CHAPTER FOUR

Los Angeles, 1942–43

It was not an easy transition. I was reasonably up-to-date on history and civics, but daunted by theology, especially after I saw the size of the book I was supposed to master. I thought of protesting that I was not yet twelve years old—this was surely for the older girls, right? Wrong.

And it was unnerving to move from classroom to study hall to lunch, wondering if I was supposed to say hello to the grave-faced nuns gliding like silent blackbirds around the campus grounds. I usually settled for a nod and a tentative smile.

Our schedules were a mix of ordinary school and religion. Every Monday, all students had to attend morning Mass in the school chapel. I would get there early, yawning, my mandated beanie on my head, and doze a bit as the priest prepared to celebrate the Eucharist. Though I complained at home, in truth I came to like those quiet mornings. The hymns playing softly on the organ were soothing, and the fragrance of the candles and altar flowers made praying every day less boring. The chapel itself was a tiny jewel box of gilded statues and burnished wooden pews and railings. I particularly liked the melancholy paintings of Christ carrying his cross up to his death on Calvary. I began to feel a knitting together of the stories and the rules, a deepening of belief, especially during those brief moments when I actually thought about what those paintings depicted.

I also soon realized my classmates were not devout nuns-in-the-making, as I had feared. They chewed bubble gum and read comic books just like me; some of them became my friends, and some treated me from the beginning as the snotty Beverly Hills kid they assumed I was.

I was slowly relaxing into the rhythms of Saint Ann’s world as the months went by. I even managed to finish an assignment on how God’s existence could be proved through study of the natural universe—everything from trees and animals to the rhythms of day and night. It was called “intelligent design.” I wasn’t really sure what I was saying, but I got a B.

I was curious about Kathleen Cochran. She was my age and on the school tennis team, but I couldn’t figure out a casual way to get to know her. When I tried a few times, she looked right through me. I wondered whether she didn’t like the fact that I had been witness to Sister Teresa Mary ordering her out of the pool—but I honestly didn’t think so. She hadn’t acted embarrassed at all.

She was popular at Saint Ann’s, probably because she was something of an aerialist when it came to breaking the rules, walking the high wire, while people like me watched and held their breath.

How did she get away with not bothering to put on her school beanie when we gathered in the school chapel for Mass? We always had to cover our heads in church; I wouldn’t dare to question that. Kathleen didn’t actually defy; she just went her own free, breezy sort of way, and yet the nuns loved her. Even Sister Teresa Mary.

I took to sitting in the tennis-court bleachers to watch her practice with her teammates at lunchtime. She had a wicked backhand, hitting hard, as her short-cropped, bouncy red curls jumped like bedsprings. “Fifteen–love!” she would yell, and whatever opponent was playing her that day would usually just be waiting for the inevitable “Thirty–love!” that soon followed. She was good-humored, joking with other players after a game, and her reputation for daring never seemed to get her in trouble. I couldn’t help wishing she was my friend.

One night in early November, I was doing homework in our new, expansive kitchen—it even had a dishwasher—while my parents, drinking their honey-gold cocktails, murmured and laughed over some funny story Father had brought home from the studio. I could hear pages turn as he scanned the evening paper.

“Holy Jesus,” he suddenly sputtered, thrusting the front page into Mother’s hand. “The Allied forces have landed in Casablanca.”

“That’s good,” Mother said, a little bewildered.

“Good? No, it’s perfect!” He jumped up and raced for the phone. We listened, agape, as he ordered a studio operator to connect him immediately to the all-powerful Howard Hughes’s private number. “Howard?” he roared into the phone. “Are you listening? The Allies are in Casablanca, and our movie is ready! We can’t wait two weeks. We’ve gotta release it now!”

Of course, what could be better publicity for Ingrid’s movie? The very next day, Hughes ordered that Casablanca should be released to the public. That left us blissful in the knowledge that Ingrid Bergman’s movie rode to triumph with the Allied forces and was an immediate hit. Slaps on the back, praise, and a fat bonus—all of it came my father’s way.

Mother was proud, too—I could see it. When he insisted we go out to dinner to celebrate, she hurried to the bedroom and put on a new dress, a blue print of crunchy taffeta sprinkled with tiny yellow marigolds. She executed a few dance steps as she came out, looking so beautiful that I felt a sudden shyness.

Just that week, Father had insisted she should look every bit as good as the other Hollywood wives up the street. So, ignoring her protests, he had taken her to I. Magnin, the most elegant of the Los Angeles department stores.

There they sat on a sofa while young women with skin as pale as waxed fruit took turns modeling fine wool suits that molded to the body and full-skirted gowns with intricate designs stitched in fine silk. It was, Mother told me later, overwhelmingly exciting. Father chose half a dozen dresses to buy, and when she tried to object, he said, quite seriously, “You will be wearing these, not too long from now, and I want you to be ready.”

And now here she was.

At the restaurant, Mother sat erect, self-consciously smoothing down the folds of her skirt, carefully holding her cocktail so not a drop could stain that dress. It was clear, even to me, that she had never worn anything so elegant in her life. She was loving it, and loving my father. And I was getting easy smiles from her, without her usual furrowed brow.

I wanted to bottle that evening, to take it home with me and make it last forever, make it so strong that no tensions could break it apart.

The wave of Father’s good fortune had not yet crested. Over the next year he orchestrated a grand flourish of publicity for Ingrid, especially where it concerned the film that mattered to her the most: For Whom the Bell Tolls. As I entered sixth grade pictures of Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman were pasted on billboards everywhere, and Hollywood columnists were tossing effusive praise like bouquets of roses. I was thrilled that it was my father’s show, but I wasn’t allowed to boast: bad form, my father said. Keep your triumphs muted and nobody gets nasty. I’ve tripped up on that, at times.

“Would you like to go see Ingrid’s new movie with me on Saturday?” Mother said one night as we sat around the dinner table.

“You and me? For Whom the Bell Tolls?”

She smiled brightly. “Of course. You’re old enough now. And you are doing beautifully at Saint Ann’s.”

That was important. I was realizing myself that my father’s elevated status meant I had to perform, too. Mother wanted everything perfect. This meant dance and even riding lessons, which I got out of by proclaiming myself in terror of horses. But, no question, bringing home a report card sprinkled with A’s had helped me along, in my mother’s eyes, to maturity. “Yes, oh yes,” I said.

She and my father raised their usual cocktail glasses, touching them together with the tiniest of clinks, and glanced into each other’s eyes.

“To the pleasures of growing up,” Mother murmured.

Again, no question, I told myself: Mother was softening. Not too much; she didn’t know For Whom the Bell Tolls had just been labeled “Objectionable in Part” by the Legion of Decency. My father had slipped the report of that news—carried in the archdiocesan newspaper, The Tidings—under a sofa pillow before cocktail time. He didn’t laugh as much these days about the censors’ poking away at every scene in every movie, looking for something to condemn. Somewhere along the way, the censors had become too powerful.

She found out the next day, but she didn’t back off her invitation. I was dizzy with anticipation. I had never seen a movie that was Objectionable in Part. Thank goodness, it wasn’t condemned: I would have pushed to see it anyway.

The line outside the theater was long and filled with excitement. I heard people chattering back and forth to each other: “I’ve seen it twice already. Wait until you see her face; oh, she’s so beautiful, it makes me want to eat rose petals,” one woman sighed to another. “Did you know she never wears makeup?” the woman ahead of us in line said to Mother. “Can you believe it? Not even lipstick.”

Walking into that darkened theater was one of the most thrilling things I had ever done. Being there with Mother felt strange at first, but she bought me a big box of popcorn and seemed almost as eager as I was. When the music and credits began, we slumped down into our seats, munching away, and she never scolded me about spilling some of it over her new gray coat.

I soon forgot her presence. I was swept up by the violence and the drama of the plot—would the guerrillas be able to push back the enemy by blowing up a critical bridge? But mostly I was captivated by the growing love between Robert Jordan, the American fighting with the guerrillas, and Maria, the Spanish girl played by Ingrid.

Only near the end was I aware of Mother. She was leaning forward, tears in her eyes.

Gary Cooper, as Jordan, lies badly injured. He cannot be moved—he cannot ride—and the enemy is approaching. He insists on sending the weeping Maria away to safety with the guerrillas. And then he cradles his gun, awaiting the enemy—and his inevitable fate.

We emerged from the theater into a soft, balmy evening and walked slowly to the family car, each of us still somewhere off in the mountains of Spain.

“How did you like it?” Mother finally asked.

“I thought it was wonderful.”

“So did I,” she said.

How could it be, my mother and I feeling alike about anything? Certainly not about the yearnings of love and romance!

I took a stab at being funny, not sure how it would go over. “I’ve kind of wondered what Maria was thinking when she and Jordan kissed,” I said. “You know, when she asked him where the noses go?”

Mother actually giggled—softly, like a girl. “I used to puzzle over that, too,” she said. “You learn.”

I felt quite grown-up. We were actually having a conversation. In the car, almost back to the house, I took another chance and asked her if I could get my hair cut like Ingrid’s. It was so daringly short, kind of free and challenging, and I knew she wouldn’t agree.

She was silent at first, as she reached for the ignition key and shut the car engine off in the driveway of our super-grand new home. She turned to me.

“Okay,” she said. “Why not?”

It was stunning. And now I couldn’t stop babbling. I loved the movie, I was crazy about Gary Cooper, Ingrid was beautiful and enthralling—as usual, of course, but, then, she was wonderful, wasn’t she?

Mother didn’t answer. We reached the kitchen door, and only then did I realize my father’s car was not in the driveway. The house was dark.

I kept babbling. Cooper was tremendously brave when he blew up the bridge; I was sure he wouldn’t make it, but he did and—

Mother pushed open the door, her face in shadow. “Men enjoy blowing up bridges,” she said, flicking on a light in her spotless kitchen. I glanced at her; her mouth was pulled tight.

“It was for a good cause—”

She didn’t seem to hear me. “At least as much as they enjoy building them,” she added. “And women? We let them do it.”

What did that mean? I knew American soldiers were fighting and dying in Europe and Asia. I worried a lot that my father might have to go fight, but Mother told me he was too old. Every month we had our paper drives; every month we bundled our newspapers and brought them to the school parking lot, although I was vague on exactly how the papers helped. We would also save rubber bands and bring them, and this was another part of being patriotic. And now Mother was saying men liked destroying things and women let them do it; did that make war our fault?

“Jesse, I don’t mean just bridges literally.” Mother was reaching out, her voice hesitant. “Sometimes women have to suffer for what men do. I don’t mean to sound so angry. And there are men who suffer for what women do to them.” She paused, and then seemed unable to say anything more.

And there I was again, feeling in over my head.

I sat in the bleachers on Monday, watching Kathleen trounce her tennis opponent—thinking about the movie, which I knew I shouldn’t talk about having seen, because it was classified as objectionable by the Church. It felt quite daring, and I wanted to tell somebody, but I knew it might invite disapproval.

So I wasn’t prepared when Kathleen walked over after the game, straight to me, bouncing a bright yellow tennis ball on the strings of her racquet.

“You’re always sitting here. Do you play?” she asked casually.

I shook my head. “I’m not the athletic type,” I said, feeling stupid.

“Why do you watch?”

I blushed. “Because it looks like fun. And you play so well.”

She smiled. “Better to be a doer than a watcher,” she said.

“I like swimming.”

“So that’s why you were at the pool. I remember you staring at me that day.” She pulled a ChapStick out of her pocket, twisted it open, and smeared it across her mouth with an impatient gesture. She rubbed her lips together with a slight smacking sound. “Want to learn?”

I nodded.

“Okay.” She nodded toward the racquet her opponent had left locked tight in its wooden case. “Take that, and let’s hit a few. I’ve got a couple of minutes.”

I felt a sudden need to show her I wasn’t just one more callow newcomer. “You know,” I blurted as she unscrewed the case for me, “I saw For Whom the Bell Tolls Saturday.”

Kathleen flashed a quick grin and set her bright red hair in motion, then shrugged her shoulders and raised an eyebrow. “So did I. Ingrid Bergman was swell.”

I figured then we were going to be friends.

I was right. We each gave the other a link to a needed, but different, plane. It was Kathleen who helped me navigate the tiptoeing necessary in my muddled world of glamour and religion. To be a product of Hollywood meant learning how to play the right part at the right time so you looked perfect. To be a Catholic was different. Once you were baptized into the One True Religion, you didn’t just have to look perfect, you had to abide by a stiff book of rules that you couldn’t ever ignore, not if you intended to make heaven. But it was more than that. It was mystery and beauty and the pageantry of the Mass, and it was the hunger to believe. If that hunger faded? Well, you were on your own then. A tricky journey, reaching the point of knowing your own heart and brain.

Kathleen reached that point long before I did.