Jack London clapped Harry on the back. “Oh, I’ve seen it,” he said. “I’m not sure whether it’s illusion or some kind of grotesque reality.”
Bess retreated toward the bar in search of Gloria Swanson; she wanted to talk to the actress about convincing Paramount to allow her a role in Harry’s next picture. When she couldn’t find her, Bess circled back toward Harry on the other side of the room.
As she approached, Harry stepped out of the crowd. “Mrs. Houdini,” he said, holding out his hand. “Would you care to have dinner with me?”
“Harry, no,” she said. “We can’t go off by ourselves at your party.”
“I’ve already reserved us a table.” He gestured toward one of the many open tables at the back of the room. He led her to her seat and pulled in a nearby server. Bess ordered an Aviation cocktail.
“I do wish you wouldn’t have liquor tonight,” he said, frowning. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Bess pressed her lips together. “Don’t lecture me, Harry. It’s supposed to be a celebratory night.”
His face softened. He reached across the table and took her hand. “You know, when I first came in here, I didn’t recognize you. You looked just like a young girl.”
“You charmer.” Bess smiled. “You know you received another bag of mail today. The old ladies love you.”
Between films Harry would occasionally perform in venues around Los Angeles. Since his mother’s death, he would bring bouquets of roses with him and incorporate the flowers into his act, tossing them into the lap of any gray-haired lady in the audience. One of his most cherished letters had arrived shortly after the release of his first picture. Among the letters from enthralled moviegoers was one from a frail old woman who had attended one of his shows. How did you know I needed a rose? she asked in delicate script. I am very lonely. I came to your performance to see the crowds, to know there were others on earth. A lonely, lonely woman, and you threw me a rose. Harry had clutched the letter to his chest, his eyes tearing, as if it were his own mother who had written him.
The waiter came to their table with two menus pasted onto white cardboard. When he left, Harry put down the menu and said, “We can’t stay.”
Bess looked up. “Why? We have nothing to do tomorrow.”
“No. I mean we can’t stay here. In California.”
Bess laughed. “Of course we can.”
Harry cleared his throat. “The picture’s a flop.”
“How could you know that? It’s only just premiered.”
“Oh, come on, Bess. You saw the crowd tonight. I may get fan letters, but people have tired of my movies.” He rubbed his hand across his face. “I’m not an actor. I’m a magician. I’ve put everything into the film company when I should have been working on my magic. And the money’s nearly gone.”
Bess shook her head. “Don’t talk to me like a child, Harry. I’ve seen the books. I know exactly how much money we’ve spent. There may not be enough to live lavishly, but we’re not done—” She stopped as she saw his face darken. Her whole world seemed to be collapsing around her—all the easy simplicity of their new life out West, the dreams she had of their retiring there, adopting children . . . He was taking it all away from her.
Harry slammed his fist on the table. “We are done if I say we’re done.”
“No, Harry.” Bess stiffened. “You don’t get to take this away from me. We have a home here. You can go crawling back to New York if you’d like. But I’m staying.”
“And do what? Everything you have to do here is because of me.”
“Oh, you’re cruel,” she said.
Harry didn’t answer. Across the room, Al Jolson had taken the stage and was singing, There’s a lump of sugar down in Dixie and it’s all my own, she’s the sweetest little bunch of sweetness I have ever known.
“Mr. Harry Houdini!” A red-cheeked young waiter rushed over to their table and pumped Harry’s hand. “Congratulations on your new picture.” He hunched toward Bess in an awkward bow. “I didn’t get to meet you last night, Mrs. Houdini. But it’s a pleasure.”
Bess smiled. “You must be mistaken. Harry and I weren’t here last night.”
The boy looked confused. “But you were sitting at this same table. I nearly spoke to you then, but I couldn’t get up the courage.”
Harry scribbled an autograph on a napkin and gave it to the boy. “Wonderful to meet you,” he said.
The waiter’s face turned red. “I’m—I’m sorry for the interruption.” He rushed away, clutching the napkin in his hand.
Bess looked at Harry, confused. “You weren’t here last night, were you? You said you had a meeting at the studio.”
Harry’s face grew dark. “It was nothing to mention.”
“What was nothing?”
“I had dinner with Charmian.”
His voice sounded very far away to her.
“Charmian?” she repeated.
“Please don’t be dramatic. I wish you hadn’t drunk so much tonight.”