All the Stars in the Heavens (30 page)

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 furniture 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?”

“Oh, for God sakes, Clark. Look at me. I spent the day baking in black clay. I had my hair done, my nails painted, and a final fitting on this gown. I don't want to talk about anything unpleasant.”

“When can we talk?”

“I'll let you know,” she said tersely.

“No, I'd like to hash this out.”

“I don't hash,” she said, ending the conversation. “Choose another moment. This is not it.”

“I want out, Ria.”

“You listen to
me
. I have no intention of giving you your freedom. For what? That English tart? Elizabeth Allan is not a contender. No one will know that tin horn floozy's name in fifty years.”

“This isn't about Elizabeth.”

“That Loretta Young? Wake up. She's a bad bet. She was a teen bride, got the marriage annulled, and now she only goes with married men. Something wrong in the head with that one.”

“Shut up, Ria.”

“I won't ‘shut up,' as you put it. I won't stand by and watch you take this golden moment in your career and throw it away as though we haven't both worked hard to get here. This is my moment too, Clark. I am as responsible for your popularity as you are. You may act the parts, but I am here building a life that you can be proud of, that your fans aspire to—that the studio bosses respect. I got you your pay raise, and don't forget it. L. B. Mayer had never seen dinner parties like the ones I threw for you! As for your night crawling, feel free to sneak around town in the shadows with any of the ambitious girls who want a piece of you to further their careers, but they are not entitled to all this, to the pie! You can make love to them by the thousands for all I care, but you will not dictate to me when this marriage ends, or how it will end, or
if
it will end. I am driving this buggy, Mr. Gable.”

Ria sashayed out of the living room to the dings of the crystals on the gown and the shimmy of her silk stockings.

Mrs. Gable walked out the front door to the waiting limousine. The night air felt good, and she inhaled it like stiff whiskey. Ria had long
believed men were weak and gullible, which made them promiscuous, but she wasn't about to give up her glamorous life over sex, which in her opinion was a lot of nothing.

Gable followed her out the door and into the car. They didn't say another word to one another on the drive to the Biltmore Hotel.

Loretta slipped in the back door of Dr. Andrew Berkowitz's office, followed by Alda, who closed the door gently behind her. A nurse appeared and locked the door behind them; not that anyone would have seen them enter. It seemed the entire population of Los Angeles and Beverly Hills was across town at the Biltmore Hotel, where the seventh annual Academy Awards were in full swing, with a dinner dance followed by the awards presentation.

Show business was far from Loretta's mind that evening. Gable had called her, promising her that he was cleaning up his domestic situation. He'd noticed that she was quiet, and worried for her health.

“Loretta, tell me what's going on with you.” Dr. Berkowitz sat on a chair, as Loretta sat on the examination table, turning a cotton handkerchief over and over in her hands. Berkowitz had been the Young family doctor for years; he had known Loretta since she began in pictures.