All the Stars in the Heavens Page 11

  “I’m doing this picture for Bill Wellman. He gave me a couple of breaks, and I owe him. He said we’re going up to Washington State, going to film on location in the actual Yukon.”

  “How delicious!”

  “We’ll be on location in the worst of the winter. If I could leave today and walk there, I would.”

  “Darling, you’re going to make a movie, not hike Calvary.”

  “Why does it feel like it?”

  “There’s nothing worse than a love affair that never bloomed. You have to think like the gardener who snips the heads off the buds that never blossom. It brings down the beauty of the garden. We are meant to bloom,” Niven assured her.

  Loretta went into the house to find her sisters and her secretary as David made his way back to the pool house. His silly crush on Loretta had ended as the sun went down that chilly afternoon. He felt like an older brother, a half-wise one who’d helped his baby sister navigate her sadness from a broken heart. He wasn’t sure that he was of any use, but figured perhaps there was some meaning in his stay on the grounds of Sunset House—a purpose greater than the pursuit of a breakout part and the fame and fortune that come with acting in a surefire hit. He felt needed, and for a man who tried to dodge the responsibilities that came with commitment, he liked having a higher purpose. It made him feel useful, in the British fashion.

  Clark Gable crouched low to the ground and wiggled a fat stick in front of Buck. The dog teased a low growl, lunged for Gable, and grabbed the stick in his mouth. The actor kept a firm grip as the dog thrashed around to steal the stick out of his new master’s hand.

  Buck weighed in at two twenty, a good forty-five pounds heavier than his master. A Saint Bernard with a massive head, the dog could put his paws on Gable’s shoulders if he stood on his back haunches and dance a waltz, like Fred Astaire leading Ginger Rogers.

  Bill Wellman, the director of The Call of the Wild, perched on the fence of the holding pen on the lot at Twentieth Century-Fox. In full sun, Wellman had the face of a war hero on a bronze monument, all angles, deep lines, and determined chin. He moved through the world with authority, long-legged and tall; it appeared he could take any man in a fight. The director used his imposing stature and deep baritone voice to control his movie set and the actors.

  Gable, who was raised on an Ohio farm and had worked their oil rigs, was a physical match for Wellman. The actor was at home training the dog and navigating the pen typically used to hold horses for scenes in westerns. Wellman had reserved the pen for two weeks, or as long as it took for Gable and Buck to bond.

  “How’m I doing, Bill?” Gable asked his director, brushing his thick black hair out of his eyes.

  Wellman was an experienced hunter and fisherman, but that day all six foot four of him looked more professorial than outdoorsy, resting on the fence as he smoked a pipe, wearing a fedora. “Don’t ask me.”

  “You have to direct this animal.”

  “Yeah, but you have to act with him.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gable led Buck to a trough, where the dog lapped up the fresh water.

  “Does anybody know how this dog will do in snow?”

  “We know he likes it,” Wellman said.

  “It’s going to take me another week to get him under control.”

  “Then it’s Christmas. You have a couple of days off by the tree, with Ria and your stepchildren.”

  “You’re making plans for me?”

  “I took you for the kind of guy who likes to sit by the fire and read The Night Before Christmas to the kiddies.”

  “You really want me to come over there and knock you off that fence?”

  “I’d like to see you try. I’m the one who got you the Zanuck bonus.”

  “I had no idea Zanuck gave out bonuses.” Gable put his hands in his pockets and grinned.

  “He doesn’t. You got the first and the last.”

  “I must be worth it.”

  “Must be.”

  “Tell me about Loretta Young.” Gable threw a rawhide ring to the far side of the pen. Buck went to fetch it.

  “You’re gonna keep your paws off of her.”

  “Mr. Wellman.”

  “I mean it, Clark. She’s a good kid.”

  “Are you her father?”

  Buck made a wheezing noise, trotted over to Gable, dropped the rawhide ring, and sat obediently by his feet.

  “After a nap,” Gable said to the dog, “the trainer is coming to work you with the sled. Can you handle it, boy?” He ruffled the dog’s ears.

  “You’re better than the trainer.”

  “Only two things you need to know when training a dog: reward good behavior and don’t reward bad behavior.”

  “So simple.” Wellman shrugged. “If only it worked with women.”

  “Who said it doesn’t?”

  “You’re a better man than me,” Wellman admitted.

  “Was there even a question?”

  Wellman puffed his pipe as Gable wrangled Buck. It would take an ego the size of Clark Gable’s to conquer the wild on Mount Baker, and Wellman was betting he had cast the perfect actor to do it.

  Southern Pacific Railroad provided the Daylight Limited, a train with twelve cars chartered by Darryl Zanuck and the team at Twentieth Century-Fox to transport the actors, crew, film equipment, and Buck the dog from Los Angeles to San Francisco, and on to Bellingham, Washington, to the location for The Call of the Wild. The charter express was scheduled to leave at 5:00 a.m. sharp on Tuesday morning, January 1, from Central Station in Los Angeles.

  A phony press release had announced that the train was leaving on the morning of January 3. From the looks of the platform, the ruse had worked. The company of The Call of the Wild had Track 4 to themselves. There wasn’t a reporter or photographer for miles, and if there was, he was probably sleeping off the New Year’s Eve party from the night before and wouldn’t have the pep to make it downtown to the train station.

  Alda, in her best tweed suit, stood by the luggage on the train platform. Loretta Young was busy saying good-bye to her sisters, who gathered to see her off to the wilds of the great Northwest, on the first film their sister had ever shot so far from home. When any of the Young girls traveled by train, the remaining sisters formed a farewell entourage, complete with handkerchiefs to wave as the train rolled out of the station.

  A bellman lifted Loretta’s and Alda’s luggage onto the train.

  “Go ahead, Alda. Check out the digs,” Loretta said to her secretary.

  The bellman helped Alda onto the platform. She pressed the button that opened the glass doors to the third car, the sleeper. There was an elegant seating area with an L-shaped sofa. Small lead-glass tables holding Tiffany lamps were set to either side of them. The walls were polished cherry wood, as fine as Alda had seen in any Hollywood mansion.

  Alda followed the bellman back to the berths. Loretta’s room was decorated with a white satin comforter and matching plush pillows. Frilly organza curtains flounced over the pull shade, which Alda raised to let in the light.

  “Is this berth to your satisfaction?” the bellman asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Alda smiled. She had never seen a train like this. The train from Padua to Naples consisted of one car of people, one car of cattle, one car of people, one car of cattle, and so on until the caboose. There were no beds, no mirrors, no draperies, just people herded into the cars on simple benches with a shared window. Whenever a Hollywood studio greenlit a movie to go on location, they simply packed up the glamour and brought it with them. Every once in a while, Alda thought she was in one of Loretta’s movies that brought the sparkle of the 1930s art deco era to life. She certainly did that morning.

  Alda’s room was smaller, but just as lovely. She tipped the bellman, took off her hat and gloves, and went back to Loretta’s room to unpack her clothes.

  Alda looked out of Loretta’s window when she heard a racket outside on the platform. She could see Loretta and her sisters hudd
led there, laughing and talking. The noise came from down the way, where a polished forest-green Packard had pulled up to the platform. As Loretta hugged Georgie good-bye, they looked down the track to see what all the fuss was about.

  The crew, including cameramen, electricians, gaffers, set builders, and scene painters, had gathered to welcome Clark Gable. The boys whooped and whistled as Gable jumped out of his car, removed his hat, and greeted the men with back slaps and handshakes.

  Gable’s jet-black hair was shaggy, and he brushed it off his face as the bangs fell back into his eyes. Tall, trim, and camera-ready, he stood above the crowd, his dazzling grin flashing like the white of the moon in the daytime sky.

  “It’s Clark Gable!” Sally fake-fainted into the arms of her sister Polly, who nearly dropped her to the ground to make a point. Loretta shushed her sisters. The last thing she wanted was to have her costar believe that she was as silly as Sally.

  Clark Gable helped his wife out of the car. The petite Ria Langham Gable stood up straight, lifted her chin, and smiled. She was dressed in regal purple from head to toe, topped with an architectural hat anchored with a tasteful cluster of amethyst jewels. Gable kissed her on the cheek, careful not to disturb her hat, before going behind the car to the trunk for his bag.

  “She’s older than Mama,” Polly commented. “And she looks like a bunch of grapes.”

  “Nobody’s sure how old she is. It’s a mystery. That’s what it said in Photoplay.”

  “It’s nobody’s business,” Loretta said politely.

  “She’s seventeen years older,” Sally told them. “I’m the Gable fan in this family, and I know the truth.”

  “You should dig for truth in places besides fan magazines.”

  “Here’s what’s true. Her suit is too formal for daytime,” Polly said.

  “She thought there would be cameras.” Sally shrugged.

  Clark Gable bolted up the steps on the last car on the train. He carried his own suitcase, and was followed by the raucous crew. Loretta’s stomach turned from nerves. It seemed the crew and her costar were old pals. She tried not to feel left out. She was happy her mother had insisted she bring Alda; at least Loretta wouldn’t be alone on Mount Baker.

  Ria Gable stood by the car and waved to the train. Gable did not appear in the window to return the courtesy. Dutifully, Ria continued to wave.

  “I can’t believe that out of all the women in the world, he married her,” Sally groused.

  “She’s a socialite,” Polly reminded her.

  “Big deal. They don’t look good together.”

  “People get married for many different reasons,” Loretta told her.

  “I can only think of one when I look at her.”

  “Sally, you’re being rude,” Polly chided.

  “Here’s the story. Gable’s first wife was his acting coach. She was twenty years older than he was. They divorced. He met Ria when he was touring through Houston in a play. He was twenty-seven, and she was forty-four. She had been married three times herself.”

  “Sally, knock it off. I don’t want to spend my final moments in Los Angeles gossiping.”

  “I think it’s fascinating,” Polly admitted. “Don’t you want to know about your costar?”

  “Not really. I think I’ve heard enough. Lord knows I’ve already seen enough.”

  Alda appeared on the train steps between the cars. “Come aboard, Loretta!” she called.

  “Save Mr. Gable for me!” Sally called to Loretta.

  Loretta turned around and shot her sister a look as Polly grabbed Sally and covered her mouth.

  “Thank you, Pol,” Loretta said before climbing the steps. She turned and gave her sisters a final wave. Sadness rushed over her as the train began to chug out of the station. She was sorry to leave her family, but figured putting some distance between Spencer Tracy and her was the wise thing to do, though she couldn’t help thinking she was running from her problems. One thing she knew for sure: she wasn’t going to look to Clark Gable for consolation. In her opinion, he was a cad with a mother fixation, and she need not get to know him further to prove her theory.

  Loretta organized her makeup on the vanity in her berth, making herself at home on the move as actresses do. The bellman appeared at the door as the train rattled through the flats outside Los Angeles.

  “Breakfast in the dining car, Miss Young.”

  Loretta hadn’t thought about food that morning. No matter how many days she’d had to plan, she didn’t feel ready for this trip.

  Loretta felt emotionally frozen. Perhaps playing Claire Blake would bring her back to life. She was looking forward to the physical demands of the part—hiking mountain trails, navigating a canoe on the river, and sledding through the deep snow of Mount Baker. She was also looking forward to being anywhere but Hollywood, safe from running into her former flame on the lot or in restaurants. This was a chance to put Spencer Tracy in the past once and for all.

  Loretta checked her hair in the mirror. She applied some lipstick, smoothed her eyebrows, and tucked a handkerchief into the pocket of her traveling suit, which accentuated her gray eyes with its gunmetal and pale-blue plaid.

  Loretta gripped the railing as she made her way to Alda’s door.

  “Come on, Alda. I’m hungry.”

  Alda opened the door. “I’m ready.”

  Loretta sized her up. “Alda, you’re seven months out of the convent. It’s time you wore lipstick.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  Alda followed Loretta into her berth. She flipped open the lipstick satchel, which had twenty gold tubes nestled in velvet pockets. Loretta chose one and demonstrated the proper technique for applying lipstick. She handed Alda a fresh tube of lipstick.

  “You’ve got black hair, so you go with any red in the cherry family. No coral. Never orange. Always blue reds. If something ever happens to me, I want you to remember that.”

  Alda smiled. Loretta often joked about her mortality. Usually the comments were about something in her closet. “If something happens to me,” she’d say, “see to it that Sally gets the alligator bag. Don’t fight over my Jean Louis opera cape, it goes to Polly”— that sort of thing. The people that joke about dying young never do.

  Alda applied the lipstick to her well-shaped but small lips and blotted as Loretta coached her. The lipstick gave Alda instant sophistication, with her straight nose, large brown eyes, and thick lashes.

  “Here, put this in your pocket.” Loretta looked at Alda’s reflection in the mirror. “The problem with lipstick is that it’s not cheese. It should never stand alone. Now we need to powder your face.”

  Loretta shared a fresh chamois puff and a container of pressed powder with Alda, and gently powdered Alda’s cheeks and nose. Alda looked in the mirror. She looked fresh and pretty. The powder took away shine and added a veil of translucent allure, like the luster on a flawless Hurrell photograph.

  “I’ve never looked this nice.”

  “Powder and lipstick are the tank and the rifle in a woman’s beauty arsenal.”

  The ladies made their way to the dining car, gripping the railing as the train swerved around corners, laughing and holding tight as the train dipped in the pits of the tracks along the coastline of California.

  Loretta pushed through the glass doors into the dining car, followed by Alda.

  The dining car was filled with smoke from pipes, cigarettes, and cigars. It would seem that there was less smoke at the gates of hell. The men were laughing and carrying on as though this were an all-male whistle-stop tour to a gold rush town, and the train car was their private saloon.

  Whenever a lady enters an all-male enclave, men remember that they have mothers. Instantly, they behave. There was a mad scramble to clear a booth for the women to sit. Loretta nodded graciously as she and Alda angled through the admiring crowd and took their seats.

  The porter presented their menus. He too was smitten at the sight of Loretta Young. When she smiled warmly a
t him, he stood taller.

  The men looked to Gable to check his reaction. He appeared aloof and disinterested. Jack Oakie, their costar, slipped into the booth next to Loretta. His brown hair was shaggy, and he had a three-day growth of beard. “Are you ready for the snow, Loretta?”

  “Are you?”

  “Got on three sets of long underwear. I’m actually slim under here.”

  “Really.”

  “My wife said if I came back with frostbite, it was my own damn fault.”

  “She’s right about that.”

  “Who is this lovely young lady?” Oakie leered just enough to let Loretta know she might have gone too far with Alda’s lipstick and powder.

  “This is Miss Ducci, my secretary.”

  “Oh, an Eye-talian girl.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Oakie.”

  The men gathered around the booth as though the ladies were behind glass in an exotic fish tank at the Mocambo.

  Jack Oakie waved across the train car. “Chet, come here and say hello. She’s one of your own.”

  Luca Chetta pushed through the crowd. He was five foot nine and black-haired, with wild curls. He wore a charcoal gray suit with a gold pocket watch tucked into the vest. He was handsome, of the sprite variety. His eyes were brown like Alda’s, and he had a sweet smile.

  “May I sit down?”

  Alda looked at Loretta, who nodded her approval.

  “He seems all right,” Loretta whispered to Alda.

  Alda shifted over in the booth to make room for Luca.

  Luca Chetta was shiny and new in that first-day-of-school way, clean, pressed, and bearing the scent of sandalwood. Alda leaned against the window to give this blast of pure energy some space. He placed his arm on the back of the booth, his hand near her shoulder. This move was not slick or untoward but his attempt to include her, to make her feel welcome and part of the crew. It was obvious that this wasn’t his first location shoot.

  Luca’s wide, white grin took her in. Whoever this man was, and whatever his trade, Alda felt the instant and soothing familiarity of being among one of her own. Luca was also respectful, which impressed her.