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Because I was getting with Madalina every night, I wasn't thirsty. And that's probably why Juanita, who was generally distrustful of men, let her hair down with me.
I had some experience spinning plates by then, and so wasn't completely transparent. But Madalina must have sensed that someone else turned my head. Her efforts to please me in little ways intensified, and her lovemaking grew so passionate as to not just satisfy me physically, but also enthrall me emotionally, and perhaps even spiritually.
Still, I couldn't get enough of Juanita. Maybe we would never have sex, but I wanted to spend time with her just the same. Had I not been kicked around some by the female of the species early on, and had Dad's guidance to make me understand it, I would have fallen for her...hard.
Juanita held my hand through most of the premier, and discreetly pointed herself out at her first appearance on screen. At her second appearance (a medium close-up of her gathering berries) thinking it would be amusing and maybe entice a non-sleazy talent agent to take a closer look at her, I wolf-whistled and called out, "What a dish! Put her in a movie of her own!"
It went over like a fart in Church. Juanita released my hand and recoiled, mortified. Nearby attendees scowled at us and murmured disapprovingly.
I realized that I had brought the wrong kind of attention down on Juanita. I made her look low-class and amateurish in a crowded auditorium full of influential people. I couldn't enjoy the rest of the movie after that, and assumed I had blown it with Juanita for keeps.
After the credits rolled and the lights came up, Juanita shot up from her seat, ready to bolt for the nearest exit, but a fat man in an expensive suit stood and blocked her way, extending his pudgy hand.
"Lew LaPierre," he said. "I'm sorry...Miss...?"
"Viola Fontaine," Juanita said, politely shaking his hand.
LaPierre removed the cigar from his mouth to kiss her hand. "Great name. Charmed. I'm over at MGM."
Juanita warmed up a little. "I've been at Fox, Warner's, Columbia..." she nodded toward the screen. "And, of course, Paramount for this one. But I've always thought MGM does the best musicals."
LaPierre released her hand and turned to me. "And who is this boisterous young man?"
I extended my hand. "Pete. And the apology is all mine, sir. I guess I forgot how to act in polite company."
LaPierre shook my hand and looked over the uniform. "Oh, it's nothing, Pete. I wouldn't want our soldier-boys to be any other way. I just hope you're twice as gutsy when you meet the Huns over there. You are going to Europe?"
"Can't say for sure," I said. "But I suspect most of the guys Uncle Sam has here in California will wind up in the Pacific."
"Makes perfect sense," he said. "Perfect sense. Well, you give those Japs some hell, then, Pete."
"Yes sir."
He turned back to Juanita. "Have you two known each other long?"
She shook her head. "Less than a week."
"Well, good for you, Miss Fontaine. Got to have something for our boys to come home to. I hope you won't be too hard on him for his little outburst."
"He's new to Hollywood, Mr. LaPierre," she said, glaring at me.
He coughed, harrumphed, and chuckled through cigar smoke. "Oh, really? I couldn't tell." He stepped closer to Juanita, examining her face. "You're photogenic. Got a nice kisser. It walks that fine line between exotic and Main Street. You could pass for an Indian even without makeup...or at least a half-breed...and could kiss the leading man without alienating the white women in the audience."
She tried not to be obvious, but I noticed Juanita gulp. "What picture did you have in mind, Mr. LaPierre?"
He waved as if swatting at a mosquito. "Ah, some writer from the pool has been pitching an idea. I'm not sure if it could ever get the green light anyway, or how well it would go over." He lowered his voice. "Look: you two make a cute couple. You should go out the front door. That photographer might still be there. A cute couple like you, and the doing-your-part-for-the-war-effort angle...could get you in the paper, Miss Fontaine. Who knows who might see that photo"
"Funny you should say that, Mr. LaPierre," I said. "Those were her very words, when she let me buy her a cup of coffee: doing her part for the war effort."
He shook his head, grinning around his cigar. "Cute, like I said. Down-home cute. People would eat that up." He winked at Juanita, and handed her a business card. Casually, he said, "Come on by the Metro lot some time, Miss Fontaine. I know some people who might could find something for you to do, if you don't mind showing some leg."
"She's got great gams," I assured him. "She can dance, too. And you should hear her sing."
He gave me an amused up-and-down look. "Big fan you got, here. When this war's over, maybe he should stop by the studio. Could play a role like Tarzan. He's got the enthusiasm of a scout, or a pitch man if nothing else."
Another man in a suit arrived and greeted LaPierre. We were instantly forgotten as the two of them talked shop.
I pushed my elbow out. "Maybe we should hurry, before the photographers call it a night."
She took my arm, but said, "We don't have to go that way, Pete. I didn't bring you here to use as a prop to get their attention."
"Use me," I said. "Use me. It's the least I could do after embarrassing you like that."
We strolled arm-in-arm through the paparazzi, me trying not to grit my teeth as the cameras flashed. Having my photo in a newspaper was probably not a good idea, but I wanted Juanita to get her big break, if she could. Besides, what were the chances the Erasers would just happen to land in this timestream, and just happen to peruse some Hollywood newspaper, and just happen to recognize me as a refugee from the future?
I took Juanita to dinner at the Ambassador Hotel, then for dancing at the Coconut Grove.
During a breather, Juanita took my arm, even though we were seated, and said, "Sweet Pete. You've spent a fortune on all these dates. And I know you didn't want to have your picture taken. You turned white as a ghost when Mr. LaPierre suggested getting photographed. But you did it, anyway."
"After acting the rube in front of all those big wigs," I said, and took too big of a gulp from my martini. "I thought that crack would be funny, maybe get you discovered. I see how stupid that was, now. I never meant to humiliate you."
She planted a warm kiss on my cheek. "I wanted to just die. But, as it turns out...it worked. I've never had a producer give me his card before. I guess it's true what they say: there's no such thing as negative publicity."
"Who says that?" I wondered, aloud.
"Some studio executives." She leaned back and looked me over. "So, Pete...what's your story?"
"Nothing special," I said. "Just a rube from out of town. Met a beautiful doll, with a beautiful voice. Want to wine her and dine her."
"And feed-corny-line-her?"
I laughed at her clever addendum.
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Pete. You don't get off that easy. Come on—let's have it."
I gave her the cover story I'd concocted in case of a situation like this. I based it off of some true plot points to make it plausible: being born in Missouri; moving to the Orange Grove; rich father; saintly mother. I kept all the details as boring as possible. She watched me closely the whole time.
"There's a lot you're not telling me," she said, and pursed her lovely lips, thoughtfully.
"How are you so sure?" I replied.
She shrugged. "Call it a woman's intuition. You weren't happy in Missouri, for one thing."
I shrugged right back at her. "Who is happy, in misery?"
"Want to hear my theory?" she asked, ignoring my pun.
"Sure. Let's have it."
She took a sip of her drink and gazed up at the ceiling. "Something's missing about your father. He died. Or he abandoned you during the Depression. Farm got wiped out during the Dust Bowl. Your mother...you didn't like her too much either." She closed her eyes for a moment. "They both abandoned you. You're adopted." She opened her eyes to look at me again. "Definitely adopted, for my money. You had a raw deal as a kid, but then caught a big break when that nice, wealthy couple picked you out of all those hungry orphans. They must have fallen in love with that handsome little mug of yours. You were lucky, and you know it."
Obviously, she got lots of details wrong. But it amazed me how accurate she was, thematically. I just raised my eyebrows and listened.
"You went back to Missouri—probably after dropping out of high school. Got mixed up with the wrong crowd." She gave me the once-over again. "It was a girl who drew you in. You were sweet on her—maybe in love with her. Still carried a torch for her even after you caught wise to the double-cross. But over time you lost that torch—and your innocence with it. This girl was almost opposite of me: blonde hair; blue eyes. No—red hair and green eyes. Maureen O'Hara passed right in front of you at the Trocadero the other night and all the drips there nearly broke their necks. Except for you—you didn't even give her a second look."
"That just means I only have eyes for you," I said.
"Hmmf. Smooth guy. So this girl...she was tall and built like a starving flapper, but not just physically different from me. She was rough around the edges. An able Grable, who did things for you you just don't do before you're married...outside Hollywood, anyway. So thanks to her, you got pulled in for it. I'd say...bank robbery."
She took another sip. "You've got a good poker face right now, but I'm striking a nerve. They left you holding the bag, and you took the fall. Lousy lawyer, no lawyer, the judge threw the book, and you went up the river. You never squealed, but you learned your lesson about that girl—swore you'd never fall like that again. You only like me because I'm so different from her. But you still don't trust us—women I mean—not completely. So you like me, but you're cagey."
"I don't like you just because you're different from some fictitious gun moll," I said.
"I'm not finished," she said, holding up her index finger. "You never squealed, but you didn't forgive and forget, either. You're intelligent. You broke out of the pen, put on a new face. I don't think 'Pete' is your real name. You tracked down the double-crossers, and got your share of the money back...or maybe all of it. All those clams you spend around town didn't come from selling oranges. Anyway, you're on the lam. That's why you don't want your picture taken. That's why you worked so hard to catch up on all the latest dance steps that you missed out on while you were up the river. You try to talk like the alligators, but some of your squawk is out of date; and some of it is probably only used in prison, 'cause I've never heard it. You work too hard to be hep, fit in; but you don't fit in... Then along comes this war, and it's your chance to start fresh, with a clean slate."
"Forget singing," I said, "You should be a scriptwriter. That would make a swell movie."
"Well," she said, kissing my cheek again, "your secret is safe with me, whatever it is. But I've got you pegged, for my money."
"I'm not on the lam from a bank robbery rap," I said. "I deserted the French Foreign Legion. And my sweetheart left me for some big gorilla that took her to New York. Joke's on him, though, 'cause some Air Corps boys shot him right off the Empire State Building. 'Twas Beauty that killed the Beast."
"You're a humor," she said. "What was her name?"
"Faye somebody."
"Maybe you do fit in, at that," she said, thoughtfully. "Everybody in Hollywood has got a secret, a phony story, or something they're hiding from. Me? My phony story is Viola Fontaine. I'm running from a dull little life on a boring little ranch in the Four Corners of Nowhere, USA."
"So what's your secret?" I asked.
"Can't tell you. It's a secret."
I pulled at the collar of my uniform blouse. "If it's a military secret, I have clearance."
"Not for this one. It goes straight to the top."
I shrugged. "Okay."
She gave me another intense stare, took another pull from her wine glass, then looked away and sighed heavily. She seemed both fearful and fatalistic as she said, "I'm sure you're shipping out any day now, and I'll never..." she took another drink. "Somebody grazed right over that secret tonight, Pete. Almost landed right on it."
I looked into her dark eyes, dumbfounded. "I guess I missed that."
She looked away again. "Mr. LaPierre, when he said I could pass for a half-breed. My mother is part Navajo, Pete. The hats, gloves, and long-sleeved outfits aren't just a style—I have to avoid the sun as much as possible, or my skin will darken, and the jig will be up."
I waited for the rest of it, then realized what she was driving at. "The jig...? Oh. Oh, jeez. These Hollywood fat cats are so open-minded, aren't they? They go out of their way to put Indians in all these movies, but only fake ones. Except John Ford, maybe. He'll use them as extras, but won't give one a speaking role."
She stared intensely again, watching me closely.
"You thought that would end it, with me?" I asked.
"Doesn't it?"
I scoffed. "That's the craziest idea ever," I said.
Her face began to change. She began fanning herself with both hands.
"What's the matter?"
"I'm about to cry, you dizzy dope. I don't want to make a spectacle—even though you did, back at the theater."
"What gives?" I asked. "I don't know what I did. I didn't mean to make you cry."
Despite her efforts, tears leaked out. I pulled her to me. She threw her arms around my neck with surprising strength, and pressed her face against me.
"What a silly thing to be ashamed of," I said.
"I'm not ashamed," she sobbed into my collar. "I'm from a good Christian family. My father is a deacon at our church. He fought in the First World War, and loves this country. Our house has its own flagpole. He runs Old Glory up the pole every dawn, and takes it down every dusk, never letting it touch the ground. And unlike most people, he did it long before Pearl Harbor. I used to sing the National Anthem at every baseball game. My mother volunteered at the soup kitchen in town. Our family was struggling to make ends meet, but we still shared what we could with people in need. We're good people. American as apple pie. It's ignorant and unfair to judge me without knowing anything about me."
I held her tight and searched for a way to comfort her. "Your secret's safe with me, Juanita."
"What about my heart?"
"Are you on the level?"
She never answered.
No period costume would be complete without a cloth handkerchief. When she settled down, I pulled it out and wiped her face and eyes.
"Sweet Pete," she said, softly. "I'd better go powder my nose."
When she returned, I took her hands in mine and we sat gazing into each other's eyes.
The band played "The Very Thought of You," and I tugged her out to the dance floor. It felt great to hold her. We moved together, smooth and slow.
"I'm so glad you like this song," she whispered.
"I'm pretty sure it was written just for you," I said.
"Sweet Pete. You're batting over 500 today, soldier."
Another slow ballad ("Perfidia") followed, and we remained on the dance floor.
Somebody tapped my shoulder. It was some well-heeled gent who looked just old enough to be safe from the draft. "Mind if I cut in, soldier?"
Irritated, Juanita told him, "Buzz off, Jackson. I'm rationed." For emphasis, she pulled my head down and tried sucking my lips off. When we broke the kiss, the guy was gone.
"Are you rationed?" I asked.
"If you want me to be," she said.
***
THE TROLLEYS HAD QUIT running when we left the Coconut Grove. I hailed a cab and rode with her to her apartment.
During the ride, Juanita used my handkerchief to wipe her lipstick off my face. Then, turning my head by the chin to inspect both sides, she said, "Well, you might as well get one more for the road while I have this out." She kissed my cheek again, then rubbed it off.
"Why don't you wipe your lips while you're at it," I suggested, "and we can do it right."
She rolled her eyes toward the cabbie, and shook her head. I took that to mean it would be either rude or scandalous to neck with each other right behind our cab driver. For some reason, she was less inhibited in a ballroom full of people than in a taxi; but I knew the moral protocols were pretty strict at these coordinates, and chalked it up to a complex, quaint female code of propriety.
"Let's play a game," she said. "I go first, then you go. The first movie star you had a crush on. Mine was John Wayne, in Stagecoach."
"Didn't he marry a Mexican woman?" I asked.
She nodded.
"And he's becoming a big star," I said.
"But she's not."
"Does she want to be?"
"Hmm. But it's your turn, now."
I thought for a moment. "I figure maybe Maureen O'Sullivan as Jane. But then there's Myrna Loy in Test Pilot."
"Wonderful movie," she said. "Clark Gable was fantastic. Spencer Tracy was ducky, too."
"It was black and white, of course," I added. "If she's a green-eyed redhead, I don't know it."
"Regardless," Juanita said, "Myrna Loy is not the girl on the screen you had a crush on. That character is a myth. A fairy tale character—as artificial as margarine."
"Don't say that," I admonished her, only half-joking. "You're getting dirty fingerprints all over the fantasy."
She cut loose a young-girl-giggle like I'd never heard from her before. After recovering, she pinched my cheek. "Turnabout is fair play—you had to go and remind me that John Wayne is married, with children."
"Profound apologies," I said.
She turned serious, as if she had flipped a switch in her emotion compartment. "If I ever make it big, it will be some persona just as artificial who draws the crowds and sells the tickets. But what you're seeing right now is the bona fide article, Pete. I am just that simple girl with the dull life from the boring little ranch in Nowhere, USA."
"I kind of like that simple girl," I said.
"Sweet Pete. But I'm going to have to hide that girl from the public, if I ever get my big break. That girl won't draw crowds or sell tickets."
"It works for some of them," I said, thumbing toward my chest. "Besides...is drawing crowds and selling tickets worth that?" I asked.
"That's the question every girl in this town has to ask herself...because if she hides the real her for long enough, she might get lost in all the disguises years down the road. Then there's nothing left but the fake, phony, artificial persona. When I first got here, none of that even occurred to me. But I study people, and I see that happening all around me. Not that long ago, I did still think it would be worth it, to have lots of people applaud my acting, cheer my dancing, or wish they could sing like me. But I'm not so sure anymore. Is all that stuff really so important?"
"Not important enough to trade your soul for," I said. "Not in my book."
"Or my virginity," she said, in a hushed tone.
"So, what really is important?" I asked.
"That's the question I'm starting to ask," she said, staring out the window.
We arrived at her apartment and I walked her to her door.
"I would ask you in for a nightcap," Juanita said, "but my roommate drank the last of the booze."
"Who needs booze?" I replied. "It isn't alcohol, nor yellow gals at all..."
"You're still right off the cob," she said. "My landlady doesn't allow gentleman callers this late, either."
"Okay. I guess this is it, then," I said.
"When will I see you again?" she asked. "You must be shipping out, soon."
"How about tomorrow?" I asked.
She nodded, smiling. "I'm on the evening shift at the Canteen. But pick me up here in the morning, and we'll have the whole day together."
I produced the handkerchief again, and wiped her lipstick off.
"What gives, masher?" she protested.
I was no singer, but I did my best to answer musically:
Give me your lips for just one moment
And my imagination will make that moment live
Give me what you alone can give:
A kiss to build a dream on.
"That does deserve a kiss," she said, and gave me one.
Afterwards, she asked, "What was that from?"
"You never heard it?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"I've finally stumped you, Juanita."
"Yes, you have. Now spill. I want to hear the whole thing."
"'A Kiss to Build a Dream On.' Louis Armstrong."
"Oh...it's hard to find Satchmo's records, sometimes. When did it come out?"
She caught me off-guard with the question. I thought hard to remember. "Um, '35 or so? I think maybe it was written for a Marx Brothers picture."
"Satchmo in a Marx Brothers film?" she asked. "I would have remembered that."
"Oh. Well, maybe I got mixed up. But I remember the song from somewhere."
"Sing the whole thing to me tomorrow," she said. "That'll have to do, until I can find it myself."
I tipped my cap to her. "G'night, Juanita."
"Good night, Sweet Pete. See you tomorrow."
Right before I stepped into the cab, she called out to me. I turned back. She ran from the door, stepped face-to-face with me and took my hands.
"Whatever you do, Pete," she said, "wherever the Army sends you; and whether you even see a Jap or not...you're already a hero, for my money."
She gave me another kiss, and ran back to her door. Once she disappeared inside with a wave, I climbed in the taxi and had the driver take me to where Dad's Model A was parked.