Every now and again, Mrs. Koverman would stand up and rap upon the door with the brass plaque on it reading LOUIS B. MAYER, then enter with a piece of typed paper or a phone message. Each time she emerged, Maud looked at her steadily while Mrs. Koverman avoided her gaze. Once in a while, Maud glanced at her wristwatch. Soon one-thirty had come and gone.
The two women might have remained in their silent test of wills had not a large commotion ensued from the elevator bay—a loud thwack and a cry of “Bugger all!” filled the room. Maud was astonished to see a giant young man—well over six feet tall—rubbing his head, then bending over to gather up a scattered pile of papers from the floor. Most surprising, a brand-new edition of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz had skidded across the floor, landing almost at Maud’s feet.
She picked it up and approached the man. “I believe you’ve lost this?”
“Right,” he said with a British accent. “Just give me a minute. I’m a bit dazed.”
Maud watched with alarm as the lanky man swayed like a tall pine on a windy day. But after a moment, he straightened his tie, took the book from Maud, and held out his other hand in greeting. “Noel Langley. Scenarist.”
He noted the faded clothbound volume Maud held in her other hand. “Doing a little homework, I see.”
“Homework?”
“Let me guess. Are you playing Auntie Em?”
“Auntie Em?” Maud was startled. She peered at the man, confused. “But how could you…?”
“Clara Blandick,” Langley continued, not seeming to notice Maud’s reaction. “I presume…”
“Oh, the actress?” Maud said, gathering her wits. “You mean the actress?”
“Yes, the actress,” Langley said, louder this time. Maud blinked in irritation.
“Not at all. I’m not an actress,” Maud said firmly. “I’m Maud Baum—Mrs. L. Frank…?”
Langley returned a blank look.
“My late husband, Frank—L. Frank Baum? Author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz?” Maud held up her book and pointed to the author’s name.
Still looking puzzled, he scrutinized Maud as if seeing her for the first time. She twisted the emerald she wore on her fourth finger and smoothed the folds of her simple floral dress, aware how out of place she must appear to this elegant young man.
“But the book was written before I was born…” Langley said slowly, as if trying to solve a difficult math problem in his head. “Surely his wife must be…” As he spoke, his head cocked progressively more to one side, until with his long limbs and small tilted head, he looked like a curious grasshopper.
“I’m seventy-seven years old,” Maud said. “Not dead yet, if that’s what you were thinking.”
“Certainly not, of course not,” Langley stammered, his face now beet red. “It’s just that I imagined the book was published years ago? I guess, I assumed—oh, never mind what I assumed…”
“Not to worry,” Maud said soothingly. “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz was published in 1900. The turn of the century.”
“Ah, yes…” Langley said. His blush had faded, but the tips of his auricles remained pink.
“Must seem like ancient history to a young man like you.” Maud’s heart sank at the thought.
Langley nodded in agreement.
“Which brings up a good point,” Maud said. “It’s a lucky chance I’ve run into you. You see—”
Before Maud had a chance to finish, the elevator doors slid open again and a brown-haired man seemed to blow out as if pushed by a strong wind.
“Langley!” he cried out.
“Hello,” the tall fellow answered. “Look what we have here…if you can believe it. It’s Mrs. L. Frank Baum. Mrs. Baum, this is Mervyn LeRoy. He’s the producer.”
LeRoy skidded to a stop in front of the pair and looked Maud up and down.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said, appearing mystified at her presence.
LeRoy’s gaze fell upon the faded green book Maud clasped in her bony, spotted hands.
“Well, now, look at this.” LeRoy reached out. “This looks like the exact same edition I had when I was a kid…sat on the shelf right by my bed. Loved that book so much.”
Maud sensed an opening. “Would you like to take a look?”
She held out the worn volume, the color leached from its cover and its edges frayed. Before cracking it open, LeRoy inhaled its papery scent, then reverently brushed the palm of his hand across the stamped green cloth. Flipping it open, he perused the color illustrations one by one, a half-smile on his lips.
“I grew up reading this book. Loved it! It’s hard to explain. I almost felt as if the characters were part of my own family.”
“I am glad to hear you feel that way. So you’ll understand why it’s so important to stick to the author’s vision.”
LeRoy tore his eyes away from the volume in his hands and returned his gaze to Maud, whose corporeal presence he still seemed to find puzzling. “The author’s vision? Tell the truth, I never gave a moment’s thought to the person who wrote it. Oz always seemed so timeless—eternal, really. Funny to think it started out as the idea of an unknown person with a pen in his hand.”
“I assure you, my husband was a very celebrated man in his day. The newspapers used to be full of stories about him. Headlines. Mr. L. Frank Baum, celebrated author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz…” She looked at LeRoy expectantly, but he maintained the same bland expression. Even though this one wasn’t as wet behind the ears as Langley, he had most likely still been in knee britches when Frank Baum’s name was on every lip.
“Perhaps a young man like you wouldn’t remember…” Maud was unable to hide the discouragement in her voice.
“No, ma’am. This is all news to me. But I promise you, it doesn’t matter one bit. I may not recall anything about the author, but I’ll definitely never forget that story!”
It pained Maud terribly to think that Frank could be forgotten, and yet, she wasn’t entirely surprised. Now, almost twenty years after her husband’s death, many people didn’t recognize his name, but was there anyone, big or small, who didn’t know Dorothy and the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Lion? Frank’s creations had grown more celebrated than their creator, bursting out of the confines of the pages to which Frank had entrusted them. Of all people, Maud knew best that none of it—the Wizard, the Witches, the Land of Oz itself—would have existed were it not for the real flesh-and-blood man who had walked this earth, who had lived and laughed, and sometimes suffered…
“Mrs. Baum?” LeRoy was holding the book out to her. Maud realized she had been lost in her thoughts.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure.” He turned to go.
“Mr. LeRoy?” Maud held out her hand.
“Yes?”
“Do you think that you could…Well, it’s just that…You see…I’m the last link to the author of this book, and yet I can’t even get permission—”
“Mister LeRoy,” Ida Koverman interrupted.
He pivoted to Mrs. Koverman as if surprised by her presence. “Well there, Ida,” he said jovially. “Do you know who we have here?” He held up the book. “This is Mrs. L. Frank Baum! Can you believe it?”
Mrs. Koverman’s eyebrows remained fixed in a straight line, matching exactly the cast of her mouth. “Mr. Mayer will see you and Langley now.”
At the mention of Mayer’s name, the two men were suddenly all business. Langley muttered, “Good day,” LeRoy tipped his hat, and Maud realized that their brief conversation was over. The two men hurried inside the confines of Louis B. Mayer’s office without a backward glance, leaving Maud no choice but to return to her seat. Half an hour later, when Mayer’s door pushed open and the two men emerged, Maud stood up expectantly, hoping to engage them once again, but this time, deep in conversation, the men barely nodded to her as they passed, and she soon found herself alone with Mrs. Koverman, who was typing with a rapid-fire clickety-clack, clickety-clack, zing.
After what seemed an eternity, Ida Koverman stood up and beckoned. The door swung open upon an office so vast that Maud could have ridden a bicycle across it. At one end stood a pearly grand piano; at the other was a massive white semicircular desk. Behind the desk sat a round-faced, bald-pated man with equally round spectacles. To Maud, he looked like a prairie dog just emerging from his hole. He seemed to take no note of her at all but was rummaging around on his desk, leafing through some papers that might have been a script. Behind her, Mrs. Koverman exited, leaving the door open. Maud stood still, waiting for some sign of acknowledgment; at last, certain that none was forthcoming, she approached.
Louis B. Mayer looked up, as if startled to see her there. “Mrs. L. Frank Baum,” he burst out, jumping up from his seat. “Mrs. Oz herself.” He stood up and reached across the desk, pumping Maud’s hand warmly, then dropped it suddenly, taking a step back as if seeing her for the first time. “So tell me, Mrs. L. Frank Baum. What can I do for you today?”
“I’m here to offer my services,” Maud said. “I called the moment I saw the announcement in Variety.” Maud did not mention that the studio had been rebuffing her overtures for months. “I want to be a resource to you. I can tell you all about Oz, and about the man who created him. Nobody knows more about the story than I do—”
Mayer cut her off, calling through the open door.
“Ida?”
Mrs. Koverman popped her head in.