Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1951)

so a KID can walk Hollywood on the march: Dinah Shore, husband George Montgomery, help fight polio IT WAS all so strange. Here the little girl was, on what was to have been the grandest vacation, ’way up in the mountains. But she hurt too much to be happy. Restlessly, she stirred on her bed, while a man her Mom said was a doctor took mysterious things from a black leather bag. “Now, sweetheart,” he said, “let’s have a look and see what’s bothering our girl.” After awhile the doctor and Mom went away, to where Dad was waiting. And later, Mom came back and smiled. Only it wasn’t a merry smile, rather it was sad. “You’re going to take a little trip, Honey — in a big automobile to a nice hospital where the doctor will make you well again.” This little girl had polio. Polio care is costly. That is where the March of Dimes came in. . . . This little girl’s parents were advised to inform their local chapter of the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis of what had happened. In the meantime, the chapter in their vacation area offered its aid in every possible way. The Foundation paid all costs this family couldn’t afford. This little girl was given a chance to fight a dread disease — because the Foundation is at work everywhere. And she recovered — because no time was wasted, no money spared. Remember, every dime you give adds up to the dollars needed to save lives I know how often this is true. But this particular problem is seldom aired in public because, as I said before, it is almost unbelievable to anyone who is not familiar with the situation. Joan has always been frank with me. That is one reason I like to interview her. When she feels she cannot talk about a subject, she tells me so. If she had been guarded about this for two years, I surmised, some of the financial worries had lifted. “Yes,” she agreed promptly. “After conference after conference, Bill’s attorney and mine finally reached an agreement about our snarled and complicated affairs. The road was clear for our divorce.” “And so this retroactive tax assessment from the Government was all that held you up?” I asked. “Believe me, that’s all,” she answered. Then she laughed. “Oh, I know— many have suspected that there might have been ‘a little spark of love still burning’ — but you know better, Louella.” JOAN was suddenly serious again. “No, except for this gigantic money hassle there was nothing else to block an amiable divorce between Bill and me. As far as our little girl is concerned, well, in California the mother usually gets custody of the child, unless she is unfit. And I don’t think I am unfit,” she smiled. "Everything I hope to accomplish centers around Debbie. “Fortunately, Bill believes Debbie is better off with me. He will be allowed to see her whenever he wishes. There has never been any trouble on that score.” “Joan,” I backtracked over our conversation, “you said just a moment ago that the way is now clear to solve your money problems. How has the picture changed so much since you separated from Bill?” “I have been working, saving, economizing to pay off as much as possible as I go along. Oh, yes, Louella — art is wonderful. But the artist is also a citizen, believe me. With every cent I make I plan to myself, ‘So much must go here — so much for this— so much for that. By being careful, I am gradually digging out.” “Sounds very austere,” I laughed. “It means cutting corners everywhere,” she nodded. “Bill and I had built a house that was far too pretentious for us. I would never have put so much in a home for myself. But we entertained a great deal in the early days of our marriage. Bill loved parties. They were expensive too, of course. I’m not blaming him any more than I blame myself for the hole we dug financially — but, oh, how I now wish I had had someone to say, ‘Joan, this or that is too expensive’ before I had to find it out the hard way.” “But you are still living in this ‘white elephant’,” I reminded her. “Because it’s cheaper,” she replied quickly. “The market on these movie-star mansions is not what it was four or five years ago. I have Debbie and the nurse. It is cheaper for us to remain there than to rent another place big enough for us and let the house stand idle. But you can bet your boots — I do not hostess any more of those champagne-and-caviar parties.” The idea of a luxury-minded screen star going around turning out lights in rooms not being used or budgeting the family vegetables and groceries amused me — but it is no laughing matter to Joan. Joan went on, “And along with everything else, I was lonely. For several months I did not go out with anyone. I did not want to. I felt restless, unsettled.” “Is that why you went to British Columbia and ‘made up with your father’— as the papers put it?” I interrupted. You will remember the great to-do that was made in the press when Joan, who hadn’t been in communication with her 73-year-old father in ten years, went to Canada to be with him on his birthday. She shook her head. “I’m afraid the true story isn’t the sob story they made it,” she replied, frankly. “I had gone to British Columbia on a trip. I happened to be in Canada for reasons other than my father’s birthday. But, because I was there, and because he is my father, I visited him on his birthday. “My allegiance always has been with my mother — and always will be. She is the one who cared for and raised me after my father left her. If I had known my visit would have brought on all those sickening sob stories — ” She paused. “I’m not a sob story type of person,” she continued. “I hate self pity. Things work out, I’ve discovered. . . . “Sometimes I think what has happened recently is for the best for me. I have learned the meaning of responsibility. I have learned to handle my own affairs. I have weathered the mistakes I made and shall never make again — because I ‘didn’t want to be bothered about money 1 matters’.” “Joanie, what about Collier Young?” I asked quickly. “Aren’t you thinking of marrying him as soon as you are free?” She drew an imaginary sketch on the table with the end of a match as though weighing her answer. “How can I answer that? Collier isn’t yet divorced from Ida Lupino. He’s as much married as I am at this moment.” “But you do like him best of all?” “I like him so much I won’t even say I will not marry him if he is free, as I will be in a year’s time — and if we both feel as we do now. Collier has so much that attracts me. He is young, gay, charming — and yet, so solid as a human being. If neither of us had complications in our lives at the moment — we might marry.” SUDDENLY, Joan laughed. “But, Louella — how can either of us know what the year will bring. I am going to tell you something which may surprise you: “I obtained my divorce from Bill in California because it will take a whole year for it to be final. I want that time to think, and think wisely, about any future marriage. If Bill and I had been divorced immediately I might have been married a half-dozen times in the past two years. I mean that.” I knew she was joking. There is a much too settled head on Joanie’s pretty shoulders for indiscriminate jumps in and out of matrimony. But there was an essence of logic in what she said as she went on. “I’m susceptible to the idea of marriage, she explained. “I’m a girl who loves a home, a fireside, and a man to come home to — and that’s the truth.” I remembered how miserable Joan wai| when she and Brian Aherne, her firs' husband, parted. She had not been happ; , < with him (same as with Bill) for man; ] months before their official separation. But without him — also as with Bill — she misse< him and the security she had felt as a wife As odd as it may sound, this ordinanl; gay, carefree girl, who is at the height o her career, has two qualities unusual r a career woman: She has an inferiorit complex. And she has a natural, inbor dependence on the male sex which natur ally makes her devastating to men! There is not the slightest doubt in m mind that Joan Fontaine will marry agau in spite of being a two-time loser in th matrimonial sweepstakes. She is funds mentally a man’s woman — and that sf won’t even attempt to change. The End 108