Three small pictures had been pasted on this side to form an arc. The first was a picture of a rolling pin from a magazine advertisement. The center was the photo of Maria Walewski from the newspapers, the photo that had been taken at Essanay with Charlie Chaplin. Maria’s dark hair had been scribbled over with black ink, her mouth dabbed with red crayon, and her eyes made to look like the eyes of the crazy old man in the Polly comic strip.

The last picture was an illustration torn from a magazine story—a drawing of a rabbit lying on the ground, its long ears sleeked back and a peaceful expression on its face. Someone had meticulously shaded in its white fur with a pencil, so the fur looked grey, like the rabbit she’d seen in the Black Brothers Lodge.

She sank onto the grass and touched each of the pictures in turn. The rolling pin—that would be her, one of Henry’s crazy nicknames. Maria. The rabbit. Last of all she traced the wobbly words at the bottom of the homemade card. No one had ever given her a card before.

MR PIN

SORRY I SCARED YOU LAST NIGHT

SINCERLY YRS, H DARGER

Chapter 82

Chapter 82

SHE PUT THE card carefully into her back pocket and stood, feeling a flutter of the happiness she’d experienced with Glory. She’d go see if Max was in. If he wasn’t, she might just head up to the studio anyway. She’d wait by the Blue Streak and look for coins that had fallen from someone’s pocket on the coaster—as many people as were here today, surely someone would lose a few nickels for streetcar fare.

Near Max’s tent, the ground was littered with cigarette butts and squashed stogies, the way it always was after a performance. The door to his dressing room hung open, and she could hear movement inside.

“Hello?” She knocked hesitantly, ready to take off if Max wasn’t in the mood to be seen. “It’s me, Pin…”

The sound of movement stopped, after a few seconds started up again. She knocked a second time. Still no reply. Not a good sign. She started to turn away when the door opened wider.

“Pin.”

For a moment she didn’t recognize him. His hair was black, not blond, his face damp and his upper lip raw, as though recently shaved. Patches of white covered his cheeks and forehead, as though she’d caught him removing his makeup, or just putting it on. He wore Maxene’s black kidskin gloves on both hands, not just one, and a clean white undershirt over dark trousers. Blood bloomed in the white of one eye, which resembled a spoiled plum.

He said, “You’re early, boy.”

Pin looked away, unnerved. “I can come back later.”

“No, come in. Shut the door behind you.”