My First Five Husbands (22 page)

Poor Pat kept getting dangerously sick but always recovered. One day, I got a letter from a fan saying,
While I admire your tenacity, you’re obviously using the wrong poison.
And then she named the poison to get at the pharmacy, promising it would work, adding,
Just use a pharmacist who owes you a favor, like I did, and soon you’ll be happily married to John. It worked for me! Sincerely, Mrs. X.

I turned it over to the show’s producers, toot sweet. We were always getting letters from fans warning us to look out for another character or giving us advice. Soaps are a strange world with a strange audience. It’s also the most stultifyingly boring work I’ve ever done. After fourteen months of this nonsensical plot, which moved forward like a glacier on a mudflat, Caroline was finally hauled off to jail or the funny farm or somewhere, mercifully rescuing me from impending stupor. It was even more mind-numbing than Upjohn Pharmaceutical.

But as fate would have it, Caroline departed
Another World
on Friday and I replaced a lead actress on the CBS soap
Where the Heart Is
on Monday. This character was also a killer, but at least she was a successful one! Barbara Baxley, the actress who was leaving, had been playing her role at the usual soap pace, a combination of treacle and molasses, often reading cue cards. I had my lines down so pat I could fire them off like a horse race announcer. So the viewers got treacle on Friday and popcorn on Monday from the same character—who, after five more months of trying to kill her nine-year-old nephew by various means, chases him across a frozen lake and breaks through the thin ice to her well-deserved fate.

Now I’d done soaps on NBC and CBS. Just to cover all bases, ABC hired me for four episodes as the beer-guzzling mother of a rebellious teenage girl on one of their long-running daytime dramas. That was a bit more interesting but still not really my cup of Palmolive. Soaps aren’t funny. They’re soggy cereal. Personally, I like snap, crackle, and wit, fast-paced top-rate writing, brilliant costars, bravado challenges. And, kids, there ain’t much of that in soaps. Or anywhere else on TV, for the most part. Top-of-the-line writing is extremely rare.

I supplemented my sudsy roles with commercials. A wife rubbing Absorbine, Jr. on my husband’s shoulder. A zany shopper trying on girdles in a posh shop for I Can’t Believe It’s a Girdle. A leggy cocktail waitress exchanging wisecracks with beefy guys for…gosh, what was that? Something for the beefy guy target market. Hey, it’s a living. I was glad to get these gigs after sixty—yes, I counted them—
sixty
fruitless auditions over four years. Commercial producers had always told me, “We just can’t pin down your type.”

My type? Maybe I’m the type who can be
any
type.

I think that type is called
an actress
.

T
wo dear friends, Henry Murphy and his main squeeze Brent Hicks, bought an old house upstate in the Hudson River Valley, and Mark and I sometimes went up for weekends. The house was—to put it kindly—a fixer-upper. There was an open void at the center of the second-story floor, so we had to edge very carefully around the perimeter to get to our rooms, or we’d fall smack through into the living room. It was a wonderful place, full of adventures. Brent taught me to do a time step in the kitchen. Another regular guest, a lovely actress named Louisa Flaningam, made whole-wheat-crust apple pies with apples from the ancient trees outside. That ramshackle old house is now the upscale Inn at Green River, one of the best B&Bs in the United States, but back then it was our beloved wreck, a welcome respite from our city lives.

Mark turned thirteen in the fall of 1971, his voice changing from soprano to baritone. He was my height, hormones running rampant, his conversation more adult and funnier than ever, his demeanor more assertive. As he changed, I had to change with him, learning to deal with this emerging critter. I wanted him to have a place to grow, so Murph, Brent, Lette, Mark, and I drove around upstate looking at land for sale. Four miles from Murph’s place was a gorgeous forty-five-acre lot, ablaze with fall colors. Lette and I threw ourselves down in the maple leaves and rolled like horses. I was salivating to buy the place, but it was $32,000 and the owner wanted half down. Not gonna happen.

On Halloween night, our hosts always organized a ghost hunt. About eight of us would line up in single file and follow Murph out to the meadow and across the brook. Every now and then, Murph would call, “Anybody see the ghost?”

“No…” And on we trekked, the new kid always last in line.

Suddenly, Murph would stop and whisper, “
Look!
Over there! What is that?”

About forty yards away, a huge billowy white form sailed against the black sky, clearly free of the earth, traveling parallel with us, puffing in and out like a beautiful giant jellyfish.

Murph would shout, “RUN FOR THE HOUSE!” and we’d all turn tail and gallop back over the creek. But on Mark’s first Halloween, he walked over to get a better look at the apparition. Turns out the ghost was Brent dressed in black, running along beneath a parachute they’d found at a surplus store. We all hooted about it over hot chocolate and s’mores—graham crackers covered with melted marshmallows and Hershey’s bits.

I
t had been a year or so since I started those weekly sessions with Mandrake Penobscot, learning a lot about myself, the dusk panics, recurring nightmares, my compulsive need for a man. But I still couldn’t bring myself to end the disastrous marriage. The Italian and I had settled into an uneasy, always-about-to-blow relationship, made bearable only by the fact that one or the other of us was often out of town.

“I think you should begin group therapy,” said Manny, taking a sip of water. (He always sipped water constantly during the sessions.) So I found myself in a circle of eight troubled souls, some with destructive parents, others with abusive mates. Every week, people told the same miserable stories, blind to the obvious solution:
Get away from that person! NOW!
I thought,
Hmm, I fit right in with these nuts
.

One night, Mark said something flip and Mr. Congeniality set off up the stairs after him, catching him in the bathroom. I heard slapping and shouting, but I was terrified to intervene. I heard something metal break and fall. Then, in the quiet, I heard Mark say, “You know, this really isn’t the way to communicate with me.”

“No? Then what is?”

“You could just talk to me. You don’t have to yell or hit me.”

“How do I know you’d listen? My dad always hit me!”

“Well, you might try it. I’d listen.”

“Yeah? Well, then. Just…go on, I guess…go on to bed.”

And Mark went to bed, leaving me astounded at the foot of the stairs.

The next day, I asked Lette if Mark and I could stay a few nights in her place in the Ansonia Hotel until I could think what to do. She didn’t like kids or dogs, so she wasn’t happy to have us, and I wasn’t happy to move in on her. To make things worse, Mark’s dog made a dump on the carpet under the grand piano. The next day, The Italian called and nicely said he had to talk to me. I told him to come over that night at eight and sent Mark out with a friend.

“I need you to call every twenty minutes to see if I’m still alive,” I told Lette and, always ready for drama, she agreed, staking us out from her neighbor’s apartment next door.

The Italian arrived promptly at eight and began apologizing, asking me in a calm voice to come back home, saying we could work it out, but I kept refusing.

The phone rang.

“Lette Rehnolds’s residence.”

“Hey, Baby Rue, are you okay?”

“She’s not home right now. May I take a message?”

“For Christ’s sake, I want to know if you’re okay!”

“Okay, fine. Just fine. She’ll be back any minute.”

“I’m calling again in fifteen minutes! Good-bye!”

More entreating from Cuddles for me to come home, all in his sweetest, most rational and reasonable demeanor. More standing my ground.

The phone rang.

“Lette Rehnolds’s residence.”

“This is the FBI. Are you okay?”

“That’s right, but she’s due home soon.”

“I’ll call again in ten minutes. What on earth is going on over there?”

“Okay, thank you. I’ll tell her.”

Another onslaught of apologies, entreaties, promises to never fly off the handle again. My resolve was breaking down. What could I do? I really had nowhere to go.

The phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Look, Baby Rue, are you okay or what? I’m getting drunk.”

“Lette? Is that you? When are you coming home?”

“Right now! I’ve had the ass of this!”

“Okay! See you in a few minutes.”

With nowhere else to go, Mark and I returned to Fort Lee the next day, but Mark told me, “Mother, I can’t live with you anymore unless you leave The Hulk.”

In Manny’s familiar circle that week, I told them about the incident with Mark, the threats that kept me silent, and a terrible moment in the kitchen some months earlier when I thought he just might kill me.

“He laced into me about something or other,” I said. “And I slammed the refrigerator. Suddenly, I was pinned against the fridge, his thumbs pressing hard against my larynx. I couldn’t breathe. Just as I felt like I was going to pass out, he released me and I fell forward, struggling for breath. He said it was all my fault, since he’d warned me never to display anger toward him. I was shooting a movie—
They Might Be Giants
. On the set, I pretended to have laryngitis.”

When I finished, the craziest guy in the group asked me, “What do you like about him?”

I thought for a few seconds, then said, “I can’t think of anything.”

“So why the hell don’t you divorce him?” the crazy guy challenged.

Something clicked into place.
Plunk!
Like a ball rolling into a socket. I was ready to do it. Just like that. I drove back to Fort Lee and told Mr. Hyde, “I’m divorcing you. There’s no need to discuss it. You have to move out.”

He replied, “Oh, no way. I’m not moving. You and Mark can move.”

“You should really be in New York. In the theatrical environment,” I pointed out quietly. “And you can rent a New York apartment for less than we’re paying for the house. Besides, you won’t need a car in Manhattan. I’ll buy the VW from you.”

He thought that over, then said, “Okay. I’ll move to Manhattan. When I’m good and ready. Not before six weeks. And yeah, I guess I could sell you my Volkswagen.”

His
Volkswagen!
Ooooh!
Bite my tongue, bite my tongue…

But who cares? He moved out. Forever! Forever! Forever! Oh, God,
forever
! Mark and I literally danced for joy. I started divorce proceedings the very next day. He said he’d pay half the legal fee but never did. And as for the VW—for which I had paid $900 and he had paid $300—well, he let me buy it from him for only $100.

Quite the gentleman,
n’est-ce pas
?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
he blazingly beautiful acreage where Lette and I had rolled in the leaves the previous autumn was covered with snow when Murph and Brent took me there in January. I was still in love with it. It called to me in all its glory, even in winter. Oh, how I wanted it! A corner lot on two good country roads, it was heaven in all seasons, wild blueberries and apple trees between tall cedars, maples, and white spruce. Two creeks flowed down to a small waterfall, where you could lie on your stomach to drink the pure, cold water. Ancient stone fences traversed the hillsides. On a clear day, you could see Vermont.

For thirty-two grand.

Half down.

I’d saved $11,000 while I was doing the soaps, and I asked the owner, “Will you mortgage the remaining twenty-one?”

“Nah, I decided not to sell it.” His square, short body shifted onto one leg, and he lit another cigarette. “My kids like to snowmobile over there, and I go deer huntin’ on it.”

He kills deer?
I thought.
On
my
property?
But I kept my sweetest smile in place.

“Well, that’s too bad. ’Cause I’d really like to buy it. And you could probably use some ready cash. And I could probably get a loan and come up with the full sixteen in a couple of weeks.”

“I’ll give you till January thirty-first. Half down. In cash. Or no deal.”

“January thirty-first is less than a week from now.” My smile may have strained a little. “At least make it a full week. February second.”

“Okay, but you don’t get your deposit back if you’re late.”

I gave him a thousand-dollar deposit and headed back to New York, gears turning. How to get the other five thou? Mother and Bill lent me two thousand each. Lette said she’d help me out, but couldn’t come up with the cash. Forty-eight hours from losing my deposit, I desperately racked my brains. Who in my acquaintance had that kind of dough on hand? Only one person came to mind: Mandrake Penobscot. Anyone in his profession must have money, I figured. My asking my former therapist might seem a little outside the box, but I’d come to know and trust him, and he seemed to care about me, even though I was no longer in his therapy group.

“It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to lend a patient money,” Manny said.

“Well, I haven’t been your patient for a while,” I said. “So what about a friend?”

“For a friend…I suppose I could invest a thousand. For one-thirty-second ownership.”

I’d made it! That heartbreakingly beautiful forty-five acres was
mine
. Well, 31/32 was mine—with a fifteen-year mortgage. And four thousand to pay back to my folks. (Which I did.)

Murph and Brent and Mark and Sandy and I tramped all over that land, taking dozens of photographs, daydreaming about where I’d build my house one day. I was deeply grateful to dear, generous Manny. Skilled, soft-spoken, intelligent Manny, who was not classically handsome but had soulful eyes and a compact body and knew all my deepest secrets.

“Oh, no, Rue,” he said when I asked him if he’d be interested in seeing me socially. “I never date patients. Or former patients. You probably wouldn’t even like me outside the office. I behave very differently.”

Did that little caveat deter this Choctaw?
Please!
One day, I saw him on the sidewalk and called out, “Hey, sailor, want a ride?” Amused, he got in my Beetle and I drove him home. No hanky-panky. But, lo and behold, a couple weeks later, he called and asked me out. Well,
okaaaaay
! Unfortunately, I didn’t have the good sense to ask Mark how he felt about it, and I realize now how insensitive that was. Mark was thirteen, we were freshly released from our seven-year stint in the Italian prison camp, and already I was starting an affair? In hindsight, it makes me cringe. At the time, however, I was, as usual, plunging full steam ahead.

Mark and I rented a second-floor apartment from an Italian lady (c’mon, you can’t blame all of Tuscany for one bad apple) whose furniture and rugs downstairs were covered in plastic. Pictures of Jesus and the saints populated the walls. Every saint you can think of. Even my personal favorite, Saint Dymphna, patroness of mental and emotional illness. Our landlady didn’t allow pets, but I pleaded for Mark’s very quiet little dog and our extremely well-behaved cat, paid two months in advance, and promised not to have any parties. Apparently, the saints came marching in and spoke up for us, but they were dozing the day we moved in. Murph and Brent helped us haul our stuff, and on the way, we stopped at a gas station. Murph let Sandy out to pee while I checked my tires. A male dog trotted by, found her irresistible, and by the time the filling station attendant turned a water hose on them, we were expecting puppies.

Ah, how those saints guffawed! And they fairly burst their frames in hysterics as they saw the Mandrake Penobscot circus play out. Saint Dymphna had to have a Klonopin.

The day Manny warned me he “behaved differently” outside his office, he was not just whistling Dixie, darlings. We started spending a few nights a week together. He always brought a fifth of vodka, which he drank to the bottom. Oopsy-daisy.

“I’m into threesomes,” he said.

I said I was not.

“My ex-wife and I were into threesomes,” he said.

I said I was
not
.

Sitting in the middle of the bed until three or four
A.M
., crying buckets, relating his woeful life story, he confessed, “I was in therapy for seven years and I won’t go back. I’m incurable.”

I invited him to a play opening with my friends, and he behaved in a most peculiar way, running around like an undisciplined child, saying inappropriate, embarrassing things to people.
“What on Earth?”
my astonished friends asked, but I was more astounded than they were. I went to one cocktail party with him, even though he cautioned me, “All the other guests will be psychiatrists, psychologists, or social workers. You’ll be the only outsider.”

“That should be interesting,” I said. Which turned out to be the understatement of the century.

The party was full of well-dressed people, solemnly conversing but not laughing. No chuckles. Not a titter. I settled onto a sofa next to one of the psychiatrists and, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows, commented brightly, “Oh, look! It’s going to rain. I just love rainstorms.”

This fellow turns to me with a small frown and says, “Oh,
really
. And why do you think that is?”

“Oh…who knows? Maybe because I was born during a rainstorm.”

“Hmm…
interesting,
” he said, and stroked his chin.

Manny really was quite sweet. And he rated high on the FQ scale. Maybe an A. But he was nuttier than a Snickers bar! I started looking for a way to end it gracefully.

One astounding night, he brought some pot to my house

“I’ve only smoked pot twice before,” I told him. “A long time ago. And I didn’t like it.”

“Oh, you’ll like this,” he assured me, and after some resistance, I took a drag or two.

I don’t know if it was laced with something or what, but I turned into a snake, slithering down from the bed and onto the floor headfirst, wriggling along the carpet on my back. I have no idea what happened after that. I just know that I broke it off with Manny.

Gracefully, I hope.

I
n April, I accepted the female lead in a somewhat interesting play about a gal who, having been deeply hurt, swears off men and decides she’s a lesbian, until a sweet young guy starts wooing her, prompting her to reexamine her true sexual orientation.

Interesting,
as my sofa pal would say.

I enjoyed smoking a cigar and stomping around in my overalls, but the actor playing the love interest seemed a little…oh, how shall we say it? Saucy in the sneakers? Mincy in the moccasins? Fluffy in the Florsheims? This was the stud who was supposed to ignite my character’s libido and swing her interest back to men? But the young director didn’t agree that we needed an actor with a bit more testosterone. On opening night, my leading man was sporting heavy mascara. He hadn’t worn mascara in dress rehearsal, and now he had on more than I did! His long curly lashes were fairly gleaming. I was mesmerized.

After the show, the director’s sister, who was producing the play, threw an opening-night party and, as it ran rather late, invited me to stay in her spare bedroom instead of driving home to New Jersey. How hospitable! I called Mark and told him I’d be home the next morning, but as I climbed into bed, there came a knock at my door. It was our producer—about three sheets to the wind—wanting to climb right in with me. Good grief, Gwendolyn! I explained that I’d only been
playing
a lesbian. Apparently, rather convincingly.

A pretty darn eventful production, but I was glad when it closed after one week. At the last performance, a wonderful Broadway actor named Bill Macy came backstage to introduce himself and congratulate me. As we chatted, he told me, “I’ve been hired to play the husband in a new Norman Lear series. A spin-off of
All in the Family
called
Maude
.”

“What a break!” I marveled. “And you deserve it, Bill. I’m envious, but happy for you!”

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Sandy had four puppies. Mark and I went through a few nervous weeks trying to keep them quiet, but the landlady dropped by and saw the menagerie crawling happily around, and even the saints couldn’t save us. Mark took Sandy to Oklahoma for the summer and I found homes for the puppies, taking the names and numbers of the adoptive parents. Then I focused on forging ahead with my career. (Remember that old thing?)

I’d salivated to get into the Joseph Papp circle for years and finally got an audition with the legendary producer. At an outdoor café in SoHo, I read some scenes for Mr. Papp and he hired me to understudy the leading lady in
Sticks and Bones,
David Rabe’s Pulitzer Prize–winning play on Broadway. After two weeks, Mr. Papp said, “I actually hired you to take over the role. The actress has already given notice. I want you to start playing it as soon as you’re ready.”

Ready? Honey child, I was born ready!

My character, Harriet, spent most of her time serving fudge and cookies to her mundane middle-American family—husband Ozzie and sons David and Ricky. (Subtle, huh?) I made twenty-eight different entrances from the kitchen during the show, uttering platitudes, carrying plates of goodies. I taped up a list in the wings, detailing when I entered and what I carried. I had nothing to latch on to except one good fight with Ozzie. The play was thick with murky symbolism. There was a Vietnamese girl living in David’s bedroom. Or was she a hallucination? If she was a hallucination, why did we all see her? The audience was equally puzzled. After every performance, audience members gathered outside the stage door, waiting to ask, “What does it mean?” But who knew?

I guess it means if you write a play in which a disturbed young man slashes his wrists center stage, leaking his lifeblood into basins brought by his mother, who then sits down to knit while she and the rest of the family wait cheerfully for him to die (or does he
almost
die?) as the curtain goes down—well, you just might win yourself a Pulitzer, because
surely
that is some powerfully meaningful stuff!

On the other hand…wait a minute.

Now that I think about it without all the fudge…the play does have meaningful implications. And it certainly packed a wallop—great gouts of blood spurting like a fountain from that boy’s wrists, gushing into the basin. It never failed to get a big gasp from the house.

But Saint Dymphna was up to her usual mischief. While I was still rehearsing
Sticks and Bones,
I got a call from Joyce Selznick in Hollywood.

“Rue!” she said. “You remember me—I saw you in
Dylan
a couple years ago.”

Sure, I remembered. She’d approached me after the performance and said she’d like to manage me. But I couldn’t afford a manager. I was already paying an agent, so I decided against signing with her.