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Photo: Roger W, Flickr.
The other thing I realized about L.A. was how everyone created their own little private paradise within this greater garden, a refuge that, if you were lucky, you didn’t have to leave too often. I remember meeting a well-known screenwriter at a party a few months after I settled in and how, when someone asked how she was doing, she answered she’d had a terrific week because she hadn’t had to leave her house for five straight days.
The flowers didn’t want to come inside, the people didn’t want to go out. L.A. had its own measures. Rhythms. Quirks. Every thing was always moving . . . or else it became very, very still.
When Ray and his mother lived on Bunker Hill, the big houses he described in The High Window had already been broken up into apartments. Perhaps they had a haggard landlady like the one he described, and Ray went off to work each morning, to his job at the Los Angeles Creamery on South Olive Street and balanced the ice cream accounts for which he was responsible, while Florence walked down the hill to Central Market, the great collection of food stalls that is still there between Broadway and Hill, and did the marketing and then went home and cooked dinner and they ate together, just mother and son, as they had done Ray’s whole life. She was not an old woman then, Florence. She couldn’t have been more than fifty—just a few years older than Cissy—a woman who might still have made a match for herself, freeing her son to move on and lead his own life. But she never did that. She never remarried. Later Chandler said he wished that she had. His mother was a beautiful woman, he said, and she might have married: there had been a few suitors, but he felt she had been too concerned for him. After his father’s disappearance she never wanted to take a chance on another man, a stepfather who might end up disappointing him again.
There’s a picture of Florence from this time. In this photo there is about her an air of melancholy, or disappointment, a rather nakedly sad look most evident in her eyes and the set of her mouth. She’s not unattractive, but neither is she beautiful. It’s interesting to compare this picture with one of Cissy, showing her at a very young age. Cissy is exquisitely lovely. Her face is shown in three-quarter profile and she wears a white dress, pulled off her shoulders and revealing a graceful neck and the sort of skin, as Chandler once wrote, that an old rake dreams of. Her features are classically perfect—a beautiful mouth, fine nose, large soft eyes with shapely brows. Her hair is a mass of soft curls, a style she would maintain throughout her life. She’s movie-star beautiful and yet the pose is anything but glamorous. She looks incredibly soft and gentle, very natural and lovely.
The two women were in fact of opposite temperament—one a victim who never overcame her husband’s abandonment, the other a survivor who never minded abandoning a situation if her own welfare demanded it. And yet in later photographs showing both women at about the same age, what is striking is how much they resemble each other in a certain way.
There was no place for me to park near Bunker Hill, and nothing of the neighborhood where Chandler had lived left to see. I realized at that moment, and not for the last time, what a city of architectural disposability L.A. really was, how quickly one thing was turned into another, buildings torn down, replaced by something else. The rather short history of the city was constantly being erased, like a throwaway metropolis, ensconced in happy amnesia. The house on Bonnie Brae was gone. Ditto the dilapidated old mansions on Bunker Hill. As I turned onto Third Street and headed west I wondered what I’d find at 311 S. Loma Drive, the place where Ray and his mother had moved next.
Photo: Library of Congress.
This was no longer an attractive area of the city, these neighborhoods close to downtown. Though once an area of beautiful houses, the hard-core urban center had been increasingly neglected over many decades, shunned by those with money in favor of the ever-expanding suburbs and beach communities. And yet one could still find pockets of beauty and gracefulness. I knew that on the corner of Loma Drive and Third Street, very near the address I had for Chandler and his mother, there stood a magnificent old YWCA building, the Mary Andrews Clark Memorial Home, which had a stately feeling and pretty shaded gardens, a place that in recent years had been turned into low-income housing. Once, when I was looking for inexpensive office space, I’d investigated the possibility of renting a room there only to discover it was run like a lockdown facility where everyone had to sign in at a security desk, and the bathrooms were shared with other residents, many of whom were recovering addicts or on parole. I decided to pass on the place.
Ray had rented a bungalow court apartment a half a block from the Mary Andrews Clark Memorial Home; the home, built in 1912, would have been just a few years old when he and his mother moved to the neighborhood and was filled with young ladies who’d come to the city for adventure or to seek their fortune. The Chandlers’ apartment would also have been within easy walking distance of the trolley lines that served downtown.

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