All the Stars in the Heavens (6 page)

Alda turned the spigot on the tub and placed the stopper in the drain. She turned and looked at herself in the mirror. Polly's wool bathing suit, a black tank, hung loose against her frame. Perhaps Georgie was right; one of Loretta's might have fit better.

As Alda slipped out of the fabric, she thought about the warm water in the lake in Padua, and how she would lead her brothers there on hot summer days. The lake was Alda's refuge; whenever she had time, she went there to swim, or sit on the banks and dream. It was there that she met Enrico, who had come from Trieste to work for his uncle's farm one summer. She had fallen in love with him, and he with her. Her family approved of him. She was eighteen, old enough to marry. Perhaps he would ask her; she certainly had hoped he would.

On the shelf over the vanity was a series of crystal decanters filled with bubble bath, lavender, orange blossom, and verbena. She drizzled verbena into the bath, and soon the room had the scent of a lemon grove in full bloom. As she slipped into the bubbles, she let go, the muscles in her body relaxing. She floated in the grand tub, almost on the surface, like a gardenia in the shell of a fountain. She had not soaked in a bathtub since she left Italy.

The nuns made their own soap, thick lard-based blocks sweetened with leaves of juniper, but not much else. Bathing had been perfunctory. Alda would scrub hard, rinse with the hottest water she could stand, and quickly dry herself to get into her habit and back to work. Bathing in the convent was about cleanliness, not indulgence. For seven years, Alda had almost forgotten she had a body. Only when it ached was she reminded of its existence.

As Alda emerged from the bath, she reached for the towel on the rack next to the tub. The towel unfurled, she dried herself with the luscious thick cotton. She inhaled its scent—it reminded her of a newborn's skin. Alda wrapped the towel around her.

She went into the bedroom and opened her closet to put on her blue dress. It was gone; instead she found new clothes. There were dresses. A navy blue coat. Two pairs of shoes. She opened the drawers of the dresser. Cotton undergarments, new. Underpants with tiny pin bows at the waist. Simple matching brassieres with matching pink satin bows at the base of the straps. Alda began to feel dizzy. She sat down at the foot of the bed, confused by the array of clothing, by the variety and by their beauty.

She may have been overwhelmed by the kindness of the Young sisters, but she was also apprehensive. She had made the transition to a new life in a matter of hours. Was her destiny this subjective? The particularity of her circumstances was the stuff of the books she had read aloud to the girls at Saint Elizabeth's. Was she worthy of this life? Who was she now, the young woman wearing other girls' clothing, living in another family's house, in a new job for which she had not one whit of experience? She hadn't chosen this path, but perhaps it had chosen her.

Alda stood at the closet, determined to make a selection, but she didn't know how to choose something to wear. The Saint Vincent habit had been her uniform; she never had to make a decision. It should have been a simple choice, Alda thought as she shuffled through the garments on the hangers, but she had no idea what appealed to her. She wasn't sure if she liked burgundy more than soft yellow, dotted swiss more than gingham. She had no idea if a puffy sleeve was better than none at all. She didn't know who she was dressing for, and why. She only knew that she needed to pick something.

Alda closed her eyes and decided to wear the first dress her hand landed on. She laid the burgundy shirtwaist dress on the bed and went to the dresser, pulling on the undergarments carefully, so as not to undo the bows. She pulled on the stockings, smoothing them as she went. Whether silk or wool, all stockings pulled on the same. She pulled a silk slip over her head and straightened it over her body,
careful to line up the seams with the curve of her hips. She stepped into the dress, buttoning the front.

Alda looked in the mirror and brushed her hair. It was so long, it hung to her waist in glossy black ropes. The only girl in this house with long hair was Georgie, and she was not yet ten.

Alda went to the desk and opened the drawer, finding a letter opener and a set of large scissors. She took the scissors, went to the mirror, and in two whacks bobbed her hair to ear length. Dropping the coils into the wastebasket, she brushed her new short hair, feeling instantly lighter and, for reasons she could not name, happier.

Loretta rapped on the door.

“Come in!” Alda called out.

As Loretta and Polly came into the room, Polly gave a wolf whistle, long and low.

“Polly! That's rude,” Loretta scolded. She looked at Alda. “You cut your own hair!”

“Nice,” Polly marveled. “Alda, you look good.”

“Thank you.”

“So the clothes fit?”

“They do. I can't thank you enough.”

“We couldn't let you wear that old convent stuff. You'd show up at the studio tomorrow, and they'd mistake you for a background extra on the bread lines.”

“Don't insult her,” Loretta snapped. “She was a novice in the convent. She served the poor.”

“I'm sorry. I feel terrible,” Polly said, half meaning it. “Gretchen is a saint.”

“Knock it off, Pol.”

“Kindness shown is always appreciated,” Alda said. “You have been very kind to me.”

“Wait till Mama sees you! I hope you're hungry.”

Sally entered, dressed head to foot in gold. “How do I look?”

“Like a pie server at Chasen's,” Polly said.

“If nobody asks me to dance, I'll serve dessert.” Looking at herself in the mirror, Sally caught Alda in the reflection. “Is that Alda?”

“It's me.”

“You look swell.”

Alda followed the girls down to dinner. This time last night she had been serving the girls of Saint Elizabeth's vegetables in hearty broth, baked eggs and bread. They'd worn their regulation nightgowns, powder blue, with thick white wool socks.

The distance between the haves and the have-nots is a train ride.

Loretta popped her retainer into her mouth, wiggling it into place on her top teeth. “I have buck teeth, and this is supposed to straighten them.”

“But your teeth
are
straight.”

“Because I wear this contraption. Do they have braces in Italy?”

Alda shook her head.

“Usually you get braces when you're a teenager. But I never had time to get the full-on permanent kind, because I was working, so the orthodontist made me a retainer. I hate it, so I'm always losing it. I leave it anywhere and everywhere. The dashboard of the car. In my pockets. Restaurants, even. They're expensive, and Mama hollers when I lose them. So if you don't mind, can you remember to look out for it?”

“I will.”

Loretta sat down on the sofa next to Alda and opened her script.

“Let's begin with the basics. This is a script. The story of the movie.”

“I read books, so I understand.”

“They're different. A book describes everything. The script is just the story and the dialogue. I have to memorize everything that's underlined.”

Alda looked at the pages. Most every line was Loretta's. “How do you do that?”

“I just go over it and over it and over it. Here's how you can help me. You'll read me the line before—the final word of that line is called the cue. And then I'll say my line.” Loretta used a wooden ruler to show Alda.

“What do these marks mean?”

Alda pointed to a series of small slashes, inverted letters, and letters removed by a black square marked above with a different letter.

“Ignore those. They are for me. I have trouble when I read. The letters jump, and sometimes they're out of order. It takes me forever to read anything. So the first thing I do when I get a script is write my lines so I can read them.”

“You have to work very hard to read.”

“Oh, it's almost impossible. And you know, the only thing that an actress can do is read books to find parts.”

“Would you like me to read for you?”

“That's a splendid idea.”

“I will be happy to—”

“A keen intellect is a weapon in your arsenal as an actress. At least that's what Father McNally says. I'm not terribly keen. And I still get butterflies.”

“It's frightening to get up in front of people and perform.”

“But I've made fifty pictures. You think I'd be Miss Confidence. But it's always like this before I start a new picture. I live in fear of getting fired.”

“I know about that.”

“Did they kick you out of the convent?”

Alda nodded.

“Well, that's their loss.” Loretta smiled at Alda to reassure her.

“Did you ever find yourself in a place in life where you had committed to something, and you couldn't make it work?”

“I was married when I was seventeen years old, and it was a huge mistake. For a few weeks, I was Mrs. Grant Withers. Did you ever hear of him?” Alda shook her head that she had not.

Loretta continued, “He was a big star, and I wanted to be. I had been working in pictures since I was four years old, and I felt like a grown-up. I eloped with an actor who I thought was in life as he was on the sound stage. Onscreen he was handsome and eloquent. Well, I learned the hard way that it's the writers that give us the lines—they don't come from the heart, if you know what I mean. Believe me, I'll never make that mistake again. Anyhow, I had to come home, beg for Mama's forgiveness, and get it annulled. So I understand making
a commitment and feeling like a failure. But you shouldn't feel that way. You didn't make any dumb mistakes. The Mother Superior wrote a glowing recommendation for you.”

“She did?”

“And Father McNally is very particular. He said you'd be perfect for me.”

“I'll try.”

“That's all I care about. We're going to learn how to do this together.” Loretta patted Alda on the hand. She liked a challenge. Whether it was a complex character she had to crack, a problem to solve for one of her sisters, or a dilemma her mother might face, Loretta liked to fix things and lead whomever needed her out of the dark. Being useful gave her life meaning.

“How did you learn to be an actress?” Alda asked.

“I just watched when I was hired as background. I picked up a little something here and a little something there. I learned from watching Mae Murray and Colleen Moore—actresses like that. The best actors work the hardest but make it look easy. You have to master your nerves to do the job. You have to be willing to make a fool out of yourself. After a while, if you're smart and paying attention, bit by bit, line by line, you begin to understand how to interpret a character. Bela Lugosi was so kind. He told me to charge into the scene like a horse and keep my eyes on the action. You know, that's the tough part. When you're acting, you have to figure out where to look.”

“It sounds difficult.”

“No kidding. Tomorrow I begin again with a whole new crew and director. And a new leading man. He's from the theater. A stage actor. Did plays.”

“Are you worried?”

“Nothing I can't handle. Theater actors waltz in high and mighty and ready to show everybody how smart they are and how dumb we are because we're in pictures. But I'm ready for him.”

“What part is he playing?”

“Bill Ludlow. Sounds like a sap. I like his name in real life much better.”

“What is it?”

“Spencer Tracy.”

Loretta lit a cigarette without taking her eyes off the script. It didn't matter if she liked her costar, or if he liked her; she had a job to do. Tomorrow morning, Loretta would become a lost soul in Central Park named Trina. Whatever Mr. Tracy might have in store for her was beside the point. She would bring her skill and professionalism to the set, and her brand new secretary Alda Ducci to the lot. Their small army of two was about to invade the Columbia studio.

F
rank Borzage, the director of
Man's Castle
, ran his hands through the wild curls on his head before he knocked on Spencer Tracy's dressing room door. When he entered, Spencer was sitting back on a couch covered in green plaid, his feet propped on a makeshift coffee table. His script lay flat and open across his chest. His hands were folded behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.

Borzage followed Spencer's gaze up to the ceiling. “What are you looking at, Spence?”

“I'm watching the picture.”

“Is it any good?”

“Not bad.” Spencer smiled.

“You're a comfort.”

“All I can do is give you my version of this thing.”

“You'll be great.”

“We'll see. How's my leading lady?”

“She's in makeup.”

“Does she need it?”

“No. Have you met her?”

“At the movies.”

“Around town?”

“No, on the screen. Paid my ten cents like everybody else. Never met her in person. Is she that gorgeous in life?”

“Better.”

“How is that possible? You should've cast Franchot Tone. He's pretty.”

“I didn't want pretty. I wanted the best actor I could get.”

“You're very kind.”

“It's true.”

“We need you on the set, Mr. Borzage,” the stage manager called through the door.

“On my way.” He extended his hand to Tracy. “Good to have you here, Spence.”

“We'll see about that when you call action.”

Borzage chuckled and closed the door behind him.

Spencer leaned forward and opened the script on the coffee table. He had memorized the entire script, dialogue and stage directions. Most movie actors learn their lines and cues for the scene work for that particular day, but not Tracy; he had to hold the entirety of the script in his head.

Spencer Tracy was thirty-four years old. He believed he was fifteen years behind his fellow actors in practical experience on camera. He could not afford to make mistakes; directors were generally impatient, and studio bosses were worse. He did not have the luxury of time to experiment and grow. Tracy knew he had to hustle.

Spencer scanned the page, saying his lines aloud without pausing, rapid-fire. He barely took a breath. Most of the sounds he made didn't sound like language, but the drone of a machine.

He got up and poured himself a cup of coffee, all the while muttering his dialogue. He stopped, closed his eyes, and pictured what he would do with his body when delivering the lines. He leaned one arm against the wall and shifted his feet. He dropped his shoulders, extended his hands, then buried them in his pockets. He nodded and muttered some more.

Spencer rocked up and down on the balls of his feet as he recited through a major speech in the script three times. He patted his shirt
pocket and his pants pockets, finally finding a pencil behind his ear. His thick sandy hair, with natural marcel waves, was so unruly that it regularly swallowed pencils. He chewed the eraser and stared into the middle distance. He scratched a few words onto the page. Tracy circled a line of dialogue several times until it was encased in a thick gray oval. He looked down at the words inside the oval while chewing the pencil. He placed the pencil on the coffee table and closed the script.

Spencer paced back and forth in the small dressing room, only to stop and touch his toes. He stood up straight and shook out any tension in his body. He twirled his head slowly in a full circle to a series of pops and cracks, as his neck bones settled at the top of his spine. He washed his hair with his fingers with invisible shampoo. He pulled the hair at the root. He grumbled and sighed.

He walked out the door and onto the set.

Spencer Tracy was known in acting as an “everyman,” which he took to mean as “nobody in particular.” He blended in with the crew, moving in and out among them anonymously and effortlessly like a whipstitch, drawing neither attention nor curiosity. An actor should be a blank slate, Tracy believed, so he moved through the world without attaching to anyone, or any particular group, instead remaining free to be an ardent observer of others.

Unnoticed on the Columbia sound stage, Tracy circled back around the camera rig and eavesdropped as his director and cameraman talked shop. He looked up at the grid, then took in the expanse of the scenery, sizing up the joint as he walked the set, stopped, studied the entrances and exits, as if to kick the tires of the vehicle that would take him into the story of the movie.

A page of new dialogue was shoved under Loretta Young's dressing room door.

Loretta's hairdresser was asleep, snoring softly under the wardrobe rack. Loretta sat at her makeup table, lit brighter than an operating room in a city hospital, doing her own hair.

LaWanda Thompson, her makeup artist, a put-upon fortysomething matron with a brilliant smile and a suntan out of the old days
of the gold rush, stood back and squinted at Loretta's face in the mirror.

“Can I get you anything?” Alda asked as she placed the new page of dialogue on the table.

“A new hairdresser,” LaWanda groused.

“Let her sleep it off,” Loretta said as she patted down the baby hairs that framed her face.

“What actress does her own hair?” LaWanda asked as she stirred black powder and water to make mascara for Loretta.

“An actress that doesn't want her hairdresser to lose her job. She has three kids.”

“I got four.”

“But you don't drink.”

“I want to.”

“But you won't, LaWanda, will you?”

“Nah.”

“Because I can't do my makeup too.”

“You could. It's simple. I layer a little powder, curl your lashes with mascara, a touch of pink on those cheeks, a tint of red on those lips, and you look like a rose.”

“A rose doesn't have black pits. Get rid of those circles under my eyes.” Loretta closed her eyes.

“Can do.” LaWanda pressed a sponge gently on Loretta's under-eye circles.

“Do you know this Spencer Tracy fellow?”

“Word is good on him.”

“Is he easy?”

“I didn't say that. He's good. Good actor.”

Loretta swallowed hard. Whenever she started a new picture, she felt like she was back on the extras line at Players-Lasky, hoping to be chosen but afraid that if she was, she wouldn't measure up and they'd send her home.

Loretta was also nervous about the director. Borzage had won the first Academy Award ever given for directing. He was sharp, his style influenced by the great European filmmakers, which made Loretta feel inferior.

“You'll be fine. Borzage is a pro,” LaWanda assured her. “And a good actress makes everyone on the set look better, including the makeup girl. So get out there and show them how it's done, sweetie.” LaWanda removed Loretta's rubber cape and paper collar as she stood up.

The wardrobe assistant helped Loretta out of her robe and into her costume, a working-girl shirtwaist dress and coat. She centered a cloche hat on her head.

“You didn't need to do your hair,” LaWanda marveled. “Love the hat.”

Loretta's inner circle served up compliments and support freely, as they were both artisans and coaches. The more confident the actress, the faster the day's work for everyone.

When Loretta left her dressing room and walked out onto the set, she was met with stifling heat in contrast to the snowy winter set of Central Park in New York City. There were drifts of soap-flake snow on the ground, and trees flocked with white foam; glass icicles clung to a faux stone wall, and a coppery full moon hung in the distant sky like an old penny.

Borzage was known for his authentic sets, which were sprawling, ambitious, and built to actual scale. He thought painterly interiors looked fake on camera, so he had the scene designer use the entirety of the sound stage, in height, breadth, and depth, to re-create a portion of Central Park as close as possible to the real thing.

The set designer had built the small hills and footpaths of Central Park, the statues, park benches, and rock gardens. In the distance there were glints of light in the windows of the skyscrapers that surrounded the park, their walls made of faux sandstone and brick. Borzage's genius was in the details; a real squirrel ran up a tree, before he was retrieved and placed back in his cage by an animal trainer until the cameras rolled. Another cage full of pigeons, which would be used in the first scene, was positioned by the park bench. A bag of bread crumbs was placed on the park bench for Spencer Tracy to feed them.

Loretta smiled and nodded as the crew acknowledged her respectfully with greetings of “Good morning, Miss Young,” “Nice to see you again, Miss Young,” “Lovely as always, Miss Young.”

Loretta's team surrounded her, yanking at the hem of her dress, dusting off the hat, powdering her face. Loretta greeted her stand-in, who was exactly her size.

“I guess I need a hat,” the stand-in murmured.

“It's a sweat box in here,” Loretta commented.

“Gonna get worse. It's going to break a hundred by eight this morning, and only going up from there,” the stage manager said as he passed.

“You're gonna cook in those coats,” the wardrobe assistant clucked.

“Snow scenes in July,” a man's voice said behind her, dropping to a whisper. “Tells you something about the common sense of studio executives.”

Loretta turned to find herself face to face with Spencer Tracy. In two-inch heels, she was almost as tall as he was. Tracy was stocky and broad-shouldered, a body more suited to a workingman than a leading man. She liked his face. He was blue-eyed Irish in the stevedore fashion, with a strong nose, wide cheekbones, and a smile that had a sly curve. He leaned in conspiratorially. She waited for him to say something more, but he didn't. Loretta pulled back and busied herself watching the crew add some snow around a park bench. Spencer Tracy shifted toward her again.

“I saw
Midnight Mary
,” he said softly.

Following his cue, Loretta leaned in and whispered in his ear, “How did I do?”

“You killed every bum in the picture.”

“It was in the script.”

“What are you going to do to me?” he teased.

“Did you read the script?”

“Yeah.”

“I save you in the end.”

“Tough job. Are you up for it?”

“You'll soon find out. We're starting with scene one. Where's your tuxedo?”

“They're pressing it.”

“We start at seven.”

“I'll be ready.”

He stood next to her, rocking back and forth on his feet and up on his toes. She didn't know what else to say, and he said nothing. She half smiled, looking straight ahead, thinking, Something is wrong with this poor man. He had to be the most socially awkward actor she had ever met.

Spencer must have sensed her feelings, because he turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone. She watched the oddball as he wove back through the crew, unrecognized.

“He looks like my uncle,” the wardrobe assistant commented. “I'm all Irish on my mother's side.”

“Mr. Tracy is as Irish as a boiled potato.” LaWanda shrugged. “But there's something about him, don't you think?”

“Oh, yeah. Something,” Loretta said. She was too polite to say what she was really thinking.

“Okay, Sis, this is where you work.”

A production assistant, pencil-thin with a mustache to match, showed Alda the mail room, a dusty, ramshackle closet with a broken-down worktable and a few metal folding chairs placed around it.

“You sit there and you answer the mail.” He put boxes on the worktable along with a stack of envelopes. “You can read 'em or not. If one of 'em makes you cry, you put it to the side for Miss Young. She enjoys a weepie. She likes to peruse a few here and there, but don't crush her with a bunch. Everybody,
everybody
that writes in gets a photograph. Columbia front office orders. The audience pays our salaries when they buy tickets, don't forget it.”