“I’ll let you know. Check your machine or e-mail. Wherever there’s someone unemployed, there I’ll be.”
I looked at her a second. It was an allusion to Henry Fonda’s big speech in John Ford’s The Grapes of Wrath: a joke and a movie reference, two firsts for Dena.
“John Ford was replaced as director on Mr. Roberts by Mervyn Leroy, though both got billing,” I said. “Joshua Logan did some reshoots, too. He had directed the play.”
While I was talking, Dena had been busy refolding the lunch bag in my hand. Only when I was finished did she meet my eyes again. I guess you can’t have everything.
“See you, Roy.”
“Right. See you.”
—
My only contacts in Philadelphia were Claude and Alice Kripp. They were trivial people who had managed an impossible feat: They had gotten married to each other and procreated. I had bonded with their son, Orson—now seven, named after Welles—during my search for Ambersons. Today, I needed more of what they knew. In particular, who was Leonard Friend?
In their mid-forties, Claude and Alice had recently had a second, last-chance child, Ida, named after Lupino. Alice had retired from her job teaching film at Wellesley; Claude had taken a new post at the University of Pennsylvania. His campus office was filled with family photos, pipe smoke, and the warmth of domestic happiness.
As usual, Claude wished me to have some of it.
“I hope you’ll have a home-cooked meal with us tonight,” he said. “I know Orson would love to see you.”
“That’s nice. But I have to get back.” I wasn’t staying over; I’d stashed my stuff at the train station. Johnny’s cash was fast disappearing.
“I’m so sorry about what happened with Jeanine,” he said, referring to my Ambersons debacle. “There seemed to be a future for you two.”
“Apparently not,” I said, evasively.
“Yes, well, you know what they say about women and buses. Don’t run after one, there’ll always be another one right behind.” Claude refilled his pipe, chuckling.
I never stopped marveling at Claude’s unique combination of folksy normalcy and trivial knowledge. Most people could only manage one or the other. Like me, for example.
So, as usual, no matter how much I liked their kid, Claude’s ode to sweet domesticity fell on deaf ears.
“Look, how can I reach Leonard Friend?” I said.
Claude stopped, surprised, mid-chuckle. Then he looked straight at me. “Leonard Friend? Why do you want to reach him?”
This was always the dangerous moment: How much should I share with other trivial people? I decided to skirt the central issue and dissemble. After all, if Katie “loved” this Leonard guy, how bad could he be? Then I thought of Johnny and Graus and felt unsure.
“I’ve been, you know, referred to him.”
“You have?” Claude seemed revolted. “Well, far be it from me to judge, Roy, but … you have?”
Claude’s reaction caused me to back off a bit. “Well, you know, not … referred, exactly … it’s just a job thing.”
“You’re going to work for Leonard Friend?”
“All right, look—” What was the guy, a corrupt CEO or something? “It’s not a job, exactly, it’s … just research, I—”
“Look, I really shouldn’t judge, but why would you want to research FamilyFlicks?”
I caught my breath. FamilyFlicks. It was a new group of self-appointed censors who cut nudity, violence, and foul language from current movies and then sold them on video. Studios and directors were trying to outlaw the practice, but until the lawsuits were settled, the organization continued its not-so-dirty work. Leonard Friend apparently was on their payroll.
“Well …” I was trying to think fast. “To be honest, I want to go undercover, do an exposé of them for my newsletter. But let’s keep that between ourselves, okay?”
This did more than satisfy Claude. “Good for you! Now my world makes sense again. Okay, well, I think”—he was scrambling in a local phone book—“Yes—their office is on Walnut, off Spruce.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I started to rise, happy to be off the hook.
“You know how Leonard came to work at FamilyFlicks, don’t you?”
This stopped me. “Well … tell me what you know.”
“Leonard was working as an editor for a publishing house in New York. Alice and I once tried to sell him a book, Precode for Kids: Films for the Whole Family, 1930–1933. But he said it was too limited.” Claude sniffed, clearly still annoyed. “Anyway, he had bought a history volume for their military imprint. About the Luftwaffe. And it was generally believed that the book was … so he must be … pro-Nazi.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. So, since the publisher had been bought by a German conglomerate, he was shown the door. Then I guess he decided, well, my cover’s blown, why not really commit, you know? Hence FamilyFlicks.”
Soon Claude was shaking his head, chuckling again. Before long, he began a new lecture on the joys of fatherhood and family. There was a very nice, recently widowed adjunct professor he wanted me to meet.
I thought of what I’d just been told. From Claude’s chubby, ruddy face, I moved my eyes to a bookshelf above his head. There were dozens of film studies, from academic treatises to popular biographies. There was a history of religious imagery in the works of Harold Lloyd. There was Troy Kevlin’s The Boy-O Keeps Ringing the Bell! and Howie Romaine’s Fatherhood Is No Joke.
And there was I Am Graus!
I waited until after he gave me the available woman’s phone number. Then I pointed vaguely to the books. “May I …?”
“What? Oh”—Claude turned—“Sure. Anything you like. Just, you know, watch the bindings.”
