My First Five Husbands (41 page)

I
am not one to dwell on roads not taken, but I am fascinated by history, and I have a hard time letting go of personal artifacts, as you may have noticed. Once when I was visiting Melinda in Washington, D.C., I noticed an old blue vase embossed with flowers on a shelf.

“Oh, Mother’s vase from Durant!” I said. “What memories that brings back! She loved that vase.”

That Christmas, I opened a package from Melinda, and there was the vase. Of course, I still have it. My dear little sister, the unemotional Virgo. She has no trouble letting go of things for love.

Once when I, the oversensitive Pisces, was about ten, I accidentally stepped on a beetle, killing it, and burst into tears. Poor little beetle! That moment is another sort of artifact, one of many—some as small as bugs, some as big as mountains—which I carry with me. Not to torture myself, but because they’ve become part of me. Sometimes, honoring the memory of what we’ve lost is the only redemption we have.

Just recently, Norm’s sister, Joyce, was clearing out her mother’s keepsakes and came upon a letter Norm wrote to his parents when he returned to Fitzsimmons Army Hospital after his Christmas visit to Ardmore in 1958, when he was twenty-three.

“I thought you might want this,” Joyce wrote. Of course I do, even though every time I read it, it breaks my heart all over again.

Jan 5 th, 1959

I am back at the ole job, and I wish to hell I wasn’t. My two weeks of civilian life have so spoiled me that putting on my uniform this morning was so traumatic as to be sickening. The Army is a dreadful place that holds in it only dreadful people, and 20 months is one hell of a long time. Six months until my next leave is even longer. I will get through it, by gritting my teeth and persevering. Yet what do I do? I bitch. I want out. Out out out!

I must admit that a good deal of the reason I want out is Eddi-Rue. She is such a darling I can’t stand it; Mark is a perfect jewel—he has these huge eyes and stares in rapt wonder at the world and laughs and has a good time and almost the only time he cries is when he gets sleepy, because he hates to get sleepy and miss out on things; other than that, I have never seen such a good-natured baby. And, of course, he is doing things ahead of when he is supposed to be doing them, which, considering his mother is Eddi-Rue, is not surprising. As I mentioned on the phone—Eddi-Rue and I are where we were in New York again. The week was great. And I miss Rue much.

I love her, people.

It is now a question of waiting a few decades until Tom is good and clear and she can see the trees and then sees if I’m a tree she’d like to nest in. Way too early to tell now, and besides, here I am. Laws.

Patient? I do beat all.

Love, Norm

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I
do not ascribe to the belief that “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Not only is that not true with human beings, it’s not true with dogs. I
have
taught old dogs new tricks. I’ve also taught a few old men some new tricks. I’ve even had to teach some old men some
old
tricks, and in almost every case, they learned just as quickly as puppies. It’s all about providing the proper motivation. A little kibble here, a little nibble there. You’d be amazed. I don’t know why people continue to buy into that “old dog” idea and other myths about aging, but when a myth is embraced as truth, it becomes a Belief System, or as I like to call it, “BS.”

Another popularly held BS is that after a certain point, “the horse is out of the barn,” which is to say that in old age—or even firmly established middle age, which is always about fifteen years older than you are at this moment—it’s too late to reverse the effects of too much liquor, fatty foods, cigarettes, and lack of exercise. The truth is, nature is very forgiving, the human body resilient. That horse may be headed out of the barn, but a few good rope tricks can lure it back in. If a middle-aged smoker packs off for more than two years, she’s at no greater risk for stroke than her pristine friend who never smoked at all. Eating habits are hard to change, but it can be done, and with some added exercise, you can change your weight, which matters a lot more than your age. Regular sexual activity is excellent exercise. So is lifting weights. It all depends on what’s available. Dumbbells are pretty easy to come by, but since many of them are married, I suggest lifting weights.

Youth is not a time of life, it’s a state of mind. It’s not a matter of rosy cheeks, red lips, and supple knees, it’s force of will, quality of imagination, and vigor of emotions. It’s the freshness from the deep springs of life, and the idea that every day is God saying to you, “May I have this dance?”

There are two things to aim for in life: First, get what you want. Then, enjoy it.

T
he time had come to put my Encino Fairyland on the slumped real estate market, and after a few exciting offers fizzled (real estate attracts crazies like a bundt cake attracts flies), I managed to unload it for a million six. I had a mil nine in it. Notzo guido, but—oh, well. I had lived like a movie star for six glorious years, and I figured the $300,000 loss could be thought of as $50,000 worth of enjoyment per year. Or $4,166.66 per month. Or $138.88 per day. Or $5.78 per hour. But who’s counting? (9.6 cents a minute.) Hey, those homegrown tomatoes were a bargain at just $87.50 a pound!

After looking for several weeks, I found a place to my liking in Hidden Hills, a small horse property adjoining untold acres of hills with an old partially renovated house, a nice backyard with a pool, a pretty gazebo, and even a vegetable garden, plus a tennis court and stables that were used by two women in exchange for their keeping all the fences repaired. Celi and Alma helped move me out of Fairyland into Horse Country, and I helped them find a little house about an hour north of L.A.

The fall of 1994 brought two intriguing stage offers:
After-Play
, by Anne Meara, to be presented by the Manhattan Theatre Club that winter, closing early in March, and Mary Chase’s
Harvey
, to play in London’s Shaftsbury Theatre beginning rehearsals in mid-March. Rather fortuitous timing, eh what? I accepted both.

Now to find a place to stay in Manhattan.

“You’ll stay with me,” said my friend Marty Richards, and he didn’t have to twist my arm. Marty lived in the River House on East Fifty-second Street, employing a live-in married couple, a full-time chauffeur, and various assistants. His wife, Mary Lee (remember the heiress of the Johnson & Johnson dynasty?) had died of cancer in the eighties, leaving Marty the inheritor of untold millions. I’d be earning Off Broadway minimum, so his place would be pretty swanky digs for me. In late December, I exited my cab in the River House’s circular drive and stepped into the foyer, where the butler intoned, “Please remove your shoes.”

Well, my God, yes! Shall I also remove my clothes?

There was a party that night, given by Marty in a midtown restaurant, full of celebrities. I put on my best black dress and one of my Viennese evening capes, feeling quite lah-dee-dah, hobnobbing with Gloria de Haven, Rex Reed, and other swells. After a couple of heady hours, I left, accepting a ride with Joan Rivers. Also in the limo happened to be an older man on crutches.

“Actually, we’ve met,” he reminded me. “I was one of the producers of
Jimmy Shine
.”

I piped up, “Oh, it’s so nice to see you again! Maybe we can have a cup of tea sometime and discuss old times.”

There was a noticeable freeze in the limo. Oops. I think I had just made a pass at Joan Rivers’s boyfriend. Hey, who knew?

Marty’s chauffeur took me to rehearsals in the grungy West Twenties and brought me home to Marie Antoinette’s palace after. Yes, Marty actually had Marie Antoinette’s private writing desk among his crystal chandeliers and plush rugs and fabulous furniture! (“Mary Lee would hate all this,” he told me. “She was very unpretentious.”)
After-Play
was an engrossing play about two couples having dinner in a little restaurant, where Raziel, the Angel of Mysteries, is tending bar. We got good reviews, and Anne got investors to move
After-Play
Off Broadway, where it ran for a year, and it’s since played all over Europe and Australia.

Annie, go braugh!

I popped by Hidden Hills just to check on things, then flew off to Heathrow and
Harvey
. The producers put me up in the only hotel in the Westminster area, a few blocks from Trafalgar Square, which introduces pedestrians to SoHo and Shaftsbury Avenue, known as The West End, where the theatres begin, the Broadway area of London. At the far end of Shaftsbury, totally out of sight behind a building, is the Shaftsbury Theatre, in which we were to play. Hardly a location to catch the eye of strolling tourists, thirteen telephone poles past the standpipe from all the other West End theatres—the first of several major gaffes on the producers’ part. Besides housing us in the out-ofthe-way Shaftsbury Theatre, they’d set our opening for “low season”—the chilly vacation period when Londoners traditionally go to the south of France but the tourist trade hasn’t yet begun. As I walked over the Waterloo Bridge to The Old Vic for rehearsal each day, gypsies were everywhere, sending their kids out to beg.

Harvey
is a broad comedy, brimming with delicious dialogue. The first days of rehearsals, I was shocked to find nobody chuckling at their fellow players’ scenes. Not a peep from anyone. I played Veta, the protagonist’s older sister, who is chagrined at the dent her brother Elwood makes in her social life when he begins talking to a six-foot-tall rabbit only he can see. At the end of her rope, Veta takes him to Chumley’s Rest, a mental clinic, where a hefty intern mistakenly rousts her upstairs for treatment, letting Elwood go home. After a couple of hours, Veta returns home from the clinic, staggering into the library, her stockings below her knees, her hat askew, carrying her corset.

MYRTLE: What happened to you, Mother?

VETA: As I was walking along the path—this awful man stepped out. He was a white slaver. I know he was. He had on one of those white suits. That’s how they advertise.

Come on, people! That’s hilarious! In rehearsal, we got
not one snicker
from the director, the stage manager, our fellow actors, nobody. This unnerved me. I was a stranger in a strange land, up the crick as far as getting a handle on the character. Well, I thought, maybe the audiences will laugh and help me find Veta. We opened in Wimbledon. No laughs. Oxford. No laughs. Over to Belfast. A few laughs. And last, Bath. A titter or two. Quite disconcerting. I wondered if London would be more of the same. If so, God help me.

We visited a Scotch distillery on the northern tip of Ireland, and although I had never cared for Scotch, I tried their little samples laid out on the greeting table, and oh, my Lord, they were
good
. I bought about eight mixed-sample packages of different blends for family and friends and a fifth of a remarkable malt for myself. During our London run of about six weeks, I polished off the malt, as well as all the gift packages. Every drop.

One night, in the scene at Chumley’s Rest, Veta is told by the nurse receptionist to wait while she gets the doctor. As written, the nurse goes offstage, returning at once with Dr. Sanderson, but on this particular evening, the nurse was gone longer than usual, leaving me alone onstage. When she returned, she said, “Dr. Sanderson…uh…he’ll be with you shortly.”

Excuse me?

We started ad-libbing. And we ad-libbed and we ad-libbed for over three interminable minutes. I was considering singing a song, maybe doing a little soft-shoe, perhaps a few jokes, when Clive Carter, who played the doctor, finally burst on stage.

“Sorry to keep you waiting!” he said, out of breath, and we resumed the scene.

Clive had been on the phone with his agent and missed his cue! By the time the show closed, I was ready to be admitted to a mental clinic for real.

We attended an award event at one of the West End theatres. Raquel Welch was also a guest, and standing next to her, I was truly amazed at her youthful beauty. She was setting off on a tour of Shaw’s
The Millionairess
. Raquel Welch doing Shaw. My, my. And his worst play, to boot. I wished her luck but felt she might be in for disappointment. Which she was. She did even worse business than we did, if that’s possible. With ticket sales too low to keep running on income alone, the producers asked us actors if we’d donate our salaries to keep the play open. Most of the younger actors were eager to donate at least part of their salaries, but the unanimous decision among us old farts was “Not one farthing!” We’d been down that road before.

A year or so later, Bea Arthur mentioned to me that she’d been offered a play in London.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” I said. “Are you taking it?”

“God, no,” said Bea. “I didn’t want to read in the paper:
Second Golden Girl Flops in London
.”

Well, bust my britches, Bea, that wasn’t very nice. But as Winston Churchill once said (between mouthfuls of Boodle’s Orange Fool), “Success is going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.”

So onward I forged.

H
idden Hills looked mighty good on my return. Mark got a gig doing guitar music for
The Guiding Light
—an innovative switch from the sonorous soap opera organ—so he packed his Forerunner and came back to L.A., moving in with me and Melinda’s son Brendan. He transformed my party room into an English pub, with a pool table, refinished furniture, and antique wooden plaques—bas-relief 1890 British cricket players in knickers inscribed: