Annie called the story department and after swearing she was Bea’s stepdaughter—the news that Bea had one seemed to astonish the woman she spoke to—managed to get a home phone number.

Even after so many years, she quailed upon hearing that rough voice.

“This is Annie, Bea.”

“Annie? Annie who, for crissake?”

“Gianfala.”

“Oh! You!”

“I’m sorry to bother you.”

“Then why bother me?”

“I need to get hold of my father. I thought you might know…”

“What for?”

“Well—”

“You used to be such a foul little liar. Don’t start up with me!”

“Please. Give it to me?”

“He owes me alimony. I could put him in jail.”

Restraining a flood of rage, Annie took a deep breath. “You could sell all those paintings of his you took.”

“Ha! Sell them! Are you crazy? I couldn’t sell them to a junkman.”

“Please, Bea.”

There was a pause. Annie heard the clink of glass against glass. Bea was drinking—noisily. She coughed. “He’s a painter so he can live like a bum,” she said sullenly. “He’s too cheap to make money anyhow. He’d only have to spend it. I suppose he informed you he married again?” There was another loud gulp. “He has himself a lush this time,” she said with satisfaction.

It was as if no time had passed. Bea had always spoken to her in this same way.

“You remember, Annie, how I taught you patience?” Bea was asking insinuatingly. “You liked that. I showed you eight different kinds of solitaire. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“I wasn’t so bad, was I?” the voice wheedled.

“No.”

Then, hard and combative, she asked, “What do you want with him?”

“I’m going to get married. I have to have his permission because I’m not eighteen yet.”

Annie heard a shriek of laughter, the phone dropped with a crash, then Bea came back on.

“How did you track me down?”

“I called the St. Vincents.”

“He wouldn’t tell you. I bet it was that stinker, Hope. How is that stinker?”

“They gave me your number at MGM.”

“Getting married! My God! I should think you’d be cured of that before you even begin!”

“The address, Bea?”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t,” Bea replied.

“Bea!”

“If he were a real artist, he wouldn’t spend all his time marrying. He wouldn’t have had you, my girl! He’s a senseless man. Senseless! All right. Let me go get the address, and luck to you. Why don’t you just shack up with your hero?”

“It was hard, but I got it,” Annie reported to Walter.

“Then wire him right now.”

“Why are you in such a hurry?”

“Don’t be stubborn with me, Annie.”

“I thought Communists were all for free love…”

He looked prim. “That’s capitalist propaganda,” he said.

She laughed.

Chapter 10

An answer came the next evening in answer to Annie’s telegram.