Santa Monica,
California
January 1936
The jug of lemonade and matching tumblers seemed a little lonely on the pebbled-glass patio table Irving had set up under the blue-and-brown striped awning at the back of the house. Should he get the cook to rustle up some crab-stuffed celery? Nuts, perhaps? Or would cookies be better? But what kind? He couldn’t let everything fall apart because the head of the Production Code Administration hated snickerdoodles.
Irving had staked his professional reputation, not to mention hundreds of thousands of Metro’s dollars, on Romeo and Juliet. Filming had already started. The guy couldn’t waltz in here and say, “Nope.”
Except, of course, that as chief enforcer of the Hays Code he could do exactly that.
The table and two chairs set up on a poolside patio suddenly felt claustrophobic. He dragged each chair back a couple of inches, then a few inches more. Better. It was almost three o’clock. Cheese and crackers, he decided. Who doesn’t like them?
The doorbell rang.
Hang the damned crackers. This session shouldn’t take long.
Joseph Breen’s handshake was as listless as the seaweed littering the shoreline.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on a Sunday.” Irving wouldn’t normally have proposed holding an important meeting like this in his home but Norma, already on edge about playing Juliet, had insisted that he spend his only day off with his family. But this meeting was unavoidable, so they had compromised by having it at the house.
Irving stepped to one side. “Please, come in.” Dressed in a three-piece tweed the color of soggy cardboard, Breen came across like a dour bachelor uncle whom nobody wanted to sit next to at Thanksgiving.
When Irving closed the door behind him, Breen said, “It’s mighty quiet in here. I can’t even hear the ocean.”
“I’m a light sleeper,” Irving explained, “so I had our builder soundproof the walls and double-pane the windows.”
“‘To die: to sleep; No more; and, by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks.’”
“Hamlet. Act 3, Scene 1.”
“You know your Shakespeare.”
Irving had memorized a few soliloquies by heart, but not many. Fortunately, Breen had quoted from the most famous speech in the entire Shakespearean canon: ‘To be, or not to be.’ He gestured toward the rear of the house. “It’s balmy out, so I thought we might sit on the patio.”
Romeo and Juliet had kicked off production the day after Christmas. They were three weeks into filming when Breen had issued a curt memo informing Irving that he was not happy with the script. “Not happy?” Irving had blustered to David. “He’s already approved it. And besides, who censors Shakespeare?”
But when Joseph Breen called a meeting, no Hollywood producer dared refuse. His decisions were law. Any studio exhibiting a film without his stamp of approval faced a fine of twenty-five thousand dollars.
Breen stepped onto the patio and placed his briefcase on the pale turquoise Mexican tiles.
Irving closed the French door behind him. “Better than a stuffy conference room, don’t you agree?”
“It’s highly unconventional.”
By choosing an informal setting, Irving had hoped he’d find a more agreeable adversary. “It is a Sunday, after all.”
Breen had filled the top page of his yellow legal notepad with tiny, meticulous handwriting. Underneath it was the Romeo and Juliet script that Irving had submitted.
“Now, look, Mr. Thalberg—”
“Please, call me Irving.”
“I can understand any frustration you must be feeling, seeing as how you have already received our provisional authorization.”
“I wasn’t aware that your authorizations were subject to—”
“We reserve the right to withdraw, amend, and/or reconsider any consent we may have given.”
An onshore breeze swept through the Thalberg patio, bringing with it the brackish tang of rotting fish.
Irving wanted to pour the entire jug of lemonade into this prig’s lap. “Our pictures cost a great deal of money. We spent two million alone on Mutiny on the Bounty.”
“Unless I’ve been misinformed, you’ve made nearly twice that in box office returns.”
Together with China Seas and A Night at the Opera, Irving had scored a trifecta that was still scooping up profits by the truckload. But this was Hollywood, where you were only as relevant as your last picture. He needed Romeo and Juliet to keep his victory lap from petering out just when he was proving that the Thalberg unit was Metro’s top performer.
“Romeo and Juliet is all romance, which makes it the diametric opposite of Mutiny. Don’t I at least get credit for variety?”
“All attempts to inject anything approaching a ‘hot’ bedroom scene into your screenplay—”
“IT’S SHAKESPEARE!” The words flew out of him like panicked sparrowhawks.
“The source of your screenplay is immaterial. I’m only concerned with what appears on screen. As such, you are to omit any scenes of Romeo lying with Juliet on a bed. Regardless of the age of the actors, it is forbidden to show two people fondling one another in a horizontal position.”
And here was I thinking I could get away with a casual meeting on a patio with lemonade and snickerdoodles. “I can assure you, Mr. Breen, I am not out to sensationalize Romeo and Juliet. This play deals with love in its purest form. There are no chorus girls or gangsters’ molls. No jail breaks or Tommy guns or knife fights or mass murderers who run around stabbing—”
Breen theatrically cleared his throat and pointed past Irving’s left shoulder.
Little Junior, his light brown hair tousled in the wind, stood at the open French doors, hesitation pinching his long, solemn face.
“Daddy’s busy right now. You need to go ask Mommy.”
“But Mommy said only you can decide.”
This was Mommy’s way of signaling her displeasure at having her Sundays invaded like this. Irving didn’t want to break their agreement, but Romeo and Juliet was climbing toward the upper limits of his budget—and Mayer's patience. And they’d barely started filming. Irving felt that tightrope pushing against the soles of his shoes.
“Sorry about this,” Irving told Breen. “I left word that we weren’t to be disturbed.”
“I have six children of my own; I’m all too familiar with the interminable pressures of fatherhood.”
Irving turned back to Junior. “What do you need, son?”
Junior ran to his father’s side. “The little Boundee at your work.”
A studio carpenter had made the detailed scale model to use as a guide when building the two life-sized versions. It now stood on Irving’s office mantel next to DeMille’s Egyptian hourglass.
“What about it?”
“Can I have it?”
The question stumped Irving into silence. He was impressed that his son remembered the model; the day they’d spent at the studio together had made more of an impact than Irving had supposed. Was this an early sign that the little guy would follow in his father’s footsteps? As much as Irving hoped that were true, reluctance pulled at his heart. He had positioned the model in a prominent place as a reminder that sticking to one’s vision helps to overcome obstacles.
And now Junior wanted to take it from him?
Irving was still trying to navigate through this tricky minefield when Breen said, “Listen here, Master Thalberg. We can’t go through life with our hands out. We have to earn the things we want.”
Common ground at last, even if it was leagues away from where Irving thought they might find it.
“Mr. Breen is right. The model is yours, but only if you work for it. What can you do, I wonder, that will prove you really, really want it?” Junior shoved three fingers into his mouth and shrugged. “How about this? If you swim the length of our pool, then you may have the model.”
Junior’s brown eyes grew big as Oreos.
He’ll never do it. He’s too afraid. This kid, who’s grown up on the beach has been water-shy his whole life. The ocean, pools, night-time baths—he hates them all. If he refuses, I get to keep my model; if he gives it a go, he’s earned it. No matter what he decides, it’ll be a victory.
Junior squirmed out of his red-and-white top.
“I didn’t mean right now, son. Daddy’s busy with—”
Junior kicked his matching shorts to one side, leaving him at the edge of the pool in his underwear.
Breen chuckled quietly. “Looks like you’re about to lose your model.” It was the first grace note of humanity Irving had ever heard coming out of the man.
“Our new live-in nurse, Greta, has been trying to teach him how to swim but without success.”
Junior flung himself into the water and flailed about. Legs kicking, arms thrashing, he resembled a drowning victim—but damned if he wasn’t making progress! Sheets of water cascaded in every direction as he fought against his fears and crawled toward the deep end of the pool.
Irving dashed to the edge and was there to pull him out as soon as that little hand grasped for the concrete rim. “See what you can achieve when you put your mind to it?” And when you have the right incentive.
Junior jumped up and down in his puddle of pool water. “Do I get it now, Daddy?”
“I’ll bring it home with me tomorrow night.”
“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!”
“How about you go and ask Greta for a towel?” Irving handed Junior his discarded clothes. “And when you’re dry, find Mommy and tell her what’s happened.” He opened the French door to let the tyke inside and closed it. “Sorry about that interruption. Now, where were we?”
“You mean before your little boy achieved a monumental triumph?”
Irving glimpsed the father behind the stern watchdog. “Yes.”
“You were telling me that you’re not out to cheapen Shakespeare.”
“What I want to do is make a motion picture that I can take my son to.”
Breen didn’t smile at this announcement, but he did unbutton his jacket. “In that case, Mr. Thalberg, I suspect we can come to a mutual agreement in short order so that we may each get back to our families.”
It took the two men the best part of an hour, but by the time Irving was waving Breen goodbye at the door, he didn’t feel as though he’d been trampled into submission under the hooves of stampeding censure. Romeo and Juliet would be the picture he had set out to make, and he hadn’t had to compromise. Not too much, anyway.
When he returned to the patio to retrieve his notes, he found Greta holding the untouched lemonade. She was a pleasant, competent girl in her twenties, good with the children, patient with Norma, and had effortlessly suffused herself into the Thalberg family’s life.
“So that’s the infamous Mr. Breen?”
“He’s father to six children. I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“Did he kill your movie?”
“It took some doing, but we’ve got the all-clear.” Irving nodded toward the bright scarlet silk gown hanging over Greta’s arm. “Going somewhere?”
“Hardly!” Greta laughed. “This color does my Scandinavian complexion no favors. It’s what Mrs. Thalberg is wearing to the Mayfair Ball later this month.”
The exhilaration of his success with Breen evaporated. He snatched the dress from her. “Where is she?”
“In her bedroom—but she doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
Irving stomped down the hallway until he was facing Norma’s closed door. He banged against it with a fist, then threw it open, holding the garment aloft. “What the hell is the meaning of this?”
Norma was sitting on the bed, her hands folded in her lap. “How did it go with Breen?”
Irving pitched the dress at her. It crumpled into a heap at her feet. “You are not wearing this to the Mayfair Ball.”
“I’ll make my own choices, thank you very much.”
“That gala is a major social event and I’m an official sponsor. You are aware, aren’t you, that this year’s patroness is Carole Lombard, and she has asked all ladies to wear white?”
“I am.”
“And yet you’ve chosen scarlet. Honestly, Norma, what the hell are you thinking?”
“Oh, Irving,” she sighed. “White. Scarlet. Kelly green polka dots. Does it matter?”
“Of course it does! The only woman in the entire place who has refused to do what Carole asked will be the one I walk in with. It’ll reflect poorly on me, and what reflects poorly on me also reflects poorly on Metro, which in turn—”
“Sometimes there are more important things.”
She sat quite still and merely said the words as though trying to memorize them. The room fell into a flinty silence until Irving grasped that Norma was scarcely breathing.
“What’s going on?”
Norma patted the space beside her on the bed, where he joined her.
“I got a telephone call when you were with Breen.”
“Who from?”
“Ina Claire.”
“What did she want?”
“She called to tell us that—” Norma placed a tender hand on his back “—the inevitable’s finally happened.”
“Which is what?”
“Jack Gilbert has died.”
The tension inside the Cadillac made Irving’s scalp crawl. He cracked open his window.
“Do you mind?” Norma’s voice was barely more than a murmur. “It’s rather cold out.”
“Isn’t that what your sable is for?”
She bound the fur coat more tightly around her. “Fine.”
Santa Monica Boulevard slipped past in a continual blur. Every week new buildings appeared; new homes on new streets, new stores filling in what had been open land.
Off to the south, a halo of lights flickered to life as the final tendrils of dusk dwindled away. Now that Darryl Zanuck had merged his Twentieth Century Pictures with Fox Films, there would soon be another major studio to contend with. More competition. More pressure. Didn’t he have enough to worry about? Couldn’t she have worn anything else to this ball?
The light of a passing streetlamp caught the scarlet silk.
At least Merle Oberon wore white. From what he had been able to see of her dress as she and David Niven climbed into their town car back at the house, it had a daisy pattern. But the flowers were small and pastel yellow on a cream background.
Irving was glad for Norma’s sake that Merle had come along. Nobody had ever warned him that the higher you climb, the fewer the people who stuck around. Irving had started his career at the top. He’d grown accustomed to questioning the motives of anyone who made overtures of friendship. But Norma wasn’t built like that. She needed girlfriends like any woman. Pals to confide in. Gossip with. So yes, thank God for Merle Oberon. But even she hadn’t talked Norma out of that damned dress.
In the parking lot, uniformed valets opened the two passenger doors. Irving got out on his side, Norma on hers.
A jaunty tune blared out of the Victor Hugo restaurant. Irving had been looking forward to trying what he’d been told was the finest French cuisine in all California. What a shame the evening would be ruined by Norma’s blatant disregard for the one simple rule Carole had laid down.
The main room had been fashioned to resemble a walled garden with friezes of Italian cypresses and misty hillsides. An indoor fountain built within a brown marble cavern reached twelve feet high; panels of pearlescent glass tiled the arched ceiling from wall to wall.
As Irving and Norma entered with Merle and David, a photographer dropped onto a bended knee. His blinding flash did nothing to camouflage the horrified gasp that rushed toward them. As Irving’s vision recovered, he ignored the disapproving side-eyes and whispers behind splayed fingertips and sought out Carole Lombard. She took in Norma’s dress with an arching eyebrow before turning to the woman next to her. Irving couldn’t make out what she said, but from the curl of her lip, it was obviously derogatory. Not that he blamed her. Please wear white. Was that so hard to comply with?
A waiter passed them holding a tray of drinks. Irving collected up a Manhattan. Unable to look at Norma, he scouted around for a friendly face. Did one even exist now that Carole had banished them to social purgatory?
Dave Selznick bounded toward him like a jovial grizzly bear. “I’ve witnessed some entrances in my time, but that one sure takes the cake.”
“I’m beyond mortified,” Irving said. “Am I still blushing?”
“It’s the most color I’ve seen on your face in ages. I’d say it’s rather becoming—even though you looked like you wish the floor would open up.”
Irving’s cocktail was a little heavy on the sweet vermouth, but the whiskey was smooth. “How about we change the subject?”
Dave had his Selznick International Pictures up and running now. Irving had tempered his jealousy with admiration enough to help get him on his feet. If Mayer knew about it, he’d not said anything, which, Irving decided, was probably just as well.
“As a matter of fact,” Dave said, “I want your opinion on a book that my girl back East keeps harassing me to read. Gone with the Wind. Heard of it?”
“My assistant tried to interest me in it a few months ago.”
“First impression?”
“I didn’t even read the synopsis.” Irving’s shoulders dropped half an inch as the whiskey took hold. “Civil War pictures don’t make money, so why bother?”
Dave stared into his brandy and let out a pensive “Hmmm.”
“You’re not thinking of buying it, are you?”
“Kay keeps telling me that everyone in New York publishing insists it’ll be the biggest-selling novel this year. Possibly even this whole decade.”
“Has Kay told you it’s more than a thousand pages?”
“It’ll be much cheaper to buy the rights before publication than after.”
“I wouldn’t take on a project like that even with all the resources I have at Metro. How do you expect to pull it off at your little upstart?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Dave admitted, “but I enjoy a challenge.”
“A challenge that’ll put you six feet under.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re crazy, but three cheers to your nerve.”
“Having my own company means I can undertake any project I like—including a gargantuan Civil War story if I decide it’s worth the risk. Whatever I release will have my stamp on it. That’s all I want. And I think that’s what you want, too.” Dave tinged his brandy snifter against Irving’s Manhattan. “The Irving G. Thalberg Corporation has a mighty fine ring to it, if you ask me.”
The crowd must have recovered from the shock of Mrs. Thalberg in scarlet; the party chatter had returned to its pre-Thalberg volume and now filled the cavernous room once more. Irving felt brave enough to look around. “I need to apologize to Carole about this dress debacle. Did you see where she went?”
“I suggest you track down Gable.”
“Oh?”
“He and Carole have been making the most outrageous goo-goo eyes at each other. Wherever you find him, she won’t be far away.” Dave raised his glass. “Good luck.”
Irving found Clark holed up behind a miniature palm tree with William Powell—although Powell was doing most of the talking. Clark nodded intermittently while his focus remained on Carole, who was chatting with Sheilah Graham, a gossip columnist not above printing catty observations whenever the mood took her. No doubt, Sheilah was bundling up biting quotes for her “Hollywood Today” column, which made her the last person Irving wanted to interrupt. But he knew that he was in for a long, uncomfortable night if he didn’t make things right. Or at least die trying.
“Good evening, ladies.”
Only Sheilah looked at him. “Mr. Thalberg,” she said lightly. “Carole here has ensured a marvelous turnout, hasn’t she?” Sheilah’s plummy British accent made it hard to determine if she was mocking him.
“I was rather hoping that I might have a word with our hostess. Alone, if I may.”
Sheilah skittered away.
Carole puffed on her Chesterfield. “Well?”
“I’ve come to apologize.”
The girl’s sharp features—prominent cheekbones, intelligent blue eyes, pointed chin—embodied the quick wit she’d become famous for since embarking on her remarkable rise to fame after her dismissal from DeMille’s movie some years back. Was it any wonder Clark was skulking nearby like a libidinous bronco?
“Did you order your wife to wear that dress?”
“I would never force my wife to do anything.”
“Then why are you here apologizing for somebody else’s poor decision?”
Irving could only shrug the padded shoulders of his tuxedo.
She took another puff, deeper this time. “Norma doesn’t strike me as the frightful-bitch type.”
“She isn’t.”
“And yet . . .” Carole wafted her hand through the air.
“I’m mortified,” Irving confessed, “and it’s important to me that you know I disagree with her choice.”
“Look, Irving, I appreciate you coming here like this, but it should be Norma standing here, not you.”
“Of course she should, but I don’t see that happening, so here I am . . .” The rest of the sentence drifted into the cloud of cigarette smoke above them.
“Let me give you some advice. Scarlet silk amid a sea of white taffeta and cream chiffon is a statement.”
“Of what?”
“That’s for you to figure out, chum. If you want my advice, do it on the dance floor. Cheek to cheek, capisce?”
Chastened like a schoolboy in short pants, Irving nodded.
The outrage left her face, softening the scar below her left eye. “You can return the favor.”
“What do you need?”
“Clark Gable. Tell me about him.”
“Is he still lurking behind that palm tree?”
“He is.”
“Are you interested?”
“I might be.”
“Even though he’s married?”
“He’s talking to my ex-husband. This is Hollywood, Irving. Marriages are like movie contracts. They’re always up for negotiation. Just tell me this: Is he a decent guy?”
“Didn’t the two of you make No Man of Her Own a couple of years ago?”
“It was all business. I only had eyes for Bill back then.”
“But now Cupid has come calling?”
She nodded, almost smiling. “So? Decent guy?”
“Yes, I think so. He loves the outdoorsy pursuits, though. Hunting, fishing, hammering nails into wood.”
“In other words, he’s the opposite of Bill.”
“Is that good?”
“Very.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Miss Lombard. And now I shall go find my wife.”
“And I, Mr. Thalberg, shall ask Mr. Gable for a dance. Or will he view it as a threat to his masculinity?”
Irving bowed from the waist and straightened up again, grinning like an organ grinder’s monkey. “That’s for you to figure out, chum.”
When Irving invited Norma to dance with him, he received only a curt nod, but it was all he needed. He steered her onto the floor as the band was kicking off a popular new radio tune, “It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie.”
Dance floors were usually a sanctuary for Irving and Norma. From the first time they’d danced together, they’d had a natural chemistry. But tonight they were all elbows and knees and stepped-on toes as their fellow dancers kept their distance. Had this been any other night, Irving would have been happy to have the room to spin Norma around; however, the surrounding space only highlighted how maladroit they’d become. It was almost like they were each dancing to different tunes.
Scarlet silk amid a sea of white taffeta is a statement. “I rather like this tune. Don’t you?”
“I didn’t lie about the dress,” she snapped back. “Or try to hide it from you.”
“I never said you did.”
“Was Queen Carole appeased after you groveled for forgiveness?”
“It wasn’t that sort of conversation.”
“I bet she hates the sight of me now. I hope you never force us into doing a movie together.”
“Why would I do that?”
The muscles on her back tightened. “You forced me into Romeo and Juliet.”
“‘Convinced’ might be more accu—”
“I did not want to do it.” She had been keeping her voice low, but it was starting to creep up. People were staring. And if they were staring, they were thinking, The Thalbergs are having a row. See? They’re not so picture-perfect, after all.
“But you’ve been doing a marvelous job.”
“Did you see Joe E. Brown’s wife? She’s wearing light blue.” The non sequitur caught Irving off guard; he stumbled over his feet and needed a moment to recover, but Norma wasn’t in a generous mood. “And Jeanette’s in mauve. Why aren’t they getting the third degree?”
“Who’s giving you the third—”
“I saw how you blushed. You had ‘mortification’ written all over your face.”
“That’s enough.” He snatched her hand off his shoulder and clenched it as he dragged her off the floor. People parted like elevator doors. He avoided their faces as the two of them wound around tables toward the rear of the room, near where he’d cornered Carole. He had noticed a sign saying PATIO THIS WAY and hoped nobody was there.
Filled with weathered wooden furniture and lit by a single five-globe streetlamp, the outdoor courtyard was, thankfully, empty.
“Come on, Norma. Out with it. Not with your dress. Use your mouth.”
“Out with what?”
“You resent me for forcing you into Romeo and Juliet, and my punishment is public humiliation.”
She crossed her arms, eyes burning. “You try standing on that set with the likes of Basil Rathbone and Edna May Oliver. Your jewel-in-the-crown wasn’t supposed to exceed eight hundred thousand, but you’ve spent more than a million. When a movie fails, they always blame the star. I can see the headlines already. ‘Shearer’s out of her depth. One Academy award and she believes she can play Shakespeare.’”
“Is that what this is about? This dress of yours is one big screw you? To who? All those people back there who you think are judging you?”
“Not them, dummy. YOU!” She stabbed the air with a pointed finger. “I’ve been floundering in a role that’s—”
“You have not.”
“—floundering in a role that’s beyond my grasp—”
“I engaged Margaret Carrington to help you. For heaven’s sake, Norma, if she’s helped Barrymore, Lunt, Gish, as well as that new wunderkind Orson Welles everybody’s talking about, then why not you, too? And what’s with this talk about you floundering? I’ve seen all the dailies, and—”
“My last day of filming can’t come too soon. But this dress—” she picked at it as though it were made of sycamore balls “—I chose it for you.”
“To embarrass me? In front of all Hollywood? You managed that, didn’t you, my sweet?”
“Not to embarrass you. To get your attention.” She flailed her arms like she was the Madwoman of Chaillot. “When do I ever get it?”
Her disclosure felt like a mule kick to the chest. It sent him reeling backward until he sensed a park bench against the backs of his legs. He dropped onto it. “I’ve given you Noël Coward, Elizabeth Barrett, Marie Antoinette—all the best roles. And I’ve had to fight off Joan Crawford for them. What do you think I’m doing, sitting in my office, ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day, six days a week?”
She started counting off with her fingers. “China Seas, Mutiny on the Bounty, Night at the Opera, Romeo and Juliet, The Good Earth, Goodbye Mr. Chips, Camille. And then you’ve got the Jewish Center Association banquet, and the Santa Anita racetrack handicap ball. Every other week there’s a movie premiere, or a play opening. God forbid we miss one of those. And let’s not forget the board meetings for the Academy, and the L.A. Opera, and the Actors’ Benefit Fund. And then there are dinner parties at the Boyers, the Rathbones, and Dorothy diFrasso’s. Jesus, her dinners alone are enough to bring down Man o’ War in the final stretch at Belmont Park!”
Norma had done a very good job at making out as though she had improvised this speech, but she had listed all of his recent, current, or next pictures without stumbling over any of the titles.
“I work hard to ensure that you and Junior and Katherine have nothing to worry about when I’m gone.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Irving. You’re ambitious and driven and determined, and in the right context that’s fine. But the legacy you want to leave isn’t for us; it’s for the raft of films that people will talk about for years to come.”
Irving heard a loud POP! Not from a car backfiring out on Beverly Drive, nor from the Victor Hugo bartender, but from somewhere inside him. Whatever it was and wherever it came from, Irving couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that he wasn’t about to take a kick in the teeth like that. Even if it was in public, where half of Hollywood’s heavy hitters were on the other side of that wall behind him.
“That was a low fucking blow.”
She reared back, stunned at hearing that word come out of him. Mayer, Mannix, Warner, Cohn, Zanuck—they threw that word around like it was penny candy. But he wanted to be better than that. More cultured. More articulate. He resented Norma for having made him so angry that he would say that word at all, but he needed to make an impact.
“Irving!” Her lips formed a perfect, shocked O.
Bull’s-eye.
“I’m insulted that would even cross your mind,” he told her. “You’re not the one with a fatal heart attack hanging over your head.”
“What makes you think a heart attack is hanging over your head?”
“I’ve already had two. Strike three and you’re out.”
“Oh, Irving . . .”
“My time on this earth has been longer than I expected, but I’ll be shuffling off this mortal coil of mine much earlier than everybody else.”
“And that scares you?”
“OF COURSE IT SCARES ME!”
She joined him on the bench. “Then why don’t we talk about it?”
“It’s bad enough I think about it.”
“Is that why you haven’t even mentioned Jack?” Her voice was now calm as a fishing pond, her eyes unblinking, her hands resting in her lap.
“J-Jack?”
He couldn’t even say the man’s name without tripping over it.
After Queen Christina had failed to pull his career out of its nosedive, Jack had stopped showing up at parties, no longer returned messages or picked up his telephone. Irving had driven himself to Jack’s house and hammered the wrought-iron doorknocker, but even that hadn’t worked.
After Norma had broken the news, Irving had retreated into his soundproofed study that kept the world at bay, and stared into space, engulfed in his thoughts. First Paul Bern and now John Gilbert. Things came in threes. Who was next? Irving Thalberg? It had been well after nine o’clock in the evening when Norma had appeared with a tray of tomato soup and oyster crackers on her arm. She had coaxed him to eat half of what was there, but it had been two full days until he was able to stomach anything else.
“What do you mean we haven’t talked about him? We went to his funeral. We were in the front row.” Irving remembered only snatches of that day. Pinning a single white miniature rose boutonnière in place. The bum note that the organist had played. How the ginger hair on the priest resembled a wig. But otherwise, it was a blur.
“We white-knuckled it, is what we did,” Norma said. “You were silent going there and on the drive home. You’ve been silent on the subject ever since. Do you miss him?”
“How can you ask me that? He’s left a hole in my life the size of the Boulder Dam. Paul’s was such a shocking death. So unexpected. And yet with Jack, I saw it coming a mile away. But when it finally hit me, it was like a wrecking ball.”
“So you do miss him?”
“I’m drowning in grief, Norma. There’s so much of it that I don’t know where to put it all.”
“How about you give some of it to me?” He stared at her, uncomprehending. “You did exactly what every man does. Swallow your feelings, turn away from your wife, and bury yourself in your work. You need to hear me when I tell you, Irving, that while you’ve been sitting over there drowning in grief, I’ve been over here drowning in silence.”
The streetlamp in the corner threw half her face into shade. Frustration mixed with pain and more than a dollop of anger were clearly visible in the half he could see. His eyes drifted down to the scarlet dress. It shimmered in the light; tiny pinpoints of silver twinkled like baby fireflies.
“That dress,” he said. “It’s very becoming.”
She exhaled until every molecule of breath had left her lungs. “It’s a shame, because I won’t be able to wear it out in public ever again. It’s too disreputable now.”
“Instead of a scarlet letter,” he said, lowering his voice to an intimate murmur, “you’ve got a scarlet gown.”
“You want to know the sad irony of this whole affair? I chose this color because it was Jack’s favorite.”
Irving pictured him in his favorite smoking jacket with gold lapels and matching sash. He wore it in a huge portrait that hung above the fireplace. God, how he loved that jacket. Irving could hear him now. “Ina gave it to me as a wedding present. Best damned smoking jacket I’ve ever owned. I plan to wear it until it falls apart. Or until I fall apart. Whichever comes first.” Followed by that laugh of his. That full-throated hoot from down deep in his belly. It would come charging out of his yap and ricochet off the walls of that palatial hilltop house.
The first tear escaped from the corner of Irving’s left eye. Dense and viscous. He felt it ooze down his cheek, resting briefly on his jawline before dropping onto his shirt. Another one followed. Then a third. Soon, the tears filled his eyes, blurring Norma’s face.
“I—I—” He grasped for words that wouldn’t come.
She rubbed his back in gentle circles. “I know.”
His breaths became jagged spasms. She slid her hand across his back and wrapped her fingers around his shoulder. Gently, she pulled him closer until his head fell to her shoulder. He gasped for air, lungs burning, knuckles blanching, until he couldn’t hold back the deluge any longer.