Chapter 12

Not afraid of heights! Gladys stood on the wing, clinging to the strut with one arm, her other hand holding the rip cord. She’d had two days training with “Skeets” Elliot in his Spad XIII biplane, now she was two thousand feet up in her full Mazie Darnton costume, a tight fitting top with a short skirt that flared out over ruffled petticoats, all bunched up by the parachute straps between her legs, and of course she was wearing those pink tights. The wind whipped against her, and she held on as Skeets maneuvered the plane in a wide turn for their third pass, bright circus banner streaming behind.

“Don’t look down,” Skeets had said, “just keep your eyes on me. I’ll get you through.” She watched Skeets now as he straightened out of the turn. He pointed off to their left, nodding. She looked. The camera plane was moving into position. In seconds it was along side, not twenty yards away. Her cue. Skeets tipped the wing slightly, and she did a big circus smile, let go of the rip cord just long enough to wave and do a sweeping curtsy for the cameraman. The muscles in her left arm almost cramping from holding on so tight.

Mazie Darnton, “Queen of the air,” fearless aerialist for Mr. McKeen’s circus.

Well, Mazie might be fearless, but Gladys Walton’s heart was hammering. She found the ripcord again, gripped it. Below circus wagons, elephants, white horses, acrobats, clowns, a troop of performers in full three-ring regalia paraded into the little Massachusetts town on Universal’s back lot. Besides scores of extras playing the good townsfolk, a crowd of a hundred or so

tourists had gathered to watch the shooting. Mamma was there too, praying. But Gladys did not look down.

In the back seat of the other plane the cameraman motioned, he’d gotten the shot, and she turned to Skeets. He gave a thumbs up. Now. She took a deep breath, oh, dear God! and jumped.

The roar of the plane passing above. Five, four, three... Falling, stomach in her throat. The ground rushing up. On one, she pulled the cord. And felt herself jerked upward as the chute billowed out. Only then did she breathe again. Floating. Alive, still alive. The camera plane did another pass, and she smiled and waved.

Now only the landing.

In the story, Mazie lands on the roof of the Reverend Jonathan Meek’s house, her pink tights causing a scandal with the congregation, but all Director Eason wanted were the air shots. For the rest they’d just film her on the roof getting out of the parachute.

Gladys looked around. Now that she was off the plane, there was no breeze, just a gentle swinging. Glorious! A clear, crisp California day. She could see snow on Mount Baldy. She could see Central Park and downtown, tiny black cars and here and there a horse drawn wagon, the red roofs of the trolleys, the road east to San Bernardino, train tracks running beside. She turned and saw the hills of Hollywood and west, the ocean stretching out forever.

She looked down. She was drifting over the naked backs of the false buildings on the set, crowd gathered in the street, circus parade at one end, all heads turned up, watching her. Now the church, the preacher’s house beside it. She noticed some activity in the church yard. Mr. Eason in a frenzy, waving his hat, yelling at a cameraman waiting on the roof for the staged shot of her getting out of the parachute. They had expected her to land in the open field on the other side, a crew there to drive her around, but she was drifting right toward the church.

Maybe two hundred yards away now. The man on the roof scrambled to get his camera in position, aimed up at her, started rolling. The parachute was dropping her straight toward the church roof. A hundred yards. Gladys did not know what came over her then, the crowds, the circus, Mr. Eason looking up, stunned and grinning, the camera rolling. She spotted Mr. Thomas standing by her mother. Mamma waving to beat the band.

And suddenly she was Mazie Darnton, Queen of the Air. She stretched her arms out straight for a moment, then up, grabbing the parachute straps, and she pulled herself up like a gymnast, legs straight in those pink tights and black ballerina shoes, toes pointed, then she swung her body in a circle, legs back horizontal with the ground.

Fifty yards, twenty.

Twice she did the move, and at the last second she shifted and her feet brushed the roof. “Lean back, away from the drag, and pull hard on the straps,” Skeets had said, “so you don’t go head over heals.” With all her strength she leaned and pulled and fell back on her ruffled petticoats, bounced twice down the slope beside the church steeple and came to rest on the Reverend Jonathan Meek’s roof, not ten feet from Mr. Eason and the cameraman, the parachute making a canopy between the house and the church.

The crowd cheered and cheered.

“Keep shooting! Don’t stop!” Mr. Eason shouted. “Perrin, where’s Perrin?”

Then Jack Perrin appeared at the top of the ladder, adjusting his clergy collar, slipping on his black frock coat, and looking as stunned as any small town preacher would be if a beautiful young woman dropped out of the sky onto his roof.

Perrin scurried over to her, and although they weren’t supposed to shoot this scene until later, he kept in character. The Reverend Jonathan Meek gazing at Mazie sprawled in her circus costume, skirt and petticoats pulled up by the parachute straps, revealing even more of those shapely legs in pink tights. Then, with full dramatic effect, Reverend Meek looked around, worried. What if someone from his congregation saw? The film title would read something about having to hide her until after dark. If the church people found out there’d be scandal for sure.

But what Jack Perrin said as he helped Gladys out of the straps was, “Holy shit! That was some entrance, baby. How the hell did you do that?”