All the Stars in the Heavens (54 page)

“All the time. I'm evasive.”

“Is Tom a good father to her?”

“They don't get along.”

“Why not?”

“At first, when she was little, he was very sweet with her. But she's
willful, and he doesn't appreciate that. But I raised a willful child on purpose. I want her to be able to take care of herself.”

“Like her mother.”

“Like my mother.” Loretta put out her cigarette and turned to him. “Judy is a responsible older sister. She's good with the boys. You would be so proud of her.”

“I'm sure you raised a great girl.”

“Maybe when you've become friends, we can gently tell her the truth.”

“Is she happy?”

“Seems to be.”

“Why would we ruin it? You know, you've done a great job with her, she has friends, she has a stepfather, she's well adjusted. Why would we tell her now?”

“Because I've worried about this every day since she was born. I have wrestled with it, prayed about it, wondered how her life would go if she never knew, told myself over and over again that she would be fine if she never knew the truth. But what is there besides the truth? What could possibly be more important to Judy?”

“You did the best you could, Gretchen. All by yourself. I was useless.”

“I didn't bring this up to make you feel bad, I really didn't.”

“I have my own way of dealing with my mistakes. I don't know if it would be good for her to learn about me now. She has a good life. If we tell her, she may react badly, run away—you don't know.”

“No, we don't.”

“I wanted a relationship with her, but it was such a mess back then, I didn't know what to do. You had so much pressure on you at the time.”

“I was afraid I'd lose my job. That you would lose yours.”

“I think we did what we could do, Gretchen.”

“If we had been in any other profession, I wonder if we couldn't have done better. Look at us. We're still acting.”

“It's so much easier to act out the feelings than to have them.” Gable put his arm around Loretta. “Maybe that's why we're still at it.”

“We haven't cracked it.”

“We haven't figured anything out.”

“How sad is that?” Loretta wondered.

“Look, Judy has you, your mother, your sisters, the cousins, her brothers. You've given her everything important.”

Loretta smiled. “Everything but you.”

“I wanted to be a father, you know. Had big dreams and plans. Wanted a houseful. And here we are. Sylvia's a little long in the tooth to engage me on that subject. I'm not going to have children. We had Judy, but it didn't work out—I couldn't be her father. I think there's something phony about trying now.”

“I understand.” Loretta summoned everything within her not to cry in front of Clark. She had cried so many nights over him, over Judy, over the loss of the family that could have been. She could not let him know the depth of her pain because there was nothing to be done about it now.

“I hope you do.” Gable went to the door.

“Clark?”

“Yes, Gretchen?”

“You know I love you.”

Gable stood for a moment, his hand on the door. “I've known it all along. But I wasn't worthy of it.”

“That's not what you're supposed to say when a woman tells you that she loves you.”

“Give me the line.” He turned to face her and grinned. It might as well have been 1935 on Mount Baker.

“You're supposed to tell the girl that you love her too.”

“That's too easy,” Gable said. “Come here.” Gable extended his hands to Loretta and lifted her up to face him. She stood before him as she had fifteen years earlier, when she challenged him on Mount Baker. This time she looked deep into his eyes and saw more than the years; she saw what those years had meant to him too. Loretta had spent so many nights wondering, when she needn't have.

“I'm going to do something that I've never done before with any woman. And that includes Carole. And the reason I grieved so deeply for her, and always will, is because I never told her how I felt about
her. We were too busy laughing to get down to the business of true love.”

“Carole knows you loved her.”

“We said the words, but we didn't have the years, the history over time, that defines love—do you understand what I mean?

“We have that. You and me. We met when we were young—well, you were very young—and that counts for something. Time invested counts for something. I know I made you cry and I brought you pain, and for that, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, even at this late date. I'm a louse sometimes, and I can't help myself. I react in the moment—whatever is front of me is what I eat, drink, smoke, or hunt. What I pursue. I don't examine my conscience, or the past, and I don't even make plans too far into the future. You get me as I am, or you don't get me at all.

“I want to tell you what you mean to me because I never have, and not because I didn't want to, but because I didn't want to hurt you anymore. After we came home from Bellingham and Ria was on the warpath, you were pregnant with Judy and pushed me away. And rightly so. After that, after the baby was born, when I saw you out on the town, you looked like you had moved on. But I was happy for you—when you were happy, I was too.

“But I never moved on from you. I've spent the last fifteen years running from my feelings for you, and sometimes I thought I outran them. You made it easy for me to let you go, and that was an act of kindness on your part. You loved me, and you didn't make any demands on me. Now I'm almost fifty years old, and I have learned very little on this hayride, but you taught me what love really is. It's letting the person you love be who they are, faults and all, failures and all. It's letting go when you would really rather hold on. So you see, I love you, Gretchen. But I never said those three words to you because they weren't enough. And they still aren't.”

Loretta put her arms around Clark. She had been reminded of him every day of Judy's life. She had resisted calling him when their daughter did or said something extraordinary or needed his counsel when she fell short. Loretta felt she had half-parented Judy—cheated her in a sense, though that would have meant she deliberately
rejected Gable, when it seemed to Loretta he had been the one to move on.

Loretta buried her face in Gable's neck; the scent of bitter orange and pine reminded her of when they were young. It hadn't been a dream. It hadn't been a scene in a movie, shot on location and forgotten. They had loved each other, always would. It was a bit of a miracle to Loretta, but then again, it always had been.

Judy threw her schoolbooks down on the stairs and was on her way to the kitchen when she noticed a man standing in the living room. He turned to face her and smiled.

“Mr. Gable?”

“You must be Judy.”

“I am. Are you looking for Mom?”

“She's taking a call.”

“Are you having fun making a movie together?”

“Your mother is a lot of fun.”

“She can be. And she can be a drag, but don't tell her.”

“I won't.” Gable tried not to laugh. He invited Judy to sit with him. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I'm learning to sew.”

“That's a good talent to have.”

“It's practical, I guess.”

“Any idea what you want to be when you grow up?”

“Maybe an actress, like Mom.”

“Have you been in any plays?”

“At school.”

“You know, I've been friends with your mom for years.”

“I know. Since
The
Call of the Wild
.”

“You know about that movie?”

“I've seen it. Mom's seen it about a million times. It's her favorite movie.”

“It is?” Gable was pleased.

“We watch it a lot on movie night.”

“A lot?”

“Are you kidding? She'd watch it every time if she could. But sometimes I just feel like Jerry Lewis, you know?”

“I know.”

“Sometimes she cries when she watches it. I think she's sad for those guys that go down in the creek.”

“That must be it.”

“What's your favorite movie? Let me guess.
Gone with the Wind
.”

“I'm afraid everybody likes that picture but me.”

“You were good in it. It's long, though.”

“You ever see
Night Nurse
?”

“Nah. Mom doesn't have it.”

“I think she burned the print.”

“She's like that. If she hates something, look out.”

“I'm kind of like that too.”

“Mom says it means you're made of something. You know, when you have an opinion.”

“I agree with that.”

“I guess.”

“Well, Judy, it was good to meet you.”

“You want to wait for my mom?”

“I'd be waiting forever.” Gable smiled.

“No kidding. She takes hours no matter where she's going, even if it's just to Delaney's.”

Judy walked Gable to the door.

“You be a good kid, okay?” He extended his hand, and she shook it.

She looked up into his eyes. Like all old people's, his eyes were watering. She wondered if he used drops. “Well, see ya, Mr. Gable.”

“Good-bye, Judy.” Gable kissed her on the forehead. Judy did not think much of it, but it was all Gable could do not to embrace her. He saw grace notes of Gretchen in Judy, but he also saw aspects of his mother in their daughter—the wide-set eyes, the fine bone structure, and the sweet smile.

Gable walked down the sidewalk. He turned back to look at Judy, who stood on the portico, waving. He waved back. He got into his car and turned the key. He put his hands on the steering wheel and
realized they were shaking. He clasped his hands together to stop the tremors.

Gable wondered if he would ever have the chance to tell Judy the truth: that he was her father, and even though he hadn't been there for her, she would always be his. He wouldn't have found the words to explain his absence, the Hays Code, the way the world was in the 1930s, and he doubted that she'd understand even if he could. He drove out of the driveway and onto the street.

Despite the deep well of regret that anchored the soul of Clark Gable, there was joy for him that day. He was able to connect himself to his past and to understand that all he was would go forward in Judy. Perhaps he was simplifying it, but that's how it went in Hollywood. A story was told in scenes, and usually there was one moment that turned the key, that sent the characters in the direction that would lead to their happiness or their demise.

But this wasn't a script, it wasn't a movie; it was his life, and the life of his daughter. Maybe he was wrong to tell Loretta that they shouldn't share the truth with Judy. Maybe the truth would serve their daughter. He was confused about that, and would have to give it more thought.

For a split second he thought about turning the car around and going back to Judy, but something told him a better time would come for them. When that time came, he would be ready to tell Judy the truth—
his
truth, as he remembered it and lived it. He only hoped that when the time came, she would be ready to listen.

L
oretta Young sat at the head of the table at Lewislor Productions at the NBC studios in Burbank. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a view of the sound stages, and the glass-topped table in the conference room reflected the morning light.

Tom Lewis was meeting next door with the network executives to determine a license fee for the anthology show they had pitched and NBC had bought. In 1953, there would surely be product endorsements to defray the cost of production, but Loretta didn't mind. She was enthralled to be in control of the storytelling, taking her years of movie experience with scripts and applying it to television. Alda sat next to her boss, taking notes.

“Did you ever think all that mail you answered would become a television show?”

Alda laughed. “I used to call them ‘Letters to Loretta.'”

“And that's what Tom is calling the show.”

Just as Loretta had rushed headfirst into radio when Darryl Zanuck put her on suspension, she was charging into the new medium of television. Movies had taken a hit as the public's tastes changed. Louis B. Mayer had just been fired as the chairman of the MGM board, marking the official end of the studio system that had thrived during the golden age.

Loretta's movie-star friends would have no part of television; she argued with Roz Russell, reasoned with Irene Dunne, even had lunch with Joan Crawford, who said she would die on a sound stage in front of one camera before she would act on “the little box.” Only Loretta, who played her career with élan, with a sense that she had nothing to lose, had figured out that she could work on her own terms to offer great stories to her audience on television.

Unlike many of her friends in the movies, Loretta never lost sight of the audience.

No leading actress on camera in Loretta's memory, except for Marie Dressler in the 1930s, had worked much past the age of thirty-five. That might not be fair, but Loretta was not about to wage war against a system that had been in place since the turn of the century. Instead she decided she would go where she was wanted. As she neared the age of forty, she still had her beauty, her intellect, and her charm, not to mention her acting ability. She would work harder, longer hours, produce, sit in on rewrites, and arc the narrative of her series. She would be responsible for the content and the message. At long last her audience would get the full range of her gifts. Like her mother before her, Loretta's work would fill her up where her marriage could not.

“What time are you leaving tonight?” Loretta asked Alda.

“We're flying to Chicago, spending the night, and then on to New York.”

“Are you packed?”

“All set.”

“What are you going to do in Brooklyn?”

“Eat.”

“What's it like?”

“We stay in the basement of the family brownstone. Three generations of Chettas live in that house. Breakfast is continental. His sister makes espresso, and we steam milk and dip the heels of day-old bread into it, and I'm in heaven. Dinner is at six in the family kitchen. Monday nights are soup, Tuesday night macaroni. You get the gist. Sundays are the best. The entire family, all the cousins, aunts, and uncles, come for Sunday dinner. I make stuffed artichokes. Luca's family rolls up the garage door and they scrub it down, set up tables,
and everyone comes over to eat. If it's hot, the men will open the fire hydrants for the kids to run through. If not, they play ball in the street. Luca will play with the kids, and we'll have a great time.”

“Sounds heavenly.”

“You wouldn't last five minutes. The streets of Brooklyn are packed with people. They sit on the stoops and holler from the windows. It's big and loud and noisy and I wouldn't trade it for anything. It's a life closer to Padua than Hollywood.”

“Alda, have I ever thanked you properly? For Padua. For everything.”

“So many times.”

“You've been as close to me as my mother and my sisters.”

“I never had a sister.”

“I hope I've been a good one.”

“You have, Loretta. And I hope I haven't been too hard on you.”

“You're always honest.”

“That's the first time those words have been uttered in Hollywood.”

Loretta laughed. “I think you're right. While you're being honest, tell me what you think of this television racket.”

“Well, it's something new. I've never seen you fail. You've never turned away from a challenge. You embrace them. I think you will succeed. You always do.”

“Can you believe we're starting over again?”

Alda was amazed by Loretta Young. She was tireless in her pursuit of quality projects. Loretta turned down more movies than she had made over the course of her career, and she had made over a hundred. Loretta had always wanted control over the kind of stories she wanted to tell, and with the blockbuster
Come to the Stable
, she'd proved she still had great instincts when it came to choosing stories.

Tom Lewis joined them in the conference room. “We got the licensing fee.” He beamed. “They've ordered twenty-two episodes.”

“I can do my work and be home for dinner every night.” Loretta applauded.

“That's the idea. You in the kitchen,” Tom agreed. “Are you ready to pitch the storylines?”

“We are.” Loretta looked at Alda. “Send them in.”

Tom went to gather the network executives as Loretta took one last look at her notes.

“I haven't seen Tom so happy in a long time,” Loretta said softly.

“This was a great decision,” Alda said.

“I have to do something to bring us together. This is the happiest he's been since we married.”

“Sometimes you have do things to make your husband happy. There's nothing wrong with that,” Alda assured her.

“I have to try. No matter what it takes.” Marriage to Tom had been such a struggle of wills that Loretta was happy to try anything to make her home life better. But she wondered if stardom of another sort would only antagonize Tom further. He had grown more territorial and less enthusiastic about her work life over time. The only solution, in her mind, was to include him and let him run the show. Always practical when it came to her acting life, Loretta gave Tom power on the production side, hoping they might share in the success of the new business. She would share her work life, he would have the prestige, and hopefully both of them would be happy with the deal.

Alda sat on the stoop of Luca's family homestead on Avenue U in Brooklyn. The entire neighborhood had come out to watch the softball game. Luca insisted on playing. At fifty-one, he was fit and trim, though his black hair was now gray.

Luca's sisters had the garage ready for the Sunday meal. Alda had hand-rolled manicotti, while they simmered meatballs and gravy in a pot that Luca's mother had brought from Italy. With fresh bread, a big salad of fresh greens and sweet onions, and the Chetta family's homemade wine, it would be all they needed for a perfect Sunday-afternoon meal.

The sisters had made cannoli and cookies, knowing that the family would talk long into the night. Whenever Luca and Alda visited, it seemed there wasn't enough time.

Luca hit the ball, and it sailed over parked cars and headed for the cross street. As he rounded the bases, the family cheered. His
nephews shouted for him to head for home, so Luca took the bases at a clip. As he rounded third base, he stopped and put his hands on his knees.

“Uncle Luca, what's the matter?” His nephew Anthony dropped his glove and ran for his uncle. Clutching his chest, he looked up, saw his wife, and called out, “Alda!” before he collapsed onto the street.

Alda ran to his side while his sister Elena ran for the phone to call the ambulance. Soon every window and stoop was filled with neighbors, come to see if there was anything they could do to help.

Alda raced alongside the gurney as Luca was brought into Mother Cabrini Hospital. Luca was rushed into the ER, and Alda followed.

“You have to stay in the waiting area,” the nurse told her.

“No, I have to go with him. He doesn't speak English,” Alda lied off the top of her head.

“All right, follow him in,” the nurse said.

Luca was placed in an examining room. The nurse quickly attached oxygen to a tank and laced the tubes over to the gurney, where she placed a mask on Luca's face. Alda stood beside him, trying not to cry. Luca was very pale, and she felt a sense of doom, time slipping away from them.

“We're going to get you fixed up.”

Luca tried to smile. He tapped the cup over his nose and mouth. Alda lifted it.

“I wasn't perfect.”

“Neither was I, honey.”

“You deserved it,” he whispered. “I want to tell you something.”

“Do I look like a priest?”

Luca smiled. “No.”

“So save your confession.”

A look of peace crossed Luca's face. Alda placed the oxygen on his face.

“You listen to me. I don't care about perfect. I wanted a real husband. I have one. I love your temper and your cursing and your impatience. I love the way you love me, and I don't care about anything
else. I have been so proud to be your wife. And you're stuck with me for another fifty years.”

Luca made the
mezzo mezzo
hand signal, which meant fifty more years was a stretch.

Luca closed his eyes. Alda knelt beside his bed and prayed, but she knew not to ask for more time, but for the salvation of Luca's soul. When she rose to her feet to kiss him good-bye, Luca Chetta was already gone.

Alda was numb as she made Luca's funeral arrangements in Brooklyn. She spoke with the priest and bought the grave site for her husband, next to his parents, purchasing two so she could be buried with him when her time came.

Loretta and Tom Lewis sent a glorious arrangement of flowers that were crowded next to sprays from MGM, Mr. Gable, his union, and his friends. Everyone who had worked with Luca remembered him.

Alda's sister-in-law Elena brought an envelope full of mass cards to Alda as she was packing.

“We want you to stay, Alda. You don't have anyone in California.”

“I have my job. And the house. I'll have to do something about the house,” Alda said, weeping. “I thought about going home to Padua. But it's not where I belong. I want to be with the people who knew Luca, who worked with him. I think it will help me.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Elena asked.

“I don't want my husband to be forgotten.”

“We'll never forget him.”

“No, his art. He was a great painter. No one knew, because he painted sets, that he was also a fine artist. I have his sketches and paintings, all his supplies. Someday I'd like to send them to you, so you can choose one of the nieces or nephews who loves art, and give them their uncle's work and his tools.”

“I'll do that.” Elena patted her sister-in-law's hand. “You know, we all thought he was crazy when he went to Hollywood. But he was hooked. We went to Palisades Park, the whole family, and we each
had a nickel. Some of us bought candy, others went on rides, but he spent his money at the Nickelodeon. After he saw those images, he was never the same. He wanted to be in that black box.”