American Blonde (5 page)

T
he contract was for seven years. I would receive a guaranteed salary of seventy-five dollars a week for six months, paid whether I worked or not. At the end of that six months, Metro had the option to renew for another half year at twice that amount or they could drop me, just like that, and be done with it.

I was to accept all roles assigned to me and agree to all promotional appearances requested by the studio, as well as any travel arising out of my work; otherwise I would face suspension. I was not allowed to leave Los Angeles without permission, even when I wasn’t filming. I was not allowed to do any television work or accept any other profitable employment, which included theater, radio, and recordings.

I was always to be on call to learn, study, and film the movies I was in. I was to be free to promote the movie or do anything MGM needed me to do, including being loaned out to another studio. I was never to refuse to sign an autograph. I was to give the studio approval over anyone I dated. And according to the “standard morals clause,” I was to “project what the studio considers an appropriate image,” which meant I must behave myself at all times.

Redd Deeley, square jawed and strapping, sat next to me across from Billy Taub, neat and tidy in a jacket and tie—the white streak of hair smoothed back—and looking less like a madman than when I’d first seen him on the set. His office was on the third floor of the Thalberg Building, connected to the rest of the legal department by a network of intercoms and telephones. The door kept opening as men walked in and out, interrupting long enough for him to look over this or talk to them about that. He signed papers with a red pen, barely glancing at the page, and kept checking his watch. His desk was stacked with scripts, maps, drawings, lists, and three copies of the book
Home of the Brave
. An enormous framed picture of his movie star wife, Ophelia Lloyd, perched on one corner.

“You’re unmarried, Miss Hart?” Mr. Taub stared up at me, a finger marking his place on the page.

“Yes, sir.”

“Any plans to be married in the near future?”

“No, sir.”

“We ask that you consult us when and if this changes.”

“I will.” I wasn’t worried about getting married. I was worried about the fact that I wouldn’t be allowed to do recordings. I said, “When you say I’m not allowed to record, do you mean any kind of music?”

“Is that a problem?” He glanced at Redd.

I said, “I’m afraid so. Seven years is a long time.”

“Is it about the money?”

“No, sir. It’s about having control over my music.”

“Look, this is a standard contract. You can ask your agent there. Judy Garland, Kathryn Grayson—they’ve all signed it.”

“I would agree to it if you could take out the thing about recordings. I’ll give you a year at the most, but that’s all I can do.”

“You’re quite the negotiator.” He glanced again at Redd.

Redd sat back, crossed his arms, and smiled at him. “She’s certainly making my job easier.”

I said, “There are certain things I won’t compromise on. The main reason I came here was because of music.”

“You do realize we’re not a music conservatory. Our purpose isn’t to educate you and then send you out into the world for someone else to reap the benefits.” From the picture frame, Ophelia Lloyd’s eyes blazed at me.

“I realize that.”

Mr. Taub and I went back and forth, back and forth like this, Redd interjecting now and then, until finally, when Mr. Taub could tell I wasn’t going to change my mind, he stood and glowered at me. “Wait here.” He snatched the papers and stalked off, rattling them as he went.

While Billy Taub was gone, I looked around, wondering where his private “casting” office was, and if he had a button on his desk that locked girls in. If he did, I felt pretty certain he’d never try to use it on me.

Redd said, “I’m glad to be working with you, Velva Jean. In this business, in this town, it’s good to have a team of people looking out for you. You’ve got one of the best ones.” For a second, I thought he was talking about himself. “Barbara isn’t always an easy pill to swallow, but she’s loyal. If she loves you, she’ll fight to the death for you. If you cross her, you’re on your own.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Taub was back, papers in hand. He said, “You’ve got a deal, Miss Hart. We’ve changed the recording clause from seven years to one year, and raised your salary from seventy-five dollars a week to one hundred fifty. I’m assuming that addresses your concerns?” He smiled.

“Yes, sir.”

“Any others we should discuss at this time?” I decided it was actually a baiting kind of smile.

“I don’t think so. No.”

“I’m glad to hear it. The studio will open a checking account for you at the Culver City branch of the Security Pacific Bank. Do you need us to find you an apartment?”

“I’m staying with a friend right now.”

Redd smiled at Mr. Taub once again. “I believe you know her. Barbara Fanning. The girls were pilots together.”

Mr. Taub said vaguely, “Is that so?” as he plucked a pen from its holder and laid the contract out in front of me. There, in black and white, was “Velva Jean Hart” and a line above it. I held the pen over the page. For once, I wasn’t going to think or question or wonder what if. In thick black ink, I signed my name.

Metro’s head of publicity was Howard Strickling. He was as tall, dark, and handsome as the movie stars he handled, but he wore a navy blue suit that wasn’t flashy or fancy and spoke matter-of-factly—with a sometimes stutter—as if he didn’t have time to waste. He sat in a beaten-up leather chair behind a desk with a carved ivory lion looming at one end, a photo of Joan Crawford thumbing her nose on the other. He said he needed to hear my life story, every detail, and that I shouldn’t leave anything out.

I told him about Mama dying when I was ten and Daddy going away, about being raised by Sweet Fern, and saving up my money to go to Nashville. I told him about marrying Harley when I was sixteen, and divorcing him when I was twenty. I talked about Nashville and Darlon C. Reynolds and my friend Gossie, who took me in, and learning to fly, and then applying to be a WASP. I mentioned half-Creole, half-Choctaw Butch Dawkins; Ned Tyler, the boy I’d loved who died in Blythe, California, when his plane crashed into a mountain; the fact that I was almost killed myself at Camp Davis when my B-29 was sabotaged. Then England and France, the Resistance and Émile Gravois and his team and Gossie’s aunt, who smuggled downed pilots out of Paris. Being captured by the Germans and tortured and shipped off to a concentration camp, which was when I escaped. Killing a man, maybe more, as we tried to get away, and then what he already knew from the papers about saving Johnny Clay and stealing a German plane to get us home.

Mr. Strickling said, “Miss Hart, it’s come to our attention that your father has a police record. Perhaps you can explain.”

I didn’t ask how he knew. Mudge had already warned me that they would do their research and that it was better to get it all out in the open at the start.

“My father never meant anyone harm, but he did like to drink. He was happy when he drank, never mean. And he would never hurt anyone.”

“‘Drunk and disorderly,’ ‘drunken conduct in a public place.’ He seems to have spent more than one occasion in jail.”

“When I was growing up, the sheriff in Hamlet’s Mill would sometimes bring Daddy in, more to keep him from wandering off or getting into mischief. My brothers liked to make him stay in jail a night or two because they felt it was good for him.”

“When was the last time you saw your father?”

“I haven’t seen him in years.”

He sat back in his chair. “So for all you know he may actually be dead.”

“I—well. I suppose he could be.” Even after all Daddy had done and not done, even after all these years of not seeing him, it wasn’t something I liked to imagine.

Mr. Strickling said, “Is that everything?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If there’s anything you’re holding back, anything that might prove embarrassing if the media gets hold of it, now is the time to let me know. If you tell me now, I can make sure that anything like that stays out of the press. Or if we can’t keep it out of the press, I can make sure it’s revealed in the most positive light possible. I don’t want any surprises when I open my morning paper.”

“That’s everything.”

“Good. When were you born, Miss Hart?”

“November 5, 1922.”

“We’ll need to change the date. Shave two or three years off your age, maybe give you a more patriotic birthday. Not July fourth because that belongs to Mr. Mayer, but perhaps Lincoln’s birthday.” He pressed a button on a little box on his desk.

A woman’s voice said, “Yes, sir?”

“Get me a list of patriotic days of the year, please, Doris, disregarding July four.”

“Certainly, sir.”

He handed me a stack of pages, longer than my contract.
What does your father do for a living? Where did you grow up? What are your hobbies? What is your favorite food? Where did you go to school? Who is your ideal man/woman? What are you most afraid of? What is the bravest thing you’ve ever done?

He said, “Once you fill out the questionnaire, we can create your studio biography.” He pressed the button on the box again. “Doris, get me Bernie Hanser.” To me, he said, “Bernie will be your personal publicist. Good guy. Southern. From West Virginia, like myself.” He wrote something in my file and then closed it. “Talent is like a precious stone, Miss Hart. Like a diamond or a ruby. You take care of it. You put it in a safe, you clean it, polish it, look after it. There’s only one of you, one of Nigel Gray, one of Barbara Fanning, and because of that you have to be protected. It’s what we do here.”

At wardrobe, they measured every inch of me. I learned that my hands and feet were too big, my chest too small, and that I was, at five feet six inches (and three-quarters), too tall, but “thankfully not as tall as Ingrid Bergman.” The woman who weighed me said I could stand to lose five pounds, “preferably on the hips and not the chest,” because it would make my cheekbones “more prominent.” She asked me what my regular diet was and when I said, “I eat anything I want to,” she scribbled something down on an index card and handed it to me.
Prescribed diet: eight glasses of water a day. Breakfast: plain toast. Lunch: cottage cheese and fruit. Dinner: boiled vegetables and one small piece plain fowl, fish, or beef. No desserts!

In the makeup department, I sat in a barber’s chair under bright lights while my teeth, smile, nose, eyes, eyebrows, ears, and cheekbones were examined by a team of men in lab coats. They talked about me like I wasn’t even there, discussing what to do about my freckles (violet-ray treatments) and my teeth (caps for the front two to make them more even) and the little scar on my lip, which had been given to me by a Nazi officer. My eyes and cheekbones were my best features, even if my eyes were a darker green than they would have chosen, and my eyebrows needed to be plucked and arched. One of the men drew on my face with a fat black pencil, and when I asked him what on earth he thought he was doing, he said, “Trying out the possibilities.”

In the hair department, the one and only Sydney Guilaroff—the man responsible for the most glamorous heads in Hollywood—stood back and studied me, his own head cocked, cigarette in one hand. He was a dapper, balding man, trim in a handsome gray suit with a lavender pocket handkerchief.

“A natural beauty. Good coloring.” His assistant followed him, making notes. Mr. Guilaroff gestured as he talked, waving the cigarette like a baton. He came forward and touched my hair, holding the ends, examining the color and the feel of it. “It’s too curly. We can give it a wave, which will take some of that out, control it more. The hairline is good. I don’t think we’ll have to lift it. The cut is terrible.” For the first time, he spoke to me directly: “Who did this to you?”

I had done it to myself, in a bathroom in Paris, with a set of cutting shears loaned to me by a family from the French Resistance. “I did.”

He frowned. “The color too, I see.” He moved behind me and set his hands on my shoulders. He studied my reflection for about three minutes. “You’re an American hero, are you not, Miss Hart?” Before I could answer, he snapped his fingers at his assistant, and said something to her about color number this, and number such-and-such and so-and-so. She wrote everything down, nodding so hard I thought her head would snap off. He beamed at me in the mirror. “What do you think . . . of
blonde
?”