I end with a list of names as I began.
Shorty McAdoo, unconscious, was taken by ambulance to hospital. Six hours later, he slipped off the ward and disappeared. I never saw him again. Shorty on the run, just as he had been as a boy. Making for the Medicine Line. I like to believe he crossed it one last time.
Wylie hanged himself in jail. They buried him in the potter’s field Shorty and he had saved his brother from.
Two weeks after the premiere I said goodbye to Rachel at the train station. She had come to see my mother and me off to Saskatoon, our fares paid with the five-hundred-dollar cheque Chance had written me as a settling of accounts. A Santa Ana was blowing, the hot wind whipping her electric black hair around her head. The locomotive stood impatiently panting steam while she kissed my mother farewell. When we shook hands she said, “Reconsider, Harry. I can get you a job at Metro. I’ve got pull there.”
Grit and cinders were flying in the wind. I knew I was done with Hollywood. I shook my head.
“Maybe it’s best,” she said, tugging down the hem of her skirt against the Santa Ana’s ferocity. “Maybe this isn’t the place for you.”
And she was right. Like Shorty McAdoo, I didn’t belong there.
The conductor was calling us aboard. As we stepped up into the railway car she cried out, “Don’t be a stranger, Harry! Write me!”
Pressed against the window, my mother and I didn’t take our eyes from Rachel until the train left her behind, waving.
I never did write to Rachel Gold. A couple of months after I’d settled back in Saskatoon, I landed a job managing a movie theatre. I’ve been there almost thirty years. Funny, isn’t it? Harry Vincent still in the picture business. In 1925 I put a down payment on a little house overlooking the river which runs through the city. My mother lived with me in this house for ten years, until she died in February of 1935.
I never married. It isn’t that I’ve been carrying a torch all these years. I remember being a rookie at the studio, Rachel laughing and showing me a picture of herself in an old central-casting book. It was from the days when she was a bit actress, before she became a scriptwriter. The photograph was of a very young woman, but it was still Rachel. She had a knowing look in her eye.
Later, I pinched the book, took it home, and cut her picture out of it. I discovered it in my wallet a couple of years after I moved back to Saskatoon. Pictures on cheap paper don’t wear well. I could hardly make out her face. During one of my walks by the river I dropped it into the water. I have no more idea where Rachel Gold ended up than I do where that photograph did. Both moved out of view.
I accept that. Living beside the river has taught me something about change. Paved white with snow and ice in winter, slack and brown in summer, the river is never the same. As a boy, I had rushed down to it only in its moments of crisis, when it ripped apart and roared, shattered while I stood on the bank, shaking with excitement. The apocalypse has its attractions.
Chance was greedy for the apocalypse. More, he wanted to have a hand in creating it. For thirty years I’ve stood at the back of my theatre watching men like him in the newsreels. Hitler ranting like some demented Charlie Chaplin; Mussolini posturing on a balcony like some vain, second-rate Latin screen star. Now Senator Joe McCarthy bullies his way through his hearings, the gods and goddesses of Hollywood facing a different kind of public judgement than the box office, frightened, cringing before the cameras they love so dearly.
I can offer no judgement of Chance’s picture Besieged because I never saw it. Not many people did. It got pushed into oblivion; Chance’s murder became bigger than the picture itself. As so often happens in Hollywood, scandal became the story, obscuring everything else. The man who wanted to be another D.W. Griffith, a visionary filmmaker, is remembered today only as the man who got killed at a premiere. A small footnote.
Shorty’s story fared no better in the history books I consulted when I got back home to Canada. Searching them, I found a sentence here, a paragraph there. What I learned was little enough. For a brief time the Cypress Hills Massacre had its day in the sun; members of Parliament rose in the House, hotly denouncing the wolfers as American cutthroats, thieves, and renegades. Nobody seemed to mention that among them were Canadian cutthroats too.
Those few paragraphs always pointed to one result of the massacre. The Canadian government formed the North West Mounted Police, sent it on a long, red-jacketed march into a vast territory, establishing claim to it. A mythic act of possession.
Chance believed character didn’t count for much in history. But, looking at the river, I remind myself the map of the river is not the river itself. That hidden in it are deep, mysterious, submerged, and unpredictable currents. The characters of all those wolfers, Canadian and American, cast longer shadows than I had any inkling of that endless night in which McAdoo made his confession, crouched on a cot in a desolate bunkhouse, an old man reliving his pain and guilt thousands of miles from an obscure dot on the Saskatchewan prairie.
Each night I stand at the back of my theatre, watch spectres and phantoms slide across the screen. The picture done, the audience gone, I lock the doors, go out into the night.
But the past cannot be so easily dismissed. The faces of Rachel, Chance, and Fitz, of Wylie and of Shorty McAdoo, accompany me on my long walk home in the dark. I cross the black iron bridge, my limp a little worse each year, the water rushing underneath me in the darkness, pulling for the horizon.