Christmas in July, Dick Powell, Joan Blondell

A comprehensive new study provides evidence that various personality traits and cognitive abilities are connected. The research has been published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, on March 24, 2023. “Personality traits and cognitive abilities are pillars of individuality,” said study co-author Kevin C. Stanek, at the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities. “Mapping the architecture of personality-intelligence relations unlocks deep-rooted patterns in human diversity.” In total, they collected data from 1,325 studies, involving over 2 million individuals from diverse demographic backgrounds. This extensive dataset allowed them to analyze the relationships between 79 personality constructs tied to the Big Five personality framework and 97 cognitive abilities. The intellect-related traits (such as curiosity and ideas) were positively correlated with cognitive abilities. “As expected, there are positive relationships between many cognitive abilities and open mindedness. Curiosity, enjoyment of pondering ideas and thinking more broadly were correlated with a host of cognitive abilities,” Stanek explained. Conscientiousness-related traits, involving self-discipline and organization, generally correlated positively with cognitive abilities. Cautiousness, however, was negatively correlated with acquired knowledge (cognitive) abilities. 

Compassion correlated positively with cognitive abilities. “One unexpected discovery from our study concerns the two aspects of agreeableness: compassion and politeness,” Stanek said. “Psychologists think of compassion as a willingness to spend energy on helping others, contributing to the wellbeing of a group, which thereby reciprocally creates a personal social safety net. Politeness, on the other hand, is about following social rules for interacting with others. While these may seem like two sides of the same coin, this research reveals they’re connected to cognitive abilities in contrasting ways.” Stanek said. “That is, the more industrious and compassionate people are, the better their verbal (reasoning) and quantitative (mathematical) knowledge tend to be. Essentially, if you’re industrious and compassionate, you’re likely to be better at transforming your raw talent into concrete knowledge and skills. Emotionally unstable individuals may be suspicious of others and quick to react with intense, often negative, feelings. Such emotional turbulence can take a toll on individuals’ ability to regulate psychological processes, including cognitive performance.” Source: www.pnas.org

For a comedy, Christmas in July dips low early on with the scene on the roof. Jimmy is hopeless and tells Betty he's uncertain he'll have enough money to properly provide for her. Dick Powell really nails this serious and somber scene in ways that audiences weren't accustomed. It feels extremely fitting that after the country was pulling itself out of the Depression, the man who starred in the movies that distracted Americans from their poverty was finally recognizing it on screen. The serious performance from Powell fit him well and was just the beginning of a new stage in his career where he’d lean towards darker plots and tougher characters. A more cynical film would make Jimmy a selfish egomaniac, but here he is a sincerely good, compassionate man, and as such it isn’t hard to get behind his stroke of good fortune, or conversely fear his inevitable downfall. Source: filmschoolrejects.com

David sold his house and sent the money to his wife. Harriet wrote that she was going to the Bahamas for a quick divorce—and he’d be free to remarry in four weeks. “I do hope the new one can stand your silences better than I,” she P.S.’ ed. So we were married in the office of the justice of the peace in Phoenix, Arizona; it was a small, stuffy office, but the only place we could escape the crowds that haunted picture stars. “Read this,” my father said. “Now?” David asked. “Now.” David unfolded the letter and read: "To whom it may concern: Nora Marten, aged eight, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. John Marten of “The Boy Is Gone” Company, lost her virginity while tap-dancing at the Wabash Theater, Memphis, Tennessee. Signed, Dr. Clarence Halsey." We listened intently to the justice. “Don’t forget to be generous with your love.” The justice’s voice came back to me: “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Hundred feet below me was Sunset Boulevard. The house was nestled into the top of Lookout Mountain. Many times I’d even knelt on the soft rugs and patted them gleefully. 

We could see from Los Angeles proper to the beach at Santa Monica. A half-hour passed, then Dr. Riley asked David to go into the kitchen. “We can call it peritonitis, Mr. Nolan. I’ll have to operate immediately. She’s a desperately sick girl. I’ll meet you at the hospital. The ambulance should be here soon.” “Nora Marten Bursts Appendix,” the newspapers headlined, and everyone believed it. There were obviously certain key words and phrases used by gossip columnists and fan magazine writers that went far beyond the dictionary definition. An “engagement” between two players generally implied that sexual intercourse had taken place. An actress having “her appendix removed” usually meant that she was having an abortion. “If you didn’t have the constitution of a horse, you might be sterile now,” Dr. Riley told me privately. “For your sake, it better not happen again.”

Four Benedictine and brandies later David gathered Jim and May in the basement to admire his current hobby—electric trains. It took thousands of dollars and nationwide correspondence to get the “to-scale” trains, tracks, stations, lights, people, mountains, hills, valleys, grass, flowers, dirt, signposts, roads, signals. The beautifully lighted miniature countryside covered all but five feet of our huge basement. The studio set designer had refused compensation for making the miniature panorama, so David had surprised him with a new Cadillac as a gesture of appreciation. “David, old pal,” Jim said, his eyes following the speeding trains, “you entertain my lil ole gal while I take your lil ole gal upstairs for a lil ole private talk. What d’ya say?” “Right!” David answered, bent double trying to get a stuck train out of a tunnel. Upstairs, when we were seated in the bay window, Jim said, “I respect you, Nora. You have good common sense. I’m considering marrying May—what’s your advice?” “Do you love her?” 

“Well, hell, she’s a hell of a gal—not many around like her.” Jim continued: “I picked her up the other Saturday morning to grab some chow, and she wanted to know if I’d park by the Bank of America on Highland for a minute, as she had to clip some coupons. I sat out there for two solid hours while she clipped and clipped,” he leaned toward me intensely.  “My!” “We didn’t wrap our lips around a bite until after three-thirty. What do you think about a lil ole wedding?” I paused. I frankly didn’t care much about either of them. My one evening as a guest at May’s home was barren: no cocktails, barely enough chicken to go around, no butter for the air-holed bread, weak coffee, lumpy ice cream, and every lamp in the house had strips of cellophane covering the shade, though she had lived there for over ten years. As for Jim Wilson, well, he was a fabulously popular crooner. 

Next to Bing Crosby he was tops in the nation. I answered his question as truthfully as I could. “I might just take your advice. After all, a gal with her—er—qualifications—well, the first one drank a lot.” “I didn’t know you’d been married before!” “Neither does the press department. Remember me? America’s most desirable bachelor?” He playfully grazed my chin with his clenched fist. “What was she like?” “A beauty—dark, and from my home town. She was seventeen when I took the leap. She was from a wrong-side-of-the-tracks family, but they were okay. Damn glad about the catch their kid made! After all, Nora, I was a thousand-bucks-a-week MC in Detroit, and you know dames. So the little babe was in luck, she didn't have a dime.” I don’t think I like you, I thought. “What happened to the marriage?” “It lasted four years. The first two were fair, and then she started to drink. Jesus Christ, what drinking! I had an important reputation to live up to, so I sent her to one of those cure places—and a pretty penny that was!” He paused. “I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch if she didn’t stop drinking the minute she registered, but as soon as she got home, she’d drain every bottle that wasn’t tied down.” “Any children?” “Nope.” He knocked on the end table. “I’ll tell you something, Nora, a guy shouldn't be single in this town. The gals expect too much—and Jesus Christ, the married babes can hound a guy to death.” “Two can live as cheaply as one,” I deadpanned. “Right!” He grinned. 

“Yoo-hooo there, you two-hooo!” May called breathlessly from the foot of the basement stairs. “David wants you to bring the brandy when you come back.” “All right, baby-doll,” Jim yelled in answer. He pulled me to my feet and threw both his arms around my neck. “We’ll talk about the situation some other time, Nora. I’m not going to rush into anything this serious.” He picked up a bottle of Courvoisier. “Let’s go join ’em, you lil ole box-office favorite, you,” he said happily. I followed as he vocalized: “Meee mooo maw,” all the way down the stairs. Sheely Dawson’s column in the Los Angeles Examiner headlined: "David Nolan and Nora Marten have gone on a camping trip. Kern Brothers gave her permission to rest this week because her eyes blinked too much in close-ups. She and her cameraman husband are Hollywood’s happiest married couple. Their best pal, Jim Wilson, the singingest star in the Hollywood heavens, will join them on their vacation. All female hearts will be shredded if Jim marries May Gould." 

We were driving through the desert above Indio. I had fixed David another bourbon and gingerale out of the stock in the glove compartment. My hands were sticky, and I was very hungry. “You know, David, it’s hard to work under yourself— you know what I mean? I mean, the parts I play are so vacant, dizzy, and wisecracking. . .” “You make people laugh.” “Well, I know, but once in a while I’d like a real heavyweight part, like the kind they give to Greer Garson or Bette Davis. I can do them, too, but I don’t fight for them—do I?” David made no comment, so I continued: “Well, it’s like—if you know how to build a house, it’s hard to just keep building garages all the time.” David smiled. “Your pictures are box office, baby dear.” “It’s just that as long as I have to be an actress, I’d like to run instead of walk.” Early Sunday morning we heard Jim Wilson’s voice bouncing off the trees. “Over the Sea Let’s Go, Men. . .” We were talking about Jim. “Why does he hang around us so much, David—and stag, to boot?” “He likes us. He says we’re homey, he’s lonesome, I guess.” 

“I don't understand why he doesn’t take his romances out places.” “They’re not that kind!” David grinned. “But he takes May Gould to the Clover Club every Saturday night. And to see his pictures over and over.” “Shush, here he is. Hi, old pally!” They whacked each other on the back. I picked up the ice bucket to stave off a Jim Wilson hug. “How’d you get here?” I asked. “I took a plane to Palm Springs—Frank McHugh had an extra ticket he gave me. The taxi driver wanted twenty-five clams from there, so luckily a fan picked me up and dropped me off about half a mile down the road. You turtle doves having fun?” “Have a drink.” David gave Jim a Coke that had been thoroughly spiked. “I never touch the stuff,” Jim quipped. After a swig and a “Wow!” he turned to me. “I brought my new script, sweetie, thought you could cue me on the ride back.” “I will,” I promised. They fixed their fishing rods. [...] I studied the dismal sky through the antique liqueur bottles that lined the shelves of the window. Then my eyes met his. “Jim,” I said quietly, “I can’t get into the hospital to have my baby. We haven’t the cash—and David won’t face it. You have to pay in advance, and because I have a ‘name’ the cost of everything—doctor, everything—is tripled—more. Jim, I can’t listen to ‘don’t worry, baby dear’ any longer. David stopped work when I did, and we live up to the hilt, and—” Jim interrupted: “Christ—no money! What do you kids do with it, for God’s sake?” “I don’t know. This house, our family responsibilities, commissions, alimony, charities, liquor, furniture—”

“How much do you make, Nora?” “Three hundred and fifty a week.” “Jesus Christ Almighty! And you one of the box-office ten? The bastards! Why, Kern Brothers make a pisspot out of your pictures! You ought to walk the hell out until they make a new deal.” “David makes what?” “Two thousand a week—and has for years, but he’s so far in the hole he’ll never catch up. It’s nothing bad he does; he’s just so crazy generous it scares me. You know that fifty-seven-foot Chris-Craft boat he got after we were married?” Jim nodded. “Well, he gave it to his dentist because the dentist canceled all other appointments one Thursday, Friday, and Saturday to devote the time to David’s teeth.” “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Jim cursed. “And we still owe those payments on it, Jim. You see, you can’t get mad at David” “Who can’t?” Jim mouthed. “No, really, he’s kind, and he gives me presents all the time. Honest to Pete, if a stranger on the street asked him for a thousand dollars, he’d say, ‘Wait a minute, pally,’ and borrow it from a friend and then give it to the stranger. I’ve seen him do the most incredible things. I don’t know how to manage our money, because I’m bad with money.” 

“What a mess,” said Jim shaking his head. We were silent for a while. Jim poured himself another drink, and I moved to the couch. Speaking low to the pattern of the chintz, I continued: “I love David. He’s my world, and the money worries—well, there’d be a way. We’ll always make enough; it’s the other thing, Jim. . .” “What other thing?” He came from behind the bar and sat on a stool looking at me. “What other thing?” he repeated. “My baby that’s coming. And I want to hear him say something about it. It’s a miracle I want to share with him, but when I try, his eyes fade away and his thoughts can’t be traced.” I finished lamely. “Stop it, Nora.” Jim stood looking down at my bowed head. “David loves you like a madman. He never takes his eyes off you. Nora, listen to me. I agree he seems vague at times, but that’s his way.” He paused. “But that you two damn fools don’t have enough dough to get into a hospital in style! You’re a star, Nora. You owe your public— I’m burned up at David—” “No, don’t be,” I interrupted. “I shouldn’t have told you.” “Nora?” David called from the living room. “Talk to him, Jim; I’ll go wash my face again,” I said as I ran from the den. 

I put on fresh lipstick and a sprinkling of powder; then, composed; I returned to the bar. David and Jim had mixed a highball and were talking about a new Lincoln convertible. David interrupted himself. “Nora, darling—I have a surprise for you.” He smiled. “A surprise?” I returned his smile. He took a small jewel box from his pocket and handed it to me. I opened it and stared at the largest square-cut diamond ring I had ever seen. “David—David!” I said bewilderedly. “Ten-carat, set in platinum,” he told me proudly. Jim took it out of my trembling hand and inspected it closely as he asked, “Where’d you buy it, pally?” “A jeweler friend of mine—like it?” “Beautiful,” Jim said solemnly, looking at me. “I knew you’d approve, old boy. Let me freshen your drink.” “No thanks, Dave. Publicity stills first thing tomorrow. I’ll leave you two lovebirds to yourselves.” He tweaked my nose, and made his way out. Early the next morning, delivered by hand, a letter arrived for Mr. and Mrs. David Nolan: "Dear Kids. Happy Hospital. On me. Love and kisses."—Jim. Enclosed was his personal check for a thousand dollars.

Jim’s sure been nice this past year, I told myself. And he’s tried hard to keep me cheered, taking me to see my pictures and his. It was fun the night we danced at the Cocoanut Grove. People swarmed all over us for autographs. I snorted as I recalled Sheely’s miniature scoop: “A little bird tells me there’s a romance lurking between our Jim Wilson and our Nora Marten.” My hands tightened on the wheel. David took unto himself Bride Number Six. But she’s a really pretty girl and nice. I remember her from the chorus of The Parade of Lights. I hope she can penetrate David's fog, I thought, feeling noble. The strains of Jim’s voice over the radio brought my thoughts back to him. I had on a white piqué sheath that made my skin look very dark and my hair very light. “You look pretty dawgone pretty,” he said. I smiled at him. We called good night to Cecilia and were in Jim’s convertible, its top down. “It’ll be fun doing that next musical together,” I said to him. “I read the script, and it’s fairly good. I have two lines I’ve never spoken in a picture before. Do ya think I can manage ’em?” He laughed. “But I don’t get you in the finale, Cagney does.” “Try not to suffer too much, Jim. After all, you’ve got me off screen, y’know.” “Really?” he asked seriously, slowing the car down. I fidgeted for my cigarettes to hide my embarrassment, and asked Jim for his lighter. We both lit cigarettes and rode without speaking for several blocks. “Nora,” he said finally, “let’s drive to the beach and park along the ocean—I want to talk a bit.” “You’ve been reading my mind, Jim.” He crossed over Coldwater Canyon and turned on Sunset toward the coast. I like the way he drives, I thought—very sure of himself.  

Jim parked the car on a ledge overlooking the waves. We watched the phosphorescent blue and white lights as the water sloshed onto the sand. “You think with your heart,” Jim said gently, “and you’d better start thinking with your head. It’s no good otherwise. Regardless of the wire strings God is juggling us around on, you’ve got to face facts. David was no good for you from my way of thinking—no security there. Listen, Nora, you’ve got to have someone protect you against your foolish impulses. Someone who picks up your studio check for you, and budgets you. My God, opening that goddamn florist shop for your brother. What the hell does he know about a flower shop?” Oh, please, I groaned inwardly. My bunch will have everything they want, old smarty-pants Wilson, no matter how you drone on. But I was nonetheless flattered that he was concerned about me and about Jamie’s future. He’s right. I’ll have to change some things. I’m a mess so far, I admitted to myself. “You behave like a drunken Santa Claus, Nora. Emotion and sentiment are well and good in their places, but business is business.” Oh, dear, it doesn’t sound like fun at all, Nora, does it? I asked myself. “Skip your family,” Jim continued. “They’re big kids now. Think of yourself—nobody else will. You hear that? Nobody else ever will,” he emphasized. 

“You’ve got to be respected in this world, be important, and the only way to get into that position is to have a pot full!” He chuckled: “They’re not going to catch this crooner asleep at the switch!” I dozed a bit, but Jim wasn’t aware of it, for his expounding was increasing as the shades of daylight were invading the sky. Finally my head tipped forward, and giving in to my exhaustion from the long, emotional day, I fell asleep. Jim put his arm around me and drew my head to his shoulder. The silence woke me up. “What happened?” I asked. Jim laughed. “I put you to sleep.” “Honestly, Jim, I heard every word, and you’re right.” “That’s my girl.” Jim smoothed my hair and hummed a few bars of “By a Waterfall.” Then he said, “Nora?” “Ummm?” “I had a talk with Jamie while I was waiting for you. I said to him, ‘I wish to God I had a son like you, Jamie.’ He just grinned and whacked me in the nose a couple of times. ‘Cut it out, Jamie!’ I said. ‘I’m not kidding. Let’s figure it out. How can I get a son exactly like you?’ Jamie didn’t come up with an answer, but I did. ‘I know, Jamie,’ I said, ‘I’ll marry your mom—it’s as simple as that.’” His eyes were moist as he smiled. His head was leaning on mine now, and he tightened his arm around my shoulder. “How about that?” he asked softly. “Good idea, Nora?” My throat constricted, and tears flooded my heart as I cried. Looking at Jim’s handsome face, I smiled and answered huskily, “Good idea, Jim.”

The city police and studio bodyguards whisked us through the squealing fans that lined the dock, and into the lavish two-bedroom, living-room, bar, terrace, flowered, champagned, fruit-laden suite Kern Brothers gave Jim and me as a wedding present. Two studio wardrobe women were unpacking the bridal array. After showering and perfuming I was seated at the dressing table in my lacy lingerie looking into the mirror at Sally brushing my hair. “Sally, I can’t—I can’t go through with it. I don’t love Jim, really love, and he’s too nice to hurt.” “Did you ever tell him you loved him?” Sally asked, still brushing my hair. “No, never. When he asked me if I did, and my answer stuck in my throat, he said, ‘Nora, I love you enough for both of us—your honesty is one of the reasons I want you for my wife, and because you’re a helluva good actress, and you’re beautiful! What more could a guy ask for?’ Will I love him in time, Sally? Does that happen?” “I can give you wisecracks, pal—no answers.” Our eyes met in the mirror, and Sally drawled comically out of the side of her mouth, “Fox Movietone News, Paramount, Pathe.” I jumped up and grabbed my friend, half-laughing, half-crying. “Bring on the wedding drag—I’m getting married!”

After a while, I realized that Jim was surprisingly prudish. He will make love only in the dark, furtively, as though we should sit up afterward and smooth ourselves out so teacher won’t know.  And Jim was promising: ‘Sweetheart, there must be happiness ahead. What a grave responsibility actors have. We must all always remember that.” A meeting was called to order, and I recounted all the memorable things that happened on our honeymoon. Jim was at Kern Brothers discussing his upcoming picture. “The day that Jim and I were to make a personal appearance at the Paramount Theater matinee, we were led through dark, cavernous basements and into a service elevator, and up to the fourth-floor dressing room to wait until we were called onstage to bow and throw kisses to the audience.” I paused soberly. “We looked out of the window, and from Forty-fifth Street along Broadway to Times Square—the streets, the sidewalks, the side streets and their sidewalks, were dark with people—a sea of people, all still. All traffic stopped, all faces upturned. Never, as long I live, will I forget that, nor will Jim. Those people—they said there were over a hundred thousand of them—when we leaned out the window and waved, they gave out this thunderous sound as though one powerful voice was calling its love.”

I was worn out after listening to Jim's tirades: “Damned Jews run this business! Damned niggers get some fancy salaries now!” “Quite a wedding present you gave your pal Sally. What’s she going to do with embroidered sheets, for Christ’s sake?” He’s always fuming about his career, his looks, everything! “Is my hair getting thin on top, Nora?” “Is this the best way to part it?” “Is the line okay from both angles?” “When are you going to stop spoiling your family?” “I’m not going to sing anymore, I’m going to do straight roles. It’s an awful effort for me to sing!” “I’m going to sell this house. It’s too expensive to run!” “Should I wear this suit to Zanuck’s party?—or this?” “Goddamnit, food is so expensive. In Mountain Lane, Mother fed four on five dollars a week!” “I’m going to trade in our cars. It’s cheaper in the long run.” “I see where your David Nolan has taken unto himself his seventh wife. All the wives got alimony except you.” “I’ve got to change agents, the son-of-a-bitch does nothing for his ten percent!” “We’ve got to sell this house.” “Next time we throw a party I’m going to pick the booze myself. After a couple drinks, no one knows the difference anyway.” “I’ve got to call T. L.—I hate the script!” “Should I get my teeth capped?” “The goddamned government is killing us with taxes!” 

Our third house in four years was sold, as always, for a profit. Jim chose another in Beverly Hills, and I set about making a home again. Later that night, when Jim had finished his lovemaking, I stretched and thought about Clark, Jim, Henry, Charles, Errol, Ty, Oleg, Bruce, Pasquale, John, George, and Frank. Was I thinking about cheating? Nothing’s secret or sacred in this town, and I have children I must think of. Besides, poor Jim, it would be so insulting—even if he never found out. Jim's and my long-term contracts with Kern Brothers expired at approximately the same time. I asked Jim to take over the negotiations for a renewal. “I’ll make a stab at the big money, choice of pictures, cast approval, director approval, the whole Big Star shebang,” he told me, then added, “I actually hope they don’t buy it, we’ll be better off freelancing.” Kern Brothers didn’t buy it, so we left the studio. His next plan was to sell our Brentwood home, my favorite. “We’ll build a small house at Balboa, cut down expenses, and commute,” he decided. “I’m sick to death of moving!” “It’s one way to make money, Nora, sweetie.” He smiled. So he built the small beach house, and I have to admit I loved it best of all. So did the children and Cecilia. While it was being built, we made separate pictures, but both at Twentieth-Century Fox. One work day Jim called me. “Come over to Stage Ten and we’ll go to the commissary together.” When we drew closer, we could hear the radio. Our faces were tense and white. “The Japs have just bombed Pearl Harbor,” Jim said hoarsely. 

Jim was talking about Jeff Flynn, the hottest producer on Broadway. “He has four smash hits running in New York right now,” Jim told me. “He came out here to see if you and I would costar in his new musical by Cole Porter.” “What did you tell him?” “No, of course. I want to stick with my new image. Paramount has come up with a hell of a script for me.” “How about you working for Flynn?” he asked me. “He told me he’s dying to get you. You love the stage—he said if he got you, you'd have six months with big pay.” So I went to New York to do a Flynn show. “I miss you.” Jim told me on the phone. “Do you, Jim?” “Why do ask that, sweetheart?” “I dunno. I’m homesick.” “Be a good girl, and I’ll call you tonight with the children.” “Bye, Jim.” “Bye, sweetheart.” I hung up and walked over to the mirror. Except for my personal notices, the play was pummeled by the Boston critics. Unperturbed, Flynn saw that Miss Lyte had quarts of milk for her ulcers, and the best typewriter money could buy for her rewrite job. Flynn wined and dined the critics who had blasted his show; charmed them into a million dollars’ worth of columns and editorials. They all but retracted their sour reviews as the two weeks moved on to “standing room only” for the now well-publicized play. “I jes’ put the words in their mouths. They write what I tell ’em!” Flynn bragged so gleefully I had to laugh. Flynn was alongside me all the time, cheering me on like a football coach. 

“You’re wonderful, Nora. You’re the greatest there is. You’re a stand-up dame, if I ever saw one.” His eyes would glisten as he searched my face. I felt flattered and at a loss. He kept my hotel suite and my theater dressing room banked with flowers. He gave me a delicate, imported music box; an antique from Cartier. Flynn also personally took over the direction of the new scenes, which seemed to please the uninterested Mr. Kaufman. During my nightly calls to Jim I’d tell him about the gifts. “I don’t feel right about accepting them, but he just won’t listen when I ask him not to give them.” “He got a crush on you?” “I guess so.” After a slight pause, Jim said, “I told you he spends money like water. Be a good little girl, and I’ll talk to you soon.” I hung up with a bang. Damn it, he could get a whisker burned. How trusting can you get? I threw a pillow against the window and went to bed. The hors d’oeuvres arrived, and Jeff grabbed the tray. We drank in a silence that made me uneasy. Looking out the window at the passing lights, I felt his eyes on me. I half can’t stand him, and I’m half-pleased that I never seem to be out of his thoughts. It’s weird and unnerving, I told myself. He whispered into the silence. He said people assumed Dawn Lyte was his girl, but they were just pals.” “Your wife—didn’t she mind, about you having someone else?” “She leads her own life.”

“You ever cheated?” Flynn asked. The drinks had warmed me: “A guy got me as far as his bedroom once. He must have been counting on me, because he had the bed covers turned down and a gardenia on the pillow. Unfortunately for him, the cellophane wrapper was still on the gardenia. It struck me so funny I ran from the room laughing, and there’s nothing as unsexy as laughing at the wrong time!” I giggled. “Saved by a gardenia wrapper! I should say, the guy was nice and flattering, and Jim and I had a problem. . . ” “What kind of problem— sex?” “Oh, I don’t know—don’t ask me. Jim. . .” I paused. “Anyway, I love Jim. Fix me me a drink and shut up.” “You’re an exciting dame.” We had the best dinner I had ever eaten on a train, served as he demanded it. Then he talked until midnight telling me about his youth. I listened, only half-believing the crazy experiences he related. He touched my hair tenderly as he left, and I tossed the rest of the night, still feeling the touch. Unclad Millie opened in Pittsburgh, as in Boston, to full houses and bad reviews. Dawn Lyte typed page after page of new plot and dialogue. Money was no good, and Flynn said: “So we’re gonna have you pick up a mink coat at Bergdorf’s—ten thousand clams’ worth—how about that?” “Jeez, great.” I phoned Jim, who said: “Nora—for God’s sake—a mink coat! Make ’em give you a diamond ring or a down payment on some property—a mink coat is perishable.” 

My temper flared. “I want it.” “Okay, okay,” Jim answered, “but it’s not very practical.” “I want it.” “Okay—I’m due on the set, talk to you later.” I hung up. I took a cigarette out of my case and lit it myself, although Flynn held a lighted match for me. Jeff Flynn got me to an exclusive restaurant on the outskirts of Pittsburgh after the show. Jeff had been talking through my thoughts. Only now did I hear what he was saying. “I suggest you have ’em followed. I know the guys to do it. You’ll have proof of the monkey business in case he wants the children when you get a divorce.” “Divorce?” I felt nauseated during the frantic opening in New York. When the detailed reports of Jim’s rendezvous in Amy O’Brien’s Wilshire Boulevard apartment started coming in I was too sick to read them. I left that to Jeff. The “detectives” even furnished a recording of what the lovers said to each other. Flynn was devotion itself, and I made no effort to discourage it. The eerie daylight poured over our nakedness. Again and again we made love until the hot sun covered us. “I love you, Nora. I want to be married to you, my Nora.” Jeff scrambled eggs, onions, and lox together, toasted bagels, and brewed coffee. And we devoured all of it. “This is a kind of a Jewish breakfast, isn’t it?” I asked him. “Are you Jewish?” “Only on my mother’s and father’s side.” “How come the Irish name?” “My real name is Jacob Ginsberg.” I wanted to be fresh, to keep myself scrubbed to meet my children. But we made love again.

Jim knelt down beside the bed and took my hand in his, pressing it to his heart. "Jim!” I cried suddenly. I raised myself to my elbows. "What is it, darling?” he asked. "Jim—listen now, and don’t say one word until I finish.” "I won’t, sweetheart,” Jim promised, though he was sure I was delirious. "Think back,” I said, very slowly, “it was about four years ago—at the Park Central Hotel. I was at the cashier’s window, and I was waiting to buy a stamp, and I. . .” In amazement he picked up my story: “and you dropped the letter, and we bumped heads. Then you hollered when I tried to mail it for you. Nora, it was you—that dear girl was you! You sailed around the revolving door three times.” “And you smiled at me, Jim, and I walked on air.” “And I wanted to follow you—couldn’t get you out of my mind. Nora, it’s crazy—that was us.” “Jim, I felt something familiar when you first spoke to me on the set.” “And I knew there was something about your eyes, Nora. Oh, darling.” He held me in his arms rocking me back and forth. —Center Door Fancy (1978) by Joan Blondell