LESLI E EPSTEIN
S9
"But Bartie darling I told you the truth."
"No! You didn't! Barrie knows! It was suicide! Ha! Ha! Ha! Chop–
suicide! Show Bartie! Show Bartie the note!"
"Oh, don't say that! [ would tell you! I swear! There is no note. He
didn't say a word. Oh, he said what he always said.
Here's beautiful
Lotte.
That was our catch-phrase. Isn't that nice?"
My tears dried on the instant. I pushed my head out from behind the
divan. I heard myself give a little laugh. "Well," I said, "now you can
marry Pear Shape."
Two
BRAND-NEW SUITS WERE READY
for us the next morning, but we
never put them on.
"['m not, not, not going to the gravy-yard!" Barton shouted.
"And you, Richie?" Lotte asked. "[ don't want to cause you too
much pain."
"I'll stay with Bartie," I told her.
"Well, you can't be in the house alone. Arthur and Mary will be at
the funeral. I'll see if poor Stanley will volunteer to take you. Oh, dear!
He'll hate to miss it. Everyone in Hollywood will be there. Even Jack."
Madeline came by after breakfast to say how sorry she was. Her father
stood behind her in the ponico, turning his hat in his hands. Stanley came
by not long after that. He drove us to see the scale model of Lindbergh's
Spirit of St. Louis at the L.A. County Museum. The little plane hung
above us on wires, its rubber wheels just above our upturned heads.
"Is it true? Was he lost in a fog? Lucky Lindy? Did he have to fly
upside down?"
"That's the story, Richard. It's good to remember what one man can
do. You don't give up. You persevere. Then you find your own way."
Did Norman give up?
That's what I wanted to ask him.
Are you
acclising him of not persevering?
But I saw how white his cheeks were,
and the lines in them, more like Prune Face than Pear Shape, and I said,
"This is great, thanks for taking us," instead.
We ate lunch at the Ontra Cafeteria and then drove down Wilshire to
catch the afternoon showing of
The Lavender Hill Mob.
All around us
people were laughing. Barton, as the plan to steal the gold ingots went
awry, was squealing with delight. When Alec Guinness began to dash
down the thousands of steps on the Eiffel Tower I threw back my head
and let out a peal of laughter too. How he clung to that valise! How
much he wanted his golden prize! It was as if it were orman's Oscar
he had stolen, along with everybody else's Academy Awards. At the end
of the picture, when the actor stood up from the table at which he'd
