By late August, the rough cut of Gone with the Wind was ready; that was the good news. The bad news? It was five hours long.
“That’s impossible,” Julie protested when Andy told her. They stood together outside the studio offices, whispering hastily in the kind of quick encounter that was the best each of them could manage lately. She had barely a minute to talk. Her head was filled with her own concerns today—Clyde Denton, a reliable veteran of the cadre of MGM directors, was pressing her for some major script changes in the prologue to Madhouse Nightmare. She was also worried about Mayer’s niece, who didn’t like the idea of having her role recast as broad farce. “I’m a serious actress, and I don’t do pratfalls,” she had said with a sniff upon meeting a nervous Julie for the first time.
“Well, Carole Lombard was the queen of screwball comedies for a long time, and that didn’t stop her from being a serious actress,” Julie retorted.
Denton had narrowed his eyes, folded his arms, and fired back. “Sweetheart, I can make you a star,” he said. “Or you can just go back to your uncle’s mansion and suck your thumb and brood about how unappreciated you are by lunkheads like me. Which way, sweetie?”
The girl had looked at him in complete shock. No MGM employee would ever talk to her like that unless Uncle Louie (not that she ever called him that to his face) had given tacit permission. Her eyes darting from Denton to Julie and back, she held in her lethal indignation at such mistreatment until she could decide which one was the weaker. She chose Julie.
“You’ve never written a screenplay before,” she lashed out. “You’re not my boss, and if I don’t like how you write and cut this, I’ll take it right to the top. And you know I will.”
She just might. And, depending on Mayer’s mood, this could be tricky.
Andy’s voice cut sharply into Julie’s thoughts. “You think it’s impossible? I thought so, too, until we showed it to L.B. this morning.”
Julie wrenched her focus back to Andy’s news. “How did he react to the length?”
“Completely out of character. He didn’t rant and rave—although we had to stop at least five times for him to get up and go to the bathroom.” Andy grinned. He looked reasonably relaxed today, standing there in his khakis, hands in his pockets. More like the old Andy. “First time Mayer signaled the projectionist to stop the film, I thought David would have a heart attack. But he likes the movie. We may have to cut another half hour or so, that’s all. We’ll work tonight.”
“Who will sit through a movie that long?” she said, laughing.
“We’ll find out at the sneak previews. I gotta tell you, I’m proud of this baby. So how is it, working with Denton?”
He was speaking faster, and Julie felt a little embarrassed. He must have seen her glance at her watch.
“He’s fine; it’s that spoiled woman—”
“Right, Martha what’s-her-name. Not Mayer, right? A couple of marriages, as I recall.”
“You know her?” There it was again, a pang of nervous uncertainty. She thought fleetingly of Doris.
“I’ve seen her around. No, my love, I haven’t slept with her. Or even shared a drink with her. But I kind of like making you a little jealous.”
“We’re both busy, that’s all.” Andy tilted his head up to the sun gratefully. “God, it’s nice to be outside,” he said. “I’d like to take you to the beach, but can’t do it yet. So here’s the alternative: Selznick’s throwing a wrap party tomorrow; want to come? Everybody’s dragging and just dying to get this thing finished, but he wants something festive. Okay?”
“Okay.” She didn’t care who saw her, and what did it matter? She reached up and kissed him on the lips, then turned to leave.
“Busy lady,” he said with a slow smile. “See you tomorrow. Noon.”
“Where is it?”
“Where do you think?” He spread his arms. “Right here, outside. On the back lot. Lots of tired people holding each other up, eating hot dogs, and enjoying the sun.”
She laughed. “What a glamorous business this is,” she called after him as he walked away. “Maybe Clark should be in charge of the barbecue.”
The day was beautiful, that first day of September, the kind of perfect day that made life something to savor, when hot dogs really were delicious, ice cream was served, and egos were forgotten. Or at least allowed to rest, Julie thought as she watched the many human components of the massive opus called Gone with the Wind gather under a very blue sky.
“Christ, I’m glad it’s over,” muttered one of the engineers as he lifted a can of beer, looking first to make sure Selznick wasn’t within earshot. The actors were drifting over from the parking lot to the party. Stripped of their roles, they looked as plain as unbuttered biscuits. But—like the engineer—most of them were relieved to be fading back to who they were before inhabiting the characters of Gone with the Wind.
Julie gazed at them all as they clustered around the table of food. Butterfly McQueen had never been happy with her role, and was still a bit snappy and tense. Hattie McDaniel was joking with Clark, her pal, who puffed on his pipe, so clearly relieved to be finally free of Rhett Butler. Leslie Howard, in slacks and an open shirt, a bit shy and uneasy, looked much older in civilian clothes—too old for Ashley, as he had protested all along. Vivien and Olivia chattered on about a sailing vacation that would involve neither corsets nor retakes nor taking orders from anyone, including David O. Selznick.
“They don’t see how good this movie is yet,” Andy murmured to Julie. He nodded in the direction of Selznick. “Look at the guy. He is proud.”
It was true. The obsessive producer on a daily ration of Benzedrine and thyroid extract to keep him going had somehow vanished today. His other self—the smiling, sunny, brilliant man who could work magic for a movie—stood by the beer keg, grinning at all of them like a benevolent king.
Clark strolled over, clapped Andy on the back, asked Julie how her parents were, then laughed and pointed at his wife standing on the bed of a truck. “By God, she got Selznick to agree to another parade of balloons,” he said. He waved and cheered. Carole waved back and continued orchestrating the release of dozens of brilliant yellow and red balloons, starting them on their upward voyage just as an aide came hurrying over from the main office, waving a piece of paper, looking grim.
“What is he saying?” Julie asked, straining to hear. “What is he waving?”
“It looks like wire copy,” Andy said as they all moved closer.
“Germany invaded Poland—that’s important, right?” the aide announced, looking from one to another, as if waiting for someone to tell him how to respond. “This just came over the wire.” He pointed to the large type: “Bombs Rain on Warsaw.” “Roosevelt says not to worry, we’re staying neutral,” he added quickly.
And for a brief moment, they all stared, first at each other, then to the sky, as the balloons floated peacefully, silently upward, catching the wind, disappearing, leaving no trail, no visible last acts.
“So now England will declare war on Germany?” someone asked.
“Of course,” Leslie Howard said. He turned to the questioner, a look of contained, almost resigned astonishment on his face. And in that look, Julie saw the reality that she and most people in her vast, protected country were still trying to avoid.
Howard turned to Selznick, frowning, his narrow, melancholy face settling into a resignation that looked permanent. “David, I’m done here; I hope you understand. I will leave for England in the morning.”
Clark, standing next to them both, looked down at the grass and said, “You’re a good man, Howard. It’s been a privilege working with you.”
Selznick nodded and said nothing—just heaved a sigh and put an arm around the slender British actor’s shoulders. Then the entire crowd walked slowly into the main building, to hear an excited newscaster announce that Britain, France, Australia, and New Zealand were declaring war on Germany. The Royal Air Force was poised to attack the German navy. And soon Roosevelt would address the nation—reassuring all Americans that their country would remain neutral.
“Until they attack us,” Andy muttered, his face somber.
Julie leaned against him, closing her eyes. The needle had been lifted from the phonograph, stopping the music. But the record kept spinning, and they all were like dancers still tripping across the stage, performing. What else could they do?
“Dancers? Yeah, we’re all performers—irrelevant. Maybe mindless,” Andy said when she shared this thought that evening. His happy mood was gone. He slumped deep into the sofa, his face flushed with the day’s sun. Or with the liquor. He finished a glass of bourbon, his second of the night?—Julie didn’t want to keep count.
“That’s not true,” she said sharply. “You’ve got previews coming up—all the early signs show people really want something magical to ease their worries, and it’s going to be Gone with the Wind that does it—please, stop being so negative.”
“I don’t give a damn if it succeeds,” Andy said, staring out at the city below, exhaling, then jamming his cigarette into the ashtray. “There are more important—”
Julie threw a towel at him. “Right, there are more important things going on in the world, but this movie is important, too. And so is the one I’m working on. And being part of it is no mortal sin against—against the needs of the world!” She had to fight his pessimism; she didn’t want to see his pleasure in making the movie drain away. Yes, she was worried about war, too, but she was also worried about whether her rewrite of Madhouse Nightmare would be successful. Did that make her some kind of vapid “performer”? Filming for the prologue started tomorrow, and she wanted to allow herself to care whether or not Mayer would be pleased. At the same time, she was angry that she cared so much. Because there were more important things going on in the world … and … that damn record she kept thinking about continued spinning, spinning in her head.
Andy started to laugh. “Julie,” he said, carefully lifting an edge of the towel over his face. “Next time you throw something at me, will you make sure it’s not greasy?” He looked so comical, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, that she felt better.
“Life keeps on, you know.”
“You’re right. It does as long as you’re in it. I’ve been figuring this would happen all the way along. Getting wrapped up in the movie lulled me. So I’m mad at myself. It makes me wonder why I’m here in the first place.”
“You’re here because you are good at your job and you love it. Isn’t that enough?”
He was silent for a moment. “Maybe I’ve gotten too good at maneuvering in this world,” he replied.
Sometimes words just dug deeper holes. Oh, scribble that one down for a script you might write someday, she told herself as she lifted the towel off his head and pressed her lips against his.
“I’ll try not to be so gloomy,” he said quietly.
“Thank you,” she whispered back.
Julie tried to relax as she sat on the sidelines the next morning, watching Denton and the hastily reassembled actors of Madhouse Nightmare start filming. Rehearsals were quick, and nobody seemed tense—after all, there were no overly hopeful expectations.
Except hers.
Whatever was going to happen was out of her control now, but she hadn’t quite expected her reaction on hearing actors read the words she had written. As she listened, enthralled, she felt oddly like a puppeteer, knowing precisely what would come out of each stranger’s mouth before he or she spoke.
Andy had given her a hint of how this small taste of power would feel. “You’ll fall a little in love with yourself at first,” he said. “But you’ll get over it.”
She smiled to herself now. He was right. Nobody need know, however: she could be professional, and she’d get over it pretty fast. Whatever happened, she was doing just what she wanted to do and enjoying it.
The MGM commissary was even noisier and smellier than usual. It was like college, Julie thought, as she pushed her metal tray along the tubed railing, past tired-looking beef stew bubbling in a warming tray, past chopped-up chicken mixed with corn, past custards turned dry and brown. This was leftover day, a good day to settle for a ham sandwich on rye. It didn’t go stale as fast.
A week now since Denton wrapped the remake. No word from anybody about anything. Nobody seemed unhappy, nobody seemed happy. What did she do next? She felt a bit like a wallflower, standing around trying to look confident.
She looked up. Denton had ambled over to the lunch line, a curious smile on his face.
“Heard the news yet?” he said.
“No, what news?” There was a sudden fluttering in her chest as she tried to tune out the clatter of lunch trays and loud voices in the crowded lunchroom.
“We got a distribution deal last night for Madhouse Nightmare. Sold for a twelve-thousand-dollar profit. You’re gold, kid.”
“That fast?” She could hardly get the words out. People in back of her were clearing their throats more or less politely, their message clear: Move on, lady, whoever you are; we’re hungry.
“Mayer pushed it through. One screening for distributors, then up or back in the trash bin.” His smile was kind. “Didn’t know it, did you? You were going to be either dead in this business today or a star.”
“And I—”
“Get a good agent. You’re in.” He turned away, but then stopped. “Oh, and you’ve got my thanks, too: this helps me. I wasn’t doing much lately—and it’s hard to come back in this business when you start slipping.” He strolled away.
She stood, frozen. Disbelieving. Then giddy.
“Hey, honey, some of us have to get back to work,” a voice yelled out. “Can we move on?”
Julie mumbled an apology and stepped out of line. She caused a few heads to turn as she walked, dazed, with a grin on her face, still holding the empty tray, out of the commissary into the hall, a busboy running after her to retrieve the lunchroom property.
“Myron. We’ll get you Myron,” Carole said with a whoop of laughter when Julie gave her the news. “Oh my God, you are discovered! I get a percentage of your millions, okay? About fifty sound right?”
Julie laughed. “Who’s Myron?”
“David’s brother; he’s my agent. He’ll take you on. This is great news; you’ll end up being the highest-paid screenwriter in Hollywood! Close, anyway.”
Nothing ever seemed to tamp Carole down, for which Julie was fervently grateful. They sat together in Carole’s upstairs bedroom suite, across the hall from Clark’s. The suite was immaculate—gleaming marble floors, a dressing table swathed in white silk with mirrored walls, and even a mirrored ceiling. That surprised Julie at first—the Carole she knew scoffed at the pretentions of glamour, so why make her private bedroom a movie set?
“I think it’s the most elegant shithouse in the San Fernando Valley, don’t you?” Carole said with a happy grin, plunking down on the bed, sinking deep into its cushioned depths. “Clark likes it, he finds it sexy, which means more sex. He needs all the atmosphere I can provide to keep fucking a lot.” She sighed. “Poor Pa, he isn’t exactly the greatest lay in town. He’s too shy. Those ex-wives of his didn’t teach him much; they were too old for him. Have you told Andy your good news yet?”
“I didn’t want to bother him today,” Julie said after a startled pause. “He’s coming out here in a few hours.”
“Why wasn’t he first, hon?”
Julie’s answer felt like a betrayal even as she said the words. “He’s been pretty sad. He’ll be happy for me, but he’ll have a hard time pretending he thinks it matters much. He’s struggling with whether or not what we do here means anything now that the world is at war.”
Carole pulled herself to a seated position; she didn’t answer right away. Then:
“That’s kind of playing dirty, deciding ahead of time how he’ll respond.”
She cut to the heart of most everything. “I think I wanted your enthusiasm first. Is that terrible?”
“Oh hell, no,” Carole said. But her voice was flat. She reached for the bedpost of the four-poster bed and gripped tightly, her face draining of color.
“What’s the matter?” Alarmed, Julie reached for her friend’s hand. Carole was sweating profusely, her body shaking. She winced, threw her head back, and clutched at her belly. Julie glanced down and saw a trickling of blood make its way over the white satin bedcover, then, drip by sluggish drip, to the white marble floor.
“Oh God, no,” Carole gasped. She reached for Julie’s hand. “Help me, please, I think I’m miscarrying.”
“Of course I will. Don’t worry, I’ll get you to a hospital.” Julie, stunned, ran to the bathroom for towels and tried to stanch the flow, then grabbed the phone by the bed and with trembling fingers dialed Information. An ambulance, she told the operator who answered. Send an ambulance.
Carole was crying. “I wanted this baby so much,” she moaned. “Don’t let Louella find out.”
Julie cradled her head, smoothing back her hair. A memory flashed—a scene, long ago, in a darkened bedroom; her mother moaning; she, maybe nine years old, standing there, a little girl, smelling the sharp scent of blood before being hustled from the room. Her mother had cried, too.
“I’m so very, very sorry,” she said.
“I can’t believe it; I was so sure this time,” Carole whispered. Her eyes were filled with tears. “Honey, don’t give them my name; tell them I’m Jane Peters.”
“I did. Help will come soon, really soon; they’re just down the hill.”
Carole lay still now, like a broken doll, her white hostess gown smeared and crushed. Julie raced back to the bathroom. A washcloth—she needed a cold, wet washcloth to wipe Carole’s face.
“Feels good,” Carole whispered when Julie laid it across her forehead. She mustered a flash of humor. “Isn’t glamour wonderful?”
The emergency room at Cedars of Lebanon Hospital was pitilessly bright as the ambulance attendants wheeled Carole through the crowd of hurrying nurses and health aides to the relative privacy of a cubicle ringed with drab blue curtains. Julie pulled the sheet up over Carole’s face as she followed alongside, trying to shield her from recognition.
“I’m not dead, honey,” Carole said, trying to grin as she pushed the sheet off her face inside the cubicle. “I’ve just lost a baby. There, I’ve said the word.” Her eyes began filling with tears again.
The curtain was suddenly yanked open. Clark stood there, his hair wild, eyes wide with fear, as he moved inside and reached for his wife. “Oh, Ma,” he said in a shaky voice. “I thought—when I saw—” He sank to his knees next to her and pulled her into his arms.
Julie stepped outside; her own eyes were moist as she tried to make her way through the crowd of people to a quiet corner somewhere. Carole, open about everything, had kept her pregnancy a secret from everybody. The ambulance had arrived quickly enough—Yes, for a woman named Jane Peters; hurry, please—and then she couldn’t reach Clark, and the housekeeper promised to send him to Cedars as soon as he got home from the studio. And now she stood in a corner of this raw room of accidents and sickness and cries of pain and rushing doctors, remembering the sight of that tiny morsel of lost life slipping out, how the ambulance attendants had quickly wrapped it in newspaper and put it in a bucket; how Carole had cried; and she thought of how overwhelming a loss was when it caught you unexpectedly and bit you in the neck.
And then Andy was there beside her in a corner of this weirdly lit room which did not allow shadows, his arms encircling her, his breath warm, no words; thank you, Andy, no words; just hold me and now please, tell me you love me.
And he did.