It is always possible to discover hints of Babe’s presence on a set, even if Babe himself is nowhere to be seen, because Babe leaves a paper trail.
Babe reads the Los Angeles Times obsessively, every day. Babe does not miss an article or skip a page. When Babe is done with the Los Angeles Times, there is the Reader’s Digest, or The New Republic; there is ‘Life in These United States’, or the ever present threat of Communism, with H.G. Wells failing to convert Joseph Stalin to liberalism and appearing only mildly surprised at this defeat, like one who was firmly convinced he could finish that last slice of pie. Babe sees no difficulty in reading both the Reader’s Digest and The New Republic. It is all knowledge.
Babe does not live in fear of appearing ignorant before others. This would be proof of vanity. Babe lives in fear of being ignorant, and this is proof of humility. Babe has little time for fiction. Babe’s working life is devoted to fantasy, so when Babe is not working Babe will try to understand the order of things, and quiet corners of studio lots may provide the right kind of man with time and space in which to inquire into secret creations, and wisely perfect the world.
Babe remains faithful to Myrtle because Babe retains faith in Myrtle. Or, more correctly, Babe has continued to harbor the conviction that Myrtle might yet be saved, or might be persuaded to alter her behavior, but only if Babe is willing to abet her. Neither does Babe wish to walk away from another marriage. Babe has no desire to look back on the pathways of his life and see only debris.
But Babe is tired of being afraid to return home at night.
Babe is tired of the smell of liquor and piss.
Babe is tired of being lonely.
He watches Babe remove an adhesive bandage from his hand as they prepare to shoot a scene. The wound revealed is not big, but it is deep: a gouge in the pad below Babe’s right thumb, smeared brown with iodine. Babe either does not believe the make-up lady can disguise the bandage, or does not wish to be asked the cause of the abrasion.
Babe catches him looking.
A glass, Babe says. Dropped.
A pause.
– Well, eventually it dropped. After it was thrown.
– They do that. It’s called gravy-tea.
He slips so easily into character that he surprises even himself. After a moment’s hesitation, so also does Babe change. In Babe the process is more dexterous, as with so much that Babe essays: a marginal rearrangement of features, a delicate adjustment of posture. No longer Babe, but Mr Hardy.
– Not gravy-tea: gravity. It means that what goes up – Mr Hardy lifts a finger, points it skyward, and circles it in the air.
– must go down.
The finger inverts, and spirals in the direction of the floor. Mr Hardy smiles at him, the teacher to the pupil.
– You see?
– Like a submarine.
– Yes, like a—No, not like a submarine.
Mr Hardy considers. Gravity might possibly apply also to submarines, but Mr Hardy would not like to commit until certain.
Anyway, it’s not important, says Mr Hardy. What’s important is that the glass was thrown, and the glass fell, and when I tried to pick up the pieces, I cut my hand.
– But who threw the glass?
– My wife threw the glass.
Mr Hardy emphasizes this detail with a single nod of his head, in the manner of one who is proud of the power of his wife’s throwing arm.
– She ought to play baseball.
– I will tell her that when next I see her.
– But why did she throw the glass?
Mr Hardy grimaces, and tips his derby forward, the derby that is a size too small for the head upon which it sits, just like his own.
– She suspected me of being with another woman.
– You mean your mother?
Mr Hardy’s shoulders hunch, toppling the derby so that Mr Hardy is forced to juggle his headwear in order to avoid losing it entirely.
– My mother! No, not my mother. Why would my wife throw a glass at me for being with my mother?
– Maybe she’s met your mother.
Mr Hardy scowls. Mr Hardy flails at him with his hat. He takes a step back and blinks, conscious that he appears to have irritated Mr Hardy, but not sure how, given that his suggestion appears entirely logical.
– Just leave my mother out of this. Look, it’s perfectly simple. I came home with make-up on my suit, smelling of perfume, and my wife assumed that I was seeing another woman. Who was not my mother.
– And were you?
– I tried to explain to my wife that as an actor, I always have make-up on my clothing. I wear make-up for the camera, and some of it gets on my jacket and my shirt.
– Do you also wear perfume as an actor?
– No, I do not, but I am sometimes in proximity to actresses who do.
– Were you in very close proximity to an actress who does?
– I was not. I was merely having lunch with her.
– And who was this actress?
– Her name is Miss June Marlowe.
Mr Hardy blushes, and plays with his tie.
– She’s pretty.
Yes, says Mr Hardy, she is.
– And friendly.
– Yes, she is that, too.
– Maybe your wife would like to meet her.
– Yes, that’s—No, my wife would not like to meet her. Don’t you understand? My wife thinks I’m engaged in a dalliance, when all I was doing was having lunch. Do you really think it would help the situation if I were to bring Miss June Marlowe home with me in order to introduce her to my wife?
He opens his mouth to confirm that this is indeed his opinion, before reconsidering.
Maybe not, he says.
– Definitely not. And do you know why it would not help?
– Tell me.
Mr Hardy hesitates. Mr Hardy looks away.
And it is Babe who speaks.
– Because my wife is a drunk.
Their names are called.
They step out of the shadows and into the light.
97
At the Oceana Apartments, he marvels at the number of pictures he and Babe made involving men mired in miserable relationships, men living in fear of their wives, men being berated by women, men being struck by women.
Hal Roach found bad marriages funny.
But only because Hal Roach was never trapped in one.
He can count his marriages, in all their various forms, on the fingers of two hands, with the thumbs left over. He should really have married a few more times, just to complete the set. He once suggests this to Ida, if only to hear what she says, and Ida tells him that he is welcome to try, assuming he can find a way to leave the apartment without her help.
He admits that relative immobility is a barrier to meeting new women.
This, and the fact that he will soon be dead.
98