Behind the Candelabra

by Scott Thorson

  Lee had driven me to the airport in his piano-key station wagon, looking like someone who’d slept ten hours instead of five. Before my flight was called he removed a diamond ring from his own hand and placed it in mine. Then he gave me three crisp hundred-dollar bills. He winked and said, “I want to be sure you come back. I have a feeling we’re going to be very good for each other.”

  I dreaded breaking the news to the Carracappa family, whom I’d been living with for the last few months. They were genuinely good people and they’d always had my best interests at heart, ever since the first time I’d stayed with them when I was seven or eight. But I was eighteen and legally of age. I no longer needed anyone’s approval when it came to what I wanted to do with my life.

  As I feared, my new plans horrified Joe and Rose Carracappa. “You’ll be making a big mistake,” Joe said sternly. “I worked for that old fag in his Hollywood house a few years ago and it’s not a fit place for a young man.”

  “You don’t know him like I do,” I replied, remembering how lost and unhappy Liberace had seemed the night before. The more Joe and Rose argued against my going, the more determined I was to leave. Like most young adults, I felt certain I knew what was best for me. The Carracappas, who had no legal hold over me, finally gave in. I would go with their love if not their blessings.

  The next day I returned to Vegas, Lee’s ring on my finger and his three hundred dollars nestled like a talisman in my wallet. The argument with my foster family had solidified my resolve, my feeling that I’d made the right decision. Lee and Carlucci met me at the airport and I took it as my due, not realizing that Lee never met arriving guests. To my surprise, Carlucci seemed even happier to see me than Lee.

  When we arrived at the house Jerry was there, looking upset. I’d been hoping he’d be gone before I arrived. The incredibly awkward situation I’d gotten myself into finally hit me. I’d be sharing the house with Lee’s former companion, a man who saw me as his replacement and had every reason to hate me. The optimism that had shielded me from my foster parents’ concern disappeared instantly. Jerry was a handsome, dark-haired man about ten years my senior with a mature, powerfully muscled body. The expression on his face told me he resented my presence. In the coming weeks I would find out how much.

  Lee and I hadn’t talked about where I’d live in the mansion but Carlucci, obviously acting under his master’s orders, carried my bags down the hall that led to Lee’s bedroom. I hadn’t bargained for that. Although I expected to share Lee’s bed when he wanted me, I thought I’d at least have the privacy of sleeping in my own room.

  Lee had his arm around my shoulders as we walked through the double doors. “I’m so happy you’re here,” he said. “Just seeing you makes me feel better.” A sweeping gesture of his hand encompassed the room. “From now on, I want you to feel this is your home.”

  Home. My home, I thought, testing the words in my mind. Except for those months at the Brummets’, I’d never felt I had a home. I suspected there’d be a price to pay for this one, but I was smart enough to realize that everything worth having had its price.

  The next weeks revealed how large the price would be. Liberace kept a very strange household. Carlucci seemed to be in charge of every phase of his master’s private life. He monitored Lee’s spending, his intake of food and drink. He laid out his clothes in the morning, ran his bath, and even tucked him into bed at night, oblivious of my being in the bed too. Although Lee took Carlucci’s ministrations for granted, it startled the hell out of me that first night when Carlucci walked into the bedroom. Acting as if I wasn’t there, he fussed with the bedcovers, making sure Lee was comfortable and had everything he needed.

  “Does he do that every night?” I asked after Carlucci left the room.

  “Sure,” Lee replied, as if Carlucci’s actions were perfectly ordinary. With Carlucci in the house, Lee and I had no privacy. We only escaped his mothering when we left the house to go shopping or go to the Hilton where Lee was appearing nightly. Shortly after my arrival Jerry’s valet moved into the spare bedroom with him. Having the two of them in the house kept me on edge. Passing me in the hall, they’d glower and shoulder me aside, seeming to take what I felt to be delight in intimidating me. Before long I found myself believing every word Lee said about Jerry. During the weeks that we lived under the same roof, Jerry acted like a monster as far as I was concerned. Much later, I realized that unhappiness motivated his actions. Lee had hurt Jerry the way he would one day hurt me.

  Four years earlier Lee had discovered Jerry in New York. Jerry was playing in a piano bar at night and, according to Lee, driving a diaper-service truck during the day to support his wife and children. Lee was instantly smitten with Jerry’s dark, sultry good looks and his talent. The fact that Jerry was married and a father did not deter Lee or even give him pause. He wanted Jerry to be in his act, and once Lee decided he wanted anything, his pursuit was relentless.

  Lee offered Jerry a lucrative contract, a chance to appear in the best clubs, to be featured in Lee’s shows. All he had to do in return was leave his wife and children at home while the show toured. For an aspiring entertainer an opportunity like that comes once in a lifetime, if at all. I guess Jerry couldn’t turn down a chance to make more money than he’d ever made, a chance to become a star. Lee used his money, his fame, his success, to sweeten the deal. Early in their relationship Jerry’s wife came west to try to save her marriage. Lee, still smarting years later from what he perceived as a rejection, was outraged because Jerry actually had the nerve to sleep with his wife.

  Poor, naïve Mrs. O’Rourke didn’t stand a chance of keeping her husband. She couldn’t match what Lee had to offer—a chance at fame and fortune. Lee could really turn on the charm. Most of the time he reserved those high-voltage performances for the stage, where he literally wooed his audiences. When wooing a potential companion, he oozed the same potent appeal. Lee was one of those people who knew he could buy affection, or at least a reasonable facsimile. Potential protégés were inundated with costly gifts—cars, furs, jewels. Lee left no dollar unspent to get what he wanted.

  But I didn’t know all that during my first weeks in Vegas. All I knew was that Jerry scared the hell out of me. I found myself in an untenable situation that I was totally unequipped to handle. By the time I’d been with Lee for a month I felt certain that moving in had been the mistake of my life. I couldn’t stand the lifestyle of the other men in the house. Like most guys my age, gay or straight, I’d had a few lovers. But, at eighteen, I wasn’t sophisticated. During the brief periods I’d spent in northern California, I’d been disgusted with the promiscuity I saw in the gay community. To see similar behavior in Lee’s home made me sick because I was getting to know Lee as a very sweet guy, a real homebody who doted on his dogs; a man who loved to putter around the house, to cook, to shop, to spend quiet days at home. Despite the glitzy, overdone decor, Lee had a real gift for creating a warm, comfortable home. And he went out of his way to make me feel at ease in it.

  But I couldn’t deal with the pressure of living under the same roof with Jerry and his roommate, dealing with what I took to be Carlucci’s interference. Late one night when Lee was relaxing in the Jacuzzi, unwinding from his performance, I told him I’d be leaving. “I’m terribly sorry,” I said, “but this has been a mistake. I just can’t take your lifestyle. Carlucci’s always watching me. Jerry dislikes me. I feel like I have to watch my step every minute when he’s in the house. It’s not up to me to tell you how to live. But I can’t take it here.”

  “Then I’ve failed you,” Lee said, beginning to weep loudly. “Your happiness means more to me than anything in the world, Scott—more than my own. The first time I saw you, when Black brought you backstage, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I felt something grabbing my guts, something that said this kid is one in a million. It killed me, those two weeks hoping and praying you’d call. And when you did, I can’t tell you how happy it made me. You see, Scott, I love you.”r />
  I gulped. That was the first time in my entire life that someone had said, “I love you.” When I was little I used to imagine my mother taking me in her arms, hugging and kissing me, and saying she loved me. But it had never happened. Not with her and not with anyone else.

  “I love you, Scott,” Lee repeated. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if I could trust him, didn’t know how to react. But something inside me that had been frozen for a long time began to thaw.

  9

  Lee spoiled me, just as he undoubtedly spoiled his previous lovers. Although I hoped he’d ask Jerry to move out, that didn’t happen. As a substitute for meaningful action, Lee sent me flowers daily. My tiniest whim was his command—clothes, jewelry—and all I had to do was admire something and it was mine. He even cleaned up after the dogs when they had an accident, a job that would be mine as soon as the “honeymoon” ended.

  Our sexual relationship caused problems from the beginning. I’d completely underestimated Lee’s sex drive. He may have been over the hill but he wanted sexual encounters as couple of times a day. Ironically, he often had physical difficulty in fulfilling his desire. Lee used amyl nitrite as a stimulant, to heighten his sexual experiences, and he urged me to use it too. Amyl nitrite comes in little ampoules or “poppers,” like smelling salt, and it has an odor like rotten eggs. On Lee’s insistence I tried it once, hated the smell, and refused it from then on. Lee continued to use it heavily, but he stopped asking me to join him. In our first months together he cared about me enough to put my feelings and wishes ahead of his own.

  He showered me with affection and presents. But the gift of his love proved more seductive than anything else. In the end I couldn’t resist it. The night he confessed that he loved me, I’d already started caring for him. When we left for Tahoe a few weeks later, I’d learned to love him. It was the last thing in the world I’d expected to happen. I’d made a bargain with Lee, a deal for sex and companionship in exchange for financial security; and I’d done it with my eyes open. Now, for the first time in my life, I stopped worrying about my future and my welfare and concentrated on someone else’s happiness. Although Lee was forty years my senior, there were times when he seemed like a lost soul. I made up my mind to devote myself to him, to make him laugh, to lighten all his burdens—lofty plans, but typical I guess for an eighteen-year-old with his head in the clouds. At the time I didn’t realize how difficult a task I’d set myself, or how many people would bitterly resent my attempting it. But I soon learned that Jerry wasn’t the only person who would be unhappy with my role in Lee’s life.

  Lee had a three-week booking at the Sahara Tahoe and he always took his entourage on such trips. It was my first opportunity to meet the group Lee called “his people.” He introduced me around and made certain they understood how important I was to him. The most influential of them all was Seymour Heller, who worked through AVI (American Variety International) as Lee’s West Coast agent and manager. Heller was a small man in his mid-fifties, balding, with a permanent frown etched on his face. When we met at the airport he gave me what I took to be a cold, appraising look before congratulating me on joining Lee’s organization.

  Heller was one of Lee’s few close heterosexual associates. He did a marvelous job of pretending that the young men who moved in and out of Lee’s life were employees rather than sexual partners. Lee helped the deception by putting his lovers on his payroll, giving them jobs and titles. During my years with him I was variously described as a chauffeur, bodyguard, and secretary-companion. My predecessors had been called valets, protégés, yard boys, or houseboys, depending on their individual talents. Some, like me, wound up in the act.

  It struck me that Heller was jealous of his privileged, influential position in the Liberace camp. His thirty-year employment had been interrupted only once, in the early sixties, when, according to Lee, Angie had temporarily taken over his job. The experience must have made Heller insecure. Businesslike and pragmatic, Heller made the ideal foil for Lee. Heller played hardball when negotiating contracts, while Lee played the smiling, agreeable, “anything goes” entertainer.

  But when he carried his role too far Lee admonished him, saying, “Put the hatchet away, Seymour!”

  Ray Arnett, Lee’s production manager, was Heller’s opposite, a jovial pixie liked by everyone. I felt as comfortable in his company as I felt uncomfortable around Heller. Arnett was also part of Lee’s old guard. After joining the act in the fifties he’d quickly become indispensable. Arnett was a real talent with the imagination and flair of a Busby Berkeley. He and Lee made a terrific team. Between them, they dreamed up the outrageous ideas that audiences had come to expect of a Liberace show, and then Arnett saw to their staging.

  Lee played a variety of dates, from the luxurious rooms of Vegas, Tahoe, and Miami Beach to theaters in the round and enormous stadiums. Arnett was in charge of tailoring the act to suit each site, choosing the props that would work within the physical limitations of the differing locations. Well-equipped stages like those at the Hilton or the Sahara got the full Liberace treatment, from the mirrored Rolls to the “dancing waters” and the Chinese Acrobats. Theaters in the round got a streamlined version of the act. When Lee played stadiums with limited facilities he simply used a piano, a candelabra, and a couple of costume changes, just like the old days.

  Arnett functioned as a focal point for Liberace’s entourage and he handled his taxing, multifaceted job with dedication and good humor. He was completely devoted to Lee and described him as the easiest of bosses, a man who seldom lost his temper or threw his weight around. Lee knew mishaps could derail the best plans and he never complained when things went awry. On the road, he was a total professional, as undemanding and hardworking as any neophyte performer. Arnett backed and supported Lee all the way, reflecting Lee’s style and grace as a performer.

  Liberace’s musical support group consisted of Bo Ayars, his conductor; Chuck Hughes, the drummer; and Ralph Enrico, who played bass and guitar. These three men, all heterosexual, were never admitted into Lee’s inner circle. The entourage also included Lee’s dresser; Jerry’s dresser; and Jerry himself, whom I’d come to regard as a major problem. In the past Jerry had always traveled with Lee in first class. After my appearance he was relegated to flying coach with the musicians and dressers. It didn’t improve his attitude.

  Others who worked for Lee on a regular basis but didn’t travel with him included his attorney, Joel Strote, a relative newcomer to Lee’s employ; Lucille Cunningham, his accountant; Bob Lindner, who designed Lee’s jewelry; Anna Nateece, his furrier; and Michael Travis, who made his costumes. In addition, Lee kept domestic staffs in each of his several homes.

  Lee played the Sahara Tahoe for several weeks every year. During our stay we lived in the hotel’s “entertainment house,” the luxurious quarters the Sahara kept for VIPs, complete with a chef and housekeeper. The rest of the entourage stayed in the hotel proper. When we were alone, free from the dual burdens of Jerry’s anger and Carlucci’s interference, I got to know a new and thoroughly delightful Lee, a man with a corny sense of humor who loved to be teased, to have me make fun of his superior status. At night when he prepared for his performance, I joked that he was better dressed than Queen Elizabeth.

  “But I am an old queen,” he quipped back. Lee had a good sense of humor and could tell off-color jokes by the hour.

  Our quarters overlooked the lake and we spent many quiet, relaxed hours on the patio. Lee would sit staring at me, just as he had when we first met. It made me uneasy until he explained that he couldn’t get enough of looking at me. “I’m memorizing your face,” he said, “so I can picture it perfectly when we’re not together.”

  Lee needn’t have bothered: we were together all the time. Afternoons we sailed Lake Tahoe’s beautiful turquoise waters. During those early autumn weeks we shared everything, exchanging information about our unhappy childhoods as well as talking
about our hopes for the future. Lee said he wanted to make me a part of the act, having me drive the cars he used for his entrances and exits. “I want you with me all the time,” he said, “onstage and off.”

  He spoke of his love for children and how saddened he was at never having his own. He even talked about adopting me, a topic that he’d bring up many times in the years to come. “I want to be everything to you,” Lee said, “father, brother, lover, best friend.”

  If I so much as frowned, he would be by my side instantly, asking what was wrong. He had an even temperament while I was a little like my mother, unhappy one minute and smiling the next. If I seemed at all dissatisfied Lee said, “Please don’t be depressed. When you’re sad I’m sad.”

  It was overwhelming stuff for a kid who’d spent his life unwanted by anyone. I loved Lee for caring that much. He filled an enormous void in my life. When he asked me to cut all my ties with the past, I did it gladly. I’d have done anything in the world to make him happy.

  Lee and I discovered a mutual love of cooking. He planned all our menus and, when we had time, dismissed the chef so we could prepare our own meals. Lee liked simple food made with the best ingredients. He taught me to make a killer of a spaghetti sauce that included Italian sausage that he made himself. I still make the sauce for my friends today.

  Basically, despite the glitz of his lifestyle, Lee was just an ordinary guy who enjoyed everyday pleasures. He was a big movie fan who liked to relax in front of the television with a big bowl of popcorn. In Tahoe he screened many of his television shows for me, laughing when I thoughtlessly commented on how the years had changed him. “You make me young again,” he said happily.