appears to be a rolled-up Benzedrine strip.
When June’s out of earshot, Ida turns to Frankie. “We’re doing our part. You make sure Nico knows that. Jack’s the one not here.”
She never got what she wanted in life, June also said to Frankie about her sister. She sacrificed. I can’t tell you how much, but trust me when I say I owe her.
When Frankie repeated it to Nico, he nodded as if it made perfect sense. True. But Ida’s seen a significant return on her investment, so at this point, they might be even. He left it at that.
“I’ll make sure he knows,” Frankie now says to Ida.
“Dede Domenico’s nipping at June’s heels.”
Dede Domenico, the studio’s newest find.
Fifteen years old but tall enough that people mistake her for an adult.
Long legs and dark hair and dark eyes and one eyebrow that’s arched more than the other, making her appear as though she’s constantly entertained by the world.
Any role that June turns down falls to Dede, despite the age difference.
A small tweak in the script, Frankie once heard a director say, and the role was practically made for her.
An hour later, and June still looks sick but is awake enough to be angry that Jack’s not pulling his weight.
“She’s too upset,” the makeup artist says quietly to Nico. “I can barely get her lipstick on.”
“Do her eyes, then, her cheeks, I don’t know. We’ll be there in a second.” When they’re alone again, Nico turns to Frankie. “What do you do when someone’s mad?”
You don’t yell at a swarm of bees, you throw flowers in their path. When Nico first told her that, she laughed and replied that he’d clearly never made a swarm of bees mad. To that, he shook his head. You get my point. Distract with something good. “We’re throwing flowers at bees.”
Sure enough, moments later, he’s standing beside June in the makeup chair. “How ’bout some good news?”
June looks up at the ceiling lights so the makeup artist can work. “Are we going to be graced with his presence? Because I know I’d like to sleep all day too.”
Ignoring that, Nico charges forth. “Magda says she’s heard from several voting members of the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences that you’re a shoo-in for an Oscar for Last Chance.”
Now June’s mouth drops. Even the makeup artist knows to pause, taking a step back. The award, though only a few years old, is already considered a top honor.
“You’re not serious.”
“June. Would I lie?”
Frankie’s never seen June smile so big. “Yes.” And then, more seriously: “What about Clara Bow?”
Nico shakes his head. “For Call Her Savage? No. She’s not getting nominated for anything. She’s retiring. Moving to that ranch in Nevada. She was meant for silent films anyhow.”
Maybe it’s the shared tenement experience, or the fact that Clara does what everyone else does but doesn’t try to hide it, but Frankie’s always liked Clara Bow. “She’s only twenty-eight,” Frankie says. “Maybe she’s just taking time off?”
But Nico shakes his head. “No. She’s done.”
June holds her cherry-red lipstick, the cap discarded on the top of a script. Absentmindedly, she swipes the pad of her finger on the lipstick.
Nico watches her, curious. “That doesn’t make you happy? You, who’s always keeping tabs on her?”
With one slender finger, June smears the lipstick on the script. “They won.”
There is a drop to June’s words, like an end that’s reached. Frankie glances at Nico, who takes it in stride.
“Who?” Nico asks. “The press?” June doesn’t look up but nods slightly, and he continues. “They’ve been ruthless to her, I know. But she made it easy for them, the way she lives her life.”
Sharply, June glares at him.
He raises his hands. “I only mean she flaunts the rules. Does what she wants. I don’t mean they’re right to crucify her, but she’s given them the material, hasn’t she?
” When June doesn’t respond, he shrugs. “Now she’s on a ranch with her husband and never has to work again. Pretty sure she didn’t lose.”
“She doesn’t get to do what she loves. How can you say she didn’t lose?” With that, she swipes her finger once more on the page. Another red line, faded this time. Outside the room, someone’s shrieks settle into laughter.
“Chin up,” the makeup artist says, and June obeys. Frankie watches as the woman sweeps ivory shimmer onto June’s lids, instantly making her look alive and hopeful.
Frankie thinks of Clara’s last role. “Her Brooklyn accent wasn’t a problem.”
Now June opens her eyes and looks at Frankie. The makeup artist surrenders, and starts to gather brushes at the next table. June blinks heavily as if to clear her vision. “You’re right. It wasn’t. They didn’t want her to succeed.”
“Neither did you.” Nico laughs. “At least I thought you didn’t. But there’s a reason the woman negotiated to not have a morals clause with Paramount—I think she’s had a good run.”
Somewhere in the room, a set of lights around a mirror flickers off. Frankie turns toward the darkness, but no one’s there. Then she excuses herself to go back to the office to call Jack.
“I’m sorry,” the operator says eventually. “There doesn’t seem to be an answer.”
“Keep trying.”
The operator does as told, and after six more rings, Jack answers, apologizing.
“Sorry,” he says. “I forgot O’Shea’s not here. I kept waiting for him to get the phone.”
She’s standing at her desk, and speaks as quietly as she can. “I put everything off till three, but we need you then.”
“Three,” he repeats.
She waits for him to say more, and slides open her desk drawer, where she keeps an apple.
Beneath it is the final script for The Last Chance, with each of the cast members’ inscriptions and signatures on the title page.
Jack’s reads: Frankie, It’s always a good day for a beach day!
—Jack A reference to their life together in Venice.
An easier time that seems impossibly long ago.
Below that is June’s happier, buoyant cursive: Frankie, don’t worry, it’s not your last chance . . . it’s all just beginning! June
She takes a bite of her apple.
“I think I need to eat,” Jack says.
“Eat, then.”
“That him?” Nico says.
He’s standing behind her, for how long, she’s not sure. She nods, and covers the mouthpiece as Nico speaks. “I need him here in good form. Food, hair of the dog, whatever he needs—I don’t care.”
She tells Jack she’s on her way with food, and slowly, he replies, “Frankie, something that’s usually in the butler’s pantry was on a chair.”
The gun. “Right.”
“But I’m not sure why.”
She feels herself nod, and presses the phone’s handset tight against her ear as if to contain his words. She can feel Nico’s gaze from across the room. “You’re not?”
Silence.
This is good, she thinks. She’ll tell him what happened, and it will scare him enough to pay attention, to never again ignore his two-drink rule. “I’ll tell you when I see you.”
She takes another bite of her apple, tosses it into the trash, and promises she’s on her way.