The Ear of the Heart: An Actress' Journey From Hollywood to Holy Vows (27 page)

Lisa
marked a reunion with Stephen Boyd, with whom Dolores had enjoyed a rapport during the
Playhouse 90
production two years earlier. The lengthier production schedule of a movie provided time for the two to nurture a personal relationship denied them by the fast pace of television.

A romance between Dolores and Stephen began in the press, with gossip items suggesting that the two must surely be having a love affair. Photo layouts, following the fan-magazine formula, gave credence to the gossip. But indeed, something real was developing. Dolores’ relationship with Stephen Boyd would be her only professional relationship that would also become a romantic one.

Stephen was an amazingly gentle man for his brawn and size. He wasn’t tall but had substantial bulk—which I was gratefully aware of when he had to carry me. Most of my scenes were with Stephen, and we were frequently together for publicity interviews and photo layouts. But we also seemed to seek out each other’s company in private time. When I was working, I usually didn’t date, but on
Lisa,
I saw Stephen for supper almost every night
.

At first, Stephen found it difficult to open up, but gradually he became willing to speak about his private life. When I was agonizing over Mom’s fall off the wagon, he told me I shouldn’t waste my time shaking my fist at her. He admitted that he also had a problem with alcohol and bluntly said that I couldn’t help my mother, that only she could help herself. He had stopped drinking only when
he
wanted to
.

I found him deeply spiritual. We had many discussions about religion, mostly in a general way, but occasionally we spoke of Catholicism. Stephen was adamant that although he was genuinely interested in the broad spectrum of religion, he was not attracted to any specific church. He would come to change that stand
.

Our dinners grew to two and a half hours of soul-searching and reaching out, which Stephen acknowledged as a gift of understanding. Most men are dominant and directive. They’re threatened by a woman’s inner sense of authority. Stephen could expose his vulnerability. He let me show my authority. It didn’t make him feel less masculine. I was grateful for his trust and began to feel that our relationship had a potential future
.

By the time we got to London, I knew that my feelings for Stephen had gone as far as they could go on a friendship level. I felt I had an obligation to indicate I was ready to move to a more personal one. Up to this point, there hadn’t even been a kiss. Not that I had never kissed Stephen, but it had never been
that
kind of a kiss
.

One evening, returning from one of our walks in Saint James’ Park, we stopped at the front door as we had on so many evenings, and I suddenly said, “Stephen, would you like to come in?” He looked at me and said, “Yes.” He leaned forward to kiss me, but the kiss was placed on my forehead. “Yes,” he repeated, “but you’re marked. Don’t you know that
?”

I was confused. I felt hurt. Had I exposed my vulnerability, my trust, only to be rejected? I wondered what he had meant by saying I was “marked”, but I didn’t ask for an explanation then. I never did. Our dinners and talks continued, but we never mentioned that evening. When the film was over, our lives moved apart. But I heard his voice—“You’re marked”—often
.

I was surprised when Don Robinson called and told me he was coming to London and wanted to see me. I wanted to see him too. It did seem a good time because I was scheduled for several days off after we filmed the pivotal sequence where Lisa is forced to relive the medical experiments performed upon her, and I was sure Don would be a welcome break. I couldn’t be sure, however, whether my eagerness to see him again wasn’t merely a rebound response to Stephen
.

The scene was highly emotional, and the fact that Mr. Dunne wanted to film it in a single close-up scared me. It was further intimidating that Arthur Ibettson, our cinematographer, planned to use a special camera lens, one usually used for film inserts—extreme close-ups, such as a shot of a person’s hand writing a letter—which would mean the camera was going to be only twenty-one inches from my face
.

We got through the first take, and Mr. Dunne wanted to print it, but due to an apparent technical problem, Arthur wanted another take for insurance. I felt I had used up all my voice in the first take, but I did it again. This time everything went well, thank God, because by then I had lost my voice completely. I was certainly ready for that four-day break
.

It had been several months since Don and I had seen each other. It was a lovely reunion. We took several day trips outside of London—I did the driving because I was now used to driving on the wrong side of the road—saw plays in the West End and dined at wonderful restaurants. More importantly, Don’s presence served to remind me of all that we had in common. I liked being with him
.

“We had only one disagreement”, Don recalled. “I was appropriately angry at poor service we had received in a restaurant and purposely did not leave a tip. When we left the restaurant, Dolores excused herself and went back inside, obviously to leave one.”

—
I did not apologize. I did it for Granny
.

In the days following his return home, I thought a lot about Don. I even fantasized our running off and getting married as in a romantic comedy. Why did those thoughts come only in an imaginary way? Why couldn’t I really think of myself as a part of them except in a reflective sense
?

During the entire production, Dolores bombarded Harriett with tough-love letters that resulted in Harriett’s renewed effort to stay sober. Dolores was encouraged enough to invite her to the last week of shooting in London and then on a vacation to Paris, Madrid and Rome before returning home.

I picked up Mom at Heathrow Airport, and I was so nervous I could hardly drive. I was always holding on to the hope that she would straighten out, and I was always disappointed. But Mom was in great shape, trim and buoyant and full of “piss and vinegar”, as she used to say. In the time it took to drive from the airport to the flat, we were giggling like girls again
.

The next morning, just minutes before we left the flat, I got a call from a man who said he was Frank Sinatra. Sure, sure, I thought, and I’m Princess Margaret. He said he wanted to take me to dinner to discuss a part in a movie he was going to make. I told whoever it was that I was in a rush and to send the script and hung up
.

The vacation was a great success. Mom loved London, Madrid, Rome and especially Paris—she fit the Paris scene like a cup on a saucer
.

Harriett was blissfully peaceful because she was the center of attention. She was the star, not just a nobody basking in reflected glory. Making sure Harriett got that notice was Dolores’ gift to her mother.

When we finally arrived back home, I was able to tell Granny that during the entire trip I was proud to introduce Mom as my mother
.

Waiting for me at my apartment was a large envelope that had been forwarded from London. Inside was the script of
The Manchurian Candidate
. It
had
been Frank Sinatra on the phone! I called Harry at once, but it was too late. Leslie Parrish had been cast. Mr. Sinatra never called again
.

Lisa
wasn’t a hit in United States, in spite of the lurid ads that Fox hoped would entice audiences—“They experimented on me, sold me like human cargo” and “Why am I terrified every time a man touches me?”—blurbs that
New York Times
critic Bosley Crowther charged gave the wrong impression of the film he found “an uncommonly colorful and tense adventure”.

However,
Lisa
did well in Europe, where its thesis was still being lived on a daily basis. It was nominated for a Golden Globe by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association as one of the best films of 1962. Dolores received strong notices, her best to date, although the only review she still remembers called her “too apple-pie American”.

For Dolores, more important than the judgment of the critics was Suzanne Zada’s assessment. Dolores invited her to the first screening of the film and afterward, in the studio parking lot, she found Suzanne weeping. “It was there,” Suzanne told her, “the hopeless, lost feeling I had, there for people to see. I thought that God was trying to make up for what He did to me.” The friendship between these two women has lasted to this day.

Lisa
had an impact on Dolores. Never before had she felt such compassion for a character; nor had she ever gotten so emotional about a role that tears became a standard part of each day’s work.

It wasn’t the acting of the role that affected me so deeply. It was the humanity of it, the undeniable sense of life I found in the character. I felt more motivated to visit Regina Laudis after
Lisa
was over. Luckily, Columbia wanted me to make a personal appearance tour on behalf of
Sail a Crooked Ship,
which meant I could steal a few days at the monastery
.

It was when Dolores was on that publicity tour that her best buddy died. Grandpa Kude suffered a heart attack and was in grave condition in a Chicago hospital, with Esther, Harriett and Sister Dolores Marie at his bedside. Aware that he was dying, Fred asked his sister to summon a priest, who came and administered last rites and Holy Communion.

I was appearing on a TV talk show but remained in contact with the family through the evening. I had asked them to make sure the TV in his room was tuned in to the show because I was going to do something just for him. I had arranged with a band member to borrow his clarinet, and when I stepped into the spotlight, I said, “This one’s for you, Grandpa”, and played “Whispering”
.

Moments before, however, Grandpa had slipped into unconsciousness, and Granny was afraid that my gesture would go unrecognized. But, miraculously, he revived while I was still playing. He didn’t see the performance, but Sister Dolores Marie was sure he had heard it. With her crucifix in his hands, an unmistakable look of tranquillity on his face, she told me, he had made his peace with God
.