Marcus sat in his office and tried to concentrate on the script in front of him. Easter Parade was supposed to star Gene Kelly and Judy Garland, but Kelly had busted his ankle, so Mayer cajoled and entreated (and probably dangled a huge check in front of) Fred Astaire to come out of self-imposed retirement. Astaire said yes, so now the script had to go through a process Marcus called Astairification—tailoring what was a very Gene Kelly role into a better fit for Fred.
When Marcus reported back to work, he’d expected a summons to the executive floor, but it never came. Then the House of Representatives voted 346 to 17 to cite ten Hollywood screenwriters—including Dalton Trumbo—for contempt of Congress. The Hollywood Ten, as the press dubbed them, were now facing jail time. Marcus felt like his career was hanging by a translucent silk filament, and that it was only a matter of time before he was pink-slipped. But until that happened, he would drive to the studio, sit at his desk, and do the work he was paid to do.
At first, he jumped every time his phone rang or a shadow filled his office doorway. But as each week bled into the next with no word from the higher-ups, he let himself relax. Oliver suggested it was because they didn’t get him to admit he was a Commie. The evidence was circumstantial, and hadn’t added up to much, so he was okay. Kathryn thought maybe Mayer had seen through Hoover’s attempt to sabotage Marcus’ family history, and life was simply going on as it had before that subpoena landed in his hand.
So he busied himself Astairificating Easter Parade. The movie was one of MGM’s big hopes for 1948, and Marcus wanted to be sure it was in tip-top shape before he delivered it to Eddie Mannix’s office.
But he’d only managed to battle through a page and a half before his attention meandered to his parents’ front path and the look on Doris’ face when she said, “To the Garden of Allah, if there’s room.” But there wasn’t; the Garden was fully occupied. He worried that he’d led her to a rash decision, but Doris seemed happy enough on the sofa until something opened up.
His telephone rang. When he picked it up, he heard Mannix’s secretary inform him that her boss was on his way. This was unprecedented—Mohammeds were always summoned to the mountain in this industry. “You are to assemble your staff in the conference room. He has an announcement to make.” She hung up before he could dig any deeper.
He’d just managed to shepherd the last of them into the room when Mannix arrived, silencing all chatter.
“In a day or two, Eric Johnston from the Motion Picture Association of America will be making a statement that all the studio heads worked on for two days in the Waldorf-Astoria.” He held up the stack of paper in his hand. “Henceforth known as the Waldorf Statement.”
The Waldorf Statement? Marcus thought. What is this, a government decree, like the Monroe Doctrine, or the Marshall Plan? He could feel the strands of his translucent silk starting to fray.
“I’ll save us all some time and paraphrase the content for you. The studios have banded together and agreed not to employ a Communist, or any member of any party which advocates the overthrow of the US government.” He paused while a reaction unfurled across the room. “Furthermore, we will eliminate all subversives from the industry while safeguarding free speech wherever threatened.”
“Paraphrasing” and “furthermore” were five-dollar words Marcus had never heard the ex-fairground bouncer use before. He must have been practicing all morning.
Tension thickened in the air. “Mr. Mannix,” he said, “does your so-called Waldorf Statement affect anyone in this room? Personally, I mean?”
Mannix eyed him suspiciously, as though questioning whether Marcus had been given advance warning. “As a matter of fact, it does. While we’ve been in here, my secretary has been leaving envelopes on the desks of the people we’re letting go.”
Marcus shot to his feet. “You’re firing us? Some of these people have worked here for years. They’ve produced some of the finest scripts in the industry. And the best you can do is an envelope on the desk?”
“Only those staff members who have shown cause to come under suspicion—”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence, or gave up trying. People stampeded for the door.
Mannix dropped the pile of statements on the table. “Distribute these to your staff when you get a chance.” He headed for the door.
“You mean whatever staff you’ve left me with?” Marcus called out after him. Sitting alone in the deserted conference room, it occurred to him that an envelope might be sitting on his own desk. He rushed down the corridor to his office. His desk was exactly as he left it. Behind him, he heard someone clear his throat. It was Donnie Stewart, an envelope in his hand, unopened.
Donnie held it up. “Marching orders!” He looked past Marcus. “Yes or no?”
Marcus shook his head.
“Listen, a bunch of us dirty low-down ratfink Pinko bastards are convening at the Retake Room. You’ll join us, won’t you?”
“Is your plan to get good and soaked?”
“Till there’s not a drop left in the joint.”
“I’ll be there.”
* * *
In less than half an hour, everyone deemed Waldorf-guilty had left the studio. It felt like a bomb had wiped out a third of Marcus’ staff. Those still left were doing no work but were, Marcus supposed, sitting at their desks staring blankly at their sharpened pencils and balled-up pages. The only sound Marcus could hear was the clack-clack of a sole typewriter several offices down from him. That’s got to be Anson Purvis. He could write through the London Blitz.
Marcus was slingshotting a mound of rubber bands into his trash can when his telephone rang. The caller was Ida Koverman, Mayer’s long-time secretary, telling him that his immediate presence was commanded.
“Should I bring my copy of the Waldorf Statement?”
Miss Koverman hung up without dignifying his jab with a reply.
Marcus was mildly surprised to find only Mayer waiting for him behind the semicircular desk. Where was the usual phalanx of lawyers and yes-men? He motioned for Marcus to take one of the chairs in front of him.
“It’s been a rough day,” Mayer said cheerlessly.
Says the guy who still has his job.
Mayer’s fingers strummed the desk. “We need to talk about your future here.”
Marcus glanced around Mayer’s orderly desk in search of an envelope with his name on it, but there wasn’t one.
“I take it you’ve read the Waldorf Statement? You’ll see it’s quite clear with respect to who we can and cannot have working at the studio.” Mayer took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We must acknowledge the picture of you painted by the HUAC.”
“That was all circumstantial!”
Marcus didn’t mean to shout, but since he got back from Washington—or more specifically, from McKeesport—he found that the things he used to care so much about didn’t matter to him like they used to.
Mayer peered at him, unruffled. “Circumstantial or not, in the eyes of the outside world, it was not a rosy picture. However, we don’t want to lose you, Adler, so we’ve come up with a way to get around all this Waldorf business.”
The ink on your precious Waldorf Statement is barely dry and already you’re looking at ways to get around it. “What have you got in mind?”
“You’re one of the most skilled screenwriters I’ve ever encountered.”
The praise caught Marcus off guard. He popped open his eyes, expecting to detect a hidden agenda. He found only candor.
“Here’s what I propose,” Mayer continued. “You can no longer head up the writing department. I suspect, though, that you’d prefer to just be writing our screenplays.” He must have seen the Yes! in Marcus’ eyes, because he smiled knowingly. “How about we reassign you to the screenwriter role, and allow you to do it from home?”
The chance to work away from the bean counters who seemed to think creating screenplays was like working on a Pontiac production line was every screenwriter’s fantasy. There must be a catch.
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Mr. Mayer?”
“Just one thing.” I’ll be lucky if there’s only one thing. “We won’t be able to offer you screen credit.”
Marcus’ eyes fell onto the copy of the Waldorf Statement that was pressed under Mayer’s fingertips, onto the phrase “to safeguard free speech.”
Of course they can’t give you screen credit. That would undermine the whole arrangement.
But screen credit was currency. It was the screenwriter’s calling card; his way up the ladder of financial compensation; his social standing in the pecking order; and his way of planting a flag in the soil and proclaiming, “I created this.” It was his everything.
“But how would it work?” Marcus asked. “I’d still be on your payroll.”
Mayer gave a self-satisfied leer. “We have more than one payroll, so don’t worry about that. Think of it, Adler. You get to work from home! Get up when you want, write when you want, stop when you want, take Fridays off, sleep in Monday mornings. What a life!”
But something nagged at Marcus. “So I’d be sent my assignments from my replacement?” Mayer nodded. “Have you decided who that’ll be? Because there are a couple of candidates I’d suggest you—”
“Won’t be necessary, Adler. That’s all been sorted out.”
“You already know who the new department head is?” Jesus Christ, the seat back at my desk is still warm. “Who is it?”
DON’T SAY IT! DON’T SAY IT! DON’T SAY IT!
“Anson Purvis will be the new head.”
Of course he is. And you’ve got nobody to blame but yourself. You brought Purvis on board even though you knew which slime pond he crawled out of.
“Have you read Deadly Bedfellows?” Marcus asked.
“Why would I bother with trash like that?”
He stood up and extended his hand. “Thank you for your offer, Mr. Mayer, but I won’t be able to accept.”
Mayer gaped up at him, thunderstruck. “At your current salary, of course.”
“It doesn’t always come down to the money, sir.”
Mayer was now on his feet. “This is no time to be an idealist, Adler. After your fiasco in Washington—”
“I am not a Commie!”
“WHO FUCKING CARES?” Mayer picked up the Waldorf Statement and tossed it into the air. “This is all just for show. It’s PR to keep Congress and the unwashed masses happy. Take the offer, get paid generously for doing what you do best, and keep your head down until it all blows over.”
Marcus knew he might come to regret what he was about to do, but for now, he knew he’d loathe himself if he didn’t. And if there was one thing he’d learned this year, it was that hating was a waste of time. He straightened his spine to give him a full three inches over the little man in front of him.
“Each of us must live with our conscience, Mr. Mayer. And if your shitty Waldorf Statement is what you have to do to sleep at night, then sweet dreams.”
He walked the long white carpet to the walnut doors leading onto Mayer’s outer office, and didn’t break his stride until he hit the elevator button. To his right, a window overlooked the MGM lot. There was, as always, a throng of activity: racks of Victorian costumes, a line of hurrying chorus girls in Esther Williams bathing suits, a trio of clowns juggling in a side alley, violinists walking into the scoring stage.
They all have somewhere to go, he mused. Surely I do, too.