1939
After their lunch together in the M-G-M commissary, Judy and Maud said goodbye. Judy was headed back to the new dressing room, a trailer on wheels. It had been presented to her with great fanfare, propelled onto the sound stage with a giant ribbon tied around it, for her sixteenth birthday, a sign that the studio believed that her role as Dorothy would make her a bona fide star.
Outside the commissary, Maud turned in the opposite direction, back toward the sound stages, mulling over what she’d learned about the young actress. The thought of a thirteen-year-old Judy singing her heart out, hoping that her voice would cross the airwaves to find her sick father, only to find out that he had died, pierced Maud’s heart. Was she wrong to allow the girl to believe that there was some kind of magic afoot with the jacket, that Maud was somehow connected to something greater? Certainly, a bit of hope to connect with her father’s spirit couldn’t be a bad thing. Maybe this girl could do the part of Dorothy justice, assuming her role had been written properly. If only Maud could have a chance to read the script while there might still be time to make suggestions.
Lost in her thoughts, she rounded the corner of the alleyway leading to the sound stage at a fast clip and almost jumped out of her skin.
A scarecrow was leaning up against the wall next to the studio door, smoking a cigarette.
“Oh!” She jumped back a step.
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” the Scarecrow said, nodding his head at her. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“I didn’t mean to scream. I was just surprised.”
The Scarecrow eyed her reflectively as he took a slow drag on his cigarette. He was wearing a face mask made of thick rubber, leaving only a circle around his mouth and two around his eyes exposed. Real straw protruded from the edges of his costume, and wisps were scattered around his feet.
“Gotta say, your costume looks more comfortable than mine.”
“It’s not a costume,” Maud said icily. “I’m Maud Baum. Mrs. L. Frank Baum.”
“Sorry about that. Thought you might be an actress. L. Frank Baum? Isn’t that the fella who wrote the book?” An ember that had been teetering on the end of his cigarette broke off and floated downward, igniting a piece of straw. In a rapid, loose-limbed motion, the fellow quickly stomped it out with the sole of his boot.
“Doesn’t it make you jumpy, smoking a cigarette while you’re wearing all that?” Maud asked.
“If I only had a brain, I probably wouldn’t do it.” He chuckled, much taken with his own wit.
“It’s extraordinary…” Maud leaned a bit closer to inspect his rubberized face.
“A talking scarecrow? I daresay.”
“No, it’s your costume. It looks just like the illustrations in the book.”
“I’m so glad you noticed,” said a voice behind Maud. She turned to see a small man dressed in a dapper gray suit. He was holding a long cigarette holder in the V of his slender, nicotine-stained fingers. “Adrian. Costume designer.” He took a puff, then blew a series of smoke rings. “I must have worn that book out poring over those illustrations. Wanted him to look as if he’d just jumped off the page. We’re not finished yet. Still putting on the finishing touches.”
“I think you’ve done a great job,” Maud said, turning back to the Scarecrow. “And good luck to you, Mr….Bolger, is it?”
“In the flesh,” the Scarecrow said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Baum. I’ve been a fan of the Scarecrow ever since I saw the Broadway show. Can’t believe I was lucky enough to land this part.”
“You’ve got your work cut out for you. You’ll be hard-pressed to equal Mr. Fred Stone’s performance.”
“Oh, don’t I know it,” Bolger said. “Did you know they asked me to play the Tin Man? I begged and pleaded to be cast as the Scarecrow. I never wanted anything as much as I wanted to play Fred Stone’s role.” Bolger mimed as if he were stuck on a pole, did a shuffling two-step, then straightened up, the motions so perfectly executed, down to the wisps of straw that trailed him, that Maud burst into applause.
“Thank you kindly,” he said, bowing to her.
“There was only one problem with Stone,” she confided. “He was such a terrific dancer, he completely upstaged Dorothy. I trust you’ll take care not to do that.”
“Oh sure.” He winked. “Would never try to upstage a little girl. Wouldn’t want one single clap of applause more than I deserve.”
Maud found this fellow engaging—a bit of a wag, for sure, but she sensed that his kindness was genuine. He’d be kind enough, she hoped, to look out for his young costar. Maud thought of Judy’s difficult mother, of Mr. Freed pulling the girl a bit too close. “Tell me, Mr. Bolger, have you ever read the book? The Wonderful Wizard of Oz?”
“Beg pardon, ma’am?” He pointed his straw-filled glove toward his ear. “Speak up. It’s hard to hear through all this rubber.”
Maud leaned in. She could smell the rubber, dusty straw, and perspiration. The dust tickled her nose, and she almost sneezed. “I was wondering if you’d ever read the book.”
A smile lit up his face. “I have indeed. Read all of ’em. Loved those books when I was a kid. Scarecrow, Tin Woodman, Lion.”
“Well, then, if you’ve read the book, you know that the Scarecrow looks after Dorothy. I’m hoping you’ll remember that as you develop your character.”
Bolger laughed. “I saw you sitting with Judy in the commissary. She’s a real charmer, ain’t she?”
“She’s a young girl. Can you look out for her?” Maud tried to read the Scarecrow’s expression, hoping for a favorable reaction. “As a favor to me.”
“Don’t worry about the girl,” Bolger said. “She’s a real pro.”
“Yeah,” added Adrian, elegantly flicking ash onto the ground. “And I wouldn’t want to cross that mother of hers.”
Maud watched the ash drift close to the Scarecrow’s feet. “I know Judy’s a pro, but she’s still just a girl.”
“Set your mind at ease, Mrs. Baum,” Adrian said. “Everybody loves Judy.”
The Scarecrow fell silent, finger on chin, as if he were deep in thought. “You mind if I ask you something, Mrs. Baum?”
“Anything you like.”
“Seems like the Scarecrow’s a pretty smart fella—head full of straw or not. So why, in the last scene, does the Wizard decide to present him with a diploma? Seems like a person can do all the thinking he wants to do without ever earning a diploma. Was your husband a university man?”
“A diploma?” Maud asked, a bit bewildered as to where this talk of diplomas was coming from. “There’s no talk of diplomas in Frank’s book. My husband didn’t give much stock to formal education. He hardly attended school at all. It was my mother who was so concerned with earning a diploma.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” Bolger said. “I never finished school myself. Dropped out to make my living as a song-and-dance man. Started when I was only seventeen. But I consider myself a bit of a thinker. I’ve got the whole Encyclopaedia Britannica lined up in my dressing room. I pull one down off the shelf and read it any chance I get. Why, just this morning—”
“Careful now!” Maud lunged forward to brush off a glowing ember that had fallen onto his straw-stuffed shoe.
“Ouch!” he said, then winked at her. “Just playin’.”
“Please don’t burn yourself up, Bolger,” Adrian advised in a languid voice. “I’d hate to have to make that costume again.”
Bolger flicked the cigarette away, gave Maud a jaunty salute, and almost fell, then staggered forward. Maud reached out to grab him before she realized he was just acting.
He chuckled. “There’s more where that came from,” he said. “But I can’t spend it all out here. Gotta save something for the cameras. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Baum.” He whirled around and gave her a final straw-strewn salute, then followed Adrian through a door marked COSTUMES.