“Lorena…”
She held up her hand. “When Max was killed, I knew in my heart that it was Ethan. I knew it. That’s why I was so distraught.”
“But you didn’t know…”
A thin smile, haunted. “In Hollywood if you’re not a character in someone’s dream, you have nothing. A lonely life, a shell. Look at Sophie Barnes.”
“But Ethan gave you only nightmares.”
“It was better than…nothing.” She bit her lip. “Nothing.”
She stood, took one last drag off her cigarette, snuffed it out in an ashtray, and turned away. “I guess I could never be the kind of friend I wanted you to see me as, Edna. Like Ethan, I failed.” An unfunny smile. “And now it’s too late.” She walked past me and out the door.
I finished my coffee and put down the newspaper. The pilot was announcing altitude and clear skies. We were free of L.A.’s noxious smog. A nap, I thought: a rare nap. Six hours to go on the flight to New York. Instead, I opened the carrying case I’d placed on the floor, taking out some folders. Alice had given me a parting gift, which stunned me: the script of the 1936 Show Boat, much tattered and frayed, a working script, with Max’s notations in the margins. On the title sheet an abundance of signatures, inscriptions to Max (“You’re the best, Max”; “Sing a song for me, pal”) and signed by Irene Dunne, Allen Jones, Paul Robeson, Hattie McDaniel. A sheet filled with praise and love and honor.
“Max would have wanted you to have this. He prized it highly.” Then she’d added, “Even though Max told me what you thought of that movie.”
I’d laughed. “It was one of our jokes, you know.”
So I cradled the script to my chest, cherishing it. She’d also tucked into the script four black-and-white photos of Max on location, deep in conversations with Paul Robeson, with others.
Ava had also given me a gift, though she made me promise not to open it until I left L.A. Now, unwrapping the package, I found another photograph, an eight-by-ten of her with Max, arms linked around each other. Ava was dressed as Julie LaVerne, her head tilted backwards, her shoulders hunched, the beautiful mulatto standing on the seedy wharf. Oblivious to the intrusive camera, they were smiling at each other, and it looked as though they’d just shared a private joke. They looked happy, the two of them, the Hollywood backdrop behind them.
I thought of Ava and her dream of someday escaping Hollywood, perhaps making a life for herself in Europe, away from the glitter, the groping moguls, and the intrusive photographers. That dream was still possible for her. A woman who dazzled me, not so much because of her incredible beauty, but because of her wonderful humanity. You could see it in that photo, especially in the way she held onto Max, the way her eyes shone as she most likely teased him.
For a moment I choked up, my eyes moist. The pleasure of Max in my life-the way one human being can deepen your spirit and widen your vision-can add to the sweep of your heart. In that moment I closed my eyes and felt a rush of warmth and joy. He was gone, but what trailed in his dust was good. Ava always knew that. We both adored him. On the photo, scribbled in her carefree, loopy penmanship, she’d written a simple inscription:
Dear Edna,
You loved him, too.
Ava.