Few screen stars ever achieve Lee’s international acclaim. At the beginning of the 1980s he stood at the pinnacle of his profession. He’d become the highest paid, best-known entertainer in the world—truly the greatest showman on earth. An outsider might have concluded that he’d long since fulfilled all his dreams. In fact, Lee still had two unfulfilled ambitions.
He wanted to play Radio City Music Hall. His desire had been born in his youth and fueled by the year and a half of performances when the Rockettes had been part of his own act. In 1979, when I first suggested using them, we’d flown to New York to discuss the idea with the Rockettes’ management at the Music Hall. During the negotiations we were given a tour of the stage, one of the biggest and most elaborate in Lee’s experience. It fired his imagination.
There were elevators to lift or lower props or pieces of the set from stage level, the most fantastic lighting, a pit that held a full orchestra. Lee’s face glowed with barely contained excitement as it did whenever he got a new and exciting idea for his act. It was there that he and Michael Travis got the idea of having Lee make an entrance wearing an enormous cape that could later serve as the stage’s back curtain—the costume he would eventually plan to wear in 1987. Lee could picture himself doing the show of his lifetime in that historic theater in the future.
“It would be totally outrageous,” he said, giving the place the highest praise he could imagine. Lee met with Radio City Music Hall’s management, talking at length to choreographer Violet Holmes about his ideas. But, back in 1979, with the European tour and the Mexican trips in the offing, plus his usual calendar of American bookings, Lee had to set aside the idea of working the Music Hall.
Most of his people breathed a sigh of relief. Lee’s act was dynamite in front of the relatively unsophisticated audiences he encountered in places like Vegas or Sparks or Hershey, but not even his most ardent admirer believed he had what it took to conquer New York. No one seemed more anxious to see Lee abandon the dream of a Radio City appearance than Seymour Heller, who remained convinced that cosmopolitan Broadway theatergoers wouldn’t appreciate Lee. Even Ray Arnett, ordinarily one of Lee’s staunchest supporters, thought Lee would be running a risk if he chose to go through with his plan. Their objections seemed unfounded in view of the fact that Lee had played to standing-room audiences at Carnegie Hall early in his career, and had set an attendance record of sixteen thousand back in 1954 when he appeared at Madison Square Garden.
Lee’s second unfulfilled ambition was to be an actor—a movie star. That desire had been reinforced by the years he’d lived in Hollywood, years when he failed to get the film industry to take him seriously. Deep down inside, he felt he’d be a standout playing character roles. Lee made his screen debut in the 1950s, playing a honky-tonk pianist in South Seas Sinner starring Shelley Winters. Then, in 1955, in the midst of the “white heat” period, he’d played the romantic lead in Sincerely Yours, a film created solely to showcase his talents. In 1965 in The Loved One he played a coffin salesman with oily charm. Lee was wonderful in the part and hoped it would lead to others. His pride was injured when he continued to be ignored by producers and directors. He hated feeling like a failure in films.
When his movies played on late-night television we would perform a silly ritual. The moment the credits appeared I’d say, “Dim the lights, low-key lighting please.”
Lee would grin happily as his image appeared on screen. He’d make an expansive gesture and say, “Oh, look—a star!”
That, he confessed, was what he really wanted to be, a movie star. He enjoyed great triumphs as a live entertainer, earning a series of prestigious awards including six gold albums and two Emmys, as well as mention in the Guinness Book of Records for being the world’s highest paid pianist. But Hollywood had denied him the recognition he craved. Lee still hoped to appear at the Academy Awards someday, as a presenter or performer if not as a nominee.
Now that Lee is gone I have one last dream for him myself. Today I live in West Hollywood, just blocks from Lee’s former house on Herold Way. Hollywood Boulevard and the Walk of Fame are an easy stroll from my front door. Not a week goes by without some performer being immortalized by placement of a star bearing his or her name on the Walk of Fame. Many of the recipients are famous for their music or their stage work rather than their films and many of them are less than household names. In view of Lee’s long reign as the leading showman of his day, of the fact that millions of fans throughout the world recognized his unique talent, it would be appropriate to have him recognized by Hollywood too. Surely on all those blocks of Hollywood Boulevard there is a place for a star bearing the name Liberace.
20
Lee’s relationship with his family, and particularly his mother, played counterpoint to the life he and I shared. Frances was always there, a source of worry, occasional aggravation, and financial drain for Lee. With his staunch belief in duty to his mother, he couldn’t ignore her—no matter how much he might have wanted to from time to time. During our early years he had her safely tucked away in Palm Springs and we saw her only during our stays at the Cloisters.
I never understood his reluctance to spend time with his mother. In my opinion she was a beautiful old lady with twinkling blue eyes that lit up whenever she saw her son; I would have been proud to call her grandmother. Frances Liberace seemed to come alive in Lee’s presence and, according to her nurse’s reports, really faded away when he wasn’t around. Although Lee didn’t give Frances as much time as she would have liked, she never lacked for any material comfort, including a luxurious home, furs and jewels, and round-the-clock care as her health began to fail. Lee took great pains to ensure that his mother had the best of everything.
But his mother didn’t see it that way. In her book the best of everything was Lee himself; she wanted to live near him, to see him daily instead of occasionally. Even in her late eighties Frances was still a sharp, determined woman who knew how to get what she wanted: in this case, to spend her final years with her favorite child.
Sometime in late 1979 Lee began to get reports that his mother did not have long to live. During our visit Frances made it apparent that she felt lonely, forgotten, ignored by the only person she really cared about. “All I need,” she told Lee emphatically, “is to be near you and I know I’ll feel better.”
In her sweet way, Frances Liberace managed to maneuver her son between a rock and a hard place. “What can I do?” he asked me. “Tell my mother that I don’t want her living anyplace near me?” She’d raised him to respect his elders, to honor their wishes. The habit was deeply ingrained. Although Lee was sixty, his mother was still capable of getting him to do what she wanted. She knew exactly how to manipulate him. In her own quiet way Frances made Lee feel he’d condemned her to a slow decline by leaving her in Palm Springs.
He felt he’d had no choice but to move her to Vegas, the city that served as his home base. I sat in on all the discussions and arrangements, wishing that I could handle Lee as skillfully as his mother did. She played him even better than he played the piano. It didn’t take her long to get what she wanted. I’m not denying that Frances was frail; but she used her frailty. When our visit ended I knew I’d witnessed a masterly performance. Apparently Lee had inherited his acting skills and his ability to manipulate people from his mother. They both loved to play Camille.
Before we left Palm Springs, Lee arranged to move his mother to the White House, the home he still owned in Vegas. In the past he’d rented it to people such as Diana Ross or heavyweight champion Larry Holmes. For the next few months it would be occupied by Frances and her nurses. The house was always kept immaculate and ready for immediate occupancy. Best of all from Frances’s viewpoint, it was only five minutes away from Lee’s own home.
Frances made a trip to Vegas in a limousine, accompanied by her own nurses and a doctor. Predictably, after a couple of weeks in Vegas Frances declared that she felt much better. Being near her beloved son was the tonic she needed to
make the rest of her life worth living. It was obvious to me that he was her whole world, that seeing him daily really did make her feel better. We began a routine of stopping by her home for fifteen minutes every evening on our way to do the show. Frances would light up like a neon sign the minute Lee walked in. She’d loved Lee so much; it was sad that he couldn’t love her back with the same intensity.
Lee had a habit of fluttering his fingers against any available surface, as if he was playing the piano, when he got nervous. He’d no sooner sit down with his mother than his fingers would start fluttering, and they’d be in constant motion throughout the visit. Their conversations went by rote. “How’re you doing, Ma?” Lee would ask. “Are you feeling good? Are the nurses treating you well? Do you need anything?” Day after day, he always asked her the same questions and, when he’d finished and she’d answered, they didn’t seem to have anything more to say to each other. It was kind of pathetic. They were mother and son, in the final years of their lives together, but they didn’t know how to communicate.
Strangely enough, Frances seemed utterly unconcerned by my presence in her son’s life. She knew we lived together, went everywhere together; she may even have suspected that we shared a bed. But, like Lee, she had an extraordinary ability to close her mind to anything that might have been unpleasant. She always greeted me warmly, with the same welcoming embrace she gave her son. It was impossible not to return her affection. If Frances liked you, she could be the warmest, sweetest person.
Frances never made a secret of her feelings. She complained bitterly about her nurses, who never seemed to able to please her no matter how hard they tried. If she didn’t like someone she had a habit of hissing at them through closed lips while throwing up her arms in an almost defensive gesture. Much to my embarrassment, Joel Strote, who had known her for years, used to walk up to her to give her a hug, only to be greeted with that funny hiss and her up-thrown arms.
Gladys was one of Frances’s favorite people. But even Gladys felt the sting of the old lady’s tongue. One night when Frances had joined us at the Shirley Street house for dinner, Gladys made one of Lee’s favorite meat loaves. When Frances saw what her son was being served, she turned to Gladys in outraged fury, saying, “I can’t believe my son is going to have to eat meat loaf when the Blacks in Watts are eating steak!”
It was an outrageous remark, especially when directed at someone as loyal and devoted as Gladys, but then, Frances Liberace could be a completely outrageous person. Gladys, who was often left in charge of caring for her when Lee and I were out of town, was clearly upset. Fortunately, she was a wonderful woman with a tremendous capacity for forgiving arid forgetting.
While Frances lived in Vegas, Lee often asked me to take her to the Hilton so she could gamble. How she loved the slot machines! She may have been frail and old but she could spend five or six hours playing the slots. When she was feeling well I’d pick her up in the piano-key station wagon and drive her down to the Hilton. According to Lee, Barron Hilton was kind enough to have his staff rig certain machines for her so she had the pleasure of winning more than the average tourist.
She also spent a lot of time playing the slots in Lee’s private casino in our house. On those occasions I’d be given the job of rigging them for her. I’ll never forget the day she won so big that there wasn’t enough money in the machine to pay her off. Frances was adamant. She wanted her winnings, all her winnings—then and there. Lee and I ran through the house collecting change from everyone, but we still didn’t have enough for a full payoff. When we went to Frances and explained the problem she looked at Lee, smiled her sweetest, and said, “That’s all right, son. I’ll take a check.”
It was indicative of their relationship that Lee got out his checkbook immediately. That was the kind of control she still exerted over him. We spent half the year in Vegas, doing shows and resting between tours, and while we were there Lee saw his mother briefly every day. He was the world’s most dutiful, if not the most loving son, willing to do anything he could to make her happy, provided it didn’t intrude too deeply into his private life. When it became obvious that the stairs in the White House were too much for her (Frances spent a lot of time in a wheelchair when she wasn’t playing the slots) Lee bought a single-story condominium in the same building where he’d previously purchased a home for George and Dora. The new arrangement seemed to suit Mama Liberace and her hard-pressed nursing staff better. At least we heard fewer complaints in response to Lee’s “How are you, do you need anything?” litany.
Strangely enough, although George and Dora now lived just doors away from Mama, I got the definite impression that I saw more of her than anyone else did. Angie, who was living in California, flew in to visit her mother occasionally. But it always seemed to me that Frances was cold and standoffish toward her other children. It was Lee that she loved and he came first right to the end.
I escorted her to see Lee’s shows once or twice during a three-or four-week Vegas engagement. When she was sitting front row center in the showroom, Lee always made a point of introducing her to the audience. I always joined her after driving Lee onstage. The minute the spotlight headed toward our table Frances would perk up. No matter how poorly she felt she’d sit up straight, looking her regal best by the time the spotlight reached our table. Then she’d wave to the crowd with the royal aplomb of a queen. Clearly, she loved her moments in the limelight, loved being recognized as Liberace’s mother. And I know he valued the opportunity to show her off. She’d become an intrinsic part of his image. How could anyone say or think anything bad about a grown man who took such devoted care of his mother? Who would suspect that the young man sitting next to her, in this case me, was really Liberace’s lover? Frances was the perfect cover for our true relationship.
Frances rarely came backstage to visit, and she never commented on Lee’s performance although we sat through many of them together. In fact, during her final years she was a somewhat silent lady who seemed to have a problem communicating verbally. But she effectively used gestures and facial expressions to convey her mood. A lot of things may have displeased her. But never Lee.
Being in Vegas and seeing her son every day did give Frances Liberace a new lease on life, but it proved to be a short one. By 1980 her stamina had decreased markedly. Clearly, her days were numbered. Lee, who’d always been uncomfortable during their visits, became even more nervous around her. He’d walk into her room, give her an obligatory hug, and spend the rest of the visit looking anyplace but at Frances. I think it was his way of blocking out the reality of her imminent death.
He’d gotten used to having his wealth and power shield him from life’s unpleasant realities. If he couldn’t buy his way out of a problem he used someone on the payroll, usually Seymour Heller, to deal with it. But no amount of money could prevent eighty-nine-year-old Frances Liberace from dying.
In view of his emotional distance from his mother, I thought Lee would have no trouble dealing with her imminent death. But he couldn’t handle it at all. Instead, he ignored the situation. He didn’t change his schedule to reflect his mother’s now seriously declining physical condition. In fact, we were in Hollywood on vacation, staying in the penthouse, when we received word that Frances had died.
“Let me talk to my brother,” Angie said abruptly when she called to give Lee the news. Angie was often abrupt with me so I didn’t think anything of it.
As Lee spoke to his sister he gasped and shrank back, as though he were trying to avoid an unexpected blow. “When did it happen?” he asked.
Within seconds, he’d regained full control of himself. After hanging up Lee turned to me and told me Frances was gone. Tears filled my eyes but Lee, although he looked shaken, remained dry eyed. The first thing he did was to pick up the phone and call Seymour Heller to ask him to put an obituary in the appropriate newspapers. He returned to Vegas early the next day to make the funeral arrangements.
Lee played the dutiful son to the end. He picke
d out his mother’s coffin—pink because it was her favorite color—had her properly laid out and prepared for burial, called Forest Lawn in Los Angeles where he’d purchased what was to be the family mausoleum, and made all the plans for the interment. It was a busy day and he wanted me by his side, giving what little support I had to offer, while he made those painful decisions. Lee, who had such an even-tempered disposition, showed very few signs of the stress he was under as he prepared his mother’s final farewell. But those fingers of his fluttered nonstop as he played a silent concerto.
The entire family, including Angie, her children and grandchildren, George and Dora, and Rudy’s seldom-seen widow and children, in addition to all of Lee’s people, Lucille Cunningham and her immediate family, the Strotes, Ray Arnett, the members of the band—everyone close to Lee was gathered at Forest Lawn for the funeral. Angie and Lee were stoical throughout the long day but George took his mother’s passing very hard. He wept uncontrollably when he saw the coffin.
All the surviving family members were showing the strain by the time we adjourned to the penthouse after the burial. The old wounds inflicted during their childhood seemed to resurface. Grief, instead of making them closer, seemed to push them apart. George was virtually silent, clutching his wife’s hand. But Angie, obviously distraught, began to boss me around. Lee intervened, saying, “For heaven’s sake, Angie, leave Scott alone. Can’t you see he’s taking Mom’s death as hard as anyone?”
As for Lee himself, he never shed a tear from the first phone call to the gathering after the funeral. He displayed emotion by snapping at people. Consequently, it came as a shock a few months later, when Lee wept buckets over the death of his favorite dog. Babyboy was the little poodle with the eye problem who’d played a part in bringing Lee and me together. Lee was absolutely inconsolable when the dog died of old age. For days afterward he moped around the house, breaking into uncontrollable fits of crying. I thought his heart would break. Seeing his distress, I couldn’t help concluding that Lee loved his dogs more than he loved his family.
Behind the Candelabra Page 18
