Bardy, Babe’s older half-brother, arrives in Hollywood from Georgia. He likes Bardy, who bears some passing resemblance to Babe, although he is not entirely clear what it is that Bardy does for a living. Bardy is Bardy Tant, but changes his name to Bardy Hardy while in Hollywood, which has a pleasing ring to it, and flatters Babe.
Bardy picks up a little work as an extra on the Hal Roach lot, but mostly Bardy is content to keep his brother company, and good company Bardy is, too. Bardy is fastidious about his appearance, just as Babe is, and they both like their food, although he cannot help but feel that Bardy is much odder than Babe. Bardy perceives the world in different hues from others, and from stranger angles. When he speaks with Bardy, he is not certain that each of them is engaged in the same conversation.
With Babe and Bardy both in California, their mother, Miss Emmie, decides to join them for a time. Babe finds Miss Emmie an apartment, and supplies her with a chauffeur. Miss Emmie can now disapprove of Los Angeles from the comfort of an automobile.
Miss Emmie is a piece of work.
A widow named Frances Rich lives across the street from Babe. Frances Rich is a lady of mature years, rich by name and rich by bank account. Frances Rich decides that she has never encountered a specimen of manhood quite so dashing as Bardy, and proceeds to set her cap at Babe’s brother.
The woman is terrifying, Babe tells him. You couldn’t invent her.
—And how does Bardy feel about all this?
—Bardy seems to feel all right about it.
But then, he thinks, you couldn’t invent Bardy either.
Week after week, he is kept apprised of Frances Rich’s gifts to Bardy.
Fine cigars.
Government bonds.
A Cadillac.
A private suite in Frances Rich’s home, decorated to Bardy’s tastes.
A suite? he says, when Babe informs him of this latest development.
—It’s by way of being a marriage proposal.
—And how did Bardy respond?
—Bardy said yes.
—Well, you would.
—Would you, really?
—No, I wouldn’t, but Bardy would.
Bardy appears enthused by the prospect of matrimony. Babe does not mention to Bardy that, at sixty-two, Frances Rich is only a decade younger than Miss Emmie, and apparently of a similarly single-minded disposition. Bardy is as good as marrying his own mother.
He doesn’t attend the wedding—given the current state of his relationship with Lois, he might put a curse on the nuptials—but he sends a gift.
Babe arrives late at the studio the day after the wedding. Before anyone can even exchange greetings with him, Babe calls a meeting of like minds in his dressing room, and opens a bottle. Glasses are filled, chairs are occupied, breaths are bated.
Gentlemen, Babe says, I have a tale to tell.
It seems that the ceremony goes off swimmingly. Following a pleasant wedding breakfast, the bride and groom are escorted to their accommodations in the bride’s home, whereupon Babe and his family, including Miss Emmie, repair to Babe’s house to rest.
Three hours later, there comes a knock on Babe’s front door.
It is Bardy.
Bardy is distraught.
Bardy is so upset that Bardy has come out without a necktie.
—I must speak with Mama. It is a matter of the utmost urgency.
Babe cannot think what this matter might be, and Babe is not entirely sure that any clarification will be welcome, since Babe suspects Bardy has not been in the vicinity of an unclothed woman since the moment of Bardy’s own birth. But curiosity overcomes all, and Babe follows Bardy to their mother’s room.
Mama, says Bardy, do you know what Frances did?
Miss Emmie, naturally, has no idea what Frances did, and says as much.
Babe brings Bardy a glass of water. Bardy looks at it in a manner that suggests something stronger may be required.
Babe pours Bardy something stronger.
Well, says Bardy, with glass in hand, I was in my suite, resting, and—
Bardy takes a mouthful for the revelatory strength required to continue.
—Frances came and—
Bardy closes his eyes, shudders, and unburdens himself at last of his wife’s transgression.
—she knocked on my door.
In Babe’s dressing room, there is a pause while his listeners absorb the facts of the case.
She knocked on his door? says Jimmy Finlayson.
She knocked, Babe confirms slowly, on his door.
—What was Bardy doing in there when she knocked on his door?
—I do not know, and I did not care to ask.
—So what happened then?
A private consultation with our mother ensued, says Babe, after which Bardy returned to the scene of the crime, removed his possessions from the suite, handed back the government bonds, the keys to the Cadillac, and any unsmoked cigars, and announced his intention to seek an immediate annulment of the marriage. By sundown, my brother was once again a single man.
—Where is Bardy now?
—Bardy is packing for Georgia. Bardy is of the opinion that the habits of Californian women are troubling to his disposition, and consequently intends to seek an arrangement with a lady from the Peachtree State whose sensibilities are more compatible with his own.
They finish their drinks. They depart Babe’s dressing room.
That boy’s family, Jimmy Finlayson whispers as they leave, are all crazy.
This is not quite the end of the story. Shortly after Bardy’s brief marriage, Babe goes to visit Miss Emmie at her apartment only to find that she has vanished, along with all of her belongings. Babe is informed that Miss Emmie climbed in the back of her car first thing that morning, and ordered the chauffeur to drive her home.
To Georgia.
Miss Emmie never returns. The chauffeur eventually does.
I told you, says Jimmy Finlayson. All crazy.