Screenland (May-Oct 1936)

for August 19 3 6 came from. Marty for Martha. Now she's Mavis Dorian, and says she was born on the corner of FortySecond Street and the Rue de la Paix ! If you ask me, she's bad medicine. She's got a temper like all get out, and a mean line of talk. Once she threw a slipper at me — it almost hit me, too. Why do you want to know about her?" Bill said easily, "She's so darned pretty." He didn't explain that the thing which really attracted him to Mavis Dorian was the way in which she moved. He didn't explain then. But later, when he was talking to Carol Kelly, the little chorus girl, he went farther. "Sure, she's probably everything they say," he agreed, "but that doesn't stop me from liking to watch her on the screen. I don't care much about her voice, and her prettiness comes second. It's the way she walks that gets me. Every step she takes is so — so natural. Like light rippling over water, or the sound of music. As if walking" — without his own volition his voice grew a trifle bitter — "was the easiest thing in the world. As if she enjoyed it . . ." He stopped, and Carol said — "You ought to see me tap dance, Bill. If they'd give me a spot, just once!" She sighed, but her eyes — as they slowly traveled the length of Bill's twisted leg — held complete understanding. * * * Bill was, more or less, allowed the run, (did I say run?), of the UltraAlta lot. He could always get a pass for the mere asking. Not that he took advantage of his special privileges. There weren't many times during the day when he was able to close up his stand, and there weren't any times at all when he dared go off, leaving it open. The stand was too precious to risk ; it stood for too much. Bill had put all his money into that stand, money he'd saved from being a newsboy, the couple of hundred dollars he'd scraped together by rigorous self-denial. That it gave him a comfortable living, now, was only justice. Comfortable living? As Bill told Carol, "I do myself very well !" Very well meant that he had a pleasant room a hobbling distance from his place of business, that he could buy a good dinner when he wanted it, in some restaurant with soft chairs and shaded corners. It meant that he possessed a broad striped umbrella which kept off the sun and rain — that, at times, he treated himself to a massage when things were too bad. Not that Bill would often admit, even to himself, that they were too bad—he had been a cripple for so long that he was used to it. He'd been a cripple since before he could talk. Since before— this was the ultimate misery — he'd been old enough to take a normal step. "Yeah," he answered a tactless and inquiring customer, one day, "Yeah, my nurse dropped me out of her arms when she was carrying me from my plush-upholstered nursery to the plush-upholstered Rolls." He'd grinned mirthlessly, to say it, but it wasn't far from the truth. His dollfaced, careless mother — widowed too young — had been talking voraciously in the doorway, with a handsome delivery man. She hadn't taken the time to glance back across her shoulder at the baby who was balanced in his high chair in front of an open window. She hadn't noticed that the high chair was empty until she heard a commotion in the street, three stories below. Well, she'd paid for her carelessness in grief, Bill reminded himself whenever the Distant Star Continued from page 17 pain was so great that it couldn't be ignored — God rest her soul, anyway ! His mother had died during his twelfth year. From twelve to thirty, (Bill had told Carol Kelly the truth about his age), had been tortuous years, lonely years. But — heaven be praised — they were busy years'! Bill had been a success at selling papers — folk nearly always tell a lame lad to keep the change. His only interest, outside of his work, had been the movies. In a dim theatre, with music swaying through the air, and adventure rampant, he could watch the shadows of the world appear. The movies— they were not only casual entertainment to Bill. They lent him color, and life, and joy and escape. They taught him how to talk, and what kind of ties gentlemen wear. They taught him some of the facts of existence, and gave him an opportunity to recognize some of life's fiction. As he grew older they gave him glamor and a sort of vicarious love life. He often shut his eyes, after seeing some picture, and visioned himself swift and clean-limbed and carefree. Making suave speeches to this or that feminine star. Barbara La Marr was his first romance ■ — and the flowers he sent to her funeral, without a name, were neither unelaborate nor in bad taste. Others followed her, and they were invariably women who moved with grace and dignity, who had strong, splendid bodies and grave smiles — women like Garbo and Dietrich and Kay Francis. Never your hoydenish Joan Blondells, or your tiny Janet Gaynors, or your brownette-tressed Harlows. In his dream Bill Banton paused before stately ladies and they glanced hopefully up into his face. It was his interest in the movies — his acute interest — that gave Bill's newsstand, when he finally achieved a stand, its locale. The Ultra-Alta lot was the largest lot of all — for that reason there'd be more business than at any other corner. And — far more important — with only two years of her much publicized seven-year contract in the past, Mavis Dorian — once of Wisconsin, and Bill's latest ideal — would be constantly Sun-fanning made easy on the eyes for all of us! Rosalind Marquis, film newcomer, seen at Santa Monica. 65 going in and out of the magic gateway. Passing so close to him that her trailing, filmy garments would brush against the rough wool of his suit. Passing close to him for half a decade. ^ % % Carol Kelly stopped by to pay Bill his five dollars. She handed it to him a trifle wistfully. "What do you do with your money, Bill?" she asked, as she counted the five slender bills into his hand. "Not holding out a sweetie on me, are you?" Bill felt himself flushing as he made answer. He experienced an intense desire to shake Carol, and she was so small that he could have shaken her without much difficulty. "Sweetie, my eye — cripples don't go out with girls," he told her. Carol said, "I never think of you as a cripple. What's a bum leg, between friends ? I only know that your private life's not what anyone would call an open book. But," her grin was impish, "why don't you break the rule? The five dollars I just gave you is found money — you never expected it back; and you better admit it! Why don't you invest the works in dinner — with me?" Bill Banton said: "Kidding, are you? You probably wouldn't be seen with me, in public." Carol said, "Wouldn't I ? Ask me !" Bill laughed harshly. "I will ask you," he said. "There's a spaghetti place not far from here. They have good food, and good wine, and soft lights. So soft that you won't be able to see me very well." Carol's fingers — they were slim, childlike fingers — touched Bill's arm. "I sort of like seeing you. You're a good looking guy, Bill — you don't know the power — " she dimpled — "your profile has over me ! I'll meet you here, around seven." As Bill watched her racing down the avenue, he told himself that she was a good kid — and kind. And that it would be an adventure to eat with a girl. Even though the girl fell very far short of his ideal of perfection ! * * * The dinner was pleasant. Carol had worn a new frock, and Bill's table manners— a legacy, also, from the movies — were not bad. They had a couple of dry Martinis, and Chianti in a straw bottle. Carol said : "This is a real party, Bill. You're doing me proud." Bill said: "I'm doing myself proud, but I'm afraid you're taking me for a ride. I bet you go to the Brown Derby every night with a different guy." Carol sighed. "That's where you're wrong; I don't. Being a movie chorus girl isn't all lobster and champagne and opera hats. I spend a lot of my evenings sitting home, darning the heels of my stockings, wondering when I'm going to get another job — and my next meal. I'm full of luck today — " she beamed at Bill above her wine glass — "I'm not only eating, I'm to have a little part in the picture. You know, don't you, Bill, that I'm working in that new costume thing of Do rian s ? I wear a powdered wig, and a hoop-skirt, and do minuets and quadrilles and old-time dances like that. And today the director told me I'm going to have a couple of lines to speak, believe it or not !" Bill leaned forward. He said, "You're working with Miss Dorian? No, you hadn't mentioned it before. Tell me about her picture."