A Touch of Stardust (41 page)

Doris caught her eye suddenly. She gave a small half-smile and lifted her arm in mock salute, then disappeared into one of the automobiles. Julie quelled a spasm of unease. She was in her car now, leaning back against the leather, wishing it didn’t stick to her skin.

Her thoughts turned to Carole.

She was doing fine. Julie didn’t know how other women recuperated from a miscarriage, but Carole managed it with flair, even though she had to postpone her new RKO movie,
Vigil in the Night
. Bit by bit, day by day, she emerged again. Julie saw her shoulders straighten, watched her once again flinging her hair and rolling her eyes, reading scripts, teasing Clark—who stayed in the hospital room next to hers at Cedars—and poking fun at everything in her usual lighthearted way.

Only once did she talk about what had happened. “I’m not giving up,” she told Julie upon arriving home from the hospital, her face still the color of wax. “I want a baby, I want our baby, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to stop hoping. Even if I have to give up horseback riding. Got that?”

Julie smiled. “Got it.”

Andy’s voice jolted Julie out of her reverie.

“Three hours and forty-five minutes, that’s the length of our final cut,” he announced as the caravan pulled up in front of the theater. “Selznick is going to warn the audience, and then he’s going to
lock the doors. Nobody can come in or leave, just in case they don’t get the message that this is a big-time production. The man doesn’t miss a detail.”

Selznick strode into the lobby first, asking to see the manager. A rumpled little man with rheumy eyes came hurrying out of a back office, hastily buttoning his jacket. This new arrival was obviously an important personage, and he wasn’t here to see either
Hawaiian Nights
or
Beau Geste
—you could count on that.

When he heard who his visitor was, and what the men standing behind him were carrying in those canisters, he paled.

“Of course, of course,” he managed. The retinue of aides began marching toward the projection room as a few workers at the candy counter watched them curiously. “Mr. Selznick, I must ask a favor—”

Selznick frowned. This was no time for script deviations.

“Sir, I have to call my wife.”

“No, we can’t allow that.”

“Mr. Selznick, you don’t understand.” His voice was pleading. “If I don’t tell her to get over here right away, my marriage will be over. She loved the book; I can’t leave her out of the screening.” The man was distraught, eyes darting back and forth, bottom lip trembling.

“Jesus, give the guy a break,” Andy muttered under his breath.

The exception was made. The wife arrived in minutes, an apron still tied around her waist, flustered, disbelieving, wide-eyed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are not going to show our featured film today,” the manager quavered as the house lights went up and he ascended the stage. “What you are about to see is a sneak preview of the greatest film ever made.”

“What movie is it?” someone shouted.

“I am not free to tell you. If anyone wants to leave, they must leave now, because the doors will be locked throughout the performance. Does anybody want to leave?”

People looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, settled back. Maybe it would be better than
Beau Geste
.

The doors were locked.

The lights went down, and the film began. When Selznick’s name came first in the credits, the crowd began murmuring. Then came Margaret Mitchell’s name. The buzz grew louder.

“Here we go,” Andy said, leaning forward in his seat, hands clasped in front of him.

The title came next. Julie caught her breath. Each letter of
Gone with the Wind
rolled slowly and splendidly from right to left across the screen, one after another, as the music swelled, bursting out, filling the elegant theater. It was no match for the audience in volume. Men and women began screaming and cheering, jumping up onto their seats, clapping, embracing each other. Yes, now they knew what they were about to see.

Andy sat back abruptly, took Julie’s hand, and squeezed it to his chest. She could feel the rapid thumping of his heart beneath her fingers.

“Surprised?” she said.

“Yeah, didn’t think it would be so intense. This is great.”

“You care, you phony. You care a lot,” she whispered.

“You bet I do.” He kissed her hand. “Look, Irene Selznick is crying.”

“You dope, so are you.”

No one had seen David O. Selznick look this happy in months. All the way back to the studio, he read and reread the audience comments scribbled out in the lobby and collected in a large, overflowing glass jar. Not a single negative comment, not one. And no complaint about the length. “Keep it long,” said one. “Cut the newsreel, don’t cut this movie!”

And when the weary but happy group gathered on the steps of Selznick International Pictures in the early evening, even the relentless Selznick, eyes bright behind his thick, round glasses, thanking them for their work and their loyalty, seemed for the first time open to the idea of briefly relishing a triumph.

A great wash of relief had engulfed them all, or so Julie thought.
It dawned on her—as the hour grew late and people kept clapping each other on the back and talking about how they had never doubted this crazy venture would work—that Andy’s demeanor had turned curiously flat. And so had Selznick’s.

“What’s the matter with you and Selznick?” she said as everybody drifted away to the parking lot, still wrapped in euphoria. Only two hours ago, he had been grinning and joking, not even bothering to wipe the tears of joy from his eyes. For that moment, she had felt he was the jaunty Andy she first met on the day of the burning of Atlanta.

“I’m happy, enormously relieved, and”—he paused, kicking at a stone in the path—“bracing for the next crisis.”

“What’s that?” There were no more scenes to reshoot. And the fight over how to dole out the writing and directing credits would obviously be decided by Selznick.

“The premiere in Atlanta.”

Julie knew the preparations for the December launching of
Gone with the Wind
were under way on a grand scale. The governor of Georgia just yesterday announced that the date of the premiere would be a state holiday. There would be a huge parade, and three days of parties and dances for the cast—why, all of Atlanta was turning out to celebrate. “Andy, how can that be something to
worry
about?” she asked.

He cast her an amused glance. “When you’re riding a horse as wild as this one, Julie, you
always
have problems. But resolving this is going to be tough. Selznick has worked his ass off gaining support from the Negro press—getting the word ‘nigger’ out was a huge victory for them—but he learned today what he’s facing in Atlanta. Sure, he was told, bring the Negro actors down for the premiere—but white Southerners won’t dine with them, invite them to the Junior League Ball honoring the rest of the movie cast, or sit with them in the auditorium. Oh, and no dressing rooms backstage, no bathrooms. Sure, bring them along, if all that is okay with you.”

Julie was astonished. “That’s outrageous. You mean even Hattie and Butterfly can’t be there?”

“Yep. Look how far we’ve come, and now this. Remember the
Los Angeles Sentinel
editorial that almost paralyzed us?”

Yes, she remembered—so much so, she had it memorized. “They wanted to start a campaign on whether or not—let’s see—‘some of those who oppose Hitler from a safe distance have courage enough to oppose race prejudice when it may hit them in their careers and in their pocketbooks.’ ”

“Hey, great memory you’ve got, kid.”

They sat in the car now, staring at each other. Yes, she was disgusted, but then wondered why. She had grown up close enough to the edges and whisperings of the South to know the rules and barriers. A memory from early childhood flashed through her mind—a brief image of a line of people dressed all in white, covered with white hoods, marching down the main street of Fort Wayne. Why were they wearing sheets? Why did they light a bonfire in the shape of a cross? Mother had pulled her away, refusing to answer her questions.

“Selznick was sure he could get them to make an exception, but they won’t budge. And you know what that means.”

Now she knew. “You’re worried about Clark’s reaction.”

“Yep.” He started the engine and put the car in gear. “My job is to keep him from boycotting the whole damn event.”

“He can’t do that,” she said. “Clark
is Gone with the Wind
.”

“You know as well as I do that he won’t care. So—where are we headed, Miss Crawford?”

“Straight out to Encino is my guess.”

He smiled, a slow, lazy smile. “That’s why I love you, kid. You know how to tackle a problem straight on.”

Julie reached for his breast pocket and pulled a cigarette out of his ever-present rumpled pack of Lucky Strikes. She didn’t much like the taste of cigarettes, but right now she wanted one. She lit it, inhaled, and leaned back. Carole was expecting to hear an account of the sneak preview tonight. Good news first.

“No Negroes allowed? Are they fucking kidding?”

Clark, lounging contentedly in the silk-and-velvet smoking jacket of Rhett Butler’s he had confiscated from the wardrobe department, almost dropped the cigarette from his mouth as he jumped up at the news. Carole reached over, deftly caught it, and put it into a proper ashtray. She did love her bear rug.

Julie felt her collar turning moist with sweat. The living room, usually comfortable and welcoming, felt stifling. Hard to believe, but Carole had a fire going. She wore a sweeping silk hostess gown in pale blue, with a small rim of fur outlining the scooped neckline. Carole believed in hostess gowns, the single item of apparel she firmly declared necessary for entertaining.

“A dumb idea, right?” Carole said, pointing to the fireplace when they first came into the house.

“Yes,” Julie said without hesitation. Carole also loved atmosphere, but conjuring it from a roaring fire on a hot day was the wrong way to get it.

The men, both mopping their brows, didn’t catch the exchange.

“Selznick found out after the preview. So there you are, from triumph to crisis, in a few hours,” Andy said. “He’s as angry as you are, and he’s done all he can to fight it.”

“Not too hard, not if they push back.” Clark’s face was red. “Damn, I hate the hypocrisy. Hattie deserves to be there—they all deserve to be there. If they can’t come, I’m not going!”

Andy stiffened, then spoke in that calm, measured tone he used so well for crises and disasters. “There’s no question now, this movie is going to make history. And you are an essential part of it, you know that.”

“Don’t argue with me, Andy.”

“I’m not going to. You’re a grown-up. You know how many lives and reputations are tied up in this venture. You know this movie has opened up possibilities for Negro actors. You can figure it out for yourself.”

A short silence fell.

“No.” Clark’s jaw was set tight.

“Well, if that’s the way you want it. So you would jeopardize the future of the movie we’ve all worked so hard on just to make a point?”