All the Stars in the Heavens (39 page)

The paper shades were pulled down and the raw silk curtains drawn in the house on Rindge Street. Venice was a sleepy beach town, far
enough from Hollywood to remain a backwater but close enough to hide a movie star who didn't want to be discovered. Her sister Polly had wanted to be there to help her through labor, but Loretta had declined. Sally offered to return home from her honeymoon early to be with her, but Loretta insisted Sally enjoy her trip; she would need her sister's help later.

Alda sat next to Loretta and gripped her hand, as she had held the hands of so many girls at Saint Elizabeth's as they suffered through labor. Loretta tried not to make a sound through the birthing. Her baby had to be born in secret; it was the only way to protect him and his mother.

Dr. Berkowitz stood by as Loretta entered the final phase of labor and began to push. A milk truck pulled up in front of the house. Loretta could hear the clang of the bottles, the snap of the lid of the storage box, and even the whistle of the driver as he hopped down the walkway in front of the house and back into his truck.

Gladys was on her way to the house when Loretta and Clark's daughter was born at 8:15 in the morning. Dr. Berkowitz handed the baby to Alda, who bathed and swaddled her.

“Are you sure it's a girl?” Loretta asked.

“It's a girl,” Alda assured her.

“I thought I was having a boy. But I wanted a girl. I got my wish. Is she healthy?” Loretta asked weakly.

“Perfect,” Dr. Berkowitz confirmed.

Alda smiled, and remembered the girls at Saint Elizabeth's who asked the same question after childbirth. All mothers are the same, Alda thought. Even when they're unmarried, and even when they're movie stars, they just hope the baby is healthy.

Dr. Berkowitz filled out the baby's information on the birth certificate. He sat next to Loretta.

“What do you want to name her?” he asked gently.

“Judith.”

The doctor wrote the name on the form.

“Loretta, I'm going to ask you to fill out the pertinent information.”

The doctor handed Loretta the form. The letters danced on the
form in front of her, just as they did when she read a script. Slowly, she filled in the boxes.

Father: Unknown.

Mother: Margret Young.

Age of last birthday: 22 years

Place of birth: Salt Lake City, Utah

Loretta called herself Margret, because it was close to her confirmation name, Michaela. Always a terrible speller, she misspelled it by accident. It didn't matter, as far as she was concerned. This document had to shield her daughter's identity from the world, and she would write whatever she pleased on it.

Occupation: Artist

Industry or business: Motion pictures

Date you were last engaged in this work: June 1935

Total time spent in this work: 10 years

Loretta handed the document back to the doctor. Alda gently placed Judy in her arms. Loretta wept and kissed the baby's head, holding her close. With all the struggle that had paved Judy's path, her mother loved her.

The key clicked in the front door. Loretta covered the baby with the blanket and gasped in fear.

“Don't worry. It's your mother,” Alda said.

Gladys came into the room and went to the bedside.

“Mama, meet your granddaughter.”

Gladys peeked into the blanket and saw a pink bundle with a shock of gold hair. “My God, we make angels, don't we?”

Loretta handed her the baby.

“How do you feel, honey?” her mother asked.

“She was a trooper. Long labor,” Dr. Berkowitz said.

“Thank you for coming out here.”

“Anything you need, Gladys.”

“Alda was such a help,” Loretta told her.

“If you ever want to give up show business, you can come and work for me,” the doctor said.

“Thank you, but I think I'll stay with Miss Young.”

Dr. Berkowitz left as Gladys handed the baby back to her mother. Gladys looked around the room. All that remained of the birth of Judy Young was a tight bundle of sheets, neatly placed in the corner. The washbasin had been emptied and cleaned; the surface of the desk that Alda had used to clean the baby was cleared.

Alda had cleaned the room, just as the nuns taught her, with efficiency and speed, leaving nothing behind but the mother, freshly bathed in a clean gown, and the newborn, bathed and swaddled. Gladys Belzer breathed a sigh of relief. It turned out her daughter was surrounded by angels.

Clark Gable had his feet up on the windowsill of room 867 in the Waldorf Hotel. MGM had sent him east on a publicity tour, which he endured for the sake of his career so his agent might squeeze Mr. Mayer for even more money on the next contract negotiation.

Gable looked down at the scene in front of the hotel: a clutter of cars, fighting to push through the red light at the corner of Park and Sixty-Seventh Street. He shook his head, wondering how anyone could live in this zoo, and took a long, slow drag off his cigarette before putting it out.

He went to the mirror and brushed his hair. He pulled on his socks and his suit trousers, and was buttoning his crisp pale blue dress shirt when the doorbell rang.

Gable went to the door and opened it.

The Western Union delivery boy took one look at the movie star and went slack-jawed. Remembering the telegram he was there to deliver, he managed to stammer out, “D-delivery for Mr. Gable.”

“Who did you think Mr. Gable was, son?”

“I—I didn't think it would be you. My mother loves you.”

“Tell your mother I love her right back.”

“That might kill her, Mr. Gable.”

“Then don't bother.”

Gable tipped the boy and opened the envelope.

BEAUTIFUL, BLUE-EYED, BLOND BABY GIRL

BORN 8:15 THIS MORNING

Gable sat down on the edge of the bed. At first he reread the telegram over and over again, taking in the news. He was finally a father.

The telegram was unsigned. How he had hoped to hear from Loretta, hoped that having the baby might change her mind about him and their future. Gable went to his wallet on the nightstand and retrieved Gladys's number from the card she had given him the day he went to visit her. He dialed the phone. It rang and rang, with no answer.

He wanted to enjoy this moment, such as it was, but couldn't because he was a married man who was not yet divorced. It added to his frustration that he loved a woman who could give him a child, but as fate would have it, she wasn't married to him.

Gable was also angry at Loretta. She refused to share the burden with him, and therefore he couldn't share the joy. Loretta had pushed him away one time too many. Gable wanted to own up to his responsibilities, but he'd been made to feel superfluous. How dare Loretta send him this joyful announcement when she refused to make him happy!

Gable went to the bathroom and tore up the telegram into tiny bits, then flushed away all evidence of the news that should have changed his life. He went to the phone.

“Eddie, get me out of here. . . . No, no. Next plane. I need to get home to Los Angeles. It's a family matter.”

Gable slipped into a phone booth at the airport. He dialed Gladys's number.

“I received your telegram, Mrs. Belzer.”

“I didn't send one.”

“I have a daughter?”

“Yes, but I was going to call you.”

“Somebody sent a telegram.”

“I can't imagine who. Now I'm afraid. Who knows about the baby? It must be Carter and Polly. I'll call them.”

“My daughter is barely a day old, and already the secret is out? You're not doing a very good job of protecting my daughter, Mrs. Belzer.”

“I'll get to the bottom of it.”

When Gable landed in Los Angeles, he intended to drive directly to Sunset House, confront Gladys Belzer, and demand to see his daughter and Loretta.

“Where would you like me to drive you, Mr. Gable?” the studio limousine driver asked.

Gable thought it through. If he went to Sunset House, they might not let him in. He could not bear the idea of rejection. He changed his mind. “Take me home. The Beverly Wilshire, please.”

Gable decided to spend the evening out on the town. Instead of trying to see the mother of his child and the baby they had made together, he'd drink to forget all about it in the arms of another.

David Niven entered the Cocoanut Grove with two armloads of American beauty, Loretta Young and her sister, Sally Blane Foster. The artificial palm trees had been decorated with Christmas lights; on the floor were giant boxes wrapped as gifts, with oversize bows. A photographer popped out of the faux setting and snapped the trio.

“Merry Christmas to you too, chum,” Niv complained to the photographer. “You just hold on to me, Gretch,” he said quietly.

“I have to,” she said through clenched teeth.

“You look like the Queen's pettipants, pretty and pink.
Relax
.” Niven's teeth gleamed as he smiled at the patrons as they passed.

“Let them see how good you look,” Sally said softly through her own version of the forced Hollywood smile.

Niven sashayed through the packed restaurant to whispers and whistles at the sight of the Young sisters.

“I know, my friends, you must be pea-green,” Niven announced to the restaurant. “Double trouble. And yes, the answer is: I've earned it.”

Niven guided the girls through the restaurant to a private room, where he closed the door behind them. He leaned against it. “If anyone ever doubts I'm a fine actor, I will refer to this glittering, transcendent performance for the rest of my life.”

“I think we convinced them,” Sally said as she patted her shiny nose in her compact mirror. “Look at me. I'm sweating like a slop bucket.”

“Do you think they bought it?” Loretta asked as she looked out the glass insert in the door at the restaurant patrons.

“Eddie Mannix is calling Louella Parsons right now. They're going to put all the horrid rumors about you to rest. You didn't have a love child, you really were sick, and now you're back, better than ever. It will work, Gretchen.”

“And if it doesn't, it doesn't.” Loretta sat at the table.

Niven sat down and perused the menu. “I have to eat like a horse—in an hour and a half, I've got to do the reverse performance.”

“You can handle it,” Sally assured him.

“Gretchen, you look awful,” Niven said. “You're pale.”

“I can't do this.”

“You can't hide in your room for the rest of your life,” Sally insisted.

“Clark called me this morning.”

“Did you take the call?”

“Don't pile on, Niv. Yes, I took the call. I told him to get out of town. He's going to South America on a tour for MGM—and I told him the sooner he left, the better.”

“Such loving and kind words.”

“What am I supposed to do?”