August 1939
The moviemakers, half a dozen of them, were seated around a meeting table on the second floor of the Mansion at Selznick International. Cups of hot coffee sent tendrils of steam upward to join a heavier layer of cigarette smoke and the unmistakable atmosphere of fretful purpose. Audrey, taking notes for the art director, William Menzies, was seated just to the right of Selznick’s executive secretary, Marcella Rabwin. She was glad when Miss Rabwin leaned over and told her to crack open a window. The men didn’t notice when she rose from her chair, set her steno pad down on the seat, and headed to the row of windows. When she raised one a few inches, a welcoming ribbon of morning air wafted into the room and trifled playfully with the weightiness of smoke and decision making.
“The picture’s nearly five hours long,” one of the men said as Audrey retook her chair. “It’s an impossible length. No one will sit for five hours to watch it.”
“I’m not going to release a movie that is five hours long,” Selznick said easily. “We will edit it down.”
The man shook his head as a lopsided grin spread across his face. “You say that like you think it will be easy. What can possibly be cut?”
“We’ll find a way.” Selznick didn’t seem worried in the least from what Audrey could tell.
The talk turned then to updates on the musical score and the sound effects, the painstaking task of matching everything to the Technicolor reels, the making of the prints, and whether it was even possible to have it all done for an Atlanta premiere in November that could coincide with the seventy-fifth anniversary of the burning of the city.
While the men went over the mounting particulars of the upcoming premiere, Audrey permitted herself a mental break while keeping her pen poised above her notepad.
She’d been relieved beyond words to get away from the monotony of the secretary pool and the scores of letters Selznick still got on a daily basis from those who wrote that Gone With the Wind was un-American, reactionary, pro–Ku Klux Klan, pro-slavery, and even pro-Nazi. Audrey had lost count of how many times she had sent the standard letter that was sent to anyone who lodged a concern. She could recite the verbiage in her sleep. . . .
We are in receipt of your letter concerning our imminent production of Gone With the Wind. We urge you to believe that we feel as strongly as you do about the presentation to the public of any material that might be prejudicial to the interests of any race or creed, or that might contain any anti-American material. We respectfully suggest you suspend judgment until the completion of the picture, which we can assure you will contain nothing that possibly could be offensive to you. In particular, you may be sure that the treatment of the Negro characters will be with the utmost respect for this race and with the greatest concern for its sensibilities.
The letter was always closed with a tailored response, a sentence or two about the writer’s specific grievance.
Violet had told her that she didn’t like the way the letters of complaint made her feel, and there was no way to type the needed response without reading them. But Audrey admired the people who had the courage to be honest and state their opinion. She wasn’t bothered by their comments. If people couldn’t be honest with one another, then life was just fluff and pretense. Audrey had told Violet that she could pass any of those letters on to her if Violet didn’t care to respond to them.
Her roommate had seemed distracted during the past few days. Bert, too. Audrey saw him only in the mornings when he came for them in his truck, and then again when they met for the drive home. His department was busy disposing of the massive Gone With the Wind wardrobe in preparation for the influx of all new costumes for the filming of Rebecca, and for some reason that Audrey couldn’t imagine, Violet found that extremely interesting. Most of the conversation in the truck centered on what Bert was doing or not doing in wardrobe. And while it was nice not having to ride the streetcar and bus to work, Bert and Violet seemed separate from her. As if she were being pulled away from everything that used to hold her fast.
She was torn from this reverie when Mr. Menzies said her name, apparently not for the first time.
“I beg your pardon!” Audrey said, her cheeks blooming crimson.
Mr. Menzies rattled off a list of things to be taken care of that afternoon and Audrey dutifully recorded them.
The meeting ended shortly after that and Audrey headed back to her desk, feeling strangely detached from the hum of the activity in the room full of secretaries. She had just begun to type her first memo when the phone at her desk rang.
“You’ve got a call,” the switchboard operator said when Audrey picked up.
“This is Audrey Duvall.”
“Audie, it’s Vince. Can you be at Paramount at two thirty?” He sounded tense.
“Why? What for?”
“I think I got you a screen test for the role of Mima in Road to Singapore.”
Audrey heard every word. Her mind refused to embrace their meaning. “What?”
“I said, I think I got you a screen test for Road to Singapore! But you have to be here by two thirty. Can you get away?”
A screen test. For a major motion picture.
“Audrey, did you hear me?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Can you make it?”
She willed her pulse to stop its pounding. Stay calm. Stay focused. “I can.”
“This might be it, Audie!”
Yes.
It might be.
“I’ll be there,” she said.
Audrey hung up the phone. For several seconds she stared at it, unable to decide what to do first. She looked at her wristwatch. A few minutes before noon. She had to get back to the bungalow and change, redo her hair. She would need to take a taxi there and back again. She had a little over two hours to do it. She rose from her chair and headed for Violet’s desk. Her roommate looked up from her typewriter.
“I need to take off early,” Audrey murmured. “Can you cover for me?”
“Where are you going?” Violet’s hands hovered motionless above the typewriter keys.
“Vince called me. I need to be somewhere in a little bit and I’ve got to look like a million dollars.”
“You already look like a million dollars.”
Audrey smiled. “If anyone asks, just tell them I was called out to one of the stages.”
Before Violet could respond, Audrey turned from her and headed for the door.
The sun was bright and hot as she stepped outside, warmer than she thought the sense of heaven would feel, but she was sure of its presence just the same. The magic was happening all over again, just like it had before. She had been patient. She had played by the rules of Providence. She had kept her head this time. And now her angel mother was smiling down on her finally, finally.
Finally the tide was turning.
When she raised her hand to signal a taxi she felt as if she could fly.