In Theda Bara's Tent (as Reviewed by Publisher's Weekly)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A few weeks later, Mr. Fox called me into his office again. He told me that the only thing troubling the Justice Department was the close connection of Loew’s with Paramount. The son of Loew’s was married to the daughter of Paramount, and there was fear that unless that connection was legally severed, Fox would be, essentially, acquiring Paramount as well as Loew’s. “Do you play golf?” he asked me.
“No, sir.”
 “I am a champion golfer. I play with one-armed golfers as well as those who have the use of both arms. Trophies line the shelves of my home. Mr. Nicholas Schenck, president of Loew’s, and I have decided to iron out the last obstacles to our merger on the golf course. I want you to produce a film of this game, not only because of its historic import but also because I believe that when someone has become as expert as I have, it is his duty to teach others. The film will be used to teach one-armed golfers how to swing, how to stand, which clubs to use.  The game will be Movietoned, and you will read into a microphone the script that I write. This is not a commercial venture but a public service. The cameraman will be Kenny Anderson.” He told me the date and the time. “You must not be late. Country clubs are strict about tee times.”
On the day of the assignment, it was as if New York had a fever. Kenny and I were glad to get away from hot sidewalks and the traffic fumes that no breeze blew away. We were looking forward to a swim in the ocean. Kenny arrived dressed as a golfer, clothes obviously borrowed from a Burberry fashion shoot. He wore knickers, knee-high socks and a plaid cap. At the Fox-Movietone garage downtown, he stuffed his camera gear into the back of one of the trucks, climbed in behind the wheel, and we bounced and rattled away from skyscrapers and sweaty pedestrians, out of the city on the Long Island motor parkway.
There were toll lodges along the way. We stopped, filled the truck with gas and splashed the dust off our faces at the water pump. We had a delicious duck dinner for two dollars. Other motorists were happy to see one of the Fox-Movietone trucks with its logo on the side and asked us questions in a shy, star-struck way.

It took a couple of hours to get to Long Island on rutted roads bordered by farms. We arrived at Fox Hall, an oceanfront white house so imposing that Kenny exclaimed, Hot dog! Look where the big cheese lives! He slammed on the brakes so hard we had to brace ourselves against the dashboard. We climbed down next to a marble statue of Bacchus wearing a crown of grapes and a modest fig leaf, one of several Greek statues lining a driveway made of crushed seashells. We stretched  our legs, brushed the dust off our trousers and inhaled the delicious breeze blowing in off the ocean that sparkled to the horizon. Moored next to a boat house was Mr. Foxs wooden yacht, the Mona Belle, named after his daughters. The grounds were spectacular, with grape arbors and a man-made lake of at least an acre with cabanas around it. Kenny wiped his forehead with one of the clean and ironed handkerchiefs he always carried, then bent down to pet one of about six cats that came to greet us. Mrs. Fox came from the other side of the hedge with a bowl in her hand, saw us and said, Some are friendly and some... just as the cat Kenny had chosen to adore swiped at him and hissed. Mrs. Fox set down a bowl of food, and even more cats trotted over to look in it. We have almost a hundred of them, she said with a throaty laugh. I called the shack where we keep them the cat house until the girls told me that dont mean what I think it means.
 Eve Fox had a commanding presence, not like a queen but like the owner of a shop who knew her merchandise was worth what she was asking for it. You want it? Take it. You dont want it, get out. Harry I know, she said. Which one are you?
Allow me to introduce Kenny Anderson, Mrs. Fox, I said. The best of the best.
No handshake. No welcome. Just an appraising look up and down. Would this one give good value? Hes waiting for you in the garden.
Cant we see inside? Kenny said.

Why should I show you the inside of my house?
Why not?

She laughed, checked the watch pinned to her bodice and gestured for us to follow her. Cats pranced along with us, then lost interest and either dashed away or sat down and washed with a paw. The house was a museum, overstuffed with tapestries, brocade wallpapers, acres of poofed-up drapery and paintings in rococo gold frames. A large portrait of Eve Fox showed her sitting in a ball gown with her hand on a Borzoi. Was it the same Borzoi I met in Theda Baras tent? She escorted us downstairs to show us their home movie theater with real movie-theater seats. There must have been a part of the house where the family relaxed, but Mrs. Fox didn’t show it to us.
Tour over, we followed her through French doors outside to an exuberant perennial garden where Mr. Fox—portly belly in a golf shirt, tweed knickers and knee-high socks covering skinny calves—was pumping insect-repelling dust on his flowers. In the distance, there were two women in bathing suits lounging on chairs by the lake. They were almost hidden by the topiary garden near them, a team of gardeners on ladders trimming and shaping.
Mr. Fox greeted us with a lift of his chin, gave a few more pumps of dust, then set the spritzer down on a patio table. Is there time for iced tea? he asked his wife.
She looked down at the enamel watch pinned to her bosom. No.
What a beautiful place you have here, Kenny said. Never saw anything like it. So peaceful! How much does something like this cost?

Mrs. Fox laughed, a throaty sound. It dont happen all at once, she said. You get rich little by little. She picked up a pewter bell on the patio table and tinkled it. A maid in uniform answered the bell. Tell Joe Mr. Fox is ready to go, Mrs. Fox said. The maid nodded and went inside. One of the women by the lake swung her legs over the side of her chaise, put on shoes, put on a robe and headed toward the house. Was this a daughter?
Do you grow vegetables too? Kenny asked, framing the flowers with his hands, thumb tip to thumb tip, then panning and coming to rest on a display of foxglove. When he viewed the panorama of manicured lawns sweeping down to the ocean, his pretend lens landed on the woman approaching from the distance. She stopped. Instead of lowering his hands, he kept them focused on her. She didn’t move. I secretly nudged Kenny, and he lowered his hands. Seagulls shrieked above us, and the woman resumed her progress toward the house.
In her early thirties maybe, she wore her kimono untied showing a fashionable tanksuit of bold black-and-white stripes that ended midthigh. She was carrying a sun hat made of matching stripes. I thought it must have been heat waves rising that made it look as if the woman wobbled. This was definitely one of the daughters. She matched the photograph on Mr. Foxs desk. But the wobbling was not a heat mirage. It was as if her legs were made of jelly, and it was horrible to see her trying to support her top half on limbs that were so limp, that threatened to collapse when she put weight on them. It was almost as if she had no knees. My stomach turned over. Was this the mother of the little cadet? What mysterious sorrows in Mr. Foxs life!

 Though I tried not to stare, I must have been because Mr. Fox gestured abruptly and said, “Come on. We ain’t got all day.” We followed him out to the driveway. You must be aware, he said as he walked quickly toward the Rolls Royce parked in front of the garage, that I am working on a revolutionary new process for showing motion pictures. The small screen as we know it today will be a thing of the past. I am experimenting with projection machines that will throw big images upon a wide screen.
What kind of camera would you need for something like that? Kenny asked.
It will use 80mm film, Mr. Fox said. I am calling it Grandeur. Every theater in the world will be converted to accommodate the wide screen. It is revolutionary, and I own the patents to both the projection machines and the screens.
Wont the other producers object? Kenny asked. Theyre all going bust converting to sound. Are you going to ask them to convert again?
If they want to stay in business, they will have to show big pictures.”
Parked in the driveway, the motor purring, was a burgundy Rolls Royce Phantom with white-walled tires. The chauffeur, about my age, leaned against the car smoking a cigarette until he saw his boss. Then he flicked the butt away and ran to open the back door of the car. In the future, Mr. Fox said, do not lean against this machine. It makes smudges. Clean that fender before we leave.
I just cleaned it.
 Mr. Fox pulled himself up and glared. Make it snappy.

 The chauffeur rubbed the spot with a rag, as Mr. Fox inspected the rest of the car, leaning in close when he saw anything amiss—taking off his glasses, putting them back on, then continuing around the car. How long have you worked here?
Two days, boss. Rag in hand, he stood at attention in an exaggerated way, as if making fun of himself.
When you wax this automobile, it is of vital importance that you get every speck of wax off. This requires elbow grease. Are you prepared to keep this motorcar looking as if it just came out of the showroom?
It does.
Mr. Fox jabbed his finger toward a white speck of wax. The chauffeur rubbed the spot with the rag in a sullen way. Then he stood at attention next to the back door as Mr. Fox lowered himself in. You boys follow me, he called to Kenny. The Rolls headed out of the driveway, and Kenny and I ran to the truck.
What was the matter with her? Kenny said, pulling out the choke, revving the engine and putting the truck in gear. Was that the married one?
Aren’t they both married?”
“What was the matter with her?”
“I thought she was going to fall. Weren’t there two son-in-laws always hanging around?”
“One of those homo-boobians was always hanging around the fashion shoots  ogling the dames,” Kenny said as we drove past farms bordered by stone walls and cows with heads down, tails swishing. “No. You’re right. They were both married and both divorced and both of them have a son named William and Bill adopted both of them and took away their father’s names so now he has two grandsons named William Fox.”
“Kenny, keep your hands on the wheel. I’ll light your ciggy when you want it.”

Kenny swerved left suddenly onto a narrow road. How about signaling when youre going to turn, buddy! he yelled to his windshield. We could see the back of Mr. Foxs head through the rear window, his golf clubs next to him on the seat. We rattled along past sheep grazing and horses looking up when they heard the racket our truck made.
I think Ill just shoot it straight,” Kenny said. “Get Schenck teeing off, get Bill teeing off, sounds of the ball getting smacked, then a long shot of them doddering away toward the next hole. Maybe a wide shot of the golf course, the caddies lugging their crap around. We drove under a canopy of elms. A bee flew in the window, and Kenny had a fit whacking the air while I grabbed the wheel to keep the car straight. It flew out at last.
 I hate those things. They shouldn’t be allowed in New York State,” Kenny said, brushing off the cigarette ash that fell on his lap while he was trying to swat the bee. “How does Bill play golf with that gimpy arm?
Again Mr. Foxs chauffeur forgot to signal, and we had to swerve suddenly. We saw Mr. Fox turn to see if we were following, then turn back again. Bill ever tell you the story of his arm? Kenny asked. He fell off the back of an ice wagon. He was too poor to go to the doctor, so he went to some quack who paralyzed his elbow. Hes forever telling me hes going to send me to Mount Sinai to shoot a surgical operation. He wants to aid medical education. I say, ‘Sure, okay,’ and Im thinking, ‘You put me in that operating room, and you will get zilch. Zero. Because I will be flat on the floor fainted dead away.’ I hate the sight of blood.

The chauffeur, apparently, did not know the way because again he turned suddenly, and Kenny slammed on the brakes, which made the camera equipment jiggle and clank. Kenny was craning his head around to make sure the sudden swerve did not damage his equipment, not looking at the road, not seeing that another car was speeding toward us on the wrong side of the road. Kenny! Watch out!

He turned in time to see the other car smash into the Rolls head on so hard the Rolls spun into the air while the other car twirled into a ditch. The Rolls dropped to the ground on its roof, the crash making terrible noises—metal on metal, glass breaking. Kenny swerved, brakes screeched, and we skidded to a stop next to the wreck. He put his forehead down on the wheel.
I leaped out of the truck and ran to the Rolls, bending down to peer under the crumpled window frames. Glass was all over the road, blood everywhere. The chauffeurs head was on the seat next to his body. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Kenny! Kenny! Oh, my God.
 I heard moaning and saw Mr. Fox trying to crawl out, blood pouring from his head. Ill get help! I yelled. Dont move! Dont move! Ill get help! Kenny! Kenny! But Mr. Fox continued to work his way out from under the wreckage, and when he had crawled all the way out, he tried to stand up, but his knees buckled. He collapsed unconscious, blood pooling around him on the dirt road. I ran to the other car listing sideways in the ditch, the front end pushed in, the windshield smashed, and I saw a woman at the wheel covered in blood, a piece of glass stuck in her cheek. Eyes wild with terror, she moved her lips but no sound came out. Kenny! Kenny! I ran back to the truck where Kenny still had his forehead on the wheel. Kenny! We have to get help. Drive! He did nothing. Kenny! Drive! We have to get help!

He looked up at me dazed. I lost patience and slapped his face, screaming, Drive! We have to get help! He put his palm against his stinging cheek, blinked a few times. Then his chin quivered, and he began to blubber. I pulled him out of the truck. Dont make me look, Harry, he said, keeping his head turned from the wreckage. Dont make me look.
I ripped off my shirt, tore off a sleeve, ran to Mr. Fox and tried to stop the bleeding from his head. My sleeve was soaked red in seconds. I didnt dare move him for fear Id break him worse than he was broken. I ran to the other car, but the door felt welded shut. You stay here! I screamed at Kenny, who was sitting in the middle of the road with his back to the accident like a helpless child, hugging himself as if freezing. The eerie quiet was pierced by the harsh wheet wheet of a cardinal in a tree somewhere.
I didn’t know how to drive. I turned the key, and the motor caught, but when I put it in gear, it lurched forward and stopped. I tried again, and the truck lurched, slowed, lurched, and in that way, I made progress past meadows with not a house in sight—endless dirt roads. I came at last to a sign: Lakeview Country Club. All eyes turned when I charged into the clubhouse, blood all over my shirt, screaming, Call an ambulance!
    **
           

There were so many floral tributes at the hospital that some of the bouquets were in the hall for the nurses to take to other rooms.  Mr. Fox lay unconscious, bandaged like a mummy, tubes in his nose, a machine ticking next to him. Whatever blather I had rehearsed disappeared, and all that came out was, Oh, as I grabbed the back of the nearest chair to steady myself.
 The room was full of people, adults and children, relatives probably. Whos that? someone whispered, and I crossed the room to Mrs. Fox. Hair in disarray, clothes disheveled, she sat on a chair next to the bed, eyes fixed on her husband. No longer the self-contained proprietor who had given me a tour of her house by the sea two days before, she was haggard. She took my hand, squeezed it very tightly. You and Kenny saved his life. Ill always be grateful to you both. She kept my hand and seemed to be holding onto it for dear life. But Joe, she said, they say his head... I saw it again, the pulpy neck, felt my eyes fill up, cursed them, looked away. She put her palms on her cheeks and began to keen, Oy, yoy yoy, rocking back and forth. “Oy yoy yoy, his poor bride, his poor bride.

Instantly, the relatives were next to her, saying reassuring things like, “This too shall pass,” and touching her and trying to hug her. Get away! Get away! When they backed off, she muttered, Vultures. I looked around for a chair and noticed the daughters dressed in expensive, stylish clothes, sitting like frightened children on two straightback chairs in a corner away from the others. If they had been Hansel and Gretel in the witchs house they couldnt have been more terrified. Their chairs were touching, and they were holding hands.
Hes had three blood transfusions, Mrs. Fox said. He lost almost all the blood in his entire body. She smoothed the sheet that covered him. This morning he was near death—now not so much. She blew her nose on a lace handkerchief.
She was driving a Ford car, I said.
Mrs. Fox looked up to show she knew that I was referring to her husband’s threat to destroy Henry Ford by photographing accidents involving his cars. Didnt even have a license to drive, Mrs. Fox said. Didnt even know how. She hunched her shoulders in a gesture that said one is helpless in the face of fate. Shes here, Mrs. Fox said. Down the hall. Were you there when the ambulance arrived?
Yes. I phoned from the club, then went back and waited.
Kane. Miss Dorothy Kane. Lives in the city. Midtown. Was out for a lark.
Again I saw the glass sticking out of her cheek and her head covered with blood—Kenny shouting, Dont make me look, Harry. I will not look! I realized that Kennys camera was his totem, a kind of Saint Christophers medal. Holding the camera to his eye for protection, he could view horrible sights without fear. He sent in footage of assassinations, of a man mauled by a tiger. The camera was looking at it, not him. I believed that if I had retrieved one of the cameras from the truck and forced it into his hands, he could have photographed that wreckage, including the chauffeurs head on the car’s seat.

A nurse entered the room, and we all fell back. Mrs. Fox stood up, and the nurse yanked a curtain around the bed. Ill be going along now, I whispered to Mrs. Fox. When he wakes up, tell him I stopped by.
Thank you for coming, Harry, she said, chin quivering. Its a long way out here.
Your husbands strong as an ox, I managed to say though I was nearly overwhelmed by sadness. I worked my way through the relatives and out the door to the corridor lined with whirring fans that attempted to blow away the July heat but instead just stirred around the sickening hospital smells and warm air. I wanted to extend myself to the poor creature in the other car whose face, with that shard of glass sticking out of her cheek, haunted me. I would not tell her about the chauffeur she killed. I would only say that Mr. Fox was improving, hed be fine, not to worry. At the nurses station where fans spun on desks, I asked for Dorothy Kane.
She was in a ward with beds lined up against the walls. Visitors sat on some of the beds, and curtains were drawn around others. A nurse pointed to a mummy wrapped in bandages. “Miss Kane?” I asked, and the bloodshot eyes turned to me.
Docker, when kuh I go hone?
Im not the doctor, Miss Kane.
The eyes got steely. “Oh,” she said. “Cop. Go way.” She took a hand out from under the sheet and waved it dismissively at me, a bandaged boxing glove.
I just came to tell you Mr. Fox is okay. He’ll be all right, I think.”

Who?”
“The man you hit.”
“I hit? He hit me. Yook wha he did to me.” 
I hurried from the room, down the corridor, past orderlies pushing food carts or rolling stretchers topped with ashen sick people, doctors in white coats wearing stethoscope necklaces and nurses conferring in hushed voices. Let me out of here, let me out of here! I was dead tired, haunted at night by images of Mr. Fox crawling from under the smashed Rolls, the chauffeur, the girls lips moving on the other side of her cracked windshield, the bucolic dirt road bordered by stone walls, the mechanical sound of an indifferent tractor in the distance.

I had to get back to the studio to see the rushes of the riots in Palestine: Arabs attacking Jews at the Wailing Wall. I would take the caption from the UP wire: Mufti of Jerusalem issues the call Slaughter the Jews!" If I could just steal some time to sleep, just lay my head down and untangle the turmoil.
The hospital doors opened to a blast of summer heat, and there before me was Molly striding down the entrance path, notebook in hand, summer dress swinging in a girlish way. I was too nauseated to make up a clever or charming greeting. I just stood there. As she approached the entrance, she groomed herself quickly—a hair pat, a sleeve tug—looked up and saw me. She stopped, mouth open, and immediately collected herself so she could say something breezy. Then she understood the expression on my face. I was a mess. Dont go in, Molly, I said, looking into her eyes, astonished again by how familiar she seemed to me, how close to her I felt, though I hadn’t seen her in months. His family is with him.
She looked away from me. Are the other reporters here? I shook my head. She met my eyes again but not fully. “Modern Screen’s not here?”
I gave up, turned away and headed down the front path. She was next to me, put her hand in mine. We walked together toward the train station, not speaking. Holding hands with Molly, I felt as if I was protected by higher beings, that I was walking along in a momentary state of grace.
We sat next to each other on the train, my side mashed up against her side, my arm against hers, my thigh against hers. It was really too hot to sit like that, but neither of us moved. “I saw it,” I said after a while.
Molly touched my hand, and I noticed that her engagement ring was gone. Was that the worst thing you ever saw?
No,” I said and took her hand in mine. “I saw a bad fire when I was a child.