Radio and television mirror (Nov 1939-Apr 1940)

she would find Ham! For Pamela was still his protegee! Bette could have turned back. But a promise to a child is so much more difficult to break, perhaps because children don't understand as well, or perhaps because they understand so much better. So she came to New York. All too soon the night of the debut came and Bette was standing beside Ham in the wings of the radio studio, sharing again a common excitement and hope and belief in someone. And there was Pam, before the microphone, waiting, young and smiling, unconscious of the drama about her. At that moment it isn't at all likely that it was Pam and Pam only of whom Bette was thinking. Then, I suspect, Bette's heart welled up within her, and Harman Nelson's heart welled up within him — and the loneliness they had felt all the months they were parted was gone. Yet there had to come the time for departure once more. The broadcast finished and Bette could turn to Ham and they could honestly rejoice in a job well done. Pam's debut had brought thunderous applause from the audience. I don't pretend to know what Bette said to Ham or how they phrased their second farewells. But I do know what Bette told me on the telephone when I talked to her soon afterwards. She had gone to New England for her first rest in a year. "Are you and Ham reconciling?" I asked. "That's the rumor." "People naturally think that," Bette said. "But it's not true. Nothing has changed. And if we couldn't get on before we wouldn't get on now. Even though I still think Ham's a pretty swell guy. . . ." "I have your word you're not reconciling?" I persisted. "You have my word," she said. And then she added, "Not this year!" Not this year. . . . Bette might have used that phrase idly. She might have used it sentimentally, loathe to speak so finally of the rift between her and Ham. Or she might have used it literally. At the time I didn't attach as much importance to Bette's "Not this year!" as I have lately. For since I talked to Bette many things which stood between her and Ham have changed! There's Pam's radio success. It may be the golden key that will open the doors of Hollywood success for Harmon Nelson — for now Pam promises to be important enough to elevate Ham to the rank of topnotch agent — to such importance of his own that he could take Bette's fame and stardom in his stride. That's one aspect of the situation that has changed. There's another, too — a change of Bette's own making. She is making new working arrangements with her studio. Never again — she swears it — will she make five pictures in one year. Is it only because she is tired and worn out that she has made this resolve? Partially, of course— but there may well be a deeper reason. If Bette made only two pictures a year, she would be so much more a wife. She could supervise her home in the way her New England heart longs to supervise it — even to such details as to how the bedroom chintz should be hung and the cut of the Sunday roast. She could then be a patient, loving wife to someone — and unless all romantic signs fail, she would rather be this to Ham than to anyone else. It may be that Bette Davis and Harmon Nelson will find their way back together again . . . because they met that night to hear Pam's song. It may be that the professional success Pam knew then can only be counted a small part of her triumph. Time will tell. . . . had a hunch the store would lay her off as soon as the Christmas rush was over; and then where would she be? (The hunch, incidentally, later proved to be well-founded.) She'd made a few "connections," but none of them seemed likely to do her any good except an acquaintance with an actor who knew Ezra Stone. Because of the disreputable part he plays in this story, we'd better call him Mr. Sanders, which is definitely not his name. I'D like to meet Ezra Stone," she I told Mr. Sanders. "I don't know, ' Mr. Sanders demurred. "He's pretty busy. But perhaps— I know the restaurant where he goes after the night's performance. I'll take you along there and introduce you as my niece." Ezra liked Alec Sanders' little niece. There was something about her . . . her shyness, the way she smiled, the warm sincerity in her voice. They talked, and danced a little, and Ezra told her to come and see him backstage. He was, as Mr. Sanders had said, pretty busy, so he and Ann didn't meet very often in the next month or so, but he didn't forget her, and shortly after the first of the year, when the department store had laid her off, he was able to tip her off that a walk-on part was soon to be open in "What a Life." Ann got the job. She signed up for it, using the name by which Ezra still knew her — Ann Sanders. Ann's mother came down from Maine to visit her daughter for a week or so, and of course she had to meet Ezra. Ann, blushing furiously, warned her that when Ezra called her "Mrs. Sanders" she must answer calmly, as if she'd been used to carrying that name for years and years. "It's — it's only a stage name," Ann said, "but Ezra doesn't know that and — it'd be too hard to explain now." 72 Henry Aldrich Is In Love! (Continued from page 17) But when her mother had gone back to Maine again, Ann did explain, haltingly. Maybe he'd be mad. Accuse her of deceiving him — pretending to be an actor's niece when she wasn't at all. It was a bad moment, but she went through with it. "I'm not Alec Sanders' niece," she confessed, "and my name isn't Sanders. It's Muensch — Ann Muensch." Ezra jumped. "It's what?" he cried. "Muensch — M-u-e-n-s-c-h," she spelled it out. "Oh, but that's terrible," he said. "That's an awful name for an actress. Can you imagine that in lights?" "But don't you care about the way I pretended to be somebody I wasn't?" "Of course not," said Ezra. "If you hadn't I might not have paid enough attention to you to know how much I liked you. And besides, I pretend to be somebody I'm not every night and twice on matinee days. How can you be an actor if you don't?" So that was all right — all except the complete unsuitability of Ann Muensch for a stage name. That night, strolling along Fortyfifth Street after the performance, Ezra and Ann tried to think of a good name for her, now that she was no longer Miss Sanders and couldn't be Miss Muensch. They tried several names and rejected them all. Then they went past the Plymouth Theater, where that season's biggest hit was playing. Ezra glanced up at the signs over the marquee. "I've got it!" he cried. "We'll give you the best box-office name on Broadway. See?" Ann looked where he was pointing — at a sign advertising "Abe Lincoln in Illinois." Maybe the name was good luck. Anyway, Ann kept her walk-on part in "What a Life" on the stage, and last spring when they were auditioning young actresses for the role of Mary in the summer Aldrich Family series, she walked right into the part. Ezra, who had nothing whatever to do with the casting, didn't think she'd get it — she'd only been on the air, in small parts, once or twice and knew practically nothing about how to conduct herself in front of a microphone — but he sent her up to the agency to audition just the same. She won the role in competition with about thirty others, too. They'd like to get married, Ann and Ezra. There's only one thing that stops them — they're both pretty young and they know it. Two people their age who were still in college wouldn't be so conscious of their youth. But when you're working in a mature world like that of the theater and radio, busy every minute of the day an'd night with real work, you feel different about things. You know that you have tried marriage and failed at it. You suspect, then, that the wisest thing is to wait a while. IN the meanwhile — oh, there are a ' lot of things that make life well worth the living. Working together is one of them — very much one of them. After rehearsal of the Aldrich Family at NBC they can always run out to dinner together, and meet again after the broadcast. Ann can find out how Ezra is getting along at the American Academy, where, a distinguished graduate, he is teaching a course in acting; and Ezra can get from Ann the latest news of what they're saying in Times Square. It's a special language they talk together — partly lover's language, partly theatrical slang, all of it thoroughly comprehensible to each other. They're happy. Deplorably happy, when you consider that their contjntment is built upon a boy's determination to disobey his father and be an actor, and a girl's prevarication in the matter of a name. RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR