“Magical slippers?” Maud said, inching closer. “But those are red. They’re supposed to be silver.”
“We tried silver, but it didn’t show up well in Technicolor. You wouldn’t want the magic slippers to look as gray as old galoshes, now would you? Not just red slippers—they’re ruby slippers!”
“Ruby slippers,” Maud said slowly, processing this unexpected bit of news. Frank had been fascinated with color photography, experimenting with hand-colored magic lantern slides long before Technicolor had been invented. Certainly, Frank would prefer sparkling ruby slippers to magic slippers of washed-out gray.
“I suppose it’s a sound decision. As long as you don’t go changing the color of the Yellow Brick Road.”
Leroy tipped his head back and burst out laughing. “We’re building Oz from the ground up,” he said. “And nobody knows how to do any of it. We’re making it up as we go along. Everybody is talking about the Disney animation of Snow White—biggest hit picture last year, and it was a fairy tale about a bunch of dwarfs. But you know what I say? I say that if Disney can make imaginary characters seem real, then, by golly, we can make real people seem like they are imaginary. Don’tcha think, Mrs. Baum?”
Maud didn’t answer.
“Mrs. Baum?”
Maud, transfixed, was staring down at her feet, which were standing on the tip of a large curlicue of yellow paint. It looped around, then straightened out, stretched for about a hundred feet on the ground, then climbed up a painted wall of scenery. For the barest moment, she felt as if Frank were standing beside her, but as she turned toward the apparition, she saw LeRoy looking at her expectantly.
“Not bad, eh? Matte painting. Looks even better on camera.”
As they’d stood there, a large group of costumed Munchkins had swarmed around them, and over the tops of their heads, Maud caught sight of Judy, skipping along behind them, wearing her blue gingham Dorothy costume.
“Mrs. Baum!” she called out cheerfully. “Did you come to watch us dance?”
LeRoy looked over at Judy. “No dancing now, doll.” He glanced at his watch. “You can break for lunch. We won’t need you for an hour or so.”
Maud saw her chance. “Judy?” She waved the girl over. “Would you let me take you to lunch?”
“Oh, I’d love to, but…I have to eat in the commissary.”
“I can join you in the commissary,” Maud said.
The girl smiled. “Sure, that would be swell!”
As Maud emerged from the dim sound stage, the sun was so bright that the world outside looked like a wash of white. Maud followed Judy’s bright blue gingham down several alleys and around a couple of corners until they emerged in front of the commissary.
Inside, tables covered with white tablecloths were crowded into a large, noisy room, filled with the sound of conversation, laughter, and the tinkling of glasses and silverware. Some of the diners appeared to be in costume—a motley crew of evening dress, cowboy wear, and military uniforms. Others wore dapper linen jackets with colorful silk handkerchiefs in their pockets and well-shined loafers, their slicked-back hair and jowly faces marking them as money men.
“That’s Clark Gable,” Judy said in a stage whisper. Across the room, Maud picked out Gable’s familiar face. He was holding court at a table near the center of the crowded dining room, next to a voluptuous brunette in red silk. The rest of their party, a group of men in dark suits, leaned in and appeared to hang on his every word.
Being accustomed to seeing his face nine feet high, Maud was surprised by how small he looked in person. She noted a few more movie stars—Carole Lombard was sipping from a goblet, her platinum blond hair impeccably waved. Myrna Loy, dressed in a pale blue sheath, tilted her pretty face as a man in a dinner jacket whispered something in her ear. Maud would have loved to linger, but Judy led her to a secluded table near the kitchen’s swinging doors that was partially hidden from the dining room by a couple of large potted palms. It was likely the worst seat in the house for stargazing, but it did afford a bit of privacy.
A uniformed busboy appeared at the table, poured out ice-cold water from a sweating silver jug into their glasses, and then silently slid away.
“You must be hungry after all that work!” Maud said brightly.
“I’m ravenous!” But then Judy’s smile collapsed again. “Except I’m not supposed to eat, because this dress is too tight. They had to let it out with a safety pin today, and so now I’m in big trouble.” She smiled again, and Maud marveled at the way her face was as changeable as a spring day in Dakota: sunshine, dark clouds, and sunshine again, all in the space of a minute.
“Every other day, I’m not allowed to eat a single thing,” she said. “Or I won’t fit into the dress. I’m positively starving. They want me to look like a little girl, not a young lady. Did you know they wanted Shirley Temple instead of me—desperately! She’s not even eleven yet.”
Maud frowned. “Oh dear no. Shirley Temple would have been all wrong for Dorothy.”
Judy looked relieved.
Of course, Maud thought, but would never had said aloud, Judy Garland was also all wrong. She was much too old to play the part. The book’s Dorothy was just a girl—maybe six or seven—though her exact age was never stated. Maud sympathized with the way Judy had tried to tame her developing figure into a girlish dress that was much too young for her. She recalled her own schoolgirl days when she had tried to hide her emerging breasts. It was disheartening to think that with all of the things that had changed for women, including education and the vote—privileges her mother had fought for but never seen come to pass—some perceptions had still not changed for girls, like the simple fact that the growth of one’s own body could be seen as an act of treason.
“Not allowed to eat?” Maud said. “That sounds quite dramatic.”
“They give me pills,” she said. “They’re supposed to make me less hungry, but they don’t.
“Two grilled cheese sandwiches,” Judy said to the waiter, uniformed in black and white. He raised a single eyebrow at her but said nothing. A few minutes later, he placed a green salad with a scoop of cottage cheese on it in front of Judy, and a grilled cheese sandwich in front of Maud.
When Judy saw the salad, her mouth tightened into a furious little bow. “No matter what I order, if Mr. Mayer sees me, he tells them to bring me this horrid salad with cottage cheese—which I hate.”
Without saying a word, Maud pulled the salad in front of her own place, pushing the nicely toasted grilled cheese in front of Judy. “I’m so fond of salad,” Maud said. “I hope you don’t mind!”
Judy shot her a grateful look, grabbed the sandwich, and took a big bite.
“So, have you read the book?” Maud asked.
“Oh, no, ma’am. I’m not much of a reader.” On the set, Maud thought, Judy had appeared so confident, so effervescent, too grown-up to be Dorothy really, but one-on-one this way, she seemed young and eager to please.
“Well, that’s all right. Did you know that my husband, Frank, always said that once moving pictures were perfected, people would probably not read much anymore?”
Judy seemed more interested in her sandwich than anything Maud was saying.
Maud tried again: “Did you know that there are more than three million copies of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz in print right now?”
“You don’t say.” Judy looked past Maud, fidgeting with her paper straw.
“And Mr. Baum could imagine moving pictures, ever since he saw Mr. Thomas Edison’s Kinetoscope at the Columbian Exposition—probably even before he saw it. He was fascinated with photography.”
Judy’s hand covered her mouth. Her nostrils flared. Maud realized she was trying to suppress a yawn. This was not going well. What could Maud do to get this young girl’s attention?
“I would almost say that when he sat down to write The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, he was writing it for the year 1939 and for somebody named Judy Garland to come along and be ready to play Dorothy. It might seem crazy to you—”
“Do you really think so?” Now Judy leaned forward, resting her chin on her clasped hands. She looked intently at Maud. “I bet every girl in the country wishes she could be the one to play Dorothy. I bet any number of them could do it better.”
“Not true. They’ve chosen you, and for good reason. I just know you’ll do a wonderful job.” Maud’s voice rang with conviction, even though, inside, she still did not think this young lady looked like pigtailed, skinned-kneed Dorothy. But she did look like a girl in need of encouragement, and that was something Maud could offer.
“What was he like?” Judy said suddenly. “Mr. L. Frank Baum. Was he a good man? And what did the L stand for? Was that his real name?”