City of Myths

by Martin Turnbull

  “Where did you have in mind?”

  “You live at the Garden of Allah.”

  After that, they had started meeting there as opportunity and schedules permitted. Before Gwendolyn knew it, she was caught up in an affair with the King of Hollywood.

  But ‘affair’ was entirely the wrong word.

  They didn’t go out for lunch or dinner. No gifts or flowers, perfume or jewelry. He proved himself an ardent, considerate lover and she hoped that he felt the same.

  More than once or twice, Howard Hughes’ stinging rebuke from a few years ago—“You’re just too old”—revisited her, and she’d brushed it away with the satisfaction of knowing that Clark Gable disagreed.

  After one particularly sweaty romp, Clark had kissed Gwendolyn on the cheek. “You’re a rare oasis.” She had no schemes to ensnare him with her womanly wiles, nor any interest in parading him down the aisle, and he knew it.

  After that, their lovemaking had taken on heights of abandonment she hadn’t enjoyed since Alistair Dunne, the artist who operated outside all cultural and societal norms. Whatever they were doing, it was casual, fun, satisfying, with no strings attached.

  She sliced squares of cheese and pushed them across to Kathryn. “With the twists and turns my life has taken, this is the most unexpected one of all.” A tremor of pain fired through Gwendolyn’s innards and up into her chest.

  The sound of two men breaking into belly laughs reached Gwendolyn’s open doorway.

  “I’d know that Gable laugh anywhere,” Kathryn said, “but was that Monty with him?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Clark’s got himself a new best friend.”

  Gwendolyn peeked through her living room window and watched Clark and Monty disappear into Marcus’s villa. Clark was already in his tux, but Monty hadn’t dressed yet.

  “How did that happen?” Kathryn asked.

  Gwendolyn’s cheese squares weren’t about to win any prizes at the LA County Fair but they’d have to do. Another shudder of pain screamed up her torso. Just get through this evening.

  “Clark and I had finished up—you know—when Monty came knocking. He was home from work and walked straight in. I was mortified! Who wants to picture his sister doing it? But it was like water off a duck’s back to him. Later on, he said, ‘When you spend months cramped together on board ship, you learn not to judge anyone’s love life. You take it where you can get it.’ As Clark was still putting on his shirt, the two of them started jawing like a couple of Average Joes.”

  Kathryn slapped on pickle slices as fast as Gwendolyn could cover Ritz crackers with uneven lumps of cheese. “Monty wasn’t the least bit intimidated?”

  “Would you believe he’s never seen a Gable picture? Clark roared when he heard that and said, ‘Keep it that way!’ And now it’s Clark who idolizes Monty.”

  “No!”

  “Standing in front of cameras has brought Clark gobs of money, but not much self-esteem. Especially during the war when he tried to be actively involved but Mayer pulled strings to stop him from getting in harm’s way. He looks at Monty and sees a guy who’s lived the life that he could’ve lived. And now they’re sparring partners!”

  “You mean like boxing?”

  “Monty was a big deal on the navy boxing team, so now they punch the living daylights out of each other twice a week.” The sound of a door slamming nearby bounced into Gwendolyn’s villa. She didn’t need to look up to know that it was Doris, who was included in tonight’s group. “This is the first time in ages that Clark’s made a non-film-industry friend, so he’s tickled pink. And this is Monty’s first civilian friend, so he’s pleased as punch.”

  Kathryn let out a laugh. “Looks to me like the Bricks are in the Gable business.”

  “Who’s in the Gable business?”

  Doris had draped herself in a silver fox evening wrap over a low-cut gown of sapphire lamé that Gwendolyn was sure she’d seen on Rita Hayworth. “Somebody’s been plundering Columbia’s costume department.”

  “Is it too much?” Doris plastered her hands across her bust. “I’ve never worn anything quite so—”

  “Trampy?” Kathryn suggested.

  “Revealing. But this is Monty’s first Hollywood premiere so I wanted to do it up right.”

  When Gwendolyn had put this group together, she’d never dreamed that Doris would take it so seriously. Did Doris really think of herself as Monty’s “date” date? But the less people knew what was going on tonight, the better.

  During one of their recent rendezvous, Gwendolyn could tell that Clark’s mind wasn’t in the game, so she’d brought their lovemaking to a halt. He’d told her that Zanuck had been leaning on him to attend the opening of There’s No Business Like Show Business. He didn’t mind the part about shoving it in MGM’s face, but he hated being a pawn.

  He’d rolled off her and tucked his hands behind his head. “Do you ever see Judy?”

  “I do. Looking after your needs isn’t the full-time job Zanuck imagined, so I’ve gone back to designing Loretta’s gowns. She’s become my unofficial assistant. I see her all the time.”

  “What are the chances of scoring her an invite to the opening of No Business?” He’d asked the question with the precision of an over-rehearsed scene. “I’d ask Zanuck, but I’d prefer not owing him a favor.”

  “Marilyn’s coming from back East for it. Zanuck’ll give her as many seats as she wants.”

  A longing filled his eyes. “If you put together a party that included Judy, I’d go.”

  “Okay,” Gwendolyn said, “so there’s you, me, Kathryn, Leo, Marcus’s sister Doris, and Monty. Judy’ll make seven, so we’d need a date for her. Perhaps that dancer who escorted her to Ciro’s. We could orchestrate it so that you and Judy sit next to each other. How about I throw a little cocktail party beforehand? Low-key and casual. The eight of us can meet here—”

  “No!” He had taken a deep breath like he was coming up for air. “I mean yes, that’ll be nice, but we’ll meet Judy there.”

  Gwendolyn left her motley plate of cheese and crackers and welcomed Doris with a hug. “Monty’s eyes are going to bug out of his head.”

  Clark and Monty entered Gwendolyn’s villa with timing worthy of a Moss Hart script. Thankfully, they each held a bottle of champagne. Gwendolyn had planned on buying some at Greenblatt’s, but the cramping in her stomach had sent her to bed with a hot water bottle. The end of this evening couldn’t come fast enough.

  A popped cork sent bubbly champagne spilling out. Clark deftly caught most of it in the nearest flute and soon they were toasting the film’s success.

  “Hey, Monty,” Kathryn said, “I keep hearing about this memoir of yours.”

  Clark turned to Monty. “You wrote a book?”

  “It’s hard to bring it up in conversation when you’re always coming at me with an uppercut, but yes. It’s called On the Deck of the Missouri, and—”

  “That’s yours? Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” Clark exclaimed. “Zanuck’s been stopping by the Soldier of Fortune set and dropping into the conversation the possibility of my playing the lead in the film version. He talks to me like I know all about it.”

  “Just to let you know,” Gwendolyn said, “even though she lost out on A Woman’s World, Loretta’s hoping to get the female lead.”

  Clark and Loretta had managed to get through filming Key to the City a few years ago. From the way surprise flared his eyes, Gwendolyn could tell that he wasn’t keen to repeat the experience.

  Monty landed his glass on Gwendolyn’s tiled counter. “What female lead? It’s about life aboard the USS Missouri. There are no women in the entire book! That’s the whole point—making a life for yourself without female companionship.”

  “Oh, dear sweet naïve brother of mine,” Gwendolyn said, “half the audience for any movie is women, so there needs to be someone pretty who falls for someone handsome. But,” she added quickly, to allay Clark’s discomfort, “Zanuck is dying to put Gabl
e and Monroe in a movie together. That’s what he’s probably angling for.”

  The room went silent as everybody pictured Gable and Monroe going at it in bed, because that’s how most films were cast.

  Pain jolted Gwendolyn from the pit of her guts and flared upwards, squeezing the breath from her lungs. She gripped the edge of the counter, praying it would pass quickly. Kathryn frowned at her; Gwendolyn subtly shook her head and asked the gathering, “Who needs a refill?”

  * * *

  Although movies had changed over the years—“Now with sound! In Technicolor! 3-D! CinemaScope!”—movie premieres had not. There’s No Business Like Show Business opened at Grauman’s with black-and-chrome limousines, searchlights scouring the night sky, bleachers filled with movie fans, press photographers, reporters, and a red carpet leading into the theater.

  By the time she reached the foyer, Gwendolyn felt as though a fist-sized rock had lodged itself at the base of her spine.

  Leo was waiting for them by the bar. He greeted Kathryn with a kiss, then turned to Gwendolyn. “You don’t look so hot.”

  She scanned the crowd for Judy. “I’ll be okay.” A droplet of sweat trickled down the side of her face. “Perhaps a quick visit to the ladies’ room. Keep an eye out for Judy and her date,” she told Leo. “His name is Jonathan Brady.”

  Inside the gold-and-red ladies’ room, Kathryn pulled a handkerchief from her pocketbook and dabbed at Gwendolyn’s face. “I know you’re up to mischief—” She pulled away. “Judy and Clark?”

  “I think he’s working up to telling her.”

  Gwendolyn faced the nearest mirror. She looked like she hadn’t seen the sun in ten years. Her underarms felt damper than her face.

  “Why don’t you nab the seat on the aisle in case you need to make a hasty exit?” Kathryn suggested.

  “Let’s hope it won’t come to that.”

  The corridor leading off the foyer was more crowded now but one figure stood apart. Darryl Zanuck stepped forward as Gwendolyn and Kathryn emerged.

  “Hello Darryl!” Kathryn said brightly, stepping ahead.

  Zanuck didn’t bother to attempt a smile. “I need to speak with Gwendolyn. Alone.” Kathryn dissolved into the crowd.

  “I hear Clark and your brother are regular sparring partners at the Hollywood Athletic Club. You’re even better at your job than I expected.”

  Gwendolyn didn’t want to take undue credit, but she was feeling too lousy to correct him.

  “Does your brother hunt, too?” Zanuck asked. “He and Gable could bond over that, and I’m going to need some help getting the navy’s cooperation with On the Deck of the Missouri.”

  Something in the back of Gwendolyn’s mind snapped. “Did you pull strings to get my brother his navy liaison job?”

  Zanuck beamed like a new father. “I admire your smarts for figuring it out. Nobody else has—not even your pal, and she’s sharp as a switchblade.”

  We’re nothing but pawns in your chess game. Me, Clark, Monty, everyone. Little pieces of wood to finesse into doing what you want.

  Gwendolyn gathered her strength to give him a piece of her mind, but the rock in her belly burst into a ball of lava. Her head swam in nauseating waves as she crumpled to the floor.

  * * *

  Hours later, when Gwendolyn emerged from the fog of anesthetic, she was in the same hospital that had treated her ankle.

  Kathryn and Monty’s anxious faces appeared at her bedside.

  “How you feeling?” Monty asked.

  “The pain’s gone.”

  Kathryn pressed the call button next to Gwendolyn’s bed. “We’ll let the doctor explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  “It’s probably best if we wait for him. I’ll just get all those medical terms muddled.”

  “You’re awake.” In contrast to his brisk manner, he looked more like the sort of old-fashioned doctor that Andy Hardy might have visited. “Comfortable?”

  Gwendolyn nodded.

  “This pain you’ve been experiencing—it was caused by an ectopic pregnancy. Do you know what that is?”

  The word “pregnancy” flashed in Gwendolyn’s mind like a firework.

  But I’m forty-four. But I use protection. But the only person I’ve been with is Clark—oh jeez.

  “Miss Brick?” the doctor pressed.

  She felt the sting of tears collecting behind her eyes. “You just gave me a bit of a shock.”

  The doctor replaced the chart hanging from the end of her bed. “In a normal pregnancy, a fertilized egg attaches itself in the uterus, but in your case, it was the fallopian tube.”

  “That explains the pain.” Her voice sounded far away, like it belonged in a different room.

  “Indeed. We had to go in and remove the embryo.” The embryo. “It meant we had to tie off your fallopian tubes. I’m sorry, but it means you can never have a child.”

  An involuntary giggle percolated out of Gwendolyn. “That was never really an option. But I was wearing a Dutch cap. How could this happen?”

  “You were using one manufactured by a company that delayed recalling a faulty batch.” He pulled a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his shirt and deposited it on her portable meal table. “Here are the details if you want to join the class action suit.”

  “Thank you, doctor. For—everything.”

  “I’d like to keep you for forty-eight hours’ observation. A couple of minutes,” he told Kathryn and Monty, “then you must let her rest.”

  Monty waited until the doctor left the room. “I assume Clark’s the father?”

  Gwendolyn nodded.

  “You going to tell him?”

  “Hell’s bells, no!” It wasn’t Kathryn’s question to answer but she did anyway. “If you hadn’t lost the baby, it’d be different. But it’s gone now; what would be the point? After all, this isn’t Loretta, Part Two.”

  Monty frowned. “Who’s Loretta?”

  “Old news.” Kathryn fluttered her hand. “We should go.”

  They each kissed Gwendolyn on the cheek and told her they’d be back in the morning after next to pick her up.

  Gwendolyn turned her face toward the window. She could see only some clouds and the tops of elm trees lining the hospital’s front lawn.

  You dodged what could have been a messy bullet. At least you weren’t faced with Loretta’s decision.

  A ripple of sedative splashed the edges of her mind. Loretta Young’s face appeared. Gwendolyn felt a rush of sympathy toward the woman who had given into temptation and had been forced to live with the consequences. Loretta’s face melted away; Clark’s quickly supplanted hers.

  This isn’t Loretta, Part Two, she told him, but it was close.

  She heard the echoes of a conversation they’d had once about fatherhood and how he wished he hadn’t missed it. “But I’m fifty-three,” he’d said with a resigned tone, “so that’s that.”

  His face faded as her eyelids began to droop.

  CHAPTER 35

  Cornelia Wyatt shook Kathryn’s hand with the strength of a longshoreman. “I’m so glad to see you again.”

  Kathryn was still of two minds about accepting the NCNW’s award. If the council hadn’t occupied the offices below the FBI’s Los Angeles bureau, they would never have been the charity that popped into Kathryn’s mind in MacArthur Park.

  “I’m still not sure I deserve—”

  “Now, now!” Mrs. Wyatt scolded. “We don’t abide false modesty here.”

  They walked down the side alley running along the Central Avenue YWCA and opened the door at the rear. Inside, Mrs. Wyatt pointed to a table where Kathryn could place her handbag. “We’ve already had our luncheon, so I’ll make a speech, then you’ll say something, and we’ll have a meet-and-mingle afterwards, okay?”

  Kathryn and her host stood in the wings of a small area separated from the main room by a curtain. On the other side, chatter filled the air.

  “I know you’re used to working with
a microphone,” Mrs. Wyatt said, “but down here at the YWCA, we’re not that fancy. Speak loud and proud, and everyone’ll hear you just fine.”

  She signaled to a young black woman standing on the far side, who pulled at a rope, parting the curtain. The chatter subsided as Mrs. Wyatt took her place center stage. With projection that Leontyne Price would have envied, she recapped for her audience the reasons why they were honoring today’s recipient. “And so,” she concluded, “it is my pleasure to welcome to the stage the 1955 recipient of our Woman of the Year award, Miss Kathryn Massey.”

  Kathryn walked to the center of the stage to join Mrs. Wyatt.

  A hundred mouths gaped in confusion; two hundred gloved hands sat mute in laps.

  Kathryn turned to look at Mrs. Wyatt. You didn’t tell them that you gave your award to a white woman, did you?

  “Ladies!” Mrs. Wyatt admonished. “Need I remind you that Miss Massey played a pivotal role in securing our Sheldon Voss endowment? When it came to deciding who we honored today, I felt it was an easy choice. If I was wrong, please let me know.”

  Kathryn scanned the crowd for a friendly face. She saw only puckered brows and resentment until someone in the back row started to clap. Slow and rhythmic at first, she gathered momentum, challenging the others to join her. Little by little, the applause grew.

  The source of this encouragement was the only other white woman in the room. Her pale skin and copper-red hair shone like a stoplight. Her smile had a jarring quality to it but it was the only one in sight, so Kathryn took it gratefully.

  * * *

  At the meet-and-mingle after the presentation, precious little meeting or mingling took place. The good ladies of the NCNW were too ashamed, too embarrassed, or too daunted by the prospect of talking to Kathryn, so they avoided her like she was Jezebel dipped in the pox. Kathryn breathed a sigh of relief when the redhead approached.

  “That was touch and go,” the redhead commented drolly.

  “You should have seen how it looked from my side of the footlights,” Kathryn said. “Thank you for the support.”

  “Glad to help.”

  “I take it you’re not a member?”