Melting the Snow on Hester Street

‘Whatever has become of this once vibrant actress?’ wrote the critic in American Mercury. ‘Eleanor Beecham’s performance is her most dull and lifeless yet. Maybe it’s time the good people at Lionsfiel pulled the curtain on a talent long since spent, before La Beecham’s name becomes a by-word for Films You Definitely Want to Miss!’

Fuck.

Fuck all of them. Eleanor felt sick.

What was Blanche Williams doing, sitting in place of honour, anyway? Why had she come at all?

Because Max had insisted upon it. That was why. He’d told Eleanor he owed it to Blanche, after the write-up Blanche gave his last movie. So maybe he did owe it to her. He owed all sorts of people all sorts of things. He hadn’t invited them and it wasn’t why he invited her. He invited her because he was screwing her. And probably because she insisted on it. And because she had the sort of hold on him any woman has on a man when he particularly, especially, enjoys screwing her.

Eleanor didn’t want to think about that. Not this morning. Not today. She didn’t want to think about Max. She didn’t want to think about the studio. She didn’t want to think about her failing career, her fading looks, her philandering husband …

Deliberately, she turned her mind to Butch.

Sometimes it helped to think about him. But not this morning. This morning his name conjured nothing but guilt and sadness – and a churning of lust – and nothing …

And then unbidden, inescapable, always in her mind, always there, always waiting, came the face of Isha, three years old, waxy with the fever, sobbing –

Only the nice letters made it to Eleanor’s breakfast tray, generally. Invitations were allowed through, and personal notes (and the scripts, of course, because they were unavoidable). And then, every few months – less and less often, actually –

This.

Her heart missed a beat.

5

Eleanor stared at the letter. Postmarked Reno, as it always was, wrapped in the same dull brown envelope, and with no name above the address. She tore it open.

Dear Miss Kappelman,

As one of our most valued clients [she read], I am writing to inform you of sad recent events.

After 25 years’ devoted service to this Bureau, which Bureau, you are no doubt aware, he himself founded, my beloved father sadly passed away last month. Since then, as he and I had always arranged, I have left my employment with Reno City Police and taken up the reins. It is a sad point in time for me, but also a point in time I have long awaited and I am eager for the challenges that lie ahead …

Eleanor skipped on impatiently.

… Madam, you will observe from the enclosed that our rates have increased …

Yes, yes, yes.

… I note that progress in the case has, to date, been somewhat slow. Not least as a consequence of the limited information you have provided. Nevertheless, please rest assured that we are dedicated to discovering the truth, and continue to work tirelessly, leaving no stone unturned. I can tell you that already we are making definite strides forward.

Please do not hesitate to contact me here at your convenience, should you have any questions regarding the case, or should any further information come to light that you feel might aid us in our work. Or, if you would like to pay a visit to us at the bureau here in Reno, I can assure you of a warm welcome. Of course I understand however that it is a long way to travel. In the meantime I will make it my business to keep you abreast of each and every development by post.

I would be grateful if you could attend to the enclosed invoice at your earliest convenience.

Respectfully yours,

Mr. Matthew Gregory

Eleanor reread the letter once, twice, three times, desperate to discover any hidden message behind the lines – but it seemed the more she read it, the more cryptic it became. So Gregory Senior was dead. She had never met him. She didn’t feel much sorrow at the news. Perhaps the new man would be more efficient? He sounded as though he might. He certainly sounded optimistic – didn’t he? Yes he did. And it was wonderful.

Perhaps a fresh pair of eyes might yet be able to see something new, something they had all been missing? Perhaps he truly had made some strides forward? Perhaps … Perhaps … After all, a fresh pair of eyes …

Perhaps, after all, it might even do some good for her to visit him in Reno?

She laughed at the idea. And then suddenly stopped. Asked herself again – after all, why not?

He would recognize her. That was one reason why not. He would know who she was. There would be questions. It would be dangerous … But she would find a way around them, after all these years. Of course she could.

Why not?

Why not indeed? A minute ago it had seemed like sheer madness. Now, suddenly, it was not only possible, but imperative.

She could feel, from nowhere, the slow burning of hope – the faintest trace of the tidal wave she had been keeping in check for so long. She needed to talk to Max. She needed to explain … He didn’t know about Mr Gregory – Junior or Senior. But she would tell him. Now. This morning. She would tell him – that she had never given up. Even if he had.

And he could come with her or not. She wanted him to come more than almost anything. But if he wouldn’t come, she would travel alone. She had waited long enough. Suddenly she could not wait a moment longer.

She called him at work, though she didn’t like to, and was put through to his secretary. ‘Why Mrs Beecham!’ the woman cried when she heard Eleanor’s voice, ‘I’ve been longing for you to telephone us, all this time! Only so I could say to you in person how much I adored your last picture. And I know Mr Beecham mentioned it didn’t do so well as some of the others. Well, I know it didn’t because of course we keep a track on all that sort of thing here. It’s our business, isn’t it? Who’s doing what, where. It’s all madness, isn’t it! But I swear, I thought it was splendid! You had me weeping from start to finish.’

‘My gosh – thank you,’ said Eleanor, with her beautiful manners. ‘That’s so good of you… . Always so good to hear. Thank you … Could you—’

‘And the lilac dress in the final scene! I never saw anything so stunning!’

‘Yes it was a lovely dress—’

‘And how was the party last night? It was last night, wasn’t it? Mr Beecham was pleased as punch with his new jacket – we had the costume girls in doing last-minute adjustments yesterday morning. You should have seen them – running around like little crazy things. Yes, Mr Beecham, no Mr Beecham. Anything for you, Mr Beecham!’

‘Mrs Monroe – Is he about?’

‘Is he about?’ She sounded confused.

‘Only I need to speak to him rather urgently. Could you – can you possibly find him for me? Please.’

‘Well. I can certainly try …’

‘That would be so kind.’

‘But you know he’s not here.’

‘Not in the office?’

‘Why, no! He’s not coming in today. I thought he was with you.’

‘With me?’

Too late, Mrs Monroe realized her mistake.

‘Oh, but what am I saying? I’m nothing but a butter brain, Mrs Beecham! He’s probably in with … probably just bashing something out with Mr Silverman right next door, just like he always is! Shall I take a quick peek? If you wait right there …’