Spencer Tracy_ A Biography - James C. Curtis [70]
When actor John Cumberland offered to propose Pat O’Brien for membership in the fall of 1926, the mere suggestion of the honor caught him up short. “I thought you had to spend at least five to ten years on Broadway before this happened,” he said. And when O’Brien, in turn, proposed his pal Tracy little more than a year later, the gesture was no less a matter of gravity. Spence had been Pat’s guest at the clubhouse, had entered the grillroom with its stone floor, its rough-hewn oak tables, its dark-paneled walls, and its huge marble fireplace, and had sensed what it was like to be, in Pat’s words, “A club man, an actor among fellow actors.” He became a duly elected member of the Lambs on December 15, 1927, and managed to scrape together the $200 entrance fee, semiannual dues of $23.33, and 10 percent war tax only with considerable difficulty and Louise’s patient indulgence. And so it was not by virtue of his performance in The Baby Cyclone that Spencer Tracy “arrived” as a Broadway player, but rather by his acceptance into the Lambs as a member, professional class.
When the Midwest tour of Whispering Friends petered out, Tracy returned to New York. Louise was now immersed in Johnny’s studies at the Wright Oral School, so Spence retreated to the Lambs, where he spent his days writing letters and working the phones, a bank of which lined the north wall of the reception corridor. By edict of incorporation, the Lambs never closed. The bar officially served tea and apple juice, but the premium stuff—whiskey, sherry, champagne—was always around, tucked away in someone’s locker or available for purchase from the night doorman. “Dry times or wet, the bar of the Lambs was never raided,” Pat O’Brien said, recalling that the mayor of the city of New York, the honorable James J. Walker, was a loyal member. “We had political power.”
Idle in the midst of a new season, Tracy’s natural bent toward melancholia deepened to the point where he suffered wicked bouts of depression. His self-loathing over his son’s deafness surged at times of inactivity, and his grief over the loss of his father swept over him in waves. One weekday afternoon it took hold of him as he began a routine note to his mother. “Mother dear,” he wrote, “your lovely wire made us so happy, dear. We were going to wire you—thought of it several times—but didn’t know where to send it … We had a dandy dinner and a wonderful time at Ray’s. Spoke of you & dear Dad so much.” And then the pen began to race—page after page—as the pent-up feelings suddenly spilled over.
O Mother dear—I never let you know and never will again how much I miss my wonderful dad. I have come home at night and stood and cried before his picture in our front room. I talk to him many times. He was so good to me—and I know you won’t mind—nor will Carroll—but I always felt he was closer to me than anyone—except you, of course, Dear. He understood me so well, and was so kind and always forgave. Sometimes I want to go with him—I know I’d be all right where he is—and when that time comes, I’ll hate to leave anyone behind but I won’t be afraid, and I’ll be glad because I’m going to see my dad. But we must be cheerful—and I will, Dear. Forgive me for writing this letter, but sometimes I feel I just gotta see Pop—or I’ll go crazy.
It was as naked an expression of inner feelings as he ever permitted himself, but talk of suicidal grief and going crazy could well frighten his mother, and he obviously fought to control the words he was now putting down on the page. “But he is happy now,” he continued, reining himself in, “and