CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Los Angeles, 1959

T he usher, swinging his flashlight back and forth, led me down several flights of stairs, through a heavy, unmarked door, past a cavernous supply room, and along a winding corridor that finally burst into the backstage of the theater. Chaos—a cheerful chaos—reigned.

So Ingrid was actually here; she had come back, and that was why I was being taken backstage. But for what kind of encounter? I wondered if I cared. My thoughts kept going back to my father—my poor father, trying not to disillusion me, hiding the truth. So much was explainable now. I could only wish that he could know, somehow know, that I didn’t care about his lie—I cared that he had lied to protect me. And my poor mother—choosing to live perpetually in sin?

Familiar faces were everywhere. David Niven was pacing back and forth in front of me as a short, officious-looking man kept pace with him, alternately glancing at his clipboard and talking rapidly. I couldn’t remember: had the actor been a friend of my father’s? Maybe not; best to say nothing.

“You’re telling me I’m supposed to look informal?” Niven was sputtering. “Did you notice, I’m in tie and tails? Okay, okay, I’ll strip onstage.”

The comedian Ernie Kovacs stood leaning against a large cardboard backdrop, three cigars sticking out of his mouth. One, I noted, was actually lit.

The tension was heightening as I stood watching. I peeked out from behind the heavy fire curtain and saw why. Before me was the crowded theater; dozens and dozens of Hollywood moguls and stars filled the seats. The recessed platform holding the orchestra was rising slowly from the pit. The musicians struck up the song “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” from Gigi, one of the Best Picture nominees. Maurice Chevalier, wearing one of his jaunty costumes, dapper and smiling, wandered among the backstage crowds, humming his hit tune.

A frowning guard suddenly pulled me away from the curtain. “Lady, who are you? What are you doing here? Do you have a pass?”

I jumped, startled, and flushed as heads turned at the sound of his voice. “No, I don’t, and I don’t know…” I began, looking around for the usher who had brought me here. He had disappeared.

His hand firmly on my shoulder, the guard began guiding me toward an exit door. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave,” he said.

“Wait,” barked a voice. I looked quickly behind me and saw a short, burly man with thinning hair and a cheery smile peering at me. “You’re Jessica Malloy? The girl with the bad haircut, right?”

Only one person here knew about that. “As you can see, it grew out,” I managed, my heart suddenly racing.

He turned to the guard, satisfied. “I can take over here—she’s authorized,” he said. Then a nod to me. “Come with me, okay?”

As we wound through the crowd, my guide—who introduced himself as Burt Kramer—talked nonstop. “I’m handling publicity for this show. A lot of excitement right now, as you can see—it’s only the second time we’ve been on TV; everybody’s nervous. Jerry Wald—he’s the producer—is telling everybody to shorten their routines out there—five sets of hosts this year, a little overkill, don’t you think?—he’s afraid we’ll run over our two hours; if we do, the network will just cut us off.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re here.” He stopped at one of the dressing-room doors, pulled out a key, inserted it into the lock, and ushered me inside. The walls were ringed with mirrors and bathed in soft light. Hanging from a screen was a dress, simply cut, with a glittering bodice and a soft-rose-colored silk skirt.

“She’s wearing that tonight,” Kramer said, catching my glance.

I swallowed hard. “Where is she?”

He glanced at his watch. “She’s running a little late, but I’ll keep you company until she shows up. Have a seat.”

I sank into a chair, trying to put it all together. “Did my mother arrange this?” I asked.

I could have sworn he winced. “Your mother is quite something,” he said. “She wrote back to me that she wanted nothing to do with Ingrid. I didn’t tell Ingrid that. Look, I heard some of Ingrid’s friends tossing around the idea of inviting your mother, so I went with it. It never occurred to me that I could’ve lost my job, sending that invite without clearing it with Bergman first. She was irritated, fair enough; the last thing she needed was having all that stuff raked up in the press again. But she said to send it on to you, and if you came, to bring you here.” He pulled out a handkerchief and swiped at his brow. “Thought at one point I could lose my job. Already said that, didn’t I?” He sank into a chair facing mine.

All that in almost one breath. I found myself rather liking him as the minutes ticked by. The show had long since begun. Even I began to get a little nervous; she couldn’t miss this.

“Did you know my father?”

“Admired him from afar. He’s famous for hitting the right release date for Casablanca: perfect timing.” Kramer paused, fumbling for a cigarette. “You don’t mind, do you? I can’t smoke out there, just in the dressing rooms. I wish she’d hurry up; they’re moving fast out there.” He paused long enough to strike a match and light the cigarette. “I didn’t know him,” he said quietly. “But I hear he was a decent man.”

“He was. He got caught in her scandal. My whole family did.”

“Ingrid wasn’t some harlot or anything, you know,” he said. “It wasn’t all about Rossellini; she was dying to climb out of the box she was in in America. She felt rotten leaving Pia, but that marriage was dust. She learned fast it wasn’t going to be easy. She knows the difference between fact and fantasy; her fans don’t.”

I swallowed hard. “We’ve learned.”

He hardly heard me. “Maybe your father believed in the image more than he should have. Anyway, she wants everything to be authentic. She hates phony back-lot sets. She insists on filming on location every time—not possible. She wants it to be real; nobody else cares.”

“How can it be both ways?”

His jaw set stubbornly. “If people still want her to be a nun all her life, they’re out of luck.”

Ten more minutes went by. Finally, a quick, sharp knock on the door. I jumped up; Kramer was faster. A deliveryman with darting, curious eyes, holding a huge bouquet of roses, started to step into the room.

“Thanks, buddy, I’ve got them,” Kramer said, nudging him backward and reaching for the bouquet. He shut the door and hoisted the flowers onto a shelf. “There will be a whole lot of them,” he said. “We’ve got a lineup of stars ready to toss these beauties at her feet.” He grinned. “Ingrid’s presenting the Best Picture award. How’s that for drama? She’s the real star, and everybody knows it. And I’ll tell you, tonight was planned very carefully to make her ‘welcome home’ a huge event. But back here is where the fun is. Did you see Jayne Mansfield trying to struggle into one of the costumes from Gigi? And wait until you see the soft-shoe routine Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas do; this is going to be quite a night….”

I began to tune out my new friend just as I heard the door handle turn; then the door opened. I stood; I was right this time.

“Hello, Miss Bergman,” I said.

She paused on the threshold—an almost magical presence, dressed in a floral housecoat wrapped indifferently with a braided sash. There were fine lines of tension etched on her face, but she was as beautiful as I remembered.

“So you are Gabriel’s daughter,” she said quietly.

It struck me that she might not remember my name.

“Jessica Malloy,” I said.

She smiled. “Yes, the girl—”

“—with the bad haircut,” I finished, and smiled back.

“You certainly have grown up,” she said.

“I’m trying.”

She laughed, and the atmosphere eased.

Burt Kramer was hovering, scanning a scribbled list of notes he pulled from his pocket. “You’re the last presenter, Miss Bergman,” he said rapidly. “You’ll be shown your mark at the curtain; when you’re called out, walk toward the podium from the right side of the Oscar statue and—”

“That huge piece of gold-plated cardboard? I’m curious, who gets to take that one home tonight?” she said lightly, as she moved toward the dressing table.

A look of consternation swept over Burt Kramer’s face; he obviously didn’t have much of a sense of humor.

“No one, at least I don’t think so—”

“That’s all right, Burt, I’m just kidding. Would you mind leaving us alone for a while?”

“Of course,” he said, his voice back under control. A flurry of quick goodbyes and he bustled out the door, staring once again at his batch of notes.

“He’s a good man, but he does sometimes remind me of the White Rabbit,” Ingrid murmured, running a brush through her hair. With all the mirrors in this dressing room, she managed not to look at any of them.

“Miss Bergman, I’m delighted to see you again, but I am wondering why—” I began.

“Why I wanted to see you?” she said, laying the brush down. “A simple reason. I forgot your name, but I had this memory of your lively face as a child, that time Gabriel brought you to the studio. I wondered then if Pia would look like you when she was older.” Her voice trailed off.

“I remember you telling me that,” I managed.

“Then there was that ridiculous trip you and your father took to Stromboli. You, so confused…” She shook her head. “I pushed the truth at you. Wiped childhood off your face.”

“I never thought—”

She wasn’t really listening. “I wondered a few times,” she said with a catch in her voice, “how my daughter reacted when she heard.”

I had no answer for that. It was no secret that she had fought long and hard with Pia’s father to get reasonable access to her daughter. And it had never been enough.

We sat for a moment in silence.

Now she looked at me directly. “I was too abrupt that day,” she said.

I blinked, briefly closing my eyes. “You were caught in a hard place,” I said.

“And you came out as my defender and almost got your head taken off. I know.” She sighed and stood. “I better get this thing on.” She reached for the dress hanging on the screen, and briefly slipped behind the screen. I heard the rustle of the fabric as it slid over her body. She emerged, brow furrowed. “Too many people thought they knew me,” she said. “A movie star is a ridiculous commercial product. You know that now. I didn’t realize back then it gave license to destroy. People saw me in Joan of Arc and thought I was a saint. You really all became”—she was searching for words—“my enemies.”

“But you were never mine.”

She seemed off balance for a second. Then: “What I wish people understood?” she said. “Not everything in life has happy endings. That isn’t fair, I guess; I fantasize, too. Maybe that’s why I’ve been more comfortable in my screen roles than in everyday life.”

What could I tell her about her role in shaping me? I tried. “You were important in ways you couldn’t possibly know,” I said. “You embodied what I idealized, what I wanted to be true. You were my hero.”

“I didn’t want to be anybody’s hero,” she said. “I hope to never have to run from that pedestal again.” Her face was grave—open, focused inward. It was not turned up to the light, it was not the pure holiness of Sister Mary Benedict; it held its own.

For just a moment, we both hovered between dreams and reality.

She turned her back to me; the moment evaporated. “Now, just to the mundane: can you help me with this zipper?” she said. “I can’t reach it.”

My fingers were only a little shaky as I zipped up the dress. Make-believe had always felt to me like a protected world, even though I knew that wasn’t true. “Were you angry?” I asked.

“Yes. I was angry at everybody.”

“Including my father?”

“Including your father. He was selling the product.” She paused. “But he was a good man, and I’m sorry you lost him.”

From beyond the door, I could hear a mix of voices, laughter, and music. The 1959 Academy Awards show was moving slowly toward closure.

She smiled gently. “Do let go of me, Jesse. I’m just a person. And I’m reclaiming this part of life as my own.”

I returned her smile. “And I am reclaiming mine,” I said.

An aide’s head popped through the door. “Miss Bergman, it’s time.”

Ingrid stood to full height and was suddenly transformed. Her skin glowed with color. Her dark hair, casually flipped, was rich with texture; her knee-length dress had become a costume of dreams—lushly sequined silk swirling around this fabled star, now remote, cloaked in her fame.

“Walk with me?” she said.

We left the room and walked past a nervous Burt Kramer, whose look of relief at seeing his charge dressed and ready for tonight’s re-entry celebration was palpable; past stacks of boxes and huddled aides, stars tugging at collars, eager for the climactic scene coming soon. We paused at the curtain.

It didn’t take long. Jerry Lewis grabbed the mike as the house fell into an anticipatory hush. No jokes, just swift words. “And now, folks, I give you Cary Grant.”

The actor, an anticipatory gleam in his eye, bounded gracefully onto the stage. He took the microphone from Lewis and faced the audience, which suddenly crackled with anticipation. The people in their tuxes and glittering jewels beyond the lights leaned forward as one. They knew—the whispers had spread.

“For the past two years,” Cary Grant began, speaking slowly in his distinct, always recognizable voice, “I have appeared here as a stand-in for a great actress and a great lady—and tonight I get to relinquish that role.” He paused, turned to the stage curtain, and reached out his hand. The theater fell into a hush.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said slowly, savoring each word, “it is now my great pleasure to welcome back our own Ingrid Bergman!”

“Nine years,” I whispered to myself.

A roar of applause filled the cavernous theater—sustained, vigorous applause, hundreds of hands clapping furiously for a star. Ingrid’s face lit with grace and triumph. She turned to me.

“Goodbye, Jesse,” she said. “Go live your life.” She lifted her head and walked out onto the stage, the bodice of her dress capturing every shard of light, a smile on her face as fresh and real as that of anyone triumphantly reclaiming a life.

And I could say it all myself with few words: “Goodbye, Ingrid,” I murmured. “You, too.”

It was complete now, the necessary goodbyes. Goodbye to Saint Ann’s, goodbye to my dreams of a fantasized home. Goodbye to a church that no longer spoke to me. And, finally, quite peacefully, goodbye to Ingrid. I didn’t need a hero anymore; I didn’t have to face the armor and steel of a fictional Joan of Arc and wonder why I couldn’t be better than I was. It felt like my heart was unclenching. I could open the doors: love my father, learn to understand and love my mother, and leave the past where it belonged, in the past. I could—with a little more work—untangle the fantasies of my childhood without fearing the realities beneath.

At least, I could try.

“You look very deep in thought,” a male voice said.

I didn’t even turn around. Just smiled to myself. “Were you going to be here all the time?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Not until Kathleen suggested it might be a good idea to show up. Didn’t know what that might mean, so here I am. You okay?”

“Yes,” I said, turning to face him fully now, reaching for his hand.

“What next, Jesse?” Malcolm said.

“I’m not going back to New York right away,” I said, mildly astonished at the ease of my decision.

“What’s your plan?”

“I’m going up to Sacramento to see my mother.”

“What decided that?”

“I’ve held her away from me for long enough. I think it’s about time we reached out to each other.” I touched her note, secure in the pocket of my skirt. “Actually, she already has,” I amended. “It’s my turn.”

He smiled—his glance easy, almost tender—and started to say something, but the orchestra burst forth, swelling louder and louder. The 1959 Academy Awards Ceremony was coming to an end.

Mitzi Gaynor strode onto center stage and burst into an exuberant rendition of “There’s No Business Like Show Business.” As the audience joined in, a hidden platform, lined with all the presenters, emcees, and Oscar winners holding hands, standing side by side, rose from below; the hit tune felt as stirring as an anthem, which, I realized, it truly was. It was their anthem. I watched the stars grasping each other’s hands, transcending their many made-up selves, their identities as burlesque queens, death-row murderers, lovers, kings, cowboys, and, yes, saints, and saw that, if there were true selves in this world of make-believe, here they were.

And I could cheer them on and walk away now and truly say to them all: Goodbye, and I no longer feel caught with a foot in your made-up world, and you don’t want me there anyway.

“Quite a show,” Malcolm murmured.

“It always is,” I said.

“You look happy,” he said.

I turned that over in my mind, slowly, and knew my answer.

“Yes, I am.”