Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

NICK ADAMS Continued from page 44 He looked up at the windows. Mom! He almost said the word out loud as he saw her face smiling at him through the dusty glass . . . still with that same old look he remembered from way back. Then she shook a finger at him and he suddenly felt like a little boy again. Nick went around to the front of the bus and waited while the passengers came down the steps, one by one. Then as his mother came to the head of the steps, he put a hand up to help her. And as he did so, he was struck by how tired she looked and how much greyer her hair had become. “Nicholas . . . my Nicholas,” she choked, holding back her tears. It had been more than eight years since they had last seen each other. “Did you have a good trip, Mom?” he asked. She nodded and stood back, staring at him. “Let me look at you!” she cried, her Jersey accent sounding suddenly so familiar. “You’ve lost weight. You’ve not been eating well ... I know you haven’t.” She stopped abruptly and suddenly her face became softer. “My boy a star, a real star,” she whispered. “Aw . . . Mom.” Nick looked at his mother. “It’s good to see you, Mom, real good,” he said quietly. Then he looked questioningly over at a pile of baggage which stood by the bus. “You show me which are your bags and we’ll get along home,” he said. “These two — that blue one, and the green,” she said, pointing to them. Nick picked up the cases and they walked across the concrete. “Gee . . . Mom, they’re heavy. What have you got in them — bricks?” he laughed, and pretended to stumble. r I ''hey reached the parking lot and Nick, X walking just a little ahead, guided his mother to the car. “It’s this one over here,” he said as they came to a low-slung, up-to-the-minute model. “Such a beautiful car, Nick,” she answered overawed. He put down the suitcases and opened the door to help her in. Then he piled the bags onto the back seat. “So tell me,” he said, as he started the engine, “how’s Dad . . . and Andy?” She smiled across at him. “I’m afraid your father’s beginning to feel the years,” she said slowly, “but thank God he’s well. And Andrew — he’s such a fine doctor now. We’re so proud of you both . . .” Nick’s thoughts raced back over those early days with his family as he drove slowly through the wide Los Angeles ? boulevards, pointing out the sights as they passed by. Then he turned the car uphill towards his small one-bedroom apartment. Suddenly there it was ahead, looking like a Swiss chalet with its wooden frame set into the side of a mountain in the Hollywood Hills. “That’s it, Mom,” he said proudly, pointing ahead. “Why it’s beautiful, Nick.” And as they turned into the narrow winding road which led up to it Nick slowed, and leisurely coasted down to the front of the house. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” he said softly. His mother nodded and smiled. Then as they stopped Mrs. Adamshock fumbled for the handle of the car door. “No ... let me. I’ll open it for you,” Nick scolded, hurrying out from the driver’s seat and around to the other side. Nick took a key from his pocket and opened the front door while his mother stood anxiously beside him. Then, as the door swung back and she caught a view of the charming modern living-room crammed with dozens of curious little knicknacks, she gasped. “Oh . . . Nick,” she sighed at length. “Just like your letters.” “Those letters,” he began, “I’ve been wanting . . .” But he stopped and seeming to change his mind said, “You must want to look around; of course you do. Here, come inside.” And she followed him through the house as he showed her first a framed copy of his first movie contract which he kept proudly over his bed and then pages of early fan magazine stories which he had pasted attractively on the whitewashed walls of the living room. In one corner were photos of himself with James Dean and Elvis Presley and on low coffee tables were ashtrays from Ciro’s, Romanoff’s, and all the many many wonderful places she’d read so much about. “Oh, Nick . . . It’s just so wonderful,” she said, as they left his small but compact kitchenette and walked back towards the living room. “I’m glad you like it, Mom,” he said, rather selfconsciously. Then he motioned her towards a chair. “Now you just relax here and I’ll fix some coffee. You must be tired.” “Now Nick,” she scolded. “I’ll do that . . . I’m still your mother, you know.” “No, next time — in fact I expect you to cook for me for the rest of your stay!” he joked. When the coffee was ready Nick came to sit beside her. Now, darling,” she said, “I want to know all about Hollywood . . . about everything right from the beginning. Because all I know is what you have written and what I’ve read in the papers.” “Well, Mom . . .” he began, then he stopped short, picked up a spoon and stirred the coffee a little too vigorously. For a moment neither of them spoke. Suddenly a look of alarm flashed across Nick’s face as he saw she was taking a tiny bundle — a bundle of letters — from her purse. “I’ve brought you some of your old letters, Nick,” she said. “I thought you’d like to see them.” And she began untying the narrow string which held them together. “Aw . . . Gee, Mom. Those letters . . . Oh, well, I guess I’d have had to tell you sometime.” And he looked down at the patterned carpet. “It’s like this. Those letters— the early ones. I didn’t want to worry you ... so I guess I just made them up.” He hurried over the last few words. “They weren’t true!” “Well, not exactly, Mom,” he said softly. “But . . . but . . .” she looked puzzled and lost. Then she said slowly, “What really happened, Nick? You can tell me. I want to know. I won’t be angry.” And she passed him the top letter from the pile. He looked at the scrawled handwriting and the crumpled corners of the paper. She’s kept them all these years, he thought. He began to read the words. The letter was dated February 15, 1950. “Dear Mom, Pop, and Andy. Since my last letter I’ve found a job. I’m working for Warner Bros. . . Nick looked up and suddenly he felt the way he used to when he was a small boy and had done something wrong. Then he said slowly, “I guess I can tell you that story now, because in a way it was funny. “You see, Mom, it was sort of true. I did MISSOURI What’s your pleasure? Fishing? Swimming? Boating? Horseback riding? Missouri has them all— to your liking. 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