The cop in the intersection blew his whistle and motioned for the trolley to move forward. It creaked and sang with a metallic whine, wheels turning one full revolution before Hannah poked her head out the window. Chaplin walked beside the trolley. He waved. All was well. His mother had taken her glasses off, and she looked at him, wheels below her turning once again, then twice, then again, with increasing speed. He went into a trot. He waved.

The motion awakened something in her. She threw both her hands out. They cupped and released the air. She was saying something he couldn’t hear. He was now waving goodbye and running beside the trolley, which was about to vanish around the curve of Sunset. She had something in her hand. She was flailing with it, trying to pass it to him. Hands reaching down, she was straining, stretching, and it was too late, the Red Car was gone.

Chaplin slowed down. He was panting. He bent over, hands against his trousers. There, in the dusty street, was what his mother had been trying to give him: what she had stolen during her checkers game. White-flour bread and some cheese and meat between them. She had saved him a bit of sandwich.

45

Chaplin walked up Sunset to La Brea, where he got into the back of his touring car, which had been waiting for him. He composed a cable to send to Syd.

Mother returning England STOP Good seaside
resort STOP Good may come alone STOP

Kono drove him to the ranch where they had filmed the Little Fellow’s suicide. In the interim, the land had sold for an outrageous sum, and sold again, and it was rumored that it would become one hundred two-bedroom bungalows.

Film had come to Hollywood because of the light, the 350 days of good weather a year, and as the films were released around the world, they proved how beautiful Hollywood was. And so the land was vanishing as quickly as they could film it. The landlocked poet in Collins, Illinois, and the frustrated beauty of Teaneck, New Jersey, saw where they could live in tune with what they had always wanted to be. It was obvious, upon seeing the beaches and hills and palms, that your current self was just a stand-in for someone not yet arrived. If only you could live in such a beautiful place, the rest would change. People at their weakest, most trusting, and childlike moments believed there was out there for them somewhere a Sunnyside. Which meant the place was eventually one hundred two-bedroom bungalows. The mystery not yet solved was how to love a place when your mere presence destroyed it.