All the Stars in the Heavens

  An adorable strawberry-blond dancer with a décolleté so deep she could carry Gable’s wallet in the abyss hovered beside him as he worked the room.

  Loretta’s face burned. She knew Gable had girlfriends—after all, she had been one outside of his marriage to Ria—but to see him working the room with yet another girl on his arm humiliated her. Deep down, she had expected him to wait while she sorted out Judy’s future, but clearly he wasn’t waiting for her, or for anyone. His life had gone on as though Mount Baker never happened.

  The wound she felt was as deep as one could go, all the way down to her broken heart. She remembered her father walking out on her mother when she caught him with another woman, the last of a string of others. Whatever else the red-haired laundress was or wasn’t, she was Gladys Young’s final straw. Loretta did not have the fortitude her mother possessed after having divorced two husbands. Loretta still longed for love.

  Loretta saw Ria Gable move her entourage close to Gable, not to greet him with civility but to taunt him. Ria was prepared to fight for every last dime she could wrangle from Gable’s current contract, and the word in the papers was that she would be successful. Ria looked like a white spider, creeping up on Gable to make her point. Everyone knew the way to hurt Gable was through his bank account. He had not left his thrifty ways in Ohio.

  Where was Loretta in Gable’s harem? Loretta was somewhere between the upstart lounge singer and the matron ex-wife. Or was she? Gable still flirted with Loretta as though nothing had happened. But something had, and she was in a crib on Rindge Street.

  “Sorry to leave you so long,” Lydell said, handing her a glass of champagne.

  “No, you go and chat people up. I’m going to say hello to some friends.”

  “I’ll meet you at the table for supper.”

  “Thank you.”

  Carole Lombard breezed by with a quick tap on Loretta’s shoulder. “Loretta, you look divine!”

  “Thank you!” Loretta said as she passed. “So do you.”

  Lombard made a direct beeline strut toward Gable, who was leaning over Louis B. Mayer’s table, where the boss himself, in head-to-toe white, looked like a fat pigeon perched on a fence. Gable was regaling his boss with some story, and whatever it was, Mayer was engaged and amused. There was conviviality and connection between the man who signed the checks and his biggest star, the man who cashed them.

  Lombard tapped the dancer on the shoulder and delivered a withering look to her. She got the message and stepped away.

  Lombard gave Gable an affectionate pat on the back, and he stood up and greeted her. She ran her hand down Gable’s back, teasing him with her long, burgundy fingernails. She excused herself, and he turned back to pick up his conversation with Mayer when Lombard gave him a pat on the backside.

  Loretta was shocked by the intimate behavior in public, but Gable, for his part, accepted it and watched Lombard as she walked off, taking her in like a sweet glass of cold champagne. Lombard might as well have been the hotel maid at the Mount Baker Inn.

  Lydell Peck dropped Loretta off at the front door of Sunset House. She kissed him on the cheek, and he tapped the horn lightly as he drove down the far side of the driveway and back out onto Sunset. Loretta thought the flat sound of the tin car horn was the perfect ending to a lackluster evening.

  Loretta set down her evening bag and removed her earrings as she stood in the foyer. She could hear her mother’s voice in the kitchen.

  “Mama?”

  Gladys, in her nightgown and robe, hung up the phone. “Thank God you’re home. It’s Alda. She’s at Saint Vincent’s Hospital.”

  Loretta changed out of her evening gown and jewels. She threw on a skirt, sweater, and loafers and went to her car.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

  “Mama, you have to stay with Georgie. I’ll be fine.”

  Saint Vincent’s was a small Catholic hospital tucked on a residential street. Loretta pulled up in front on West Third Street, jumped out, and ran into the hospital.

  “Chet!” Loretta saw Luca in the waiting area. “What happened?”

  “She had terrible pain. I thought maybe her appendix burst.”

  “Did it?”

  He shook his head.

  “What is it, Chet?”

  “She was pregnant.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “She lost the baby, and now they’re giving her . . .” Luca began to weep.

  “Calm down, Chet. What is happening now?”

  “They had to give her a hysterectomy. To save her life. She doesn’t know it. They came out and asked me for my permission. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Loretta sat down next to Chet and put her arms around him. “You did the right thing.”

  “I don’t know how I can tell her. It was her dream. She wanted a lot of children. I wanted her to have everything she wanted.”

  “Oh, Chet.”

  “I screwed up, Loretta, I screwed up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “On Mutiny. There was a girl.”

  Loretta felt a punch to her gut. “What happened?”

  “I walked away.”

  “Good.”

  “But she came to my room. And I was so lonely. I missed Alda. I let her in. I’m being punished for what I did. And now Alda is being punished for what I did.”

  Loretta went to the water fountain and poured a cup of water. She gave it to Chet and sat down next to him.

  “You must never tell Alda about the girl.”

  “I have to. I have to let her know what I did. I can’t live with myself.”

  “You have to find another way to atone. She can’t give you absolution. And if you tell her, you will only hurt her. Especially now. Especially after all she has been through.”

  “All right.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise you that I won’t say a word about it.”

  “Forget it,” Loretta said. “All that matters is Alda and your life together.”

  “Mr. Chetta?” A nurse stood before them. “You can see your wife now.”

  Loretta watched Chet walk through the doors with the nurse. She put her head in her hands and prayed.

  “Hey, piccina.” Chet peeked through the curtain at Alda, who lay in the hospital bed.

  “What happened?”

  “You’re going to be just fine,” he said tenderly.

  “What happened to me? Tell me,” she said softly. “It wasn’t my appendix.”

  “No, no, but you’re going to be fine.”

  “I was pregnant, wasn’t I?”

  “Yes.” Chet’s eyes filled with tears.

  “I’m sorry.” She reached out to him. “I lost the baby.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For both of us.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “The doctor called it ectopic. You wouldn’t have been able to bring the baby to term.”

  “I can have more children, can’t I?” Alda asked him the question even though she already knew the answer. She had seen the truth on the face of the nurse and read it in the countenance of the doctor. Her abdomen was heavily bandaged, which meant she’d had major surgery. The news would be terrible; that much she knew from her days at Saint Elizabeth’s.

  “The doctor had to save you. He couldn’t do that without operating.”

  “He gave me a hysterectomy.”

  “I’m sorry, Alda.” Luca knelt next to the bed and wept. He felt a deep shame for his behavior, which soon gave way to regret. The dream of their family in the house in the valley was over.

  Alda ruffled his thick hair with her fingers. This intimate gesture reassured him but he didn’t deserve her affection. Alda didn’t cry, which frightened Luca. She seemed to be in a state, with a faraway look in her eye.

  “You have to leave me, you know.”

  Luca lifted his head. “What do you mean?” He was bereft.

  “You can’t stay with a
woman who can’t give you a family. There’s no purpose in that. I have no purpose.”

  Luca gripped her hand. “You listen to me. I will never leave you. You will not leave me. We love each other. This is a terrible thing. But you made it through. You’re going to be fine. So what? So we don’t have kids, we can adopt them, we can do whatever we want. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

  Alda shifted in the hospital bed, making a space for Luca. He carefully slipped into the bed next to her, cradling her.

  Alda believed she was paying for her mistake with Enrico, and in that sense, she was relieved that the debt had finally been paid, that she would no longer be haunted, wondering when her punishment would reveal itself and what penance would follow. Now she knew. What she hoped to salvage from her life of mistakes was a new beginning. When she met Luca, she believed it was a turning point. But it was not to be. She had almost been a mother twice. She had held her son Michael. The baby she lost that night would remain a dream.

  “I’m not going to be a mother. You won’t have a son who will draw and paint. I won’t have a daughter who will learn how to sew.”

  “I don’t care about that, Alda. I have you.”

  “I’m going to have to be enough.”

  “You are enough.”

  Alda drifted off to sleep. Luca lay awake, looking at her. He was certain he was paying for his sins, but he could not understand why Alda had to lose everything to atone for his transgressions. When he closed his eyes to pray, he couldn’t. Luca had lost his faith, and he wondered if he would ever find it again.

  Loretta drove over the canyon to Venice Beach. Her heart raced. She wept at the news of Alda’s loss, and it made her frantic. She needed to hold Judy, to be with her baby. She had deep feelings of self-loathing as she sped toward Rindge Street. She hated herself for every decision she had made about her daughter. Hiding her. The secret. The cover-up. It all came down on her at once, crushing her spirit, elevating her anxiety.

  How dare she dress up and go out on the town in a gown and jewels when she had a baby to take care of? How dare she work and spend a moment away from her? How dare she hide her? What had Judy done? She was free of sin and entirely innocent. Loretta hid her as though she were ashamed of her. Was she protecting her daughter, or her reputation, or the money she would make as long as Judy’s identity remained secret?

  Loretta felt sick. She pulled over, got out of the car, and threw up. She was feverish with regret. She pictured the Mayfair Ball, hours earlier, with Gable, the games that were played, the silliness of it all. The gossip, the posturing among the women, and Gable at the center of it, a new father acting like a fool. She observed him as he flirted and joked and felt up every woman in the place. It was too much, and Loretta was heartily sorry for her part in any of it. That nonsense was beneath her; it was beneath their baby daughter. There were real problems in the world, real pain, the kind of agony that Alda was experiencing that night. Loretta got back into her car.

  Loretta wept so much her cheeks began to itch. She rolled down the window and let the night air, cool and light, blow across her face. What good had her earnings been? She had investments, she owned property, and she had the money to pay a nurse to care for Judy, but what good was any of it if she couldn’t have her daughter with her? There was something terribly wrong with the way she was living, in fear for her career and reputation, instead of reveling in the days of joy her daughter brought just by having been born.

  Loretta parked in front of the house. She didn’t care. Usually, she parked around the corner in a carport that Gladys rented so they wouldn’t be discovered. She ran up the walkway, fumbled for the key, and entered the house. She called out softly, “Evelyn, it’s Loretta.”

  There was a small bedside lamp on in the back room. The nurse was feeding Judy.

  Loretta ran into the room. To see her baby so peaceful soothed her. Loretta inhaled deeply to calm her racing heart.

  “May I?” Loretta said.

  “Of course.”

  Evelyn handed the baby to Loretta, who sank down into the rocking chair, holding her daughter. She held the warm glass bottle of milk and fed her baby, beginning to rock in the chair. Baby Judy looked up at her mother, serene and calm. Her downy hair was like spun gold, with waves. Loretta gently touched her daughter’s hair. Judy was a perfect baby, pink, robust, sweet, and tranquil. Alda would never know this particular joy. Tears streamed down Loretta’s cheeks when she thought about what Alda would miss.

  Evelyn, standing by, reached for a handkerchief for Loretta, who took it and dried her tears with one hand while feeding her daughter with the other.

  “I missed her,” Loretta said, explaining her unannounced visit.

  “It’s like that,” Evelyn said. “You always need them more than they need you.”

  13

  Louis B. Mayer’s grand office suite on the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lot was decorated with fine English furniture and heavy Scalamandré silk drapes that would have been appropriate decor in a bank president’s office. The scent of lemon oil and the mogul’s cigar wafted through, carried by the fresh California breeze that blew in from the open windows.

  Mr. Mayer set the stage for his omnipotence in the movie business with careful attention to detail. The accents of polished brass, carved walnut, and gleaming crystal were deliberately formal. His mahogany desk was massive. His chair was positioned higher, while visitors’ seats were lower, an arrangement that gave the boss leverage. It was easier for Mr. Mayer to say no in an environment that made actors, directors, writers, and agents feel small. In that sense, Louis B. Mayer was the best set decorator in Hollywood.

  Ida Koverman, Mayer’s eyes, ears, and intellect as well as his private secretary, stirred her tea as she read. Her large walnut desk was polished to a glossy sheen. Her typewriter, a black-and-white Underwood, was positioned on a specially built arm that could swing the typewriter out of the way so Ida might use the broad surface of her desktop to lay out pages of scripts or publicity photographs, or line up the drawers pulled from her card catalog of artisans, producers, actors, and writers her boss wanted her to contact at a moment’s notice.

  Ida adjusted her eyeglasses, crossed her arms on the desk, kept her head down, and kept reading. She looked like any white-haired grandmother engrossed in a gripping Saturday Evening Post short story. In truth, the only trait Ida shared with grandmothers was the jar of hard candy she kept on her desk. Ida was a Hollywood insider, a player who could tip a project into production or kill it.

  Anita Loos, the screenwriter—diminutive in height only—paced in front of Ida’s desk, hands on hips. She wore a trim navy cotton chemise and matching high-heeled lace-up Mary Janes, tied with large bows of blue velvet laces. Anita’s jet-black hair was chopped in a modern pixie cut, with a thick fringe of bangs over her kohl-lined brown eyes. She wore a deliberately jeune fille red grosgrain ribbon in her hair.

  No one knew how old Anita Loos actually was, but she was closer in age to the sixty-one-year-old matron Ida Koverman than she cared to admit. Anita was funny and bright and eager; she packaged herself with as much zeal as the studio packaged its stars. As a perennial hot writer on the MGM lot, she used her petite figure, courant designer wardrobe, and jet-black hair to sell her pithy scripts, loaded with sex, adventure, and smart social commentary. Anita had been writing scenarios since the silent era. In the front office, whatever age you are when you first make it as a Hollywood writer is the age you remain all of your career, until the bosses change.

  Ink doesn’t age.

  In the mid-1930s studio moguls Mayer, Zukor, Warner, Cohn, and Zanuck were in a death fight to hire the best writers. Loos needn’t have worked so hard on her image; her writing talent was more than enough to recommend her. A funny woman adept at writing comedy was pure gold, and she’d earn plenty of it when she put it on the page.

  “What do you think?” Anita peeked out through the venetian blinds at the MGM lot. A ground crew of gardeners had pa
rked a golf cart loaded with rakes, clippers, and shovels next to the building as they tended to the boxwood around the Mayer building, giving it a haircut with the same attention to detail as the studio barbers in the MGM makeup department gave the leading men. “Big movie. It’s big-ticket, don’t you think?”

  “I think two million.”

  “Lot of effects,” Anita admitted.

  “Yes, but they’ll make history. Mr. Mayer wants Academy Awards, and this one would get them.”

  “You like it.” Anita assumed the script would please Ida.

  “You can’t miss. It’s an epic. San Francisco earthquake. Turn of the century.” Ida made notes in the margin of the script. “Love story.”

  “Harlow for the girl?” Anita offered.

  “You’d have to make her a dancer. She can’t sing.”

  “Spencer Tracy for the priest?”

  “He plays good guys so often, people think he’s a saint in real life.” Ida chuckled.

  “Not if they saw him out last Friday night.”

  “Always the way. The most angelic are the biggest devils. And the biggest drinkers.”

  “Gable for Blackie Norton.”

  “Of course. He can do anything he wants after Mutiny,” Ida said.

  “But will he want to do this?”

  “I don’t see why not. Let Mr. Mayer sell him if he has doubts.”

  “The Call of the Wild was turn-of-the-century too,” Anita reasoned.

  “It’s doing great business.”

  “Loretta Young and Gable are marvelous together.”

  “Too much chemistry.” Ida stopped reading and looked over her glasses. “Mr. Mayer would never hire her now.”

  “Never is a long time in Hollywood,” Anita said wryly. “About forty-eight hours.”

  “Do you think it’s true?” Ida said without looking up from the script.

  “About the baby?”

  “They say she gave it up for adoption.”