All the Stars in the Heavens (44 page)

“Will you wait for me?”

“That's not the question you should be asking me.”

“Well, what is it?” Gable was frustrated. It seemed he couldn't give Loretta what she wanted. She was complicated, and he was tired.

“Do you want to be a family?”

“You know I do,” Gable said sincerely.

“Then prove it. Fly down to Mexico and get a divorce. Come back here and take me away. You, our daughter, and me.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Since the day she was born.”

“That's all it would take?”

“That's it.”

Gable took Loretta in his arms and kissed her. All the longing and pain left her when he held her again. She didn't want this to be true—she wanted to let go of the idea of Clark Gable in her life, but she couldn't. There was not only love between them, but a child they had made together. Their problems were not of the heart, or their intentions, but of the practical world, which was defined by the wily and improbable laws enforced by the studios that employed them, and by the public, whose ticket dollars gave them the final say. Gable and Young were indentured to the stardom that made their lifestyles possible.

Gable and Young's love affair had suffered from bad timing, and
as actors, they knew all about timing. Their baby Judy had arrived at a moment when her birth could not be celebrated in the way she deserved, that any baby deserved. Gable had a wife who wouldn't let him go, and his global popularity made his every move part of a fascinating dance the public relished. Gable believed that it wasn't their indecisiveness about their feelings for one another that was keeping them apart, but the world itself, forces so massive, two people who loved each other didn't stand a chance in the face of them. But when Loretta and Clark were together, even in the dark, for a few fleeting moments, both of them were certain where they belonged.

“I'll call my lawyer in the morning,” he said, kissing her good-bye.

“You know where to find me.” She took his hands and kissed them.

Loretta waited outside Darryl F. Zanuck's office at Twentieth Century-Fox wearing a proper hat, gloves, and a cherry red suit. She wore her highest heels and brightest red lipstick. She was there to be seen and heard.

Myron Selznick, Loretta's talent agent, pushed through the door to join her. Selznick, at thirty-eight, had a full head of wavy brown hair, a dimpled chin, and wore eyeglasses. He looked more professor than agent in his conservative blue serge suit and gray tie.

As the secretary ushered Loretta and Mr. Selznick in, Zanuck putted a golfball across the room into a tin cup. Chewing on the plastic end of a Tiparillo cigarette, Zanuck went to the cup and retrieved the ball with a balletic bow. In her heels, Loretta was two inches taller than the mogul, which made her point. She smiled politely as Zanuck took his seat behind his desk. The office was furnished in hunting-lodge chic, in shades of forest green accented with deep blue on rich leather furniture.

“What's the problem, Myron?” Zanuck squinted at the agent, his blue eyes shining. In robust health, Zanuck was tan from playing polo and had the muscular upper body to prove it.

“The usual. Lousy scripts. You're wasting Miss Young's talent on drivel.”

“I won't do
Lloyds of London
,” Loretta said quietly.

Zanuck threw his hands in the air. “Why not?”

Loretta kept her voice even, her tone conversational in contrast to her boss. “First of all, you replaced Don Ameche.”

“With Tyrone Power. Every woman in Hollywood wants to star in a picture with him.”

“Secondly, the script is terrible.”

“According to whom? You? You're an actress. What do you know about scripts? We prepare the meal, and you eat it, Loretta. It's a simple process. I produce, you act. It isn't difficult. If it were, Lassie would be out of a job. By the way, he's happy when I throw him a hamburger.”

“I don't think you want to compare my client to Lassie,” Myron said wearily.

“It's an honor! Lassie is bigger than Bette Davis. And that's saying something. Look at the grosses.”

“I have. And if you keep putting my star client in junk, you'll kill her career.”

“Maybe she's capable of killing it herself.”

“Look, Mr. Zanuck. I'm twenty-three years old. I don't have the luxury of time. I have ten years, tops. If I make lousy pictures now, I won't be offered anything by the time I hit thirty. You understand? I have proved that I can fill seats. But I can't fill them on subpar material, costarring with the latest handsome heartthrob who can't act.”

“Tyrone Power can't act?” Zanuck thundered.

“He's a pretty boy.”

“Well, Ameche isn't pretty enough.”

“And there it is.” Loretta looked at Myron. “It isn't about the acting, or the story, it's about sex appeal.”

“Now you're getting it! Housewives don't pant over Ameche. They want Ty Power! And you—they want to see you in pretty clothes they can copy on their own sewing machines. Less acting, more clothes, Loretta.”

“While they're copying my clothes, they can have their spirits lifted by good writing, directing, and acting. They can have both.”

“You're in the picture with Tyrone Power. That's the end of this. Now get out of here, I have work to do.”

Loretta looked at Myron.

Myron stood and leaned on Zanuck's desk. “Darryl, look at me. She's not doing the Power picture.”

“Then she's on suspension.”

The words Loretta had dreaded had been said aloud by her boss. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach. Worries about Judy, mortgages, and loans crowded in. How would she keep her family afloat? Gladys had invested in property with Loretta's approval, but those properties had mortgages that had to be paid.

“We'll live with it.” Myron extended his arm to Loretta, and they walked out of the office.

As soon as they were outside, Loretta turned to him. “I'm ruined.”

“Naw, you're fine.”

“I'm on suspension! Ten weeks to start.”

“I have a little something up my sleeve.”

“Does it pay?”

“Does it ever.”

“What is it?”

“Radio.”

Ruby kept a radio on all through her workday. Gladys listened to President Roosevelt's fireside chats. Loretta liked the melodramas, while Georgie enjoyed the comedy shows. Loretta had read that 22 million homes in America had radios and listened regularly. Maybe Selznick was on to something.

“Studios are getting behind their stars acting on the radio. Advertises your movies. Gives you access to a wider fan base. It's all good, Loretta.”

“If they can hear me for free, will they pay a quarter to see me?”

“Absolutely. Even the directors are doing radio. Cecil B. DeMille wants you to lead his repertory of actors.”

“He was very kind to me on
The Crusades
.”

“That's the spirit. You'll be all right. It's not studio money, but it's good dough.”

“And then what?”

“Let me worry about that. Zanuck will cool off, and we'll figure out how to get you better scripts so you can be the movie star we
know you can be. And then, when we get you to that place, we tell Zanuck what he can do with his studio.”

Alda dropped Loretta off at the tent outside the RKO Radio Theater house.

“I'll meet you inside,” Alda told her. “I'm going to park.”

“See you there.” Loretta wore a flowing, cinch-waisted dress of gray organza. On her waist, she had cinched a cluster of violets.

Loretta loved the schedule in radio acting. She rehearsed for a week, arrived at the studio shortly before air on performance days, read the script live, and was out before supper. She didn't miss the “carwash,” hours spent in the makeup chair and hair salon. Radio was a whole new way to exploit her acting talent. Convinced by her agent that this would keep her in the public ear, so she could return with a vengeance after her suspension from the public eye, she decided to work hard and forget her ego. Loretta Young was going to prove that she could be popular and a great artist at the same time, no matter the medium.

The assistant director was there to open the car door and welcome Loretta inside Cecil B. DeMille's tent. “Follow me, Miss Young.”

A production assistant opened the flap of the large tent. Loretta went inside.

The tent was filled with crew. The grass beneath Loretta's feet was cluttered with wires. She stepped between them carefully. At the far side of the tent was a complex set of black boxes, tended to by a radio crew. Loretta recognized DeMille's bald head from the back. He sat at the center of a collection of canvas director's chairs, facing the equipment, with a headset slung over the back of the chair. His head was bowed as he read the script. Loretta was making her way toward DeMille when she saw a man sitting next to him rise and face her. Clark Gable wore sunglasses, an open-collared shirt, and a sport coat. Loretta's heart sank at the sight of him.

“Loretta, say hello to Clark Gable,” DeMille said.

“Hello, Mr. Gable.”

“Miss Young.”

Loretta couldn't see his eyes, so she was at a disadvantage.

“Clark's going to do a show for me.”

“
Hamlet
?” Loretta said innocently.

“I thought I'd try the Henrys,” Gable shot back.

“There's a few changes in the script,” DeMille said as he handed the binder to Loretta. “You can track the changes during the broadcast. Nothing you can't handle.” DeMille had adapted his film version of
Cleopatra
into a radio play. Loretta had been happy to tell DeMille that she'd seen Claudette Colbert in it when it first ran.

“I'll do my best.”

“And it's always perfect,” DeMille assured her.

“Thank you.” Loretta turned to go. She wanted to get out of the tent as quickly as possible.

“I'll take you to your dressing room, Miss Young,” the production assistant said to her.

“Thank you.”

Loretta followed the young man out of the tent. She practically broke into a run to get inside the theater. When she made it to the backstage dressing room, she sat down and closed the door behind her. Her heart was beating so fast she had to inhale deep breaths of air so she wouldn't faint. She was furious. Gable had promised to get a divorce and return to her. Months had gone by; the year was almost over. She had been duped.

Gable pushed the door open, startling her. “Why did you run off?”

“I don't want to talk to you,” she said. “All you do is disappoint me.”

Gable was wounded by her admission, but she need not have said anything. He could see the truth on her face.

“The way I see it, Gretchen, you shut me out, and it wasn't just you, it was your mother, your sisters, and your secretary. That army of women over there you call your family.”

“It's easy to blame everyone but yourself for not taking responsibility for your daughter.”

“What do you know about that? I think about her every day.”

“Yeah? Well I'm raising her, hiding her. Pretending she doesn't exist so that her father goes on as though she never happened and
her mother lives in fear that she'll lose her livelihood. Is that plain enough for you?”

“Yes, it is.”

“It's one thing to make promises. It's another to have me believe them and then humiliate me when you don't come through.”

“You're humiliated?”

“I get up every morning sick to my stomach. I want you to leave me alone. I mean it. Don't come around with your lousy plans and half-baked schemes to be together. Obviously you don't want me. Now be man enough to admit it.”

“You're making this too easy.” Gable walked out the door and closed it behind him.