A Touch of Stardust (16 page)

“It seems natural in the book,” Julie began, then stopped. She could almost feel herself turning the pages again, reading once more how Melanie tries to comfort Rhett Butler after Scarlett has miscarried their baby. Inexorably, believably, Rhett’s crust of swagger and self-assuredness falls away as he blames himself. And then, in front of Melanie, he cries.

“I cried myself when I read that scene,” she said. “It was perfect.”

“See?” Carole said, spreading her arms, palms up. “Pa, the world is ready to cry with you.”

Clark looked tired. The sleeves of his fuzzy black sweater were too short, exposing knobby knuckles and calluses on his fingers, the legacy of his gardening efforts. There were spider veins under his eyes and a droop to his mouth. He looked exhausted, but adamant.

“Not my father.”

Julie remembered Carole telling her that Clark’s father used to laugh at his son’s high-pitched voice. Only years of training had lowered it. “That’s one thing he can thank Rhea for,” Carole had said of his second wife. “She paid for all the lessons.”

There was a sudden, sharp knock on the door.

“Here come the troops,” Carole muttered as she opened it.

Victor Fleming stepped in. A handsome man with high, arched eyebrows that gave his face a formidable, ironic frame, he could make his smile easy, lazy, or quick, as the need might be. He looked as if he would be equally comfortable at a black-tie dinner or tramping through fields hunting deer.

He knew the language of masculinity, Julie thought. If anyone could sway Clark, it would be him.

“Are you still resisting this, Clark?” he began. “This will be your most powerful scene ever.”

“I don’t believe that. Strong men don’t cry, goddamn it. They’ll laugh at me.” He sounded like a twelve-year-old.

“Honey, Victor’s right,” Carole said.

“Don’t get into this, Ma.” Clark’s voice had an almost desperate quality now. Some nerve was being touched.

The trailer was getting uncomfortably warm. Clark sat hunched over on the sofa, methodically punching one solid fist into the other.

Another knock on the door. Julie opened it this time, and stepped back as Selznick walked in. He stood in the doorway, glaring at Clark.

“Okay, Clark, here’s the deal,” he said slowly.

“Don’t make me do this,” Clark interrupted. “Rewrite the scene; I’ll walk off the movie if you don’t.”

Nobody spoke. Julie tried to squeeze back against a wall, to move away from the tension. It was as if an electric cord had flamed out and gone dancing around the room.

“You don’t mean that,” Selznick said.

“Try me.”

Silence.

Selznick glanced at Fleming, and the two shared an almost imperceptible nod. “We’ve got a compromise to propose,” he said. “We’ll shoot the scene two ways—with tears, and then with you turning your back and bowing your head. People can know you’re crying without seeing it. You get to choose after you see both versions.”

They all waited in silence as Clark surveyed them cautiously. His fingernails were digging into the palms of his hands.

“Is this on the level?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Fleming promptly. “But remember, I reserve the right to tell you what I think—and by God, people are going to feel deep sympathy for your character if they see his humanness. Tears won’t wipe out manliness, they’ll make it stronger.”

A small, wintry smile from Clark. “Okay, you’ve made your point.” He stood. “Let’s go.” He stopped at the door and turned to Carole. “Ma, I don’t want you there, okay?” His voice had a slight pleading quality.

“That’s okay, Pa,” she said, the bounce back in her voice. “I’m actually doing a scene today myself. See you at dinner.” As the men filed out the door, she swept up a manila folder from the lamp table and handed it to Julie. “These need to get over to Publicity right away,” she said casually. “Why don’t you hitch a ride with Clark and deliver them for me?”

Julie took the envelope and nodded a bit nervously. But at the studio, Doris handed the envelope back to her and said with exasperation, “There’s nothing in this. And we didn’t expect anything from Miss Flighty Bird, either.”

So she had nothing to do except go watch the filming of Clark’s scene. Which, obviously, was what Carole had intended all along.

The set was stiff and silent; the actors, standing on their marks, were as rigid as paper dolls. Olivia de Havilland, as Melanie, nervously pursed her lips, watching Clark. He was staring out of a fake window, waiting. Rhett Butler had not emerged yet, and everyone knew it.

“Waiting on lighting,” barked a crew member. “Get that glare off of Gable’s face.”

Victor Fleming leaned forward, watching Clark.

“Roll sound,” he ordered smoothly.

An instant later: “Roll camera.”

The paper dolls came to life.

Melanie walks toward Rhett, clutching her blue shawl close. She tells him Scarlett will survive. Rhett is bereft over the miscarriage that his actions provoked. He puts his head down and turns his back to the camera
.

“Cut,” Fleming ordered.

“That worked,” Clark said, turning to walk off the set.

“Okay, Clark—our agreement, remember? Let’s try it the other way.” Fleming seemed to be doing everything he could to keep his tone relaxed.

For a few seconds, Julie wondered if Clark would back out of his promise. But Olivia stepped forward, walked up to Clark, and put her hands on his shoulders. “Clark,” she said. “You can do it, I know you can do it, and you will be wonderful.”

He stared at her, then looked past the lights to the shadowed figure of Victor Fleming. “Okay, Vic,” he said. “I’ll let it go.” He turned away from all of them for a long moment, then turned back.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Melanie tries to comfort Rhett. Rhett sits down, looking past her, his face devastated. His hair is falling onto his sweaty face, his shirt crumpled, his face worn. The tears begin to flow
.

“Cut. Clark. That was magnificent.” Fleming’s voice was choked, then almost drowned out by the spontaneous applause from the cast and crew.

Olivia ran up to Clark and put her arms around him. “We all know that was hard,” she murmured. “But it might be one of the best scenes of your career.”

Clark gave a weak grin, looking at Fleming. “And it took this tough guy to pull it out of me,” he said.

Fleming looked abashed, then slapped Clark on the back. “Thanks,” he managed.

Julie quietly retreated from the set and stepped outside into the bright sunlight. It was only make-believe, of course, but she felt oddly thrilled, because she had witnessed something more than that. How hard it must be for an actor—lights blinding him, cameras so close he could hear the crew breathing, people watching his every move—to be able to offer something true. Clark had overcome the fears of the lonely boy with bad teeth who lived inside of him, always had, and always would. Carole loved that boy as well as she loved the King. That’s what made them real.

“You’re waiting for the phone to ring, aren’t you?” Andy stretched out on the bed, propping his head up on a pillow, and cast an amused glance at Julie.

“Oh, not at
this
time of night,” she said quickly. In truth, she was waiting. It wouldn’t be tonight, of course, not now, but Carole was mum about when and where. The divorce decree had finally come through in the mail. Carole was the one who had torn open the envelope when it was delivered to the house in Bel-Air. She’d let out a huge whoop and exuberantly waved the official document like a flag of liberation. She and Clark were free.

“But I’m sure it will be any day now,” Julie added as she turned to cuddle closer to Andy. It was three in the morning—time for sleep. Her thoughts drifted; her eyes closed. The phone rang.

Andy picked up the receiver.

“Tell Julie I need her tonight; it is wonderfully urgent, and hurry up!”

“Carole?”

“Of course, sweetie, who else?” Carole’s voice was jubilant.

Andy handed Julie the phone.

“It’s time—it’s all planned! Hurry over here, and bring Andy with you. It will be loads of fun. But come around to the back; I’m afraid word will get out pretty quickly.”

“You’re getting married? Now?”

“Well, of course! Now, hurry!”

Hollywood, at three in the morning. Even now, deep into the night, Wilshire Boulevard looked wide awake and filled with light and energy. Nobody was on the sidewalks, but, then, people rarely were; instead, they trundled around sardine-like in the metal capsules called automobiles: skimming past places like Simon’s Drive-In at Wilshire and Fairfax, with its neon sign and glittering metal canopies and girls in short skirts and ponytails usually tripping from car to car, bearing burgers and shakes, snapping small metal trays onto the frames of open car windows. Julie felt she sailed between day and night, thinking of all the wonders of Los Angeles—the cars, the women and men in sunglasses competing for attention on the beaches, volleyball at Playa del Rey. The restaurants, the palm trees …

“I went down to the beach at Santa Monica and got tar between my toes,” she said sleepily. “That stuff’s hard to scrape off.”

Andy laughed, keeping a heavy foot on the accelerator as they drove, following Julie’s instructions for navigating the path of twists and turns that led to the much quieter terrain of Bel-Air. The route was familiar to her during the daytime. Now the ride felt different—mysterious, almost—in the hovering darkness of early morning.

A wedding, they were going to a wedding. She switched on the radio, and the quiet air was filled immediately with the soft, swinging beat of Benny Goodman’s clarinet.

“ ‘You Turned the Tables on Me.’ I like that song,” Andy said.

“That’s the first line,” she said playfully. “Do you know the second?”

He smiled, and sang awkwardly, “ ‘And now I’m falling for you.’ ”

She pulled closer and rested the side of her face on his chest, breathing in the comfort of a new intimacy. She could not be imagining this. It was real. All of it. Her hours in his arms, his kisses; the magical ebullience of Carole and Clark—fairy tales could come true.

Andy was slowing down, peering ahead, looking for a street sign.

“Is that it?” he said, pointing to a rambling two-story house at the corner. “If it is, they’ve got company.”

Julie peered out. Yes, reporters and cameras were camped on Carole’s lawn. News
had
leaked out, but how could it not? They were here to do their jobs, weary but expectant looks on their faces as they patrolled the grounds, their hats pulled tight against the night chill, the glow of their cigarettes dancing across the wide lawn like fireflies. Covering the glamorous was not always glamorous.

“Keep going, and turn at the corner.”

Andy drove even slower, past the house, to the intersection, where he turned left into a driveway hidden by thick foliage.

They slipped quietly out of the car. Holding hands, the two of them ran for the house, Julie trying to stifle a giggle.

Carole, dressed in dungarees and an old shirt of Clark’s, threw open the door. “Wonderful, we’re ready. How’s your gas, Andy? Enough till daylight?”