Then and Now (14 page)

It didn't help that she used to just show up without telling us she was coming, which is what she did on one particular summer day
in the early 1960s. We were outside working—I was gardening, which I really enjoyed, and David was taking care of the lawn, his favorite thing. But on the day in question when my mother showed up unannounced I was also drinking scotch—boilermakers, to be precise. Scotch with a beer chaser. Jack Cassidy had taught me how to drink boilermakers during
She Loves Me
, and there I was, planting the petunias, drunk, falling over backward and laughing.

My mother was appalled.

These visits from my mother made all of the problems in my marriage loom ever larger, because her mere appearance would ratchet up the tension level. I began to realize that my interaction with my mother mirrored the one she'd had with her own mother.

Sometimes we would get along well, but eventually our times together would end badly—a big blowup of one sort or another that would send my mother sulking back home while I tried to repair the damage done to my home life.

Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, but it's clear to me that as my mother aged she became seriously paranoid. I hesitate to put a label on her condition. In the twenty-first century we know a great deal more about these problems, and perhaps nowadays she could have been helped medically. In the early 1960s, however, we didn't know enough to call her depressed or paranoid. We just called her incredibly difficult to be around.

Logic was lost on my mother; she became convinced that the people who lived in the apartment above her were banging on the floors at three in the morning night after night in order to disturb her—

“But, Mom, if they're getting up at three or four o'clock in the
morning every day to annoy you, don't you think that's disturbing their sleep, too? Why would they do that?”

“The landlord is paying them to do it.”

“What on earth for?”

“He wants to get rid of me.”

Round and round we'd go—arriving back exactly where we started.

She waged a constant war with the superintendent of her building—when she wasn't telling me that he was her best friend. If she decided that he had done something she didn't like, he was going to be in trouble, or, more to the point, bereft of tools; when he left tools lying around in the hallway she would steal them, and in the process accumulated a cache of his tools, which she hid away in one of her closets. She certainly didn't need or want the tools. What she wanted was simply to annoy the super.

I loved my mother, and there were times we'd have fun and get along very well, but it's the bad times that stick out in my mind because they were so hurtful, going all the way back to her making me believe I had killed my sister and caused my father to leave us.

I genuinely felt sorry for her, and tried to remember what a friend said to me when I was complaining to her about my mother's behavior; she looked at me and said, “At least she stuck around when you were a kid. She didn't run away, no matter how tough her life was.” That's true, and I knew that she loved me. The problem was that I became her life—her whole life. There were no boundaries where she and I were concerned. I was a part of her. She owned me, and as a result she could infuriate me in a way no one else could.

The tension with my mother only added to the increasingly evi
dent strains in my marriage, strains that could no longer be glossed over for one big reason: I had fallen deeply in love with a married man. This was not like my previous and brief affair, which had hurt David so deeply. This was a love affair of genuine feeling and deep emotion and was to develop into the most important relationship of my adult life. I had met my soul mate.

ARTHUR HILL AND
I met in 1964 when my marriage was starting to crumble and we were working together on the musical
Something More!
It wasn't a good show, even though the creative team was first rate: music by my old friend Sammy Fain, lyrics by Marilyn and Alan Bergman, book by Nate Monaster. The problem was that Jule Styne was directing, and he just was not a good director. (Although Jule retained the final credit as director, he was replaced by Joe Layton, who was a dream.) Jule could be tough to work with, but he could also be a very funny man. One day during our out-of-town tryout, we were in a technical rehearsal and a fellow who had maybe three lines in the show was acting up a storm until Jule, who was out in the house, yelled, “No, George, no! Don't act. Just rehearse.”

The show tried out in Philadelphia, but lasted a mere eleven days in New York City at the Eugene O'Neill Theatre. I had found much more luck at the O'Neill with
She Loves Me
the previous year, but
Something More!
brought Arthur into my life, and for that I remain very grateful.

Arthur was a very respected actor, an elegant, lovely man who had won a Tony Award for Best Actor in a Play for his work in
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
We liked each other immediately and enjoyed working together. I was very drawn to him but I didn't know the nature of his feelings for me. We were in the midst of our
tryout in Philadelphia, and one night we had a friendly drink together after the show at the Variety Club, which was a haven for actors. He said he would walk me back to my hotel. We left the club and were walking down the hotel hallway when he suddenly grabbed my arm, swung me around and kissed me, saying, “I've wanted to do that for weeks.” It was a scene out of every romantic film you've ever seen.

There is no question that when things go wrong in a marriage and the romance has vanished, it is very difficult not to feel twinges when you are performing with a romantic leading man; you can feel twinges even in passing with someone who is not your leading man. When Duke Ellington, a very handsome man, stared at me with his beautiful eyes and said, “Miss Cook, I have always admired your work,” and kissed my hand—well, I definitely felt several twinges.

But—my relationship with Arthur was not a passing fancy in any way. This was the real thing, and we fell deeply in love. We actually talked through all of the repercussions before we made love because we both sensed that our bond was so deep that once we made love we'd be sunk. We did, and we were. We simply fell head over heels in love with each other.

That night was the beginning of a relationship that lasted for several years. Arthur, along with David and Wally Harper, became one of the three biggest male influences in my life. He was a true gentleman in every sense of the word. He liked women and in those pre–women's movement days treated us with respect and courtesy. He loved books and awakened my intellectual curiosity. He itemized every book he read along with comments about them, and made lists of books he thought I'd like. He made me realize that I was smart and that I possessed genuine intellectual curiosity.
He taught me about myself, giving me a sense of worth and self-respect that I had never known before.

Arthur told me that I was smart, a straightforward appreciation which contrasted with the musical “love affair” I later developed with Wally Harper. Wally loved my talent, and while he told that to many other people, in all our years together, he never once said that to me. Arthur had no problem simply telling me that I was smart, and that he loved me.

He also gave me a great piece of practical advice about furthering my education, advice which really hit home since I had never attended college. It was the 1960s, the Vietnam War was raging, and everyone was uncertain about the course of world events. I felt a bit at sea intellectually. Arthur simply said to me: “Why don't you read the
New York Times
every day cover to cover. You will receive a terrific education.” I did both—read the
Times
religiously, and received a great education in the ways of the world. He was the exact opposite of David, who needed me locked away in a box under his control. Arthur was handsome, charming, and when we'd meet he would look at me, smile, and ask, “How's my girl?” I would—there's no other word for it—melt.

We tried a number of times to stop seeing each other, but we failed again and again because we loved each other so intensely. We'd part for months, and then one of us would break down and we'd get back together. It was an extraordinary, beautiful time, but oh—so—painful. My feelings were so intense that it was the only time before my participation in the ill-fated musical
Carrie
that I kept any sort of diary. Just writing a bit helped me to understand some of my feelings.

Arthur had said that if the time came when it was more painful to stay than to go away, then he'd leave, and that time finally
came. We were locked in an impossible situation because he was not going to leave his wife and children; unlike me, he was in a good marriage. Being so head over heels in love with somebody is both exhilarating and devastating. He did the right thing in not marrying me—it would not have been a good idea—but at the time that's exactly what I wanted more than anything in the world and I was devastated.

Both Arthur and his wife ultimately died of Alzheimer's—his fine, beautiful mind was stilled by that insidious disease. I look back on our time together with so much gratitude, but I regret that after we parted I never had a final conversation with him in which I could tell him how much he had done for me, how much he had helped me. Once on a long plane ride I started writing a letter to him. Perhaps it was the thought of revisiting those intense emotions or the fact that I didn't want to upset the balance of his marriage, but I never sent the letter.

Arthur did nothing less than change my life and inform my art.

Sometimes in life you gain and lose at the same time.

I THINK THAT
I started to drink as a result of the emotional distress I was feeling in my marriage. By now Adam was four years old and the marriage had really begun to fall apart. My drinking began to increase, even when I was in rehearsals for a new show. I discovered Armagnac. I'd have some brandy but I'd still also drink beer. I then graduated to martinis. I started with Smirnoff vodka martinis and then moved on to gin martinis. I didn't realize it while it was happening, but I got to the point where I needed something at the end of the day, and needed it every single day. A Gibson. Make that two or three. Sherry while I made dinner. A post-dinner Armagnac. The list grew.

It didn't frighten me. I thought, “Well, I've got problems. I'm upset, yes, but . . .” I didn't think I was out of control. Of course that's precisely what happens with everybody who becomes a drunk. You just don't know when it happens. You cross over the line, and in my case one day while I was looking the other way I became an alcoholic. It took me a long time to recognize that monumental but simple fact.

It's not incidental that around this time I became very good friends with Maureen Stapleton. She was certainly one of the all-time great actresses, and I liked and respected her very much, but we also understood each other on yet another level, because we both had major drinking problems.

The basis of our friendship resided in my profound respect for her brilliant talent. In fact, when I was rehearsing
Flahooley
and was completely clueless about acting, our director, Daniel Mann, had told me, “If you really want to see the finest acting around, go see Maureen Stapleton in
The Rose Tattoo
.” I had never witnessed anything like it. It all welled up out of her—though I bet she would not have been a great teacher. She'd have that same reaction I have about sense memory for my singing: “Why don't other people just do this?” In fact, when our mutual good friend the actor Bill MacIntyre once asked Maureen about her technique, she took the Spencer Tracy approach in answering the question: “Learn the lines and don't bump into the furniture.” Billy believed she really didn't know how it all flowed out of her. It was pure brilliance, based on impeccable instincts.

Maureen cared intensely about her work, to the point where shortly before she would go onstage each night she would throw up from nerves; she wanted to make sure that her performance was as good as she could possibly make it, that she gave her all. The fear that she wouldn't measure up drove her.

It didn't matter whether the play or movie itself was good—Maureen always was. I recently happened to watch the movie
Airport
, and even in the midst of that not-so-great film she delivers a characterization that starts down at her toes. It's like it comes up from the earth—textured, deep, and instinctive.

But back in the late 1960s, we shared a joint overreliance on alcohol. I remember meeting her on the street one day, and saying, “Maureen, you know something . . . I think I've got it figured out. You just drink wine. You only drink wine.” And I meant it—just drink white wine and you'll be okay. Maureen looked at me and said, “Barbara, do you know how much wine you can drink?!”

Oh God, she was such a funny woman. Here are some of my favorite gems from the wit and wisdom of Maureen Stapleton:

—She had just broken up with some guy and was very upset, drowning her sorrows with a friend at Sardi's. It got later and later, until only the waiters and Maureen's table were left. Desperate to go home, her waiter came over and asked, “Will there be anything else, Miss Stapleton?” Maureen looked up and said, “How about a mercy fuck?”

—At some point she needed to be in London to do a play and because she was terrified of flying, she planned to take a ship. She was talking to Carol Lawrence about this trip and Carol said, “Maureen, don't be ridiculous. Fly Air France. You'll be there in no time at all and you'll have a wonderful time on the way. As soon as you're seated, they'll hand you a cocktail, then Champagne with a great meal, and after you've finished eating, a delicious digestif. Don't be silly, just fly Air France.” Maureen looked at Carol and said, “Honey, I wouldn't fly Air Christ!”

I'd go out at night with friends, drink to excess, and be lucky to escape without serious injury. The night I remember most clearly? I was out with a group of friends and we were traveling from one party to another. I was packed into a car with a lot of other people, and Farley Granger was following us on a motorcycle. We stopped for a red light and I opened the door—I told myself it'd be easier to talk to him that way. Well, the next thing I knew, I had tumbled out of the car and into the middle of the street. Drunk out of my mind and laughing all the way. Not so funny.

I was still working at this point and in 1964 I played
The Unsinkable Molly Brown
for two weeks in stock. Meredith Willson had written a great score, and back in 1960 he had called me in to audition when Tammy Grimes, who was playing Molly, was having
trouble with her voice. My audition was sensational, and Meredith was ecstatic. Dore Schary, the director, told me it was the best audition he'd ever seen. However, the producers, Lawrence Langner and Armina Marshall, said Tammy had an ironclad contract and it would cost them too much to break it. The talk of my taking on the role went no further. Tammy was absolutely wonderful as Molly, but oh, how I wish I had been the one to open that show on Broadway. It would have put my career on a whole different level. Of course, I am forever grateful for the wonderful shows I did do, but I was never the “big cheese.” I was never “The Music Man” or “Molly Brown.”

Things were turning sour between David and me, and as our problems began to seem insurmountable, I took to asking myself exactly why I had chosen him in the first place. I actually think I chose him because I knew he would never leave me like my father had. I didn't realize this at the time, of course, but now, after approximately fifteen thousand years of therapy I do.

In February of 1965, I took over the lead in the Broadway play
Any Wednesday
when Sandy Dennis left. It was rewarding to be accepted as a dramatic actress in a straight play. Because I sang well, there was always a tendency to give me short shrift as an actress, which is often true for singing actors. When people expressed surprise at my acting, I always wanted to say, “What the hell do you think I was doing all those years between songs?” The truth is, however, that I missed the music. I missed the excitement of hearing an overture. And I really missed singing.

As it was, however, when I found out I was being hired for a big hit like
Any Wednesday
and realized I'd have a nice long run with money coming in, I knew now was the time to finally leave David. We separated in 1965, when Adam was five. Just as I knew
would happen, when we stood in the driveway of our house in Port Washington on that last day of our living together as husband and wife, I was the one who had to walk away. When I explained to Adam what was happening, that his father and I would be living separately but that he would still see his father, Adam cried. Just once. He curled up in my lap, cried over losing his father, and then stopped.

Adam and I moved out of our house in Port Washington into a beautiful penthouse apartment in Manhattan. Thinking now about that time, I remember the butterflies in my stomach—the fear—the oddness of not having anyone by my side to depend on. It was all up to me. I had always brought the money in, but David had been so dependable—“The Rock.” My uncertainty was compounded by the fact that throughout all of this time I was drinking too much. I never drank before I worked—that would have scared the hell out of me. I saved my drinking for after the show, but it began to take a real toll. I grew so irrational that I developed a genuine fear that someone in the audience was going to shoot me while I was onstage. I had become afraid of the audience.

My mother, of course, was still on the scene, and still as difficult as ever. Right after I moved back into Manhattan, she offered to come over and look after Adam while I continued to unpack boxes. My mother was a terrific baker—in fact when we lived in Atlanta she would bake Christmas cakes for people in order to earn extra money—so when she suggested that she and Adam make a cake together I loved the idea. This, I thought, is a great Norman Rockwell moment. Adam loved helping both his father and me whenever we were cooking, and he went happily off to the kitchen with his grandmother. About fifteen minutes later he came wailing out of the kitchen:

“Mommy, Mommy, Grandmother won't let me stir the cake.”

I went in to see what was going on, only to be greeted by my mother screaming, “He wants to stir the cake to the left. The cake must be stirred to the right!” My mother was screaming like a banshee over how her five-year-old grandson was stirring cake batter in the wrong direction . . . Adam adored his grandmother, and she became especially important to him after my marriage to David disintegrated, yet she thought nothing of saying in front of him, “I'm through with New York! I'm moving to London.” Adam was devastated, and far too young to understand that she had no intention of doing any such thing.

As we grow up, and older, we have to face the facts that our parents are flawed human beings just like the rest of us. It has taken me years to acknowledge the fact that both my mother and my father, for different reasons, led tragic lives. After my father's severe stroke in 1952 he was never able to work again. He lived on, sometimes very happily, until he died at the age of sixty-nine, but his life was never easy. It's sobering for me to grasp that I have already outlived my father by nearly twenty years, and to realize that after he left my mother, even his second marriage was difficult. His wife, Dot, was a severe alcoholic, the kind who will drink shoe polish if that's all she can find. She finally died of alcoholism, but she was a nice woman and I always liked her. Right after she married my father she gave me a lovely little bracelet, perfect for a young girl: a little gold bracelet with tiny blue forget-me-nots on it. I adored it. It was missing one day, and when my mother saw me searching frantically for it, she told me that she had thrown it away. She owned me, right? She could do anything she wanted, either with me or with things that belonged to me—we were one, weren't we?

When David and I finally parted, he was not only free from this consistent strife with my mother, but also seemed to have been unshackled in some way. At first he was living in a grungy little room, but once he started advertising his classes he began making good money, which allowed him to find a really nice place to live, a very attractive apartment. He even hired a decorator, in essence finally giving himself permission to
have
.

I was still appearing on television during these years, and sang several times on Perry Como's popular television show between 1963 and 1965. Perry could be difficult with people, because he liked to keep everyone off balance, but I had no problems with him at all. However, singing a duet with Perry was not easy, because he sang so softly that I had to make an effort to keep my volume down in order to blend with him. Of course that soft relaxed style of his was made for television; the camera and microphone picked up the slightest gesture and inflection, and “Mr. C” was a welcome guest in living rooms across America.

It was around this time—1966, to be precise—that I experienced the first of what would, unfortunately, be many debilitating panic attacks. There was no warning sign about that first attack—it just appeared like a bolt out of the blue. My divorce had just been finalized and I was playing at Lincoln Center's New York State Theater in
Show Boat
. The panic attack was not related to the show because I really enjoyed playing Magnolia and singing that magnificent Kern and Hammerstein score. The notices were very good, and in truth the only trouble I had on the show was with my leading man, Stephen Douglass. Stephen was a very good-looking man and his singing was fine, but his acting was not. Our scenes dragged where they should have popped, and I began to resent him. It wasn't his fault—he just wasn't up to the demands of the role.

That conflict aside,
Show Boat
proved to be a first-rate experience, but when I think about the show now I still think about that first panic attack. I was in the midst of a really difficult time with Arthur, and, knowing deep down that we were not going to be permanently together, I went on a first date with another man—a very nice guy. We went to the Ginger Man restaurant, but before we ordered, I said to him, “You know, I just can't get enough air in here. Can we go outside for a moment? I'm having trouble breathing.” We stood for a minute outside, but it only got worse, and I said, “I'm sorry, I'm so embarrassed, but I really think I have to go home. I feel terrible.” A few moments after we got in a taxi, I said, “I'm afraid you'll have to take me to the hospital. I have a pain running down my arm and I think I'm having a heart attack.”

We went to the ER and the intern on duty told me, “You're okay. You've having a panic attack.” He gave me a tranquilizer. I then called my therapist and said I needed to see him immediately. My date then took me to my doctor and waited while we had a little session before taking me home. What a fun date for that poor man. He was extremely nice, but this did not exactly bode well for any great relationship ahead.

What made the attacks even more frightening was that I could never figure out a trigger. It wasn't performance anxiety. No, I could be sitting watching television or reading the paper and the attack would just whack me. I didn't see any help out there, because back when this was happening to me, people didn't talk about problems like this. Now there are books about it in every bookstore, but at the time I really didn't understand what was happening.