Los Angeles, 1926
Shitting in the Milk
Joanna had just been released, and newspapers were talking about Edwin Carewe’s “sensational discovery.” They gushed over Lola’s breathtaking beauty and described her as a “wealthy aristocrat” with a jewelry collection valuable enough to finance ten films. Her full-length photo appeared in the Los Angeles Times, and, along with Joan Crawford and Mary Astor, she was named one of the “Baby Stars” to be presented at a ball sponsored by the Western Association of Motion Picture Advertisers—WAMPA. Reporters called her a “mysterious black orchid” whose carriage, elegance, and coloring were remarkable. She should have been on the top of the world. Instead, she looked like a bird had flown by and pooped on her new hat.
“Joanna was a disaster,” she said simply. We were back in her kitchen, this time sipping coffee.
“The critics loved it,” I said.
“The critics don’t know, or care, that in the original version, I was featured in nearly every scene. Ed cut all my best shots. They even wrote my name wrong in the credits! Dorothy instead of Dolores!”
“And Jaime? What does he say about it?”
“Jaime doesn’t care. Ed still won’t even listen to his ideas about screenplays, so he’s in a perpetual funk. I do understand how he feels, Mara. He was supposed to be the one with a brilliant Hollywood career, and...well, at least I’ve got my foot in the door, but Jaime is still filing scripts. He...” She bit her lip.
“What?”
“He...well, maybe I’m wrong, but I think he resents me. Ever since we got here, he won’t even...you know...”
I didn’t know. I was so young and naive that I had no idea what she was talking about.
“I’m sure he still loves you,” was all I could think of to say.
“But he doesn’t show it, not the way he used to. After I lost the baby, he had an excuse not to touch me. I was delicate. He didn’t want to hurt me. He was tender, but we didn’t make love. But now, he won’t even come near me. It’s as though he finds me... I don’t know...repulsive.” She burst into tears.
It took me a while to calm her down.
“The loss of your baby... I know it was devastating for you, Lola, but it must have been shattering for Jaime as well. Every Mexican man dreams of a son, but for a man of his social position...an heir is...” I didn’t want to say “essential.” I didn’t want to make her feel like more of a failure than she already did. “An heir is important,” I said finally, “but of course, so is work. As soon as Jaime gets one of his scripts produced, things will change. I’m sure of it.” I went to the cupboard and got out some bread to make sandwiches. All she had was fluffy white American bread that tasted like hair perm wraps.
“We live like paupers, I know,” sniffed Lola, struggling to regain her composure. “I’ll ask Papá for money. Mami is going to send my clothes from Mexico, and she can bring my jewelry when she comes to visit.” She sighed and went on. “Another man would balk at the idea of his wife appealing to her father for living expenses, but Jaime just shrugs. Papá, on the other hand, is indignant. He thinks Jaime has turned out to be useless, and he hates that I’m up on the screen where, as he says, ‘every whore’s son’ can see me. He was fine with my taking dancing lessons, but dancing in the movies, he thinks that’s an outrage.”
“And your mother?”
“Mami has pretty much accepted the situation. She never wanted me to perform in public, but she understands how things are. Jaime’s parents, that’s another story. You have to understand that in Mexico, Martínez del Río stands for something, Mara—moral values, daily mass, white gloves. For them, it’s a tragedy that their daughter-in-law associates with divorcées like Mary Pickford and drunks like Clara Bow.”
They might forgive her if she were on her way to stardom, mused Lola, or if Jaime were churning out one successful script after the other, but as things stood, it looked like she and Jaime might have to drag themselves back to Mexico, their tails between their legs.
“Maybe it’s because I’m too dark,” she moaned sullenly. “When I first arrived on the lot for my screen test, the makeup lady said, ‘You’re a little swarthy, honey, but I’m gonna fix you up just fine.’ So she powdered my face and rouged my cheeks. But maybe I just don’t have the right look. I’m the fish they threw back into the water because it was too ugly.”
I thought she was being melodramatic. I got up to leave.
“Listen, Mara,” she said, jumping up. “I have an idea! How would you like to be my personal hairdresser? All the actresses have their own stylist. What do you say?”
I looked around the shabby little apartment. Who knew if her second film—if there was one—would make her any richer than the first? And who knew if Jaime would ever sell a script?
“I don’t know,” I said. “Do you make enough to pay me?”
She thought about it. “What if I could convince Ed to make you the hairdresser for the whole cast of the next production? Then, the studio would pay you, not me.”
I shrugged. I knew better than to get my hopes up.
When I got home that evening, Tía Emi was in a funk.
“You’re late,” she said. “We already ate. There’s food in the oven.”
“Lola asked me to be her personal hairdresser,” I said by way of greeting. “What do you think of that?”
“Eres tan tonta que haces llorar a las cebollas.”
“Really? I’m so dumb I make even the onions cry? What’s so dumb about working for an actress? I’d get to be on a movie set all day instead of in a smelly beauty shop.”
“Me cago en la leche.”
“Well, it’s not sure yet, but I’m going to think about it.”
Obviously, she didn’t think much of Lola’s suggestion. She was still shitting in the milk, the stew, the bathwater, and Madame Isabelle’s best perfume when I went to bed.