All the Stars in the Heavens (12 page)

The Cocoanut Grove was a homestyle pot roast and banana cream pie restaurant in a fantasy Hollywood setting. The decor was inspired by the colors and landscape of the South Seas, while the kitchen was an homage to Grandma's home cooking. The fronds of papier-mâché palm trees tickled the ceiling, their trunks obscuring dark booths convenient for trysts. Murals of marine life draped with glittery nets decorated the walls.

“The Grove is the perfect place to get caught in the nets,” David Niven had said. “If you want your wife to catch you with your girlfriend, book a table at The Grove.”

Loretta drove to dinner that night, straight from the studio. She'd had a stomachache all day. She hadn't seen Spencer since the priests denied her absolution, and she couldn't bring herself to discuss it with him over the phone.

Spencer had suggested several nights out, but she'd begged out of all of them, using her heavy work schedule as an excuse. Spencer was intuitive, and he knew he was getting the bum's rush.

Loretta knew something had changed when she slipped into the seat next to him in a booth.

“How was work?” He looked at Loretta, but she could not look him in the eye.

“Long day. How about you?” She studied the menu.

Spencer could have spent the entire evening looking at her, saying nothing. He was enamored of her beauty, but his feelings were deeper. Her presence sustained him. Even sitting in silence near her replenished the deepest wells of emotional need within him. She had him, and he knew it.

“I did my share of bad acting today,” he offered.

“I doubt that.”

“I was distracted. And I think you know why, Gretch.”

The waiter came by for their order.

“What are you having?” Spencer asked.

“I'm not hungry.”

“I'm starving.” Spencer ordered a rare steak and a baked potato. “Bring the lady a bowl of soup. Whatever you got that's plain. Consommé.”

The waiter left them alone. Spencer took her hand.

“Come on, Gretch. Look at me. You look pale.”

This had been her first real romantic relationship, despite her short-lived marriage. Loretta was prone to crushes on her costars, feelings that built to a fever pitch and went nowhere.

“Spence, my mother is worried.”

“About what?”

“She heard around town that you drink.”

Spencer chuckled to himself. “Have you ever seen me drunk?”

“Never. I told her. I thought maybe they were mixing you up with Lee Tracy.”

“Let's hope he's not getting offered the same roles,” Spencer said wryly.

“You know Grant Withers had a drinking problem, and I couldn't take it.”

“Which is why I've never had a cocktail around you.”

“Is that any way to live? You behave a certain way around me?”

“I believed I was being respectful and thoughtful.”

“You would.” Loretta shook her head.

“Let's talk it out, kid,” Tracy said softly.

Loretta looked into his eyes, but she loved him so much that she had to look away.

“What's the problem?”

“You know what the problem is,” she said quietly.

“And I'm working it out.”

“We can't work it out.”

“Why not?”

“I went to see the priest, and he refused me absolution.”

“You're not the one who's married.”

“It doesn't matter. I'm keeping you from Louise and your family.”

“We've been through this.”

“It isn't right.”

“I was separated when I met you.”

“It doesn't matter. You know this isn't right.”

“I could never say that about you.”

“You know what I mean. You're a man of faith. You're a believer, and that comes with a responsibility. It's one of the things I love about you.”

“You can't have redemption without sin.”

“I'm your sin?”

“I didn't say that.”

“But I am. Do you want to be with me and lose your faith?”

“You've shored up my faith, Gretchen.”

“Do you want me to give up mine?”

“I'm not asking you to give up anything. Together we're strong, we're better. You know that.”

“There's no absolution for us. Even if you got an annulment, even if we could start over, we still know the truth. We'd have a brand-new life based on a lie. I can't do that to you.”

“I don't want to say good-bye.”

“You love your wife and family. They need you more than I do.”

Spencer put his arm around her. “Gretch, it's a little more complicated than that. I'm in love with you. You're the most magnificent girl in the world, but it's more than your pretty face, which, if I'm honest, has sustained me through a lot of dark hours. But all that aside, I can talk to you. It isn't that way with anyone else. Maybe it's our situation—maybe because I can't have you, I feel the loss more deeply when we're apart. But the truth is, you get me. I can share my
feelings. It's very simple. I can't face life ahead without you. I don't want to, and I don't think you do either.”

“I don't want you to leave your wife.”

“I've already left her.”

“Go back.”

Spencer sat back in his chair. “You've fallen out of love with me.”

“No, I haven't,” she said quietly.

He pulled her close and kissed her. “That would be the only reason I'd let you end this. Gretch, let me handle this. I'll go see the priest. I'll explain. I'll tell them I met you months after leaving Louise.”

“It doesn't matter. It's still wrong.”

“Will you let me work this thing out?”

Loretta didn't want to argue with him, not ever. She had seen his temper before; his anger didn't frighten her, it pained her. She especially didn't want to break his heart. She knew it had happened to him before, in so many ways, as a man, a husband, and a father. Loretta had seen the dark corners where Tracy hid. She understood his torment, empathized with his suffering, and observed how he prayed for serenity, something that had eluded him all of his life. She didn't have to be told he was an alcoholic. She knew something was wrong. Tracy handled conflict by burying it, and temptation by yielding to it and then punishing himself for having indulged. Spencer Tracy was at war with his needs. Loretta could see it was a hopeless struggle.

Still, they had such glorious connections. Tracy loved her family, understood her work, and shared her faith. And now she had the memories they had made during
Man's Castle
. She reached out to him when she had problems with her role, and with simple, clear directives, he worked her through the script. If she had a tussle with her sisters, he said just the right thing. There was more than romance at stake; underneath the mutual attraction was an abiding friendship based on common interests. She didn't spend hours on the phone with any other friend, male or female, but Spence was different. Just as he was an actor who listened, he listened in life. Loretta strengthened her resolve.

“I want you to pretend that I'm not me, and that I'm coming to you with a problem. Our problem. What would you say to a twenty-one-year-old woman in this circumstance?”

“I'd tell her to say good-bye and don't look back.” Spencer leaned back in his chair, resigned. “Even if it hurts.”

“And it does, Spence. It hurts.”

“You know, I'd only let you go if I knew you could find happiness without me.”

“It doesn't feel like it tonight.” Loretta's eyes filled with tears.

“I'm older, and I know your sadness will pass. I'm the one who will drag this ending around with me for the rest of my life. You'll be all right.”

“I wish I didn't care about doing the right thing.”

“Naw, that's what I admire about you. You have standards. Principles. They say good roles are rare in Hollywood, but a moral compass is almost impossible to find.”

“I will miss you. I'll miss how innocent we were when we were palling around. Why did I have to fall in love with you?”

“You know what the worst part of this thing is? You go your whole life looking for this exact thing, and you swear you'll never find it, and then you do, and then you can't have it. It is parceled out to everybody else, so you see it and recognize it, and patiently you wait for your portion, and by the time your turn comes, there isn't enough to go around. Hell of a thing.”

“If it helps, you're not alone, Spence.”

“It makes it worse, actually.”

Loretta leaned against Spencer's shoulder, a place that had given her comfort in ways that delighted her and strengthened her since they met. She wanted to remember this moment, his scent of bergamot and cedar, his hands that enveloped her own and made her feel safe. She closed her eyes and was still. She waited for the answer to come, the one she hoped for, the one that would tell her to fight for him. But instead of an answer, she saw Louise in her mind's eye. She pictured that day at the baseball diamond, when Louise placed her head on Spencer's shoulder. Loretta had seen with her own eyes what Spencer meant to Louise, and together, what their son Johnny meant to both of them. She could not in good conscience take him away from them. She couldn't live with him, knowing she had hurt Louise and his family. She lifted her head off his shoulder.

“Are you all right, Gretch?”

“Eat your dinner,” she said. “It's getting cold.”

Alda sat at Loretta's messy desk in her bedroom, which was piled with pages torn from her scripts, gum wrappers, receipts, fabric swatches, and reminder notes. She sorted the papers into neat piles. She found Loretta's retainer under a stack of party invitations. She took the retainer into the bathroom, rinsed it, and placed it in its container on the sink.

Alda returned to the desk to finish straightening. When she got to the bottom of a stack, she found a letter that Loretta had written in draft form several times. It was her final farewell to Spencer. She was breaking off their relationship for good.

The practice letters, with misspelled words and jumbled letters, were marked with the same symbols she used on her scripts. Loretta had taken to using dictation for all her correspondence, and Alda was getting pretty good at it. But this time Loretta had done the composition herself. As Alda continued to organize the desk, she found the finished letter, in Loretta's simple cursive penmanship, tucked into an unsealed envelope. Alda held the letter, remembering one that she had written. Letters that end a love affair are always short, each word selected carefully, for exact meaning.

Alda placed the envelope on top of the desk. She collected the practice letters, the scraps of notes, and went to the fireplace. She threw the papers on to the grate, lit a match, and burned them. As they burned, they turned the deepest red, the color of roses.

L
oretta sat cross-legged by the swimming pool at Sunset House. The late-afternoon sky over Bel Air was faded coral as the sun slipped behind the Hollywood Hills. She dipped her fingers in the satin waters, spelling out the name Spencer Tracy with her index finger, then erasing the letters with a splash.

“Stay away from the edge. You're a horrid swimmer, Gretchen.” David Niven stood near the shallow end, in a proper suit and hat. “I cannot possibly save another woman from herself today.”

“Mama said to tell you that they fixed the heat in the pool house.”

“It's about bloody time. October can be cruel in California. It's so cold in there, I'm storing oranges in my sock drawer.”

Niven sat down beside Loretta. “Bad day?”

“The worst.”

“You can cry on my shoulder.”

“The suit is Savile Row. The wool is Italian. No, thank you. You can't afford the shrinkage. You're a working actor, remember?”

“Sort of.”

“You need your suit.”

“I saw the paper.”

“Nicely worded, don't you think?”

“They're going to call you Saint Loretta in print from now on. You were generous, contrite, and absolute. Maybe for once Mother Publicity got it right. The Iron Butterfly—that's you, darling—can actually fly. Maybe you are a saint after all.”

“Hardly.”

“You know I don't believe in a chaste romance.”

“How do you know it was chaste?”

“I live in the pool house. I never once saw you scale the tree at midnight and sneak back in at dawn. Never saw Spencer climb the same tree up to your window. Never saw you roll that pathetic roadster of yours down the drive in neutral so Mrs. Belzer wouldn't wake at the sound of that dreadful engine. Never caught Mr. Tracy in the hedges.”

“And you never will.”

“Poor dear. You got all of the aggravation of a love affair with none of the fun.”

“We had fun.”

“All right, then. Let's be sensible. If you want him this badly, convert. Join the jovial Protestants who clutter up the Church of England. It's all the familiar bells and whistles and incense of the Holy Roman Church with the option of divorce. You can have your Spencer Tracy and wedding cake too.”

“There's a thought. Hop around until some church gives me permission.”

“Many died in the Crusades for less. Besides, it's better than being miserable.”

“I guess.”

“Do you really love the man?”

“David.”

“No, seriously. I think if you truly loved him, no church could stand in your way.”

“I don't know what love is anymore. I thought I knew, but clearly I have no idea.”

“I rather think you wanted to save him.”

“Isn't that what we do when we fall in love?”

“Not generally. The saving comes later, if at all. When in love, we frolic and play and go at it like rabbits.”

“Where do I sign up for that?”

“For starters, pick someone who doesn't drink.”

“I never saw Spencer drunk.”

“That's because he was on his best behavior around you. Take it from an occasional tosser. He's a tosser.”

Loretta grew wistful. “We could talk for hours.”

“
We
talk for hours.”

Loretta managed a smile. “It's not the same.”

“You're telling me. I've never so much as gotten a passing snog off of you.”

“You're my pal.”

“The price of friendship! No one tells you.”

Loretta laughed. “Thank you, David.”

“Now you go upstairs and get out of those unsightly jodhpurs and put on one of those dresses with the cancan ruffles and tell the gaggle of geese—yes, I mean those obnoxious sisters of yours on the second floor—to do the same. Lipstick, powder, and hairpins, man your stations, girls! Make sure Alda sparkles—that girl has a grim side. I'm taking you all out to dinner. I have a yearning for the brisket at the Clover Club. I'm in the money. I took Mr. Chaplin out on the boat, and who knew, he's a lousy fisherman but he's a big tipper.”

David stood up, extended his hand, and helped Loretta to her feet. “Now, no weeping. It's bad for the skin. We don't need you turning into a grizzled hag over an unrealized love affair.”

“No, we don't.”

“You need to work, Gretchen. That's what you tell me, and now I am happy to throw your own advice back in your lovely face.”

“I just took a job.”

“Splendid!”

“
The Call of the Wild
with Clark Gable.”

“I adore the man!”

“You know him?”

“I'm his swabbie on cruisers in Del Rey. Motorboats on Monterey. And his caddy in Pebble Beach. Whenever he needs me.”

“I'm doing this picture for Bill Wellman. He gave me a couple of breaks, and I owe him. He said we're going up to Washington State, going to film on location in the actual Yukon.”

“How delicious!”

“We'll be on location in the worst of the winter. If I could leave today and walk there, I would.”

“Darling, you're going to make a movie, not hike Calvary.”

“Why does it feel like it?”

“There's nothing worse than a love affair that never bloomed. You have to think like the gardener who snips the heads off the buds that never blossom. It brings down the beauty of the garden. We are meant to bloom,” Niven assured her.

Loretta went into the house to find her sisters and her secretary as David made his way back to the pool house. His silly crush on Loretta had ended as the sun went down that chilly afternoon. He felt like an older brother, a half-wise one who'd helped his baby sister navigate her sadness from a broken heart. He wasn't sure that he was of any use, but figured perhaps there was some meaning in his stay on the grounds of Sunset House—a purpose greater than the pursuit of a breakout part and the fame and fortune that come with acting in a surefire hit. He felt needed, and for a man who tried to dodge the responsibilities that came with commitment, he liked having a higher purpose. It made him feel useful, in the British fashion.

Clark Gable crouched low to the ground and wiggled a fat stick in front of Buck. The dog teased a low growl, lunged for Gable, and grabbed the stick in his mouth. The actor kept a firm grip as the dog thrashed around to steal the stick out of his new master's hand.

Buck weighed in at two twenty, a good forty-five pounds heavier than his master. A Saint Bernard with a massive head, the dog could
put his paws on Gable's shoulders if he stood on his back haunches and dance a waltz, like Fred Astaire leading Ginger Rogers.

Bill Wellman, the director of
The Call of the Wild
, perched on the fence of the holding pen on the lot at Twentieth Century-Fox. In full sun, Wellman had the face of a war hero on a bronze monument, all angles, deep lines, and determined chin. He moved through the world with authority, long-legged and tall; it appeared he could take any man in a fight. The director used his imposing stature and deep baritone voice to control his movie set and the actors.

Gable, who was raised on an Ohio farm and had worked their oil rigs, was a physical match for Wellman. The actor was at home training the dog and navigating the pen typically used to hold horses for scenes in westerns. Wellman had reserved the pen for two weeks, or as long as it took for Gable and Buck to bond.

“How'm I doing, Bill?” Gable asked his director, brushing his thick black hair out of his eyes.

Wellman was an experienced hunter and fisherman, but that day all six foot four of him looked more professorial than outdoorsy, resting on the fence as he smoked a pipe, wearing a fedora. “Don't ask me.”

“You have to direct this animal.”

“Yeah, but you have to act with him.”

“Thanks.”

Gable led Buck to a trough, where the dog lapped up the fresh water.

“Does anybody know how this dog will do in snow?”

“We know he likes it,” Wellman said.

“It's going to take me another week to get him under control.”

“Then it's Christmas. You have a couple of days off by the tree, with Ria and your stepchildren.”

“You're making plans for me?”

“I took you for the kind of guy who likes to sit by the fire and read
The Night
Before Christmas
to the kiddies.”

“You really want me to come over there and knock you off that fence?”

“I'd like to see you try. I'm the one who got you the Zanuck bonus.”

“I had no idea Zanuck gave out bonuses.” Gable put his hands in his pockets and grinned.

“He doesn't. You got the first and the last.”

“I must be worth it.”

“Must be.”

“Tell me about Loretta Young.” Gable threw a rawhide ring to the far side of the pen. Buck went to fetch it.

“You're gonna keep your paws off of her.”

“Mr. Wellman.”

“I mean it, Clark. She's a good kid.”

“Are you her father?”

Buck made a wheezing noise, trotted over to Gable, dropped the rawhide ring, and sat obediently by his feet.

“After a nap,” Gable said to the dog, “the trainer is coming to work you with the sled. Can you handle it, boy?” He ruffled the dog's ears.

“You're better than the trainer.”

“Only two things you need to know when training a dog: reward good behavior and don't reward bad behavior.”

“So simple.” Wellman shrugged. “If only it worked with women.”

“Who said it doesn't?”

“You're a better man than me,” Wellman admitted.

“Was there even a question?”

Wellman puffed his pipe as Gable wrangled Buck. It would take an ego the size of Clark Gable's to conquer the wild on Mount Baker, and Wellman was betting he had cast the perfect actor to do it.

Southern Pacific Railroad provided the Daylight Limited, a train with twelve cars chartered by Darryl Zanuck and the team at Twentieth Century-Fox to transport the actors, crew, film equipment, and Buck the dog from Los Angeles to San Francisco, and on to Bellingham, Washington, to the location for
The Call of the Wild
. The charter express was scheduled to leave at 5:00 a.m. sharp on Tuesday morning, January 1, from Central Station in Los Angeles.

A phony press release had announced that the train was leaving on the morning of January 3. From the looks of the platform, the ruse had
worked. The company of
The Call of the Wild
had Track 4 to themselves. There wasn't a reporter or photographer for miles, and if there was, he was probably sleeping off the New Year's Eve party from the night before and wouldn't have the pep to make it downtown to the train station.

Alda, in her best tweed suit, stood by the luggage on the train platform. Loretta Young was busy saying good-bye to her sisters, who gathered to see her off to the wilds of the great Northwest, on the first film their sister had ever shot so far from home. When any of the Young girls traveled by train, the remaining sisters formed a farewell entourage, complete with handkerchiefs to wave as the train rolled out of the station.