He imagined Doug in the rain, hopeless and ill, repeating to himself his own advice from his chapter on matrimony: “If a man is a manly man, he should marry early and remain faithful to the bride of his youth.” Douglas coughing, the rain soaking him to the marrow, as Beth, his wife, has locked him out of the house. And Doug, bellowing it again, as if trying to force a key into a lock that will not turn, “If a man is a manly man”— cough, cough, and then, weakly, “Help.” Chaplin would never get to see a side of Doug like that. Perhaps Pickford got to see it. This made him want to take it away from her.

It had been quiet for an uncomfortably long amount of time. “I’m sorry,” Chaplin finally said. “How’s Mary?”

“She’s fine,” Doug said, with suspicion.

“I know we weren’t talking about her.”

“Well, she’s worried about her brother, of course.”

“I heard he was safely in the Naval Reserve.”

Doug rubbed his chin. “I thought it was the Signal Corps.”

“No, the uniform was definitely Naval Reserve.”

“I could have sworn … Ah, heck, it doesn’t matter. I don’t know, Charlie. She worries about him.”

“Why?”

“Never mind that.” Then Doug said, “She’s optimistic.”

“Really? She is? I think it’s all about chaos and homicide.”

Now Doug’s head was actually hanging, and he was for a rare moment not moving. He finally muttered, “Maybe you should go to a party.”

“Why?”

“You’d have fun at a party.”

“You’d have fun at a party.”

“I’m at a party right now,” Doug said. “So are you. You just won’t admit it.” He waved to the band, half of whom were still eating, and all of whom were discussing whether it was a good or a bad thing to bring such wealthy men up the Chavez Ravine and so close to La Loma, where they lived—for now. Quickly, the plates went down, the instruments and smiles went up, and they launched into “La Bamba,” which Doug began to sing. “Para bailar la bamba,” he sang, repeatedly, as if there were no other lyrics.

Chaplin smiled at him, tried to breathe in the wonder of coffee, camp-fire, Los Angeles at his feet. He imagined himself exultant, a newly minted king, taking in the sights of his noble lands. He pictured the smile on his face, the pleasant brush of his ermine robe, the rush of delight, how his kingdom would be carnivals and swing sets and garden slides over which glided a thousand lithe harem girls.

But when he thought of his mother visiting, the visions of plenty vanished. He wanted more dogs. He would change the title of his film from Charlie’s Mutt to I Should Worry.

3