“I don’t care about the sin.” Alda looked at her hands. “I care about you and what happens to you.”
“I’ll handle it, Alda.” Loretta turned to go. “I’ll get through this. I always do.”
Loretta closed the door behind her. Alda sat down on the edge of the bed. How interesting, she thought; Loretta thinks being in love is something a woman has to “get through,” as though it’s an illness, not something that enriches a life and sustains it over time. Why would Loretta think any differently? Any love she had known with a man had ended badly, beginning with John Earle Young. She was abandoned as a baby by her father and had come to expect that no man would stay beyond his initial obligation. Maybe, when it came to Clark Gable, Loretta knew what she was doing after all.
The Seattle Express was loaded with luggage and a weary cast and crew. The Call of the Wild had taken its toll. The three-week location shoot had extended to seven weeks, obligations back home being postponed or rolled forward as the studio scrambled to make the delays work to their advantage.
The eager crew that had made the trip up the coast weeks earlier looked as though they had been dredged through the cold ashes of the fire pit on Mount Baker. The boots that had been new going up the mountain were now ravaged from wear, distressed from ice and snow; clothing was faded and worn from days spent hiking through the tundra. Their ambitious hopes were now memories. Their work, recorded on celluloid strips, formed into wheels nestled in thirty-two silver canisters, kept in perfect temperature in refrigerated bins, was the movie—seven weeks of images in pieces, scene by scene, take by take, ready for the cutters poised to begin the process of finishing the picture before Christmas.
There was a lot of affection on this train. The men would miss the brotherly camaraderie, the card games, throwing dice, the whiskey, gin, and bourbon, and the fun. Elvira would miss the jokes about her cooking. The assistant cameraman would miss the hotel maid, who remained on Mount Baker and went on to find happiness with a local. Wellman would say good-bye to the ulcer that began to form when weather delays made it impossible to film.
They carried home a collective narrative, a shared history, stories of daring and danger, of blizzards, avalanches, wild rivers, and near misses, avoiding catastrophe that would be repeated over and over again on sets in the years to come. There was a palpable nostalgia in the air, along with the cigarette smoke that hung over them in one gray cloud in the dining car as the train chugged out of Seattle and headed down the coast for Los Angeles.
Alda fixed her husband’s tie.
“None of the other guys are dressing for dinner, Alda.”
“I’m not married to them. If they want to look like a bunch of panhandlers, that’s their business.”
“You’re tough.”
“When we get off the train in Los Angeles, we are representatives of Loretta Young, the movie star. We have to look better than presentable.”
“You’re always thinking.”
“That’s why you married me.”
“That and other things.” Luca pulled her close and kissed her.
“You’ve made me happy,” Alda told him.
“It wasn’t hard. I just have to love you, and that’s the easiest job in the world.”
A look of concern crossed Alda’s face.
“What’s the matter? Oh, that.” Luca knew what his wife was thinking. “Loretta and Clark.”
“It’s hopeless.”
“Alda, come here.” Luca sat next to her on the bed. “I’ve kept my nose out of your business because it’s your business, and I respect what you do. But I’ve made a few movies with Clark. I don’t want to burst your bubble, but he’s fallen in love with every leading lady on every movie. Crawford left Fairbanks over him. Norma Shearer almost lost Thalberg over him. They all fall in love with him, and he falls in love with them. Frankly, it makes for a better movie. And that’s really what Clark is all about—he’s not number one at the box office for nothing. He makes it all look effortless.”
“Sprezzatura.” She sighed.
“Exactly, but it’s not. It’s not easy. He cares deeply about his work. So he does whatever he has to do to make the movie better.”
“You don’t think he loves her?”
“Don’t count on this thing making it to Easter.”
“But Loretta is different.”
“And she is also the same. Loretta knows it already. Can’t you tell? She’s playing out her hand. She’s not folding. She’s waiting for him to cash in his chips first to end it. She’s made fifty movies. Loretta knows the deal. You have to stop romanticizing this. It’s not a story in a magazine. It’s not a movie. It’s not like us. It’s not real life. They kiss, they get attached, and when they go home to their wives or husbands, they forget the folly. It’s just how it goes.”
“But she’s better than all that.”
“Then she has to say no next time. Otherwise, she has a good time, and that’s what she gets out of it.”
“I’m heartbroken for her.”
“Don’t be. She starts a new picture next week, and it will be another whole fan dance with another kickline, and this time, maybe, you hope, you pray, she learned something.”
Alda didn’t want to believe Luca, but he was right—she didn’t need more proof. She had been with Loretta on Man’s Castle and The Call of the Wild, and in both instances, Loretta had fallen for her leading men.
Alda had also observed how strange Hollywood could be. Nothing was as it seemed, including the emotions under the surface. Gorgeous actresses who wore furs and jewels and waved to the crowds at premieres, in private had crushing bouts of self-loathing and engaged in all kinds of self-destructive behavior. Actors who were handsome, strong, athletic, and robust on the set, in private could not stop drinking. Their working world of heightened emotion and perfection was an illusion that fed their unworthiness.
Alda marveled at the content of the fan letters that poured in for Loretta. The audience thought the characters Loretta played were real, that her beauty made her good, and that the snappy lines she delivered made her a bright, inquisitive intellectual. Just as the beam of light from the projector made the image appear on the silver screen, so did the audience project their hopes, fears, dreams, and desires onto the storytellers. For a girl like Alda who had been in the convent, who was trained to look within for all gratification and understanding, Hollywood with its devotion to the veneer was practically a sin.
Alda’s job was to care for Loretta. It’s how Alda made sense of the mania of show business. To her, it was simply a job where she took care of a young woman who needed her, not that far afield from her work at Saint Elizabeth’s.
Alda had grown fond of Loretta, and the entire family. She saw them as seekers, looking to make a better life for themselves and their family. They had made their way, in large part without the assistance and encouragement of the men in their lives. In that way, the Belzer/Young family had a lot in common with the Sisters of Saint Vincent de Paul. They had been poor, and they hadn’t forgotten a moment of it. Perhaps that’s what made them devout; they had to place their gratitude somewhere. It could not be blind luck that Mrs. Belzer became a force in interior design, and that her children had gotten into movies and done well.
Alda saw what the power of their images did in the world, and how Loretta believed that she must take that audience’s affection for her youthful energy and talent and make the world better beyond the borders of the sets that Luca painted so exquisitely. Loretta was more than an actress who wanted glamour and fame; she cared about the content of the stories. It was in this way that Alda saw that Loretta was different from the other actors she had met. Loretta’s commitment to quality proved there would be more than movies left behind to remind people of the goodness of Loretta Young. She had a higher goal.
Loretta was in her berth, choosing her ensemble for their triumphant return to the Los Angeles train depot. Unlike the departure, which was orchestrated to throw off the
press, the return was staged to promote the movie. This time there would be the hullabaloo of reporters and fans; Mr. Zanuck wanted to kick up as much gold dust in the way of publicity that he could.
Loretta wore a new sky-blue silk suit with a flared skirt. The hat was a gray cloche, with matching gloves and pumps. The outfit would look great in pictures in the newspapers. Zanuck was to present her with a spray of red roses. It was back to business as usual—the movie business.
Gable rapped on Loretta’s door.
“Gretch. Come with me.” Gable was ebullient. He had spent the first part of the trip in the club car trying to win back the money he lost in a poker game on the night of the wrap.
Clark’s mood was something new, shades of which Loretta had not seen before. The movie was over, and he was heading home to the sunshine and a new movie to make on an MGM sound stage, which made for a luxurious schedule after being away on location for so long. Gable was excited about a hunting trip he had planned to Lake Arrowhead. He had a full calendar of golf and sailing planned; he could already feel the healing southern California sun on his face. He longed to jump into his convertible and head to the beach; in a matter of hours he could. “How about dinner?”
“No, thanks.”
“Are you okay?” Gable closed the door behind him. “Hey, what’s the matter?”
“I’m scared.”
“You just tamed a mountain and Bill Wellman—what could you possibly be scared of?”
“I’ll never see you again.”
“What do you mean? I’m going home, going to finish what I started with Ria, and then we’ll be together.”
“Together.”
“Married.”
“Do you mean it?”
“You have to trust me. I made this mess, and I have to fix it. For us. You believe me, don’t you?”
“I try.”
“All that faith you have when you kneel before statues, throw a little of that my way.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
Gable kissed her. “Now will you come and have dinner with us? The gang wants to say good-bye.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Loretta sat down at the vanity in her berth. She held back tears, promising herself that she wouldn’t cry until she was home and in her room at Sunset House. She looked at the clock. They would arrive in Los Angeles in three hours and twenty-three minutes. That’s all the time she had left with Clark Gable, as she knew him on Mount Baker when he belonged to her, and she to him. Their conversations by the fire that went long into the night, the teasing when they got ready to go to the set in the morning, the way she would catch him looking at her—it was all in the past. She could not imagine what would come next for them, but she had a pretty good idea.
Loretta wished that the train could keep rolling on forever, past Los Angeles, through Mexico, over oceans and continents, and keep going, never stop, until the end of the world. She wanted to believe Clark’s promises, and she hoped he meant them. But she knew better.
In her mind, Loretta had tested her faith and failed. She wasn’t even a good Catholic. She dreaded the confessional because she obviously had not learned the lessons from the Tracy affair. She had simply traded one married man for another. For every sin there was a punishment. For every confession there was contrition. She knew she would have to pay for her happiness on Mount Baker. She couldn’t say how, and she didn’t know when, but the marker would come due; it always did. Something told her to trust her instincts, not Gable’s promises and high hopes. No good was to come of this glorious, spectacular, and deliciously tender love affair. Until the train pulled into Los Angeles station, she would pretend otherwise.
Loretta put on her lipstick and went to the dining car for the Last Supper, the The Call of the Wild version. She still had a few hours left to laugh, share stories, and delude herself that everything was going to be all right. That much she could do. Beyond that, it was anyone’s guess.
The starlet Elizabeth Allan was waiting on the train platform for Gable’s return from the wilds of Washington State. The press corps was happy to pass the time photographing the British beauty until the big show pulled into the station. They snapped photos of Allan, lovely in a bubble-gum-pink dress and hat. She carried one pink rose, a sign of her devotion to Gable. However, she was not alone. It seemed the entire state had turned out to welcome him home.
The platform was packed with people—press, fans, and studio brass, who stood on the outskirts of the mania like guards surrounding a fort. Zanuck had seen the rushes. Ebullient, he’d called Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper and spilled competitive snippets of details about the actors’ performances, the costumes, and the dangerous terrain. He was thrilled with Wellman’s work, and believed Buck would become a bigger star than MGM’s Lassie. If there was one thing Zanuck enjoyed more than polo, it was beating Louis B. Mayer at his own game, using his own chess pieces—in this instance, the loan-out of Clark Gable.
The train pulled into the station, and the pack of reporters pushed forward as the Seattle Express came to a stop.
Jack Oakie came off the train first, to a burst of applause and cheers. He held his dilapidated snow boots up in the air for all to see. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. His wife pushed through the crowd, embraced him, and then berated him for his shaggy beard as the photographers snapped away.
Buck the dog and his trainer were next. The crowd separated as Buck bounded through the crowd and into a pickup truck with his name painted on the side.
Loretta disembarked the train, posing for pictures on the landing as the crowd whistled and cheered. She was head-to-toe glamorous, in the new suit she had saved for the occasion. She looked elegant, the only member of the The Call of the Wild company who didn’t seem the worse for wear. She greeted the press corps as though they were long-lost friends. Alda was close behind her, as well as Luca, who was happy to carry their luggage, and happy to be home with his wife.
The press converged on Loretta, barraging her with questions about surviving the blizzard, handling Buck the dog, and her costar, Gable. They pummeled her with queries: “Did you know Gable is number one at the box office?” She answered all the questions graciously, and deflected the ones that implied that she had fallen in love with him. If there was any question that Loretta was a great actress, she proved it whenever she was interviewed.
Luca pushed through the crowd, leading Loretta and Alda to a studio limousine parked just beyond the platform. As Loretta climbed into the car, she heard the roar of the crowd behind her. The mob had swallowed Gable as he came off the train. Flashbulbs popped like bottle caps and girls shrieked at the sight of him, their screams piercing the clatter. Loretta rolled down the window and watched the spectacle for a moment. As Gable was engulfed by the throng, it reminded her of the day they’d almost drowned in the river. But now, instead of rushing water, it was fans pulling him down and under—and this time she was convinced she had lost him.
Loretta was about to roll up the window when the crowd parted on the platform to let Gable through. On his arm was Elizabeth Allan, who next to Gable looked like a pink teacup. He smiled down at the starlet as she skipped to keep up with him.
“Are you ready to go?” Alda asked softly.
“Yes. I’ve seen enough,” Loretta said.
Gable lit a cigarette as he leaned against the mantel in his living room, waiting for his wife. He wore a white tie and tails, a dramatic choice for a man who thought he hadn’t a prayer of winning at the Academy Awards that night. He was certain Best Actor would go to William Powell, the most dapper, erudite actor in pictures. But every job in Hollywood is political, and tonight, Gable was showing up to play the game.
Gable had arrived home a few days earlier to the scent of wet paint and wallpaper glue. While Gable was on the mountain working, Ria had been in the flats of Beverly Hills, shopping. She had redecorated the house: every sheer, drapery, and hook was new. His wife had gone French. The furnitur
e was covered in sumptuous ice blue and burnished gold French brocades. The house was padded with wall-to-wall silk wool carpets in buttercup yellow while the walls glittered in the light of crystal sconces and chandeliers.
Ria, petite and compact, descended the stairs in a white duchesse satin gown, appliqued with tiny crystals that fanned out into sequins on a fishtail hem that trailed behind her like the crest of a wave. Ria was sleeved and gloved and cinched as was the imperative of any Hollywood wife over the age of fifty. She could not look younger than the competition, but she could look richer. Her diamond earbobs and thick, matching diamond studded cuff bracelets proved it. If they were not dazzled by Ria’s gown, the jewelry would do the heavy lifting on her behalf.
“Clark, darling.” She entered the newly refurbished gold living room, looking like a dove as she pulled on her evening gloves.
“Mother, you look splendid.”
“We should go, we’ll be late.”
“Ria, I’m not going to win.”
“Oh, who cares about that? We’re sitting with the MacArthurs. He’s a stitch, and Helen is elegant. This is a swank party.”
“I’d like to win.”
“Everyone likes to win. Did you ever meet anyone who liked to lose?”
“No, never did.” Gable struggled to communicate with his wife. If he was stone-cold sober and honest, he would admit that he was afraid of her, of her volatile Texas temper. A man who is trapped in a marriage by fear has a difficult time explaining how he got there and therefore struggles when it comes time to figure how to get out. “Have you given some thought to what we talked about?”