“It’s better for her to stay at home than to be married to the wrong man. How many times have you said that yourself?”
“But what possible evidence do you have against this young man?” Matilda asked. “If you have something to say, please speak your piece now.”
Maud opened her mouth, intending to tell her mother about the incident in the storeroom, but before she spoke, she thought of her sister’s face: her defiant expression, her certainty that she was making the right decision. What right had Maud to set Mother against Julia? Since the day Julia had quit her studies, Mother had never treated her the same. The great Matilda Joslyn Gage was impatient of weakness, intolerant of those who lacked resolve in the fight. Maud was certain that Matilda, had she been born a boy, would have taken up arms to fight for the Union, stood on the battlefield, faced down the cannons and artillery, and spurred on her comrades to fear not in the face of the fight. Alas, Mother had had to content herself handing out flags and giving speeches—cajoling the young men of her generation to fight against the evil scourge of slavery. Her battlefield was her own home, her daughters her soldiers. Julia, in Mother’s view, was a deserter to the great cause of women’s emancipation. And Maud knew that this was a heavy cross for her sister to bear. Maud balled her hands into fists in the folds of her skirt, blinked, swallowed, and decided, after all, to say nothing.
“Speak up, Maud. Do you have something to say?”
Instead of speaking of her sister’s situation, could she not be courageous on her own behalf?
“Maudie?”
“I do have something to say, Mother, but it’s on another matter.”
“Your studies?” Matilda said, suddenly eager. “Have you chosen your field of concentration?”
“Not my studies, Mother. Believe it or not, I do think of other things from time to time.”
Matilda frowned, but then immediately softened. “Of course, my dear. What is it that you want?”
“I’d like to receive Josie’s cousin Frank Baum. Can you please invite him?”
Matilda’s forehead wrinkled slightly. “Josie’s cousin Frank Baum—is that Benjamin Baum’s son, the proprietor of the Rose Lawn estate in Mattydale?”
Maud nodded encouragingly. “Yes, the very one. He’s Josie Baum’s first cousin.”
“I understand that the Baums’ business concerns have considerably dwindled…”
“I know nothing about that,” Maud said.
“And what line of work is the young man in?”
“He is an actor,” Maud said. “And a playwright.”
Matilda paused reflectively.
“You return to Cornell in two days. I think it would be best if you continue your studies for now without the distraction of a visit from a young man—especially one in such a flighty and unstable profession. First, for you, a diploma, and second, a learned man. You deserve no less.”
Matilda, certain that their interview was finished, turned her back to Maud and dipped her paintbrush into the small pot of water, carefully dabbing it against the pot’s side.
“But, Mother!” Maud said.
“We’ll see about it later,” Matilda said. “Perhaps once the school year has ended.”
“But, Mother!” Maud protested again. “That is months from now. Perhaps he will have forgotten me by then.”
“And perhaps you will have forgotten him by then as well. I see little point in pursuing this. He seems like an entirely unsuitable match.”
Maud could read the set of her mother’s shoulders. She would engage in no further discussion.
Maud’s thoughts kept circling back to the rushed conversation in the hallway at Josie’s house—he had pleaded for an invitation. How would he respond to this silence? Most likely, he would simply move on, and their brief meeting would be forgotten.
By the time her school vacation had come to an end, Maud could hardly wait to return to Cornell. In spite of the difficulties she had faced there, in comparison, home had come to seem stifling and intolerable. And perhaps Josie would have some news of Frank Baum.
CHAPTER
8
HOLLYWOOD
1939
A few days after the incident with the secondhand-store jacket, Maud returned to M-G-M Studios, hoping to catch the young actress alone. Since the last time she had seen Judy, the thought of the girl had never been far from her mind. At odd moments, Maud would turn her head, thinking she’d heard a snatch of the song about the rainbow, only to realize it was nothing but a passing car horn or the wind in the camellia bushes outside her windows. Perhaps she could have a few minutes to speak with Judy, to get to know her a little better, to give her some hints about Dorothy. From the little she’d seen of her, she suspected that Judy might be more open-minded to her suggestions than any of the men were.
This time when Maud arrived at the studio property, she was allowed to drive past the crowd of autograph seekers thronging outside the gates. Her name had been added to the list of approved visitors for Production #1060, and the guard directed her to Sound Stage 27.
Outside the sound stage, a different guard gestured toward a red light spinning above the door, the signal that entry was prohibited because the cameras were rolling. Maud leaned up against the stucco wall to wait. The bright California sunshine reflected off the white walls of the alley, and a fringe of palm trees, visible above the rooftops, looked like a row of shaggy poodles against the clear blue sky. Maud had not been waiting long when a large group of costumed people—at least twenty—rounded the corner, chattering excitedly. Each one of them was tiny—the tallest reaching only as high as Maud’s waist. Three gents wearing lederhosen, striped tights, and elf shoes with curled-up toes pulled cigarettes from their pockets and lit them up. A tiny woman in green tights with a papier-maché flowerpot affixed to her head kept popping up on her tiptoes, trying to see over the others’ heads. And an older gentleman dressed in a floor-length purple robe repeatedly bumped into the others with his especially broad-brimmed purple hat. It took a moment for Maud to realize that most of these people were chattering to each other in German.
Maud was startled by this improbable congregation, but the guard’s implacable expression did not change. He pointed to the spinning light, and the group clustered around Maud, preparing to wait. She smiled down at the people around her, but no one was looking at her, distracted as they were by the fanciful sight of two gleaming black ponies in white harnesses trotting up the alley, pulling a tiny carriage behind them.
Was this a dream? She peered into the glaring light of the alleyway, convinced that surely Frank himself would be bringing up the rear of this startling parade, a twinkle in his eye and a pipe clamped between his teeth, waving his unmistakable fingers in the air and telling her that he had conjured up all of this specially to delight her. Maud remembered the day in Chicago when she’d been waiting to meet him near the gate of the Columbian Exhibition and had then caught sight of him, marching and waving majestically in the middle of a parade of courtiers accompanying the king of Spain. He had smiled at her and tipped his hat as he passed. Later, he’d explained that he’d been mistaken for part of the king’s coterie and had decided to play along. That was Frank. Today, behind the black ponies, there was nothing but an empty alleyway, flooded with sunshine.
A moment later, the red light blinked off and the guard pushed the door open. Maud waited for all of the costumed Munchkins to enter before she slipped in. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, an entire new world began to materialize. The giant warehouse-like interior had been transformed into a brightly hued paradise of blooming flowers. A miniature village stood beside a bright blue lake spanned by an elegant arched footbridge.
Maud spun slowly in a circle, taking it all in. Her first impression was that it was beautiful, like California, with its blooming flowers and blue skies; only here everything was heightened, the artificial colors more brilliant than real life.
“What do you think? Impressive, ain’t it?” Maud turned to see the producer, Mervyn LeRoy, standing next to her with a big smile on his face. “Come on in and take a look,” he said, gesturing grandly. “Everything is built to scale.”
“Well, it’s…” Maud looked around. She was at a loss for words. Everything was exquisitely rendered; even the graying wooden house, plopped in the middle, slightly askew, looked startlingly real. Yet unreal. A fantasy, built from the things of this world.
But now Maud’s attention was drawn to an unexpected sight. Sticking out from under the crooked gray house was a pair of legs, with sequined red shoes attached to the feet.
“Oh my!” Maud’s hand flew up to her mouth.
“Not a thing to worry about,” LeRoy laughed. “Nobody at the end of those legs. That’s the Wicked Witch of the East. She’s wearing the magical slippers.”