My First Five Husbands (38 page)

She took a good look and said, “I’d send the damn thing straight to hell.”

An acting group I belonged to had chartered a trip to Russia for two weeks that spring to see plays and museums, but two days before we were to fly to Leningrad, I got a call from someone—I can’t even remember who—with the news that Lette had died.

I drove over early that evening and there she lay in bed, covered with a spread. Jack was in the room along with one of his daughters, Lette’s doctor, and two other close friends. After a few minutes of talk, her despicable doctor, whom I had never liked or trusted, said, “Want to see the mastectomy?” And the idiot whipped off the spread, exposing her left breast, flat and scarred. In front of all of us!

The breath went out of me.
He can’t do this to you, Lette!

Oh, if only I had crossed the room and slapped him to the ground! I’ve always been sorry I just stood there—in shock. Why didn’t I jump to her defense? Why didn’t Jack? She would never have shown us this sight herself. She was too proud of her once-perfect breasts. And now, defenseless, at the mercy of that scummy doctor—oh, God, it was immoral.

Ronnie Claire Edwards held a huge memorial service in her backyard, but I couldn’t bring myself to go up and speak. My little darling Lette, full of life and hilarity, irrepressible, with that amazing, soaring voice. A major player in my life for twenty-four years—seven with The Italian, three with The Greek, one with Keel, and all the years between and after. What would I have done without her? It was a long time before I could listen to the tapes we made—our French and singing lessons and the cast album of
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
—but when I do, her spirit springs out at me, as fresh as when those recordings were made.

Once upon a time, back when I was a scrambling New York stage actress, I did a five-week tryout of a new A. R. Gurney play,
Scenes from American Life,
and since the work was still in progress, I asked Gurney to write me a solo scene to be “done in one” (speaking directly to the audience). In two hours, he wrote a wonderful older woman who studies opera but is kept from realizing her dream by her disapproving family. She trains and trains and finally debuts with the aria from
Lucia di Lammermoor,
whose story mirrors her own. She begins confidently, but her voice cracks on a high note and, devastated, she realizes she doesn’t have the chops. It is a moving scene that speaks eloquently about the hopes and fears of any aspiring artist, about the difference love can make, and about the power of desire itself.

In life, in love, in song, Lette never stopped reaching for the elusive high notes.

I’ll never understand why a voice like hers was stopped so soon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I
used to insist to Lette, “Digging in the earth is every bit as good as sex!”

She never bought it either.

But I’m here to tell you, there’s nothing like a vine-ripened, organic, God-given sweet red tomato to give you religion! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! There’s a certain therapy in puttering around the tomato vines in the springtime, pinching back the crotch buds (maybe I should’ve tried that on The Italian), dosing the yellow flowers with Tru-Grow, watching as the young green fruit appears, turns pink, then orange, and finally harvesting those beautiful red jewels! Of course, I always grow too much of everything and end up giving the surplus away to anyone who’ll hold still. But that’s true of every backyard tomato nut. You just have to find someone who doesn’t grow tomatoes. And can’t run very fast. During the
Golden Girls
years, Betty, Estelle, and Bea were happy recipients. I’ve always loved hunting Easter eggs, and for me, spying ripe tomatoes behind the leafy branches is much the same. Oh, I
like
okra and cucumbers, lettuce, scallions, carrots, beans, cabbage, potatoes—particularly new potatoes, which you have to dig for, like treasure. And because they’re good for burying in the dark of a new moon to ensure good luck in romance.

There’s just never a good new potato around when you need one.

During the fourth season of
The Golden Girls,
I got a call from an acquaintance who had a girlfriend who had a father whom they wanted me to meet. I wasn’t all that eager to be fixed up, but they eventually cajoled me into meeting him for dinner.

I got a good look at Gregory Steinmetz, a Beverly Hills psychiatrist, as he came striding up my front walk. Hmm. Five-eight, skinny, brunet, narrow face wreathed in a big grin, eyes that crinkled, springy and energetic at fifty-two. (Later, when I introduced him to Mark, Mark said, “I expected you to be dating someone who looks like Robert Redford.” His gentle way of saying that Gregory was hardly handsome.) But Gregory and I got along very well on our first date. He was intelligent and friendly. I thought the guy was worth dating occasionally. He showed me his house on the beach and his office in Beverly Hills. He was obviously doing quite well with his practice. I brought him to a taping one night and he behaved decorously. He seemed to have no bone to pick with his parents and had good relationships with his daughter and son, as well. He was nice people. Sounds pretty good, huh? We saw each other several times over the next three weeks, always having a fine time. No sex. We agreed to get better acquainted before we moved on—
if
we moved on.

Well, one night we moved on. And lemme tell you, folks, this guy could move.

My upstairs bedroom had a huge mirror next to my queen-sized bed. (Oh, roll up your tongues. It was the only place in the house with a vacant wall that size.) It had never witnessed any goings-on. Well, I became fast friends with that mirror. The sex that took place with Gregory was outside my experience—outside my
imagination
. I was already fifty-four, y’all, and I’d never had a lover remotely like this. When people would ask me about a man, “How was he in bed?” I’d always answer, “Good. It was good. What’s not to be good?”

Little did I know.
Oooooh,
little did I know. This wiry little Steinmetz guy was—I don’t know—was he simply innately talented? Somehow tuned in to what a woman needs and wants? He was a master, leading me on with the most subtle, stimulating, maddening foreplay—blatantly in charge, making me crazy for almost too long before he issued the
coup de grâce
. We watched ourselves in that big mirror, which stimulated me further! I was without reserve, throwing myself into this game with abandon, aware that I was being manipulated, helpless, and loving it. I don’t have to rate this man. He was off the chart. President Emeritus of The Casanova Club. And he was good company on his feet. We were feeling inklings of being in love. Time, perhaps, for the travel test?

Queen Elizabeth II held a “Command Performance” gala every year, inviting entertainers from around the world to perform. That fall, two acts were invited from the United States,
The Golden Girls
and Jackie Mason. Bea usually turned down about half our invitations, and if she didn’t go, nobody got to go, but this was one event that even Bea was eager to attend. We would be in London for about four days, which happened to coincide with our Thanksgiving in the States. The writers began rewriting one of the scenes we had done in a past episode, and our costume designer got to work on outfits. I asked Gregory, who had never been to London, to be my guest.

During a hiatus week in November, I was asked to ride an elephant in an animal show in San Diego. I felt a bit conflicted, because I don’t believe in making elephants perform, but I was assured that this elephant was very well treated, and
oh boy,
did I want to ride an elephant, my favorite critter. I was in San Diego about three days, dressed in an abbreviated tux and high heels. The procedure was for me to step on the elephant’s lowered trunk, which she then raised so I could climb over her head and sit on her shoulders, after which she carried me around in a big circle while the TV cameras filmed us. Elephants are so damned sweet. And smart. I’m glad to say this grand lady was indeed treated very nicely by her trainer, or I would have pitched a hissy fit.

Gregory came to the final rehearsal, staying a few hours before returning to L.A. That night, he called and proposed marriage. I was thrown, but he was very persuasive and…yep, you got it. I ended up accepting.

A week or so later, he began returning his clients’ phone calls from my house in the evenings, talking to patients who called in distress. Since he used the kitchen phone, I couldn’t help overhearing and was surprised at how harsh he was with these people. Maybe that was good psychiatry, but to me it sounded cold and impatient. I’d never seen this side of him. I felt bad for the clients, who were obviously in pain, and I began to worry that I might have been too hasty accepting his proposal, so I gathered the nerve to tell him, “Gregory, I want to give this more thought, get to know you better.”

I expected him to say, “Of course, take as long as you need. I want you to be sure.”

You could’ve blown me over with a dandelion puff when he replied, “Oh, no. No, no, no. That’s not being responsible. You made a decision, now stick to it!”

“Gregory, I’m just not sure,” I explained. “I need more time.”

“Stop acting like a child, Rue. It’s time for you to grow up!”

This really threw me. I felt like a kid being reprimanded. A child? Was that what I was being? Now I was really confused. I went to see my own therapist and related the conversation.

“He said
what
? That’s manipulation, Rue!”

“It is? Then that’s why it seems so wrong.”

“You bet it is.”

“Will you see the two of us together?”

“Gladly!”

Oh, boy. A highfalutin Beverly Hills psychiatrist versus my Burbank psychologist in a head-shrinking Battle Royale! This would be interesting. Well, sir, it was more than interesting. It was educational. I felt as if I’d had a nice bath that washed the guilt and shame right off me and I could see things clearly. By God, Gregory
was
a manipulator! It makes perfect sense. Isn’t any great lover a great
manipulator
by definition? I broke the engagement, simply saying I’d made a mistake, but it was only a week before we were to leave for London, so I made a second mistake in saying, “I know how much you were looking forward to the trip, Gregory. So even though we’re no longer a couple, my invitation to London is still open. If we just go as friends.”

And he made the mistake of saying, “Okay.”

We were put up in an expensive hotel with a lovely bedroom with a queen-sized bed, which saw no action. On Thanksgiving Day, I went to a pub for Thanksgiving lunch British style—kidney pie and beer—then to see a matinee of the thirtysomething-year run of
The Mousetrap
. The theatre seated me in the Queen’s box. (Wow! The royal box!) Sadly, that didn’t help the performance.
The Mousetrap
was the most famous play in umpteen years, but it was also the tiredest. But by the good Lord, I’ve seen it! In contrast, our performance for the royals at the Palladium was a smashing success. After the show, we were all presented to the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret (who was looped!), and we actually curtsied. Even Bea.

Our last afternoon in London, ye gods, Gregory pleaded with me for “one last time,” but I couldn’t do it, no way, nohow. An uncomfortable, painful experience. He was a decent person and I have never borne him a moment’s ill will, and I felt I’d made progress. It was a watershed moment: I’d said the magic words, “Let me think about it.” And then—will wonders never cease!—I actually
thought
about it! I’d picked a good man who didn’t cheat me. I’d skated free of marriage and felt no panic. Well, whattaya know. I was definitely emotionally healthier…right? Go ahead. Say “right.” It’s getting safer.

O
n January 1 of 1989, a year after work began on my Encino dream home…work was still going on at my Encino dream home.

I had agreed with the purchasers of the Studio City house that I’d be out by December 31, which the contactor and I had agreed on as the Encino move-in date. But autumn rolled by and he was nowhere near through, so he quickly finished the maid’s rooms, and I moved into them while he continued working on the main house, the maid’s rooms still smelling of paint. My three cats and small dog, Angie, bunked with me, while the three big dogs had the run of a large fenced area out back. I loved living in the maid’s quarters! One room just big enough for my computer, desk, TV, and big bed, plus a little kitchenette and a walk-in closet with a built-in chest of drawers next to the bathroom. Just the right size for me: cozy, comforting, and convenient. What more could one want?

Every morning, seemingly at the crack of dawn, I was roused by the cacophony of building just outside my window.
Buzz, roar, VZZZZ, RRRAUW!
The yard crew at work, the house carpenters at work. But I had the joy of walking through the house and around the yard, watching the progress. Finishing touches went on till June. There were problems, of course. Oh,
boy
, were there problems! But who builds a house without problems? (Words to live by.) The beautiful red oak floors began to warp. The skylights leaked. The alarm system went off whenever a cat or dog walked through the dining room, and I got to meet a lot of cute young security men who rushed out to the house before I could call in and stop them. You know, I never did get the hang of that pesky security system. (Drat!)

Through an agency, I interviewed three possible housekeepers—a Swedish lady, a Cockney Englishman, and a Filipina named Celi. I hired Celi, who moved in that summer, knocking me out of my cozy maid’s room into the master bedroom, miles away. The house was gorgeous, but too damned big. Who needs five thousand square feet? There were twelve rooms. And five baths. Sometimes I count thirteen, but I think there were twelve. Celi asked if she could bring her younger sister, Alma, to live with us, and God knows, we had plenty of room. Celi wanted to be my gardener, with Alma my housekeeper. So I sent Celi to gardening school, she taught Alma housekeeping and cooking, and by fall, we were a jolly group. Celi turned out to be a super-industrious gardener, with her work boots and overalls, wood shredder, and every other new tool she could weasel out of me. Alma, a sweetheart, made a passable cook and housekeeper, teaching me to avoid boiled fish heads and various other unidentifiable Philippine delicacies.