Page 12 of In a Far-Off Land
I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t stealing. But what was one more sin on my long list?
Papa had counted out the money for the mortgage payment that was due the next week and stowed it with the farm ledger. He never did like bank drafts and would drive it to the bank in Pierre himself. We had some more money put by in the cookie tin above the stove for the upcoming taxes. I told myself I’d pay it all back. That and plenty more.
Papa and Penny would get by, I told myself. I knew from experience that the Pierre bank would give Papa some extra time to make the payment, at least until after the spring wheat harvest. And the taxes? Uncle Sam would just have to wait for my big break to get his due.
Before I left home, I took something else, too. Something that wasn’t mine, but I couldn’t leave without it. Penny and Papa would have to forgive me for that, too.
I truly thought I was doing the right thing—the only thing I could do—when I got on the westbound Great Northern bus. My goodbyes to Papa and Penny were silent as I watched Odessa get smaller and smaller through the back window.
I’ll come back and make up for all of it, Papa. I promise.
——————
I was such a sap back then, me with my plans.
I stepped off the bus and onto the Los Angeles streets lined with cars as colorful as an Easter parade. Palm trees, tropical blooms, the sun so bright it made my eyes water. I bought a pair of sunglasses just like Carole Lombard wore inFast and Looseand told myself all I had to do was wait for a talent scout to find me and drag me to Paramount or MGM for a screen test.
Honestly, what a dumb Dora.
I treated myself to the grand tour for two dollars on a bus with hard seats and a jovial guide who was four feet tall and as wrinkled as an apple doll. The bus swayed and clattered past the Egyptian Theatre’s massive statue of Osiris. “Why don’t mummies take vacations?” our guide asked the women, children, and honeymooning couples with a twinkling smile. “They’re afraid to relax and unwind.”
To scattered laughter, we turned onto Santa Monica and headed to Beverly Hills. It was unlike any town I’d ever seen. Majestic palms towered over thoroughfares lined with lush shrubs. Spiky plants with pink blooms looked like birds taking flight. We wound up through the steep pitch of the foothills, catching glimpses of castle-like mansions tucked into valleys.
“On the right, Fred Astaire, ladies and germs.”
I craned my neck but could only see a high wall and a glimpse of an ornate peaked roof. He went on: John Barrymore’s estate—bought for a cool half million—and William Powell’s hilltop castle filled with the most up-to-date gadgets. Then there was the original Beverly Hills mansion, Pickfair: “Built by Douglas Fairbanks for his bride, Mary Pickford,” he intoned with reverence.“Twenty-five rooms of frescoed ceilings, mahogany paneling, and gold leaf trim, plus a complete Old West–style saloon.” He looked at us sternly. “Of course America’s Sweetheart wouldn’t touch a drop of whisky.”
We even passed Roy Lester’s estate, if I remember right. Ignorance is bliss, isn’t that how the saying goes?
When the tour was over, the guide gave each of us his tiny hand as we stepped off the bus. “Watch your step, now, young lady,” he said to me, his wise eyes meeting mine.
Add him to the list of people I should have listened to.
I checked into a small hotel on Hollywood and Vine and went right out and bought myself the latest issue ofPhotoplay. I studied it like I’d never studied in school. Clothes, makeup, hair. By the time morning came, I was ready to invest in my plan.
I marched into Bullock’s on Broadway.Photoplaysaid it was the most, and it was. The most expensive. But if I was going to get discovered—and fast—I didn’t have much choice, so I pretended I knew what I was doing.
“The day of the short skirt is past, my dear,” the bottle-blonde salesgirl said, eyeing my above-the-knee frock and figuring me for the country bumpkin I was. “Everyone is wearing their hems longer this year.”
She got a titch more friendly when I chose a green bias-cut silk with narrow sleeves, a cinnamon crepe de chine with a wrap-style bodice trimmed in cream, and a blue linen with a low, square neck and ruched waist that made the most of my figure. Of course, no dress would be complete without a hat to match, and Bullock’s had plenty. I gulped when I saw the price of a forest-green velvet beret with a divine organdy bow, then an up-to-the-minute turned-brim cloche in chocolate brown that would go well with my dresses. Ifingered a tiny wool tilt hat in blue—trimmed with silk flowers that just screamed class—but put it back.
“Two pairs of shoes will do for now,” I told the salesgirl as she scurried behind me with an armful. A pair of crocodile T-straps with sensible heels and a matching handbag would be daytime practical, and for evening, high-heeled sandals in cream suede with a tiny matching clutch. I’d stopped adding up the zeros, but anxiety tightened in my chest.
“Stockings for daytime,” the salesgirl advised. “But you can still get away with bare legs in eveningwear, depending onwhoseparties you attend,” she said with an arched look. I tried to look as if I knew exactly whose parties she meant as she added two pairs of silk stockings and garters to my growing pile. I added three pairs of gloves in white cotton, figuring I’d have to be careful and make them last.
When I fingered the butter-soft silk chemise and knickers the salesgirl brought me, I thought how Penny would have a kitten. I shook my head. I’d have to manage with my cotton underclothes. I stopped at the makeup counter and picked out a cake of mascara. According toPhotoplay, dark-red lipstick and matching nail varnish were all the rage. I chose one of each and got an approving nod.
My mouth went dry as she totted up the total damage. It was staggering. I eyed the pile of silk, linen, and velvet, wondering what I could put back. My face heated. The salesgirl tapped a shiny red fingernail on the counter. Finally, I pulled all my bills from my handbag and counted them out into her hand. More than half of what I had went into the till. I didn’t say much as she boxed up my desperate hopes and piled them in my arms.
I needed to look the part, that’s what I told myself. In six months, I’d have enough money to go back to Odessa and make up for everything. I’d have to.
That night, I wrote my first letter to Penny. I didn’t beat around the bush.
I guess you know I took Mama’s ring, Penny. I’m really sorry. I needed something to hold on to, something of hers. I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s like a little life preserver out here in an ocean of strangers. I’ll bring it back, I promise. I’ll bring it all back.
I addressed it to the farm and stuck it in the hatbox from Bullock’s. I’d mail it soon—at least that’s what I told myself.
The next afternoon, I stepped out of a cab at 6763 Hollywood Boulevard in my green silk, velvet beret, and matching purse and pumps, determined to follow through on my plan.
