Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love (14 page)

The darkness deepened, wavering before my eyes. Then, just as fear was taking hold, the blackness lifted like the curtain on a Broadway show, and a new scene unfolded before me …

***

Frigid night air swept through the glass doors and bit at my legs, but I hardly noticed. I was standing in the lobby of the Loew’s Grand Theater, facing a sign that read:

December 15, 1939, Grand Premiere:

Gone with the Wind

Clearly, on this new journey I was in Atlanta, Georgia, where the entire city had been preparing for this event, bringing glitz, glamour, and celebrities such as had never been seen here before and would never be seen again: Vivien Leigh, Laurence Olivier, Olivia DeHavilland, Carole Lombard, and Clark Gable himself. Every red-blooded girl in America was crazy-in-love with Mr. Gable. Hmm, this could get very interesting.

And here I stood in the lobby, amidst a throng, as though I had every right to be at the center of the festivities. Surrounding the theater’s marquee, the Greek revival columns decorated to look like Tara only added to my fantasies. Just the thought of meeting Clark Gable made my knees go weak and my pulse race.

Margaret Mitchell, writer of the book upon which the film was based, was supposed to be here too. I knew a little about her history. Her novel had stayed at the top of the
New York Times
bestseller list for three and a half years! Almost overnight, the thirty-nine-year-old became a reluctant celebrity, and she could barely walk down the street without being recognized—at least in Atlanta.

Being a writer myself, I admit I was just the teensiest bit jealous.

The most important thing, though, was getting to meet the man of my dreams. With that in mind, I glanced down at my clothes and gasped. I was dressed in a long, green, and white, taffeta gown, its fabric swishing gracefully about my ankles. It bore a striking resemblance to the one worn by Scarlet O’Hara at Ashley Wilkes’s barbeque at the beginning of
Gone with the Wind
. The others in the lobby also wore antebellum attire befitting the film.

A small, dark-haired woman tugged at my elbow. “Has anyone ever told you how much you look like Vivien Leigh?”

“Uh … n-n-no,” I stuttered.

“Oh, yes, you do. Especially in that fabulous dress. Hi, I’m Margaret Mitchell,” she said, extending a hand.

Well, that was easy.

“It’s a real honor to meet you. I’m Ariel Richards.”

Outside, spotlights swept the night sky. Although Peachtree at Pryor Street was closed to traffic, car lights bathed the intersection from all directions, and excitement filled the air. I could see people lining the avenues, leaning over rooftops, sitting in trees, hanging from windows. There was dancing in the streets, and the sounds of bands playing. Wild cheers greeted the stars as they arrived, and movie cameras documented it all.

Behind me, a man claimed the city’s population had gone from 300,000 to 1,000,000 in the last twenty-four hours, and added that politicians had asked all Georgians to dress in period clothing such as mine.

The moment was surreal.

I listened as a reporter asked Margaret Mitchell if she had written the book with Clark Gable in mind. She quipped, “I’ll never tell anyone except Mr. Gable.”

Then the “king” himself arrived, with his new wife Carole Lombard. My mouth dropped, and I gasped yet again. He was more dazzling in person than in any of his movies. Dressed in a suit and black tie, he was drop-dead gorgeous.

He approached a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I am here to see
Gone with the Wind
, the same as you. This is Margaret Mitchell’s night, and the people of Atlanta’s night. Allow me, please, to see the film as a spectator.”

Oh, sure. Just your ordinary spectator.

To my left, Margaret blushed at the mention of her name, confirming that she shied from publicity as I had read. Finally, she and the male star of her film met, with at least thirty women pressing in around them. To my surprise, she grabbed my arm and pulled me toward them.

“Clark,” she said, “don’t you think this woman looks just like Vivien Leigh?”

He was taller than I imagined. He smiled that famous smile—his teeth did not look like dentures, thank God!—and enclosed my hands in his huge, warm grasp. I nearly melted on the spot, but tried to compose myself. This was my moment, the moment every woman in the city had hoped for, and I intended to enjoy it.

“Yes,” Clark said, “I do believe she does. Yes, indeed.”

“Her name is Ariel. Ariel Richards.”

“My pleasure,” Clark said, still engulfing my hands.

“Likewise,” I responded. I may have even curtsied, though I can’t recall.

All around, women gawked at him, at me, at us. I could not take my eyes off the man, but I doubted he would remember me five minutes from now.

Clark leaned in toward Margaret. “I want to talk to you. Let’s go somewhere we can speak in private.” Taking her by the arm, he dragged her into the ladies’ room, of all places.

To this day, no one knows what he or she said to one another.

I wondered, even in that instant, what a woman needing to relieve herself would think if she ran into Clark Gable in the ladies’ room—although it’s possible every woman in that theater would have risked bursting her bladder rather than missing even one moment of the premiere. Myself included.

I scrambled to find my seat. The movie started. For the first few minutes, neither Margaret nor Clark were anywhere to be seen. When at last the famed author did take her place in the theater, she was seated next to me.

“Oh, it’s you, Ariel. How nice.”

I noticed she had alcohol on her breath.

Gone with the Wind
swept the screen in a way never before witnessed, an awe-inspiring event. Mr. Gable became even
more
the man of my dreams, as he did for every other woman in the theatre that night. Already adored, from this point on he would be immortalized in the eyes of the American public.

Hundreds of people still lined the streets as we spilled from the theater.

“Say …” Margaret turned to me. “Want to go to a party?”

“I don’t know if—”

“Come on.” She was pulling me along, leading the way to a large limousine where a chauffeur stood stiffly at the door. “Compliments of Louis B. Mayer,” she explained, “the head of MGM studios. It’s so awfully embarrassing on my own, Ariel. It’s good to have someone with me.”

Who was I to complain?

She fished a tiny silver flask from her purse and took a swig. “Clark gave this to me. I told him I was nervous, and he said this would help. Want a sip?”

“Sure,” I answered. Taking a gulp, I winced as it burned a path down my throat. “Good God! What is this stuff?”

“It’s whiskey. A special one that Clark gets.”

“It’s terrible.”

Margaret looked startled by my honesty, then chuckled. “I like you. I think we might just get along.”

We both took another sip.

***

I had no idea where any of this was leading, but by the time we reached the MGM gala, we were feeling no pain. The chauffeur opened my door, and I spent a good bit of energy planting my foot and wobbling into the cold air. Inside, champagne was flowing, and we drank a lot of it. Waiters replenished glasses before they were empty—instructions from his highness, Louis B. Mayer.

Margaret and I headed through the crowd for the ladies’ room. A man laughing uncontrollably and obviously drunk bumped into me and spilled his drink down the front of my dress. I gaped at the damage, where red wine ran like blood along my cleavage.

“Oops … Excuse me, miss. I am so sorry.” Noticing that my face was as red as his wine, the man was no longer laughing. “Let me get some club soda.” He asked the bartender for a few napkins, then dabbed annoyingly—and futilely—at my chest.

“Uh, that’s okay,” I murmured, trying to get rid of him. Against the white and green taffeta, the red stain adorning the middle of my dress looked no smaller than the state of Texas.

As the man sputtered more apologies, I noticed Mr. Gable smoking and laughing with a few men nearby. He turned toward the ruckus, and spotted Margaret and me.

“Well, what do we have here?” he said, with that fabulous smirk I’d just seen on the screen. Squinting, he looked me up and down.

I blushed, feeling naked.

“It looks like someone had a run-in with someone else who was having a little too much fun.” He laughed. “Here, let me have a look at it. My wife, Carole—see her way over there?—she taught me a neat little trick. Bartender, would you give me a glass of ice cubes, please?” Taking several cubes in hand, he rubbed them on the stain.

I shivered. From the cold, I’m sure.

“My, isn’t that a beautiful pendant,” Clark said, staring at my crystal heart. He weighed it in his palm, his breath caressing my breasts. “Is this a diamond?”

“A quartz crystal,” I said.

“Looks almost magical.”

Little do you know, mister. I’m beginning to figure that out myself.

“See, this will keep the wine from setting in the material,” Clark said, returning to the job at hand. “It’s a far-too-pretty dress and you’re a far-too-pretty girl to have your night ruined.”

The dark burgundy stain had faded to a light pink.

He grinned. “Pretty good, huh? There, that should help.”

“Thank you, Mr.—”

“Call me Clark.”

“Thanks, Clark.”

With a twinkle in his eye, he looked me up and down as though I were a rare tasty morsel he was about to devour. “Now go have fun, Ariel. And I don’t want to see you getting into any more trouble tonight.” He gave another laugh and swatted me lightly on the behind.

“I guess it’s true then, what they say,” Margaret noted, once he was out of earshot. “His two great passions are booze and women!”

From my perspective, he was sensitive and considerate, and not as full of himself as one might expect from a superstar.

Margaret said, “We have one more party to attend before my own at the Georgian Terrace Hotel. I do hope you’ll join me.”

I jumped at the chance.

She chuckled. “You’re with me tonight, kid.”

“And believe me, I’m loving every minute. But why don’t you have a date, Margaret?”

Her chuckle dissipated. “My boyfriend and I broke up a few days ago.”

I offered my condolences, and she waved them off.

When we arrived at the next party, I immediately spotted Clarke and Carole Lombard. Neither of them looked happy. I maneuvered through the crowd, and found myself eavesdropping on their conversation.

“No, I was not,” Clark said, slurring his words.

“Yes, I think you were. In fact, I
know
you were,” Carole retorted.

Catching my eye, he excused himself and meandered my direction. His wife’s gaze followed him with as much disdain as jealousy, and I feared the worst for their young relationship. Hollywood marriages were notoriously fragile.

“That dress looks much better now, young lady.” He winked at me, then continued past and mingled in with some other partygoers.

Shortly after ten o’clock, Margaret and I headed to the Georgian Terrace Hotel to prepare for the party she was giving in the ballroom. We freshened up in her bathroom, smoothing our dresses, and touching up lipstick and mascara.

“So,” I asked, “what were you and Clark talking about during the movie, if I’m not being too nosey?”

“Well, for one thing, he wanted to know what all those reporters and journalists wanted to know—if I wrote my story with him in mind.”

“And? Did you?”

She reapplied more red to her lips, then blotted her mouth. “I can’t really say I wrote the whole character with him in mind. I usually create a character from a composite of people I know. Maybe I did use him, in part, because when I see a movie or read about someone, I tend to think about them. And he’s one of my favorite actors. But believe it or not, my Grandpa Mitchell is the one I really had in mind while developing the Rhett character. He was so dashing, a real charmer—a definite ladies’ man.”

“Did you tell Clark about him?”

“Heavens, no! I could never be a party-pooper on his big night. Why not let him think I modeled Rhett after him? Oh, I know it’s a little white lie. But he’s a star, and you just can’t tell a star the whole truth sometimes.”

I smiled, thinking she was as smitten as I was with him.

“The other thing he went on about was Louis B. Mayer.”

“The head of MGM?”

“Clark despises the man,” Margaret said. “He called him a ‘miserable little maggot,’ and must have ranted on about him for at least twenty minutes. He’s not too crazy about David O. Selznick either. You know who he is, I’m sure. One of the movie’s producers. Clark called him a horse’s ass.”

My eyes met hers in the vanity mirror. “I promise not to tell.”

***

By the time we entered the ballroom, many people were milling about and more were arriving. The chatter grew in volume as the attendance rose and alcohol ran freely. I kept looking for Clark, and when he finally showed up he was without Carole. He headed, first thing, to the bar. It looked like he needed more to drink, like a hole in the head; but then again, same for Margaret and I.

That did not stop any of us.

A blonde woman stood by the door, dressed in a long black gown with white ermine fur around her neck. Clark ambled over to her with a glass of champagne. She draped herself on his arm, and they began whispering in each other’s ears, laughing and smiling.

Within moments another man appeared and yanked the woman away from Clark. His voice carried to where I was standing. “Come here, you little whore. You’re embarrassing the hell out of yourself—and me!”

“Who are they?” I asked Margaret.

“I don’t know who the woman is, but that man is David Selznick. And I don’t believe his wife is a blonde.”

The blonde woman threw her champagne in Selznick’s face. “Don’t tell me what to do,” she snarled. “You don’t own me!”

“You will never work in this town again, you little slut.” He wiped his face with his handkerchief.