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By Root 3936 0

in cretonne, the overstuffed chair a splashy yellow. There were bookshelves, framed photos, a piano off to one corner. Down a long hall were the master bedrooms, in Spence’s case severely plain in terms of decor. (“I never met anyone who so despises chi-chi,” Dick Mook once commented, “and there is not one piece of furniture in the entire room that is not utilitarian.”) Louise’s room was almost as simple and, as with Spence’s, done entirely in maple. Johnny’s room, over in the new wing, was the nicest in the house, built for maximum exposure to the sun. Four-year-old Susie’s room was nearly as devoid of frippery as her mother’s, and the kitchen was done in tones of orange and red. The living space that got the most use was the screened-in porch out back, where most of the family’s summer meals were taken. Out past the swimming pool was the bunkhouse where Jane stayed. Spence had originally thought he might live out there himself, but the central heating didn’t extend that far, and the only source of warmth during winter was a small fireplace.

Within days of Jane’s arrival, Jean Harlow died unexpectedly of kidney disease at the age of twenty-six. Tracy was at the studio that day and was struck speechless by the news. Helen Gilmore, an editor with Bernarr MacFadden’s Liberty magazine, came upon him in the studio cafe. “I can’t believe it,” he said, staring out the Venetian blinds. He told of Harlow’s visit to Good Samaritan just ahead of his surgery and how it turned out to be the same hospital in which she died. Earlier, in a piece for Screenland, Tracy had celebrated Harlow’s spirit, relating, for instance, how she had given him a black eye shooting a scene for Riffraff. (“She meant to pull her punch, but overplayed her hand.”) On Libeled Lady he considered himself the least of the four stars, referring to himself around the set as “Zeppo.” Harlow, he said, “did something for me that no one else had ever done, moved me physically around to put my face further into the picture, saying, ‘Get your mug in there, will you?’ ”

Louise had heard things about Harlow—her drinking, her affairs, and her rumored abortions—and had little to say when Spence brought the news. “He came home,” said Jane,

and I remember being in the room when he was telling Louise about it, and she said, “Well, you know, there are stories …” Something under her breath. And he said, “The HELL with those stories! Anytime I ever worked with her she arrived on time, she knew her lines, and she was ready to work. I don’t care what she did or who she did it with—I don’t believe any of it and I don’t want to hear any of it! As far as I’m concerned, she was a co-worker that I had a great deal of respect for.” Words to that effect. He did a tremendous defense of Jean Harlow and he said, “I understand it’s a Christian Science funeral, but this is one I will go to.”

[Louise] would say, “I’m just not at home with those people.” But she did go to Jean Harlow’s funeral. “If you’re going, I’ll go with you.” She came to a great deal more understanding of herself than she was ever given credit for, I think, and was able to live with herself so much more peacefully … I would see her being buffeted, ignored by so-called Hollywood inner circles … She was having to buy into stuff that she knew was really crass. Spencer knew it was crass, that it was really the seamy side of life … There was anger between those two people, [and] every so often it would erupt.

Louise had enrolled Johnny in a ballroom dancing class in the hope it would improve his coordination. The class met once a week, and the final session was a party attended by parents and guests. Louise took Jane, who danced with several of the boys, and afterward she took the kids for ice cream. It was late by the time they got back to the ranch, laughing and full of high spirits, and Spence was there pacing the floor. “Where the HELL have you been?” he demanded, his face purple with rage. “I’ve called every hospital, I’ve called the cops, I’ve called everybody! I thought you were going to be home by ten o’clock!