Melissa said again. “What tells us more about our culture than our final resting places? These are the spots where our spirits will rest indefinitely.”
“Don’t you mean, ‘eternally’?”
“Who knows?” Melissa shrugged.
“I’m not sure if I believe that spirit stuff,” Rebecca said. “I mean, when you’re gone, you’re gone. I wish it weren’t so, but I think it is.”
They arrived back at the car. Melissa gave her a facetious wink.
“As you get older,” Melissa said, “you might change your mind. I did.”
“What are you talking about?” Rebecca asked. “Spirits? Reincarnation?”
“That’s a subject for another day,” Melissa said. “Right now, however, if you want to do some more world class tomb crawling, I’ll take you over to Hollywood Memorial Cemetery. It’s at the intersection of Gower, Santa Monica, and Van Ness. Douglas Fairbanks and Rudolph Valentine are in there. Want to go look?” Rebecca sighed.
“Quickly,” she said. “On the way home.”
“It’s a deal, honey.” They found the Toyota and started back.
“Want to know my favorite Tinseltown burial story?” Melissa asked a few minutes later. They were on the freeway from Burbank, moving with moderate traffic.
“I’d be afraid to guess what it is,” Rebecca answered. “And I have a feeling that I’m going to hear it anyway.”
“Hollywood Memorial,” Melissa said. “One of the more venomous producers ever to screen a film in this town is buried there. Harry Cohn.” She paused. “He picked out his own gravesite,” Melissa said. “He was the head of Columbia Pictures at the time. An absolute tyrant. So he picked out a site that was across the street from the studio. Legend has it that he could keep an eye on the film business after he died. And he bought himself two plots, figuring he was bigger in Hollywood than anyone else. So he should have two. And everyone else has one.”
Melissa was correct, Rebecca was starting to conclude that death could be fascinating.
“So tell me,” Rebecca asked. “Was Harry able to keep an eye on the studio?”
“After Cohn died, the studio moved,” Melissa said. And it was beset with failures and scandals. So who knows? It was apparently beyond Harry’s sight. And power.”
Thirty minutes later, Melissa showed Rebecca Cohn’s tomb, right by a little manmade lake. In Hollywood Memorial Cemetery, a pantheon of stars had found a final refuge from their fans. Douglas Fairbanks had the most elaborate memorial in the sixty-five acre yard. But Rudolph Valentino, in crypt 1205, still drew visitors, although the famous “lady in black” who used to bring flowers on the anniversary of his death had long since slipped into her own tomb. Rebecca noted Tyrone Power, Peter Lorre, and Cecil B. DeMille. In an eerie touch, Paramount Pictures, which DeMille had established in the 1920’s still existed over the garden wall from his tomb.
There was also a Jewish cemetery across the street, Beth Olam.
“I’ll take you to see Bugsy Siegel,” Melissa offered. “He was shot down in his home in Beverly Hills more than fifty years ago. Eight ten Linden Drive. But we can still visit him in Beth Olam. Want to say hello to him?”
“I think,” Rebecca said, “I’ve had enough of tombs. How about lunch, instead?”
It was mid-afternoon and Melissa agreed. She knew a great place in West Hollywood where fresh light sandwiches came on croissants. Rebecca treated Melissa to lunch, dropped her back at her house, and then took off to pick up Karen and Patrick from their after school programs. The day had been as unusual as it had been fascinating.
Chapter 10
Bill called her at six that evening and told her to go ahead with dinner. Some late work was going to keep him at the office for a few extra hours. Bill sounded good over the phone and seemed relieved that the extra work was coming together. Rebecca gave the kids their meal. They spent half an hour reading after dinner, then
“Don’t you mean, ‘eternally’?”
“Who knows?” Melissa shrugged.
“I’m not sure if I believe that spirit stuff,” Rebecca said. “I mean, when you’re gone, you’re gone. I wish it weren’t so, but I think it is.”
They arrived back at the car. Melissa gave her a facetious wink.
“As you get older,” Melissa said, “you might change your mind. I did.”
“What are you talking about?” Rebecca asked. “Spirits? Reincarnation?”
“That’s a subject for another day,” Melissa said. “Right now, however, if you want to do some more world class tomb crawling, I’ll take you over to Hollywood Memorial Cemetery. It’s at the intersection of Gower, Santa Monica, and Van Ness. Douglas Fairbanks and Rudolph Valentine are in there. Want to go look?” Rebecca sighed.
“Quickly,” she said. “On the way home.”
“It’s a deal, honey.” They found the Toyota and started back.
“Want to know my favorite Tinseltown burial story?” Melissa asked a few minutes later. They were on the freeway from Burbank, moving with moderate traffic.
“I’d be afraid to guess what it is,” Rebecca answered. “And I have a feeling that I’m going to hear it anyway.”
“Hollywood Memorial,” Melissa said. “One of the more venomous producers ever to screen a film in this town is buried there. Harry Cohn.” She paused. “He picked out his own gravesite,” Melissa said. “He was the head of Columbia Pictures at the time. An absolute tyrant. So he picked out a site that was across the street from the studio. Legend has it that he could keep an eye on the film business after he died. And he bought himself two plots, figuring he was bigger in Hollywood than anyone else. So he should have two. And everyone else has one.”
Melissa was correct, Rebecca was starting to conclude that death could be fascinating.
“So tell me,” Rebecca asked. “Was Harry able to keep an eye on the studio?”
“After Cohn died, the studio moved,” Melissa said. And it was beset with failures and scandals. So who knows? It was apparently beyond Harry’s sight. And power.”
Thirty minutes later, Melissa showed Rebecca Cohn’s tomb, right by a little manmade lake. In Hollywood Memorial Cemetery, a pantheon of stars had found a final refuge from their fans. Douglas Fairbanks had the most elaborate memorial in the sixty-five acre yard. But Rudolph Valentino, in crypt 1205, still drew visitors, although the famous “lady in black” who used to bring flowers on the anniversary of his death had long since slipped into her own tomb. Rebecca noted Tyrone Power, Peter Lorre, and Cecil B. DeMille. In an eerie touch, Paramount Pictures, which DeMille had established in the 1920’s still existed over the garden wall from his tomb.
There was also a Jewish cemetery across the street, Beth Olam.
“I’ll take you to see Bugsy Siegel,” Melissa offered. “He was shot down in his home in Beverly Hills more than fifty years ago. Eight ten Linden Drive. But we can still visit him in Beth Olam. Want to say hello to him?”
“I think,” Rebecca said, “I’ve had enough of tombs. How about lunch, instead?”
It was mid-afternoon and Melissa agreed. She knew a great place in West Hollywood where fresh light sandwiches came on croissants. Rebecca treated Melissa to lunch, dropped her back at her house, and then took off to pick up Karen and Patrick from their after school programs. The day had been as unusual as it had been fascinating.
Chapter 10
Bill called her at six that evening and told her to go ahead with dinner. Some late work was going to keep him at the office for a few extra hours. Bill sounded good over the phone and seemed relieved that the extra work was coming together. Rebecca gave the kids their meal. They spent half an hour reading after dinner, then
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