Papa Loves Mama—Jane Powell & Patrick Nerney

By the time you read this, give or take a few days, Jane will be Mrs. Patrick Nerney. She wants a small, simple wedding, preferably just for the family. If her present plans hold, she’ll be married in blue. “We’ll match,” she says. “Pat will wear a navy blue suit and a light blue tie.” The exact date depends on the windup of Hit The Deck, her current picture. She thinks November 8 would be lovely, if possible. It’s the anniversary of her first date with Pat.

His first call took her by surpise. She knew his name from the newspapers. They’d met once, briefly, sitting across from each other at a big dinner party. She thought how intensely alive he seemed and forgot all about him. Nor had he appeared to show special interest in her. Then the phone rang and the voice said, “This is Pat Nerney. I wonder if you’d let me take you to dinner tonight.”

“Why, yes, I’d like that,” she heard herself saying, and a few minutes later wished it unsaid. At least, in a way she did. Between Jane and Jane, the debate went something like this:

“You should’ve played a little hard to get.”

“Bother, I’m sick of sitting around at home.”

“Why didn’t you tell him you’re busy tonight, maybe next week?”

“Because I’m not busy tonight.”

“That’s just the point. What’ll he think, snapping him up like that the first time he calls?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t care what he thinks. He’s a nice red-headed guy who means nothing to me. I’ye been cooped up too long. I just want to get out and see people and laugh and dance.”

Having squelched the other Jane, her mind should have been settled. But as the day wore on, she grew more and more jumpy. “Like a schoolgirl,” she vows, “waiting for her first beau.” Not because he was Pat Nerney. By any name, he’d have produced the same effect. Battling emotional problems for months on end, a carefree evening was like something remembered in a dream. What if she couldn’t laugh? What if she couldn’t think of anything to talk about?

But when Pat arrived, she stopped worrying. Blessed with the gift of gab, he easily bridged those first awkward moments, sent Jane’s spirits soaring, made her forget herself. They did exactly what she’d been longing to do—dined in style at the Luau, danced at all the glamour spots, dropped heartache in the lap of gaiety for a night and never hit home until four A.M. Weary but shining-eyed, she thanked him. “It’s been wonderful, Pat.”

“For me, too. Can we do it again?”

“I’d love to.”

EXCEPT FOR A PRIOR engagement to attend a premiére with Jacques Mapes, she never again dated anyone but Pat. Except when she went out of town, no day passed without their seeing each other. It wasn’t planned. They never said, “Let’s go steady.” They slipped into constant companionship for the simplest of reasons. He wanted to be with her and she with him. They took comfort in the fact without trying to dissect it. Enough for both that they found it good.

“What drew us together at first,” says Jane, “was mostly loneliness.” Since Pat’s divorce from Mona Freeman, he’d squired many girls and been serious about none. From the day he met Jane, no other girl existed. He fell soon and hard, without any ifs or buts. Engagingly candid, he didn’t care who knew it. “She’s one in a million. Sure I’m in love with her. Madly.” He told her so at frequent intervals. At frequent intervals he’d ask her to marry him. Sometimes the question brought a smile to her eyes, more often a cloud. “I don’t know, Pat. It all sounds very fine, but I’ve got to think things through. My decree won’t even be final till next August. Let’s just wait and see.”

Mona Nerney, Pat’s seven-year-old, gets along beautifully with Janie’s Geary, Jr., and Sis. Monie’s mother, Mona Freeman, encourages her daughter’s friendly relations with Jane—even when it includes telephoning Miss Powell at seven A.M.

If she was less confident than he, it’s because the years have dealt her some painful blows. She’s no longer the visionary who believed in fairy tale romance and knights on white chargers. At twenty-one she married Geary Steffen for what was intended to be a lifetime. It turned out otherwise. She’s not the first to wake up to the realization that young love can be a mirage, nor will she be the last. Only Jane was expected to live with the sham and like it. When the Hayworths divorce, people shrug. For Powell, set up as the model of a happy wife, divorce became a catastrophe. The notion seemed to prevail that, if she wasn’t happy, she ought to pretend to be happy for her public’s sake. The trouble with this picture is that she can’t pretend, and that marriage is a private affair. For her honesty in breaking clean from an empty life, she headed into a tempest of disapproval.

Then Pat came along with his warmth and laughter and devotion—easing her hurts, flooding her days like sunlight. His quick mind exhilarated, his humor charmed her. She loved his love for people, and his rare capacity for drawing joy from every moment of living. But she remained fearful of her own response. “Is it because I’ve been lonely that I feel this way? Is it Pat I want or is it just a companion for my loneliness? That’s what I’ve got to make sure of.”

He respected her qualms. Beyond periodic offers of heart and hand—which he couldn’t help—he exerted no pressure. “I’ll hold still, Janie. As long as nobody else tries to muscle in.”

“There’s no room for anyone else. I aim to get real well acquainted with a guy named Nerney. And give him a chance to get real well acquainted with me.”

Both had busy schedules. After Athena, Jane flew to Brazil for the Film Festival, returned to make Seven Brides, played an engagement at Las Vegas. With his brother, Pat runs the Ford agency which belongs to their father and he hopes for an agency of his own some day. An astute businessman, a tireless worker, he’s on duty two nights and every other week end. To see each other daily, they had to budget their time, cut down on other social activities. Once or twice a week they’d dine out. They took the children, including Pat’s Monie, as often as possible. But Jane, incurably domestic, prefers to do her own cooking.

This proved an eye-opener to Pat. “Movie stars don’t cook! Not after slaving all day at the studio! Come on, we’ll go to Romanoff’s.”

“We’re staying right here. Now listen and don’t try to upset my routine. I’ve got a maid who fixes supper for the kids. I’ve got a woman who does the cleaning once a week and another for the ironing. But I’m boss in the kitchen. I don’t want somebody always underfoot, telling me what I can do and what I can’t. A cook in the house would drive me out of my mind. So settle down. I’ll have dinner on the table in forty-five minutes.”

Their evenings were quietly spent. Once in a while they’d take in a movie. Pat’s idea of the perfect picture was Seven Brides for seven days. Having seen it twice, Jane called a halt. “What’s twice?” he demanded indignantly.

“My limit.” So they’d listen to records. Pat owned a fine collection, which little by little he deposited at Jane’s. “They’re piling up. You ought to take some of them home.”

“They like it here,” he said firmly. “Let ’em stay.”

Mostly they talked, getting to know each other in small ways and large. He discovered unexpected shynesses in her. Cajole as he might, she’d never sing for him. The harder he begged, the tighter she’d clam up. “But I don’t understand, honey. You sing for mobs.”

“That’s different. That’s professional. It’s embarrassing to sing for one person. Sort of show-ofty.”

“Don’t you sing round the house? Don’t you ever sing for the kids?”

“They won’t let me,” she chuckled. “When I have to practice sometimes, all I hear is, ‘Oh Mommy, you sing too loud!’ ”

She discovered that he could spout on any given subject. This delighter her. She admired both his fluency and his fund of knowledge. She also enjoyed ribbing him. “I merely asked you what time it was,” she’d remind him. “I didn’t ask you to; make a clock.” (To make a clock is now one of their pet running gags.) She discovered his generosity. “It’s obvious that money burns a hole in your pocket. If we ever marry, I’ll have to deal with that. Because I’m the saving one.”

“When we marry,” he amended.

HER RELUCTANCE TO commit herself didn’t mean that she avoided the discussion of marriage. On the contrary. To escape its pitfalls, she felt that they must discuss it, explore their viewpoints in the light of a possible future together, determine whether their differences were basic or superficial.

They discussed her work. “My career means a lot to me, Pat. I’d never give it up.”

“I’d never expect you to. Any more than you’d expect me to quit selling Fords.

“There are times when I’d have to be on the road. I might even want to do a Broadway show. It would mean separation.”

“Look, Janie, let’s get this straight. I’m no hanger-on. I couldn’t flit hither and yon on my wife’s trail. I’ve got a job, too, that’s darned important to me, and I’m sticking with it. I won’t pretend that I’d like your going off on the road or to Broadway—or for that matter, even as far as Pasadena. To be brutally frank, I’d hate the whole idea. But if you must go, you must, and I wouldn’t squawk. You’d have to take my word for that.”

They discussed children. “I think six,” said Jane, “is a nice number.”

“I’m all for big families,” said Pat.

“I believe in discipline. Fresh children aren’t for me.”

“Fresh children are out.”

Jane’s kids aren’t fresh. But Geary has reached the I-don’t-want-to stage and she sometimes finds it necessary to banish him briefly to his room. Not when Pat’s around, though. “You can get him to do almost anything better than I can. How?”

“Black magic. Marry me, and I’ll let you in on the system.”

He’d bring Monie over to dinner. Grown-up for her seven years, she spread a maternal wing over Geary and Sis. “They’re more fun than dolls,” she decided, “because they move without pulling a string.” Equally quick to adopt Jane into her circle, she proposed calling her one morning as she and her mother were about to leave for the east.

Mona glanced at the clock. “It’s only seven, darling. You might wake her up.”

“Oh, she won’t mind that a bit.” On the bedtable, Jane’s telephone shrilled. “You don’t mind, do you?” asked Monie’s treble.

“Of course not,” answered a slightly bewildered Jane.

“Well, goodbye then.”

“But, Monie, you haven’t even said hello yet.”

“I’ll say hello when I come back. And I’ll send you a postcard.”

THE MONTHS PASSED. Pat canceled a trip abroad, planned for July. “I’d rather take you on a honeymoon instead.” But as August and the day of decision drew near, a change came over him. He dropped his refrain of, “Marry me, marry me, marry me.” Under the surface sparkle ran a graver current.

“Anything wrong, Pat?”

“Uh-uh. Just indulging in some quiet thought. About us. And how I’ve been crowding you. I won’t any more, Jane. You know how I feel. I’ll never feel any different. But from here on in, I’m giving you elbow room. I’m not going to ask you to marry me again. It’s up to you now.”

He stuck to his word, aware that a man’s importunate love can sometimes persuade a girl she’s in love, too. If anything could have drawn them closer, it was that gesture of selfless understanding. Consciously or not, Jane’s heart had already made its decision. But her head said: “Wait. Be very sure. For his sake and for your own.” When the time came, head merged into one. Looking back, all her images blended into a figure staunch and tender, a man she could trust as well as love. Looking forward, the years stretched empty without Pat beside her. Thus the big question answered itself. It wasn’t a companion for loneliness she wanted, but Pat, with his strength, his loyalty, his fun and kindness.

The moon was almost full that August evening. Her pulses quickened, taking er hack for a moment to last November. What was it she’d said to herself? He’s a nice red-headed guy who means nothing to me. Her blue eyes turned to the guy who had come to mean so much. “Let’s go see what the moonlight does to the garden.” It turned the garden into a place of silvery enchantment. For reasons too intricate to untangle, tears rose in her throat. Choking them back, she slipped her hand into his. “You said you’d never ask me again, Pat.” His fingers tightened on hers. “So I’m asking you,” she finished softly.

Pat designed the ring. Ruser of Beverly Hills made it. Ruser’s makes many beautiful rings, but considers this one unique. Its yellow-gold tendrils are set with ten fancy-colored diamonds (ten carats in all) ranging from bronze through green to canary. “You don’t gather unusual colors like that in a minute,” they’ll tell you proudly. “We collected them over a long period of time.” They’ll also tell you, laughing, how Pat would appear every day in a state of fever. He didn’t exactly prod them, merely dropped broad hints at five-minute intervals, like, “When can you have it ready? Tonight? Tomorrow?”

Finally it was finished. He picked it up one morning on his way to the agency. But the notion of Waiting till evening to give it to Jane filled him with acute frustration. Evening was an eternity away. He broke for the phone. “Honey, I’ve got the ring. Can you come down for it?”

“To the shop?”

“Where else?”

A giggle escaped her. “That wouldn’t be very romantic. Let’s compromise. I’ll fix dinner for you tonight, and you give it to me here.”

“On one condition.Before dinner, not after.”

Two weeks later they went together to see the wedding band—a contour ring with three diamonds, which slides into the engagement ring and completes the pattern. Meanwhile Jane had surprised him with a gold cigarette case.

“He hasn’t,” she declares, “a selfish bone in his body, which is sometimes good and sometimes bad. What’s bad is, he doesn’t think enough about himself. Now, we all know you can get along great if you never own a gold cigarette case. It’s a luxury. Still, he’d wanted one for years to match his lighter, and he could afford it. But no. ‘It’s crazy,’ he’d say, ‘to buy anything like that for yourself.’ So I got a terrific bang out of buying it for him and, the way he acts, you’d think it was the Kohinoor. Ross Hunter gave us a beautiful announcement party. There was an arbor with lovebirds, there were two flowered hearts on the mantel with JANIE and PAT spelled out, and there must have been well over a hundred people. I doubt if one of the hundred missed Pat’s cigarette case. He’d dash up to people he didn’t even know, eyes shining like a kid’s, and haul it out. ‘See what Janie gave me?’ It embarrassed me,” she confesses, smiling. “It also made me feel a little weepy.”

IN HER OWN way, without making a big thing of it, Jane told the children. “How would you like Pat to come and live here?” Since Pat was their friend and playmate, they liked it fine. “When?” Geary asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Some time soon.”

“Okay, he can have my bed and I’ll tuck him in.” Later he insisted that Pat try out the bed for size. “You’re too long, but don’t worry, we’ll scrunch you up.”

That settled, his elders concentrated on other details. Busy at the studio, Jane had neither time nor inclination for an elaborate trousseau. “The few things I need, Helen Rose is designing. Minus Dior flat chests, Pat hates them, and I’m glad. Even if he liked them, I wouldn’t wear them.”

His dream of a honeymoon abroad is coming true. If Hit The Deck is finished on time, they’ll leave around the fifteenth. Otherwise they’ll wait till January, since nothing would induce them to spend Christmas away from the children. For the time being, they’ll live in the house Jane bought not long ago. Having moved in so recently, she’s understandably reluctant to move right out. So they’ve built a clothes closet off the bedroom for Pat, and Pat’s lovely pictures glow from the livingroom walls.

An art lover as well as a music lover, he collects French impressionists. Promptly on the heels of their engagement, and to Jane’s dismay, he arrived bearing treasures. “Oh no,” she protested. “I’d feel like a thief in the night.”

“What’s mine is yours. Or, like it says in the book, with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

“But not yet, Pat.”

“You going technical on me? Now let’s hang this Renoir where it’ll do the most good.”

THEY STILL DON’T see eye-to-eye on the subject of cooks. Once they’re married, Pat’s putting his foot down. He won’t have her shuttling between hot studio and hot stove. Jane figures they’ll compromise. “We might have a woman in once or twice a week. But nobody’s going to shove me out of my kitchen.”

There’s also a minor difference in another department. “Pat thinks we should keep the first year for ourselves. I’d like a child right away. Since I want six, I might as well get started. Geary and Sis aren’t really babies any more, and I can’t stand the idea of not having a baby round the house.” An impish grin scattered her ruefulness. “You know, there’s nothing much cuter than a redheaded baby.”

As you read this, the bells will be ringing for Jane and her guy. All shadows past, their hands will be joined, their faces lifted to the bright promise ahead, their hearts warm with the wishes of many friends. To which we add our own—for long life and health and joy and as many little redheads as the stork allows.

THE END

—BY IDA ZEITLIN

 

It is a quote. MODERN SCREEN MAGAZINE DECEMBER 1954