Having Been Captured, Georgia O’Keefe is Compelled to Speak

Eileen Mignoni

I'll make it, she'd tell us, I'll make it, you'll see. Oh, was that girl ever deter­mined. That girl was star struck something fierce, and she was deter­mined. She was going to be an actress, there wasn't a bit of doubt in her mind. That's what she'd been made for and that was what she was going to do. But we, we didn't pay that heed. All kids have dreams. In but one block we had three future baseball stars, two firefighters, four actresses, and a poet, not to speak even of lawyers and doctors. And do you know what we ended up with? We ended up with four mothers, two shop keepers, and a whole mess of farmers and factory workers.

           See, you know, you coming here asking me about her, why, it kind of shocked me, because, well, from the moment she disappeared, she was the only the thing the town could talk of, and I didn't think that peo­ple had ever stopped talking about her. First, cause she'd pulled such a stunt and then, when she returned, well, then she was a warning. She was the poster child of failure, of what happens when you think too big for yourself. See, coming back like she did, living here, as she did, simply and rightly, like she should have done in the first place, well, she was proof of the impracticality of fancy hopes. She was the monster parents would tell their children about when the kids were start talking bigger than their means and get themselves all star struck dizzy with dreaming.

           I guess this sounds awfully condemnatory to you. You're young and you're of the age that does this sort of thing. Going about believing in yourselves no matter how many times you strike out. I bet you all see her as an idol or something like that. I bet she's giving you hope, isn't she, hearing that someone from around here did something. I can't see why you can't see that in the end, the life, it's all the same. Pushing up daisies. Yet, I guess the only way nowadays you can learn that is by launching on some great quest. Guess that's what you, all you kids, need to do, to find yourselves, whatever that means, and I'm just an old lady who never went any where, just sitting about tending her garden. Who am I, nowa­days, to say differently? But then, when all this business with Rosemary was going on, then, everybody said differently. You just didn't do that then, you see, just up and leave, and go make your way in the world. There was what you knew, and that was everyone in the town, and what you didn't, which was everything else, and you stuck, you stuck to what you knew. Well, she didn't. She upped and left.

           But this, this I tell you, this was just a little before the factories had crept their way into the town, and just a little after the movies had taken their hold. Now, see, like most everyone else, Rosemary, she loved the movies. And who doesn't, stories with pictures? They're beautiful. But she, she loved them heaps more than anyone else. Positively to distrac­tion, something fierce. Used to spend all her free time, and as well as all the time that wasn't quite free but that she could snatch without stirring up the wrath of her mother's strap, all that time, and that's a lot of time, at the pictures. Now, see Demeter, that was her mother's name. Excuse me, I'm misspeaking here. Rosemary's mother's name was Delores, not Demeter. Mind getting dull in my old age. Long since passed, anyway, the woman has. Now, Delores, when Rosemary was really young, she used to give her daughter a little spot of pocket change for a treat here and there to play for a little bit. But the only thing Rosemary ever spent a penny on was the pictures. No candy, no sodas, no toys. Just movies. She was wasting so much time there, that her mother started getting a little worried, and finally said she wasn't going to give her daughter anymore money. If Rosemary wanted to throw all her own money away on those stupid pictures, she could, but Delores would be damned if one more hard earned red cent was going to go into the pocket of those movie makers.

           Now Delores wasn't stupid. She didn't think for a moment this'd stop Rosemary, but she figured at least it'd slow her down a notch, see­ing as now she would have to earn her spendings, and that at least would occupy some time. Here she was right. Rosemary did all sorts of things to get herself to the movies, darn socks, spin wool, weave, knit, all kinds of ladylike occupations, but the one she was most successful at was flower picking. At that time, this flower buying business, it was novel. Whoever heard of such a thing before Rosemary? Nobody in this town, I'll tell you that much. She'd tromp out in those fields and meadows, through brush and bush, seeking the most exquisite of every type of flower in this county, and then she'd arrange them all perfect with the most amazing bright silky ribbons and deliver them herself. So pretty they were, and so special, each and every girl and woman in this town damn near demanded it of her man. This kept Rosemary well busy and all this was just fine with her ma, see, because though she was still going to the movies every chance she had, what with the flowers and all, she was pretty occupied, and her mama figured that that girl'd just about gotten that obsession out of her little head, because she spent much more time in the fields than in the theatre.

           See, Delores thought that Rosemary was forgetting all that jazz about the pictures, that she was growing up and away from silly little girl fantasies, that soon, soon she'd be finding herself a husband. (Not too soon, but at some point in the future, that Rosemary'd be settling down to a normal life.) But see, where Delores went wrong was that she assumed that all the money Rosemary was earning, Rosemary spent at the theatre. Well, Rosemary was earning a hell of a lot more than any girl could spend on the pictures, and what she was doing with that money, well, was saving it. She was hiding it away in little jars in little nooks all over town, because Rosemary, Hollywood had bitten Rosemary a hell of a lot deeper than any of us ever would have guessed, and any of those movies that Rosemary did see anymore, all they did was bring the dream closer, and make it all the more tantalizing, until one day, one day, she went, collected all those jars and disappeared herself. She got one of the businessmen staying in town to give her a lift to the city and from the city, she got a bus to another city, and from that city, another city, and from that city, Hollywood. She told her mama that she was going out to get flowers that day, like she did everyday, and on that particular day she didn't come back.

           Now I don't suppose you ever heard of that girl's mother. I'm talk­ing about her like you know her, so I suppose I should tell you a little bit about her. Remarkable woman, she was. Hard-nosed business woman. Took care of herself and that daughter of hers with no help, and I mean no help, from any man, save the money she charged them (for honest work, for honest work). She was a church-goer. Slipped a little in her youth, that can't be denied, especially not when there was the giggling proof of Rosemary clinging to her ankles beside the stove. The girl didn't just come from no where, but where she came from, I couldn't tell you. Delores never would say. With that taken into consideration, nonethe­less, maybe more so, Delores was something pretty special. Most women when left on their own then, why they usually had a brother or uncle or something to help out. Not Delores. All by herself she made her way and lived well and respectable. Lovely thing too, she was. Deep curves of a mother and the voice of an angel. She ran the inn. A big job. An import­ant job. But Delores, after Rosemary left, she was so angry that one of her guests, someone she's both housed and fed, had taken her daughter off, didn't matter that the daughter'd not only begged and pleaded, but also paid, Delores was so angry, she flat out refused to open her doors to anyone. Closed down the only inn in town. Just about ruined our trade, and that's why, you know, all the towns around today are bigger and richer, just cause Delores wouldn't have any business for the little spell that Rosemary was gone, and no business for her meant no one was bringing business into the town, which gave us the runt of the town we got here today.

           Now see, Delores figured out on her own just how it was Rosemary had left, because the business man, having been tracked down, fessed up that he'd given Rosemary a ride to the city, but he didn't know where she was going and Delores, she couldn't figure out where she'd gone. And I guess to most people taking off for the movies, why, it doesn't even seem real. Much more real's taking off with a man, which is what everyone was whispering. I mean, at this time, why the girl, she was just a girl, only a slip of fifteen, and her mother was scared senseless for her, and she'd come to me just a crying her poor eyes out, my baby, she's gone, she's gone and I don't know where she is.

           And well, I'd comfort her the best I could, they always come back, they do, and your daughter, she loves you just heaps, you know she does, and so on and so forth I'd tell her and I'd remind her about the prodigal son and on and on, and that she'd just have to be there waiting for her daughter, cause a daughter needs a mother, and I think I was good com­fort, it seemed to help her, but how much can words do, particularly the words of someone who hasn't been hurt, not like that? Best I could do was listen, let time take care of the rest.

           Well, while Delores had closed up shop and was weeping on my shoulder, vicious rumor was circulating, buzzing about the air were all sorts of nasty, spiteful things, scandalous tales of lechery and the back­seats of salesmen's cars. Why there was even some folk who said that Delores was only so upset because she'd had to send her daughter to a convent to get rid of her grandchild, and that this whole business about her disappearing, why, that was just a lie to cover the shame, and if we watched closely, Rosemary'd be returning in not too long looking much like a mother in eye and shape, and heaps less like a girl. Like mother, like daughter they'd say behind hands when Delores'd walk past. Even in church. It was simply disgraceful. But I knew this couldn't be, because I was the one comforting Delores, and I'd known Rosemary well enough, and finally, resolute, seeing that time just wasn't taking care of things as it should, and the town, it needed an inn, everyone does, I told Delores that there wasn't a doubt in my mind where Rosemary was. She'd taken off to live amongst those bright lights and Technicolor reels.

           This, just these few words from me confirming her lowering suspi­cions, these got Delores moving right good, on a blessed rampage she was, and she set herself straight away upon retrieving her daughter. That woman, she thrust herself, hoof, line and sinker upon the movie town. Berated that town with every mode of communication there was: nasty letters, telegrams, letters, you name it, trying to track down her missing child. And they did give her a bit of a run around. Some of those folk, she spoke to, well I don't doubt they didn't know where her daughter was, but some of them, some of them, I don't doubt some of them knew damned well where that girl was hiding, and they weren't saying. Well, Delores, she thought the selfsame thing to herself, and she, she was clever. She set Walt himself, a force to be reckoned with by any man at all, upon them. He was mayor at the time. He too's long since gone and joined the dearly beloved, so I don't suppose you would have met him, but he was something else all right, both newspaper editor, back in the days when we had our own newspaper, mayor, and our only lawyer, all wrapped into one. (Made court proceedings awfully peculiar, but you could never say they weren't just.) Owned the theatre too, as it was. I guess there was just a little bit of guilt on his part, for his part, in all of this, so, when Delores asked him to help, he didn't hesitate a second. Walt, he got right on the phone and started with all kinds of newspaper double talk and legal jargon, and threats and allegations of abuse and mistreatment and endangering children, and he started talking about all his press connections, and clout and power, and all the hell sorts of other terrible things that no movie maker would want attached to his name, and when they started bringing out some sort of business about her hav­ing chosen to come and it was none of their business to be sending her back, why then, Walt, he went through the whole spiel inside out and tap dancing this time for them, adding more bits about her age and hinting that she'd been filling him in on all sorts of Hollywood lechery going on, and he just kept on talking until he got them so scared and so exhausted, why, I'd wager, they probably would have said anything to make him stop, and finally, finally they said they'd be sending her home on the next bus out of town. They not only bought her ticket, but they even packed her a lunch for the ride.

           But she didn't take that ticket straight away, and she ate that lunch in the little apartment she'd shared with four other blossoming starlets. See, when Rosemary first heard of these matters, she positively jumped for joy. She couldn't wait to be back home. It wasn't that they'd treated her badly or nothing of that sort. (Walt had taken a liberty or two with the truth on a few of the points.) She just wanted out because she'd been bored, cause that glamourous life she'd been so bent upon, well, unless you were one of the big names, it just wasn't there. She wasn't a big name and instead of rubbing her buffed elbows with the big names, she was waltzing about town as the arm piece of a minor behind the scenes man. No one important at all. Just some writer or something, and not even a good one. He was filler dialogue whenever the main writers happened to be a bit too tired or hung-over. Her role was simple. She was sweet, friv­olous arm candy to keep this writer happy. And he treated her well enough, but, you know, being pretty well treated by a minor writer is hardly being a star and hardly what she'd tromped two thousand odd miles for. So, when her mama called for her, she was more than ready to head on out.

           But the head of the studio there, the moment he heard of the whole episode and the reporter and the lawyers and the lawsuits and the bad press, well, that man, and all those people below him who'd passed up the news, then, they were scared. They couldn't have this girl going home to all these people who the studio thought were big important people, waving her tongue about all their nasty little secrets. She'd been treated nice enough, like I said, quite like a lady, but those Hollywood folk, they knew that there was something of a difference between a big city lady and a small town lady, and that she'd been privy to a thing or too that they'd all preferred be kept quiet, and so, setting their heads together, they decided that just about the best thing they could do would be to put her in one of their films. They figured if she was a star, why, that would be the only thing she'd be able to gush about going home. That seemed pretty good security to them, but as a fall back, they included a clever little secrecy clause into that movie contract. They knew their bases, they did, and weren't about to miss a trick, not on this one.

           Now, seeing as Rosemary wanted to get home as she did, and that her mother wanted her to be home more than anything else, you might wonder why it was when the head director came up to her begging her to stay, telling her that all along he'd been waiting for her to blossom, that he'd been holding this special part for her and her alone, and that if she didn't stay, why he didn't know, he just didn't even want to think about it, because possibly the best movie every written, with words that only she could speak, and images only she could create, these things might never be, with him saying all these things, you might wonder just why it was that she stayed. I mean, before she was just itching to get home, but now, now, in little under half an hour, you couldn't have budged that girl from the studio with a crowbar. You might wonder how that could be, but I'd say that you're just a fool. All he'd had to have said was I have a movie. I want you to make it before you leave, and that would have been enough. Sure, she wanted to go home, she missed her mom and her old life, but one movie wasn't too long to wait, not when she's already spent three months there waiting for that very same thing.

           So she stayed. She called her mama, reasoned with her a bit and then flat out refused to come home till this was done. She signed that contract promising never to divulge any of their terrible secrets (more than one of the studio's own lawyers pointed out this bit to her). She made the movie. All that time waiting and hoping and all it took was a call from her mama to become a star. And in that movie, she was. She got the deluxe treatment. Pampered and pandered to, doted on, primped, pressed, curled and dressed. It was all she'd ever dreamt of. The movie itself wasn't half bad either, in the end, that show, a sweet little ditty of a romance. Made you smile, although I couldn't ever see her in that picture as anything other than that girl who used to gather flow­ers and darn my socks.

           And, of course, after that, she wanted to stay. Didn't quite care if she never went home. She could be a star. She thought the casting meant she had talent. Before the movie, she might have returned home, might have come back and led herself a normal life, settled down, and dispelled the girlish fancies that had carried her so far. After, without a second glance, she would have stayed in that town forever, could she have. But she couldn't. The studio shipped her off, just as soon as the pictured wrapped. She didn't even get to see the premiere. She had to wait eight months for it to come to the little theatre here. Once they'd gotten their security, they were done with her. Were they not to ship her off, they suspected, correctly, that they would have had Walt, this time even more wrathful because of their lying, instantly on their backs. They wanted nothing at all to do with that business. Best ship her off, they knew, right back home, and let one of the other starlets fill that little writer's arm nook.

           And then, she was back, all shiny nailed and fancy smelling. She'd taken to wearing French perfume, eau de grenade, if you happen to know it. Attracted a hell of a lot of bugs whenever she went out, but she didn't care. Wore that business till the day she died. You know, she never got that movie business out of her head. Spent nearly the rest of her life in that little theatre on the corner of Main and Union. It was worse than it'd ever been. Every waking moment that place was open, she'd be in there, whatever they put up, no matter how many times she'd seen it before. Loads of times, she'd be the only one in there, if school was in or there was a blizzard, but they'd run it just the same, just for her. And the only thing that kept poor Delores from dying of a broken heart was the summer, see, because in summer, the theatre was too hot to be running the projectors, cause the reels, they'd just about melt, so Rosemary'd have to go out and what she'd do is she'd go back to the fields where she used to get the flowers, the same flowers were still there and are still there, for that matter, as there were way back when, back before she was a star, and she'd go about picking, just like she was a little girl again. And it was odd, but in the summers, that was the only time Delores would be able to cook, only time she felt alive, and everyone from around here, they all knew if the theatre was open, not even to dare to venture into the inn, because not one blessed morsel would have taste.