All the Stars in the Heavens

  But this wasn’t a script, it wasn’t a movie; it was his life, and the life of his daughter. Maybe he was wrong to tell Loretta that they shouldn’t share the truth with Judy. Maybe the truth would serve their daughter. He was confused about that, and would have to give it more thought.

  For a split second he thought about turning the car around and going back to Judy, but something told him a better time would come for them. When that time came, he would be ready to tell Judy the truth—his truth, as he remembered it and lived it. He only hoped that when the time came, she would be ready to listen.

  16

  Loretta Young sat at the head of the table at Lewislor Productions at the NBC studios in Burbank. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a view of the sound stages, and the glass-topped table in the conference room reflected the morning light.

  Tom Lewis was meeting next door with the network executives to determine a license fee for the anthology show they had pitched and NBC had bought. In 1953, there would surely be product endorsements to defray the cost of production, but Loretta didn’t mind. She was enthralled to be in control of the storytelling, taking her years of movie experience with scripts and applying it to television. Alda sat next to her boss, taking notes.

  “Did you ever think all that mail you answered would become a television show?”

  Alda laughed. “I used to call them ‘Letters to Loretta.’”

  “And that’s what Tom is calling the show.”

  Just as Loretta had rushed headfirst into radio when Darryl Zanuck put her on suspension, she was charging into the new medium of television. Movies had taken a hit as the public’s tastes changed. Louis B. Mayer had just been fired as the chairman of the MGM board, marking the official end of the studio system that had thrived during the golden age.

  Loretta’s movie-star friends would have no part of television; she argued with Roz Russell, reasoned with Irene Dunne, even had lunch with Joan Crawford, who said she would die on a sound stage in front of one camera before she would act on “the little box.” Only Loretta, who played her career with élan, with a sense that she had nothing to lose, had figured out that she could work on her own terms to offer great stories to her audience on television.

  Unlike many of her friends in the movies, Loretta never lost sight of the audience.

  No leading actress on camera in Loretta’s memory, except for Marie Dressler in the 1930s, had worked much past the age of thirty-five. That might not be fair, but Loretta was not about to wage war against a system that had been in place since the turn of the century. Instead she decided she would go where she was wanted. As she neared the age of forty, she still had her beauty, her intellect, and her charm, not to mention her acting ability. She would work harder, longer hours, produce, sit in on rewrites, and arc the narrative of her series. She would be responsible for the content and the message. At long last her audience would get the full range of her gifts. Like her mother before her, Loretta’s work would fill her up where her marriage could not.

  “What time are you leaving tonight?” Loretta asked Alda.

  “We’re flying to Chicago, spending the night, and then on to New York.”

  “Are you packed?”

  “All set.”

  “What are you going to do in Brooklyn?”

  “Eat.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “We stay in the basement of the family brownstone. Three generations of Chettas live in that house. Breakfast is continental. His sister makes espresso, and we steam milk and dip the heels of day-old bread into it, and I’m in heaven. Dinner is at six in the family kitchen. Monday nights are soup, Tuesday night macaroni. You get the gist. Sundays are the best. The entire family, all the cousins, aunts, and uncles, come for Sunday dinner. I make stuffed artichokes. Luca’s family rolls up the garage door and they scrub it down, set up tables, and everyone comes over to eat. If it’s hot, the men will open the fire hydrants for the kids to run through. If not, they play ball in the street. Luca will play with the kids, and we’ll have a great time.”

  “Sounds heavenly.”

  “You wouldn’t last five minutes. The streets of Brooklyn are packed with people. They sit on the stoops and holler from the windows. It’s big and loud and noisy and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It’s a life closer to Padua than Hollywood.”

  “Alda, have I ever thanked you properly? For Padua. For everything.”

  “So many times.”

  “You’ve been as close to me as my mother and my sisters.”

  “I never had a sister.”

  “I hope I’ve been a good one.”

  “You have, Loretta. And I hope I haven’t been too hard on you.”

  “You’re always honest.”

  “That’s the first time those words have been uttered in Hollywood.”

  Loretta laughed. “I think you’re right. While you’re being honest, tell me what you think of this television racket.”

  “Well, it’s something new. I’ve never seen you fail. You’ve never turned away from a challenge. You embrace them. I think you will succeed. You always do.”

  “Can you believe we’re starting over again?”

  Alda was amazed by Loretta Young. She was tireless in her pursuit of quality projects. Loretta turned down more movies than she had made over the course of her career, and she had made over a hundred. Loretta had always wanted control over the kind of stories she wanted to tell, and with the blockbuster Come to the Stable, she’d proved she still had great instincts when it came to choosing stories.

  Tom Lewis joined them in the conference room. “We got the licensing fee.” He beamed. “They’ve ordered twenty-two episodes.”

  “I can do my work and be home for dinner every night.” Loretta applauded.

  “That’s the idea. You in the kitchen,” Tom agreed. “Are you ready to pitch the storylines?”

  “We are.” Loretta looked at Alda. “Send them in.”

  Tom went to gather the network executives as Loretta took one last look at her notes.

  “I haven’t seen Tom so happy in a long time,” Loretta said softly.

  “This was a great decision,” Alda said.

  “I have to do something to bring us together. This is the happiest he’s been since we married.”

  “Sometimes you have do things to make your husband happy. There’s nothing wrong with that,” Alda assured her.

  “I have to try. No matter what it takes.” Marriage to Tom had been such a struggle of wills that Loretta was happy to try anything to make her home life better. But she wondered if stardom of another sort would only antagonize Tom further. He had grown more territorial and less enthusiastic about her work life over time. The only solution, in her mind, was to include him and let him run the show. Always practical when it came to her acting life, Loretta gave Tom power on the production side, hoping they might share in the success of the new business. She would share her work life, he would have the prestige, and hopefully both of them would be happy with the deal.

  Alda sat on the stoop of Luca’s family homestead on Avenue U in Brooklyn. The entire neighborhood had come out to watch the softball game. Luca insisted on playing. At fifty-one, he was fit and trim, though his black hair was now gray.

  Luca’s sisters had the garage ready for the Sunday meal. Alda had hand-rolled manicotti, while they simmered meatballs and gravy in a pot that Luca’s mother had brought from Italy. With fresh bread, a big salad of fresh greens and sweet onions, and the Chetta family’s homemade wine, it would be all they needed for a perfect Sunday-afternoon meal.

  The sisters had made cannoli and cookies, knowing that the family would talk long into the night. Whenever Luca and Alda visited, it seemed there wasn’t enough time.

  Luca hit the ball, and it sailed over parked cars and headed for the cross street. As he rounded the bases, the family cheered. His nephews shouted for him to head for home, so Luca took the bases at a clip. As he rounded third base, he stopped and
put his hands on his knees.

  “Uncle Luca, what’s the matter?” His nephew Anthony dropped his glove and ran for his uncle. Clutching his chest, he looked up, saw his wife, and called out, “Alda!” before he collapsed onto the street.

  Alda ran to his side while his sister Elena ran for the phone to call the ambulance. Soon every window and stoop was filled with neighbors, come to see if there was anything they could do to help.

  Alda raced alongside the gurney as Luca was brought into Mother Cabrini Hospital. Luca was rushed into the ER, and Alda followed.

  “You have to stay in the waiting area,” the nurse told her.

  “No, I have to go with him. He doesn’t speak English,” Alda lied off the top of her head.

  “All right, follow him in,” the nurse said.

  Luca was placed in an examining room. The nurse quickly attached oxygen to a tank and laced the tubes over to the gurney, where she placed a mask on Luca’s face. Alda stood beside him, trying not to cry. Luca was very pale, and she felt a sense of doom, time slipping away from them.

  “We’re going to get you fixed up.”

  Luca tried to smile. He tapped the cup over his nose and mouth. Alda lifted it.

  “I wasn’t perfect.”

  “Neither was I, honey.”

  “You deserved it,” he whispered. “I want to tell you something.”

  “Do I look like a priest?”

  Luca smiled. “No.”

  “So save your confession.”

  A look of peace crossed Luca’s face. Alda placed the oxygen on his face.

  “You listen to me. I don’t care about perfect. I wanted a real husband. I have one. I love your temper and your cursing and your impatience. I love the way you love me, and I don’t care about anything else. I have been so proud to be your wife. And you’re stuck with me for another fifty years.”

  Luca made the mezzo mezzo hand signal, which meant fifty more years was a stretch.

  Luca closed his eyes. Alda knelt beside his bed and prayed, but she knew not to ask for more time, but for the salvation of Luca’s soul. When she rose to her feet to kiss him good-bye, Luca Chetta was already gone.

  Alda was numb as she made Luca’s funeral arrangements in Brooklyn. She spoke with the priest and bought the grave site for her husband, next to his parents, purchasing two so she could be buried with him when her time came.

  Loretta and Tom Lewis sent a glorious arrangement of flowers that were crowded next to sprays from MGM, Mr. Gable, his union, and his friends. Everyone who had worked with Luca remembered him.

  Alda’s sister-in-law Elena brought an envelope full of mass cards to Alda as she was packing.

  “We want you to stay, Alda. You don’t have anyone in California.”

  “I have my job. And the house. I’ll have to do something about the house,” Alda said, weeping. “I thought about going home to Padua. But it’s not where I belong. I want to be with the people who knew Luca, who worked with him. I think it will help me.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Elena asked.

  “I don’t want my husband to be forgotten.”

  “We’ll never forget him.”

  “No, his art. He was a great painter. No one knew, because he painted sets, that he was also a fine artist. I have his sketches and paintings, all his supplies. Someday I’d like to send them to you, so you can choose one of the nieces or nephews who loves art, and give them their uncle’s work and his tools.”

  “I’ll do that.” Elena patted her sister-in-law’s hand. “You know, we all thought he was crazy when he went to Hollywood. But he was hooked. We went to Palisades Park, the whole family, and we each had a nickel. Some of us bought candy, others went on rides, but he spent his money at the Nickelodeon. After he saw those images, he was never the same. He wanted to be in that black box.”

  “That’s what it is, Elena. It’s an obsession. It’s a calling.”

  “Like becoming a nun.”

  “I can’t imagine Luca without a paintbrush in his hand. He taught me about form and line and light and shadow. I looked at the position of the sun differently, the way the moon moved, how it left a trail in the sky, if you knew how to look for it between the shadows.”

  “What an Italian way to live, to see the world and the sky that way.”

  “We were all we had. Each other. We had time to look at things, to take them in.”

  “An artist’s life. You had it too.”

  “Because of him. Your brother was an artist down to his bones, and it was my privilege to observe him at work. It’s what made me fall in love with him in the first place.”

  Polly draped her leg over the side of Loretta’s canvas chair, taking a bite of Loretta’s sandwich. Sally stood close by with her hands on her hips, holding a Brownie camera to get a shot of Loretta as she came out of the doors used on her television show.

  “Cue Loretta,” the stage manager hollered. The lights on the set poured on, streams of pink and white bathed the stage. Loretta opened a set of French doors trimmed with brass details and walked through to center stage. She wore a yellow organza cocktail dress embroidered with black velvet sunflowers. Her hair was cropped in the Italian style; her lips, a bright magenta, were courant.

  Every week, Loretta opened her show by going through the French doors on her soundstage, dressed in a glamorous dress designed by Jean Louis and greeting her audience at home.

  “Cut!” the stage manager called out.

  “Is that it?” Polly asked.

  “For Loretta.”

  “When do they need us?”

  “In a minute.”

  “Over here, Georgie!” Sally called out to their baby sister.

  Georgiana, now a mother, smiled and made her way over to her sisters, skipping over the wires. Georgie was a homemaker who had left show business to raise her family, but you couldn’t tell from her movie star looks. She was as lovely as any ingénue working.

  “Come on, girls, let’s go.” Loretta motioned to her sisters.

  Sally, Polly, and Georgie gathered around Loretta to have their picture snapped by the show photographer.

  “Mama will love this,” Loretta said.

  “Who are you kidding? You’re just superstitious. You want to win another Emmy.”

  “Well, we did have our picture made before the first one,” Loretta demurred.

  “That’s all right. We want you to win, sis.” Polly smiled.

  Loretta’s sisters were proud of her. She was the first woman to star in and produce her own television show, which caused Joan Crawford to call her old friend and tell her that for the first time in her life, she had been wrong. Joan promised to come off her high horse about the movies, and down to earth where television was king. From now on, she was going to listen to Loretta.

  The attention had shifted from the Young sisters to the new generation. At twenty-three years old, Judy Lewis was engaged to be married to a young television director named Joe, who had worked on The Loretta Young Show.

  Alda sorted through the response cards. She pulled a regret card from the pile: “Mr. and Mrs. Clark Gable will be unable to attend.” A couple of years before, after his short, unhappy marriage to Lady Sylvia Ashley, Gable had married Kay Spreckles, who had two children. It was an old friendship; Gable had known Kay when she was a young starlet in Hollywood in the 1940s. Just as in any small town, eventually the eligible bachelors and single ladies cycle through, and re-meet, and sometimes sparks fly anew. They did for Gable and Kay.

  Alda was troubled by the regret. Gable and Loretta had been on friendly terms since they made Key to the City eight years earlier.

  “Alda, have you seen my mom?” Judy asked.

  “She’s at the studio.”

  “How are the invites coming?”

  “You’re going to have a standing-room-only crowd.”

  “Anybody say no?”

  “Here’s the regret pile.”

  Alda handed the cards to Judy.
She shuffled through them and stopped to look at the Gables’.

  “I remember meeting Mr. Gable.”

  “You do?”

  “He came to see me when I was still in high school.”

  “Your mom and he are old friends.”

  “I think she dated him. You were there. Did she?”

  “Your mother had so many beaus.”

  “No one could keep up. I know, I know. But wasn’t Mr. Gable a special one?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “She can’t talk about him.”

  “Your mom dated Spencer Tracy,” Alda offered, getting the conversation off Gable.

  “I know. I can’t see that one, though. Not her type. Mom is strictly the tall, dark, handsome type.”

  “Like you.” Alda smiled.

  “I am my mother’s daughter.” Judy laughed.

  Alda watched Judy walk out of the office and jump into her car. She wanted to tell Judy the truth, but it was not her place. It was time to confront Loretta one final time, to do what Alda thought was the only thing to do—the right thing—to tell Judy the story of how she came to be.

  Gable skippered the sleek white speedboat from Naples to Capri over the turquoise waves of the Tyrrhenian Sea. The sun glittered on the surface like speckles of diamond dust. Kay Gable held onto the rig, the wind blowing in her platinum hair as they hit waves in the open sea. Gable smiled at his wife before he turned to guide the boat into the Marina Grande at the foothills of Capri.

  Gable was fifty-eight years old, hired to play a lover to the starlet Sophia Loren in It Started In Naples. He laughed when he got the offer; he couldn’t believe anyone would still pay him to star in a romantic movie and give him the most popular actress in the world as his costar, an international sex symbol who happened to be thirty years younger than he.