Mickey was five or six years older than me and she’d been on her own for quite a while. To her I was just a baby, but she was gentle and understanding about the areas of my emotional immaturity. What she was never going to understand about was the plastic ivy. I couldn’t say I blamed her much, but I probably would have let it go, just to avoid any semblance of a confrontation with my mother. I would have just lived with the ivy and hated it every time I looked at it and wished I could stand up for myself better than I did.
A few days after the ivy incident, we had this letter hand delivered by the chauffeur.
September 23, 1957
Christina dear,
I am enclosing an item from Dorothy Kilgallen’s column tonight. What do you think this makes us sound like?
When you go to school tomorrow, take the dirty blue jeans off, take a bath, and dress properly. Blue jeans are only to be worn when you paint, and not when you leave the house. You must take a bath every day, Christina, and wash you underwear every night - and all of it!
The next sentence and the signature were handwritten, but by Betty Barker, not my mother.)
Dress for Neighborhood Playhouse tomorrow as if you were going to a premiere.
Mommie
The item in Dorothy Kilgallen’s column was some innocuous two-liner about the bed moving incident when I first moved into New York. I don’t know how she found out about it and I don’t know why she chose to print it. It simply said that I’d been seen moving a bed in blue jeans.
As for “What do you think this makes us sound like?” if it hadn’t been so serious on her part, it would have made me laugh. I was just doing the best I could to take care of myself without the benefit of any help from my family and without benefit of any money. I guess it made them sound like just what they were. Maybe that was what really made her so mad.
The item in the column was filler bullshit, drivel, nonsense. It didn’t mean anything, really. It was the kind of stuff that columnists have always done, will continue doing as long as there’s space to be filled in the papers. Of all the people in the entire business, Joan Crawford knew that better than anyone else. It had been her stock in trade for more than thirty years! But when it came to me, she took the attitude that somehow I’d been responsible for making them, particularly her, look bad. That I’d done it all with premeditation, that I’d done it on purpose.
It was useless trying to explain the simple fact that I had to have something to sleep on and that I’d been left without a dollar to my name because she neglected to leave my allowance check with anyone before she blithely took off for Africa! Now that was the truth. If the truth caused her a bit of momentary discomfort, if the truth bruised her carefully manicured public image, if the truth jarred her ego so easily, well then I couldn’t be expected to take the blame.
But that wasn’t her view of it at all. She believed that I had intentionally shamed the movie star and the chairman of the board. She never thought about the rest of it. She never once apologized for her own total lack of concern for my safety or well being. She never once asked me how I’d managed to eat or how I liked sleeping on the floor. All she cared about was how it would look to others … what strangers and the fans might think. At any cost, the image must be maintained intact and that took precedent over the truth any day.
The rest of the letter degenerated into cruelty and insult. It hurt me. When she said things like that, it really hurt me. It was gutter talk without swear words. It was trash from the foul pits of her own mind. It was garbage talk she didn’t have the courage to say to my face. She didn’t even have the courtesy to call me on the phone and discuss it with me. She was living right in New York, less than seven blocks away from me and she didn’t have the guts to talk to me. Instead she dictated these scathing chicken shit notes, and had the chauffeur deliver them. She even had the gall to add the last stupid line about dressing for school like I was going to a premiere, of all things, and make the secretary try to copy her handwriting. It was insanity. It was all just insanity!
I was getting so fed up with all of it. I was getting fed up with having to put up with these insults and tirades against me. She had no right to insult me like this. I had done nothing except try to take care of myself the best I could. She didn’t give a shit about me … all she cared about was herself and her precious image.
I was so mad I didn’t know what to do. I felt like throwing all the furniture right out the window. I felt like smashing the glass-top table into smithereens. I felt like going over to that apartment and punching her right in her dirty mouth.
The pathetic thing about all this is that she was still giving me $117 dollars a month allowance. With that I had to pay half the rent and half the other bills. Of course, it didn’t stretch that far. Of course it meant that I never had any money left for food. Of course it meant that I was always in a chronic state of poverty. If it hadn’t been for Mickey, I would have collapsed from sheer malnutrition. No matter how I pleaded, no matter how many times I explained the numbers, she still persisted in sending a check for $117.00.
Then she had the nerve to criticize me for having the initiative to find a bed to sleep on and the energy to move it, practically alone, so that I wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor. Well, she could take her tirade about the jeans and the stunning edict about going to school dressed for a premiere and shove it!
I showed Mickey the letter. She was appalled and I was in tears. After we talked for a while, I decided not to answer it right away. I figured I’d be sorry later for what I said in anger now. I tried to swallow my rage and all that happened was that I became monstrously depressed again. I didn’t go to school for the next two days. I called in sick and they believed me. I sat in the apartment and stared at the walls. I stared out the window onto the 59th Street bridge and wrote bleak, depressing poetry.
A few days later I finally called her and subserviently apologized for the incident with the blue jeans. I told her it was not intended to do anyone any harm, and I never thought such a trivial thing would make the newspapers.
I did not admire myself for being so weak and not standing up to her, but that was what I did. I was so scared of getting into more trouble when I was still totally dependent on the crumbs she threw me and the miserly allowance I managed to squeeze out of her that I dared not stray very far from subservience. In fact, I was so afraid of doing something wrong, something that would rekindle her wrath that all I did the first couple months I was in New York was walk to and from school. It was like I was still in the convent and prohibited from doing anything but go to school and come directly back to the apartment. I never explored the rest of the city. I never went to the movies. I never took a walk in Central Park. I just tread the trail down First Avenue from 58th to Neighborhood Playhouse … five blocks away.
The entire time I was depressed. I don’t know whether that was from lack of food or whether the entire situation was beginning to be too much for me to handle, but I was continually depressed and feeling helpless.
That weekend she invited me over. Mother didn’t like me to wear pants, particularly when I came to see her. I could never just dress casually and drop by the apartment to visit my own parents. I was supposed to dress nicely and I had to be specifically invited to appear. Mother didn’t like surprises of any kind. She preferred to have life ordered and well arranged. We had to be invited for a visit, arrive at the specific time she indicated would be convenient for her and stay only as long as she decided was appropriate. It was all very formal. It was usually very strained. The conversation revolved around her. What she was doing, how she was feeling, what she was interested in. Most of the time there was also something she wanted that she couldn’t get anyone else to do right away.
October 3, 1957
Tina darling,
I hate to bring up this subject, but I must sit down and go over your wardrobe with you. The other day you looked halfway decent in black, except for that horrible printed blouse. Yesterday I h
ave never seen anything like that brown and white checked skirt, much too tight on you, and that charcoal sweater that Marlon Brando I am sure would have thrown away three years ago.
I know that I have given you many sweater and skirt outfits that are not only matching but have some color and line to them. I know too that probably your winter clothes are still at Carnegie Tech. When are they due to arrive here? If not this week, let me know, and I will send for them by plane, and help you go over your winter wardrobe, and help you pack your summer wardrobe for storage.
If you haven’t any self-respect or pride for yourself, at least try and have it for the family tradition of being well-groomed. I have had several people call me to see if you would go on television, but under no circumstances, unless I supervise the clothes, the questions, and the hair.
Your wardrobe must be gone over before I leave for the Coast Thursday. I am going to get rid of those horrible outfits you have been wearing, and give them to the Salvation Army, but I am afraid not even they will wear them, but they’ll put them to some use.
I love you very much, and you are a very beautiful young woman, but for heaven’s sake, dress from the head down rather than from the lipstick up.
Please call me on this. Let’s not be angry about it. Let’s just discuss it as gal to gal. It’s a very serious matter.
“Mommie”
This letter too was hand delivered by the chauffeur. She didn’t call me on the phone. She preferred the insults to be written. As for the “wardrobe” she referred to, it was a total joke. I had three semi-winter skirts and matching sweaters that she’d given me the year before to go to college. One was black, one was baby blue and the other one was pink. They may have been all right for Southern California or Florida but they were laughable in New York. The rest of the “wardrobe” consisted of cocktail dresses and a couple of dressy suits she’d bought me two years ago when we went to Europe! That was the extent of the supposed wardrobe. Most of it was suitable only for going out to dinner with her. It bore no resemblance to what I needed for school, for cold weather, for the life I led. I had never been allowed to pick any of it, I had never been given any money to buy new winter clothes for this year in New York, I had never been given anything to supplement the few outfits which were technically usable but in which I wouldn’t be caught dead. I’d far rather have looked like “Marlon Brando” than Betty Boop!
She wasn’t offering any money for new clothes. She wasn’t offering to let me go out and choose something more appropriate. She wasn’t offering anything. I wondered seriously where her head was. If she thought about it at all where did she get these ideas? Was it just that they sounded good on paper?
I gave up trying to figure her out a long time ago, but it was getting me totally crazy to have her keep acting like my situation was perfectly normal, that I had all the things I needed to live my life with any kind of sanity and that I was the one who was always fucking up. It was making my whole life seem like some sort of house of mirrors. It was like going into the house of horrors and having things jump out at you. It was just totally nuts and I didn’t seem to be able to do anything about it. I didn’t seem to be able to deal with it in a way that made things get any better. Everything I did just seemed to make it worse.
Unfortunately about this same time, I really made a blunder. The car I’d been given was now in New York with me. The city had alternate side of the street parking regulations, and I had to go through the hassle of finding a parking spot every day before eight in the morning. One night Mickey and I had gone down to the village to hear some friends of hers who were jazz musicians in one of the little clubs. We’d gotten home late and I must have gotten mixed up about which side of the street was correct for the next day, because when I got home from school the damn car was gone! I was in a panic. At first I thought it must have been stolen, but Mickey said it was probably towed away because I parked it on the wrong side of the street. This was all I needed right now. I started calling the different car pounds. Finally I located it in lower Manhattan at the car impound area near the Brooklyn Bridge. The surly man at the impound area said that it would cost me $50 to get the car out and that since it wasn’t registered in my name, I’d have to bring the registered owner with me. That was the end. The car was still registered to Alfred N. Steele. I was going to have to call him and try to get this worked out. I knew that my chances of fixing this mess were very slim, however, there was no other way out. By one of those positively weird quirks of fate, the doorbell rang at just the same moment I’d gotten the courage to pick up the phone and begin dialing the apartment on Sutton Place. I put the phone down and answered the door. Standing in front of me was John Coleman, a man that worked for daddy and was a friend as well. I never really figured out what Uncle John really did, I only knew that when there was any kind of trouble, Uncle John usually appeared too. At first I was relieved to see him, thinking that perhaps he’d help me work out the mess I found myself in without my mother finding out and creating a big scene about it. To my horror he told me that the reason he was here was to pick up the keys and the car! Mother had decided, without telling me that I really didn’t need the car in New York when all I was doing was going to school. That part was absolutely true, of course, however, the timing was freaky. I stared at Uncle John like a total idiot. I didn’t know what to say or how to begin. Finally, there was nothing to do but tell him the truth. And the truth was that my car … daddy’s car … had been impounded and it would cost $50 and daddy’s personal appearance to get it out! After I finished my sad story, I just sat there waiting for the ceiling to fall in on me.
To my complete surprise, Uncle John was totally sympathetic. He understood immediately about the hassle of street parking in New York. He understood completely about the fine and he was even willing to try and help me. I was awestruck by this unexpected turn of events. He told me that there was a party going on over at the apartment, with lots of people and that he’d try to get daddy alone and explain to him what had happened. As he was leaving, I told him I was eternally grateful and would do everything I could to expedite the details.
In less than an hour, Uncle John reappeared. By some magical process known only to him, he had a notarized letter from daddy authorizing him to retrieve the car and a check for $50. Whatever Uncle John did to earn a living, he certainly was good at it!
The two of us took a cab downtown and after what seemed like hours, located the blue Thunderbird, paid the fine and drove off. By now, we were both laughing about the whole thing because that was about all one could do. He told me about the times this same thing had happened to him and how infuriating it was. I was really deeply grateful for both his sense of humor and his matter of fact attitude about something I’d considered nearly the end of the world.
He said he’d simply have the car parked in the 36 Sutton Place apartment garage where it had been until I got it and give the keys to daddy. No one had to know anything about the incident and nothing more need be said about it. I gave Uncle John a big hug when he stopped to let me off in front of my apartment building and thanked him all over again. Uncle John was not at all prone to showing emotion, but he was kind enough to treat me just as though I was his own daughter. He told me not to worry anymore.
I fairly skipped through the hall and into the elevator. For once … for once the world didn’t come to an end just because I’d made a mistake. Daddy wasn’t mad at me either. In fact, Uncle John said he’d kind of laughed when John told him about the predicament I’d gotten into and how upset I was about it.
However, I hadn’t been inside the apartment half an hour when the phone rang. It was my mother, in a rage. She’d found out about the whole thing because she wanted to know why John had been gone for over three hours when I lived only minutes away. I guess no one thought she’d make such a big deal of it since it was already fixed and there was an apartment full of people. They vastly underrated mother. This was just the kind of situation she excelled in, this
was just the sort of ammunition she used to the fullest. She went on and on over the phone about how irresponsible I was and how I couldn’t be trusted. She then asked my why I hadn’t put the car in a garage? I was dumbfounded by the question. All I could think to reply was that I couldn’t afford $60 a month for a parking garage. “You should have asked me for the money,” she said coldly.
I couldn’t believe it. First of all, if she wouldn’t give me enough money for food, enough money for winter boots … what in the world would ever have lead me to believe that she’d give me money for a garage? Secondly, the apartment they lived in had a garage and she never once mentioned it … she never once offered it … she never once gave it a thought until this very minute.
She then told me that she was taking the car away from me. I was relieved and glad to see the damn thing go. I didn’t have the money for gasoline. I was sick and tired of trying to find parking places every day and I’d actually grown to hate the sight of that car. It was one of those situations where mother and daddy could get behind how wonderful and generous they were, what good parents they were, how fortunate a daughter I was … and the whole thing got turned around and used against me. They’d given me this huge present … they’d given me a car, something they did not want, and somehow that obliterated the need for anything further. Their generosity was established and I was the ungrateful, incompetent one. So, let them take the damn thing away. All I felt was … good riddance.
But things had their usual way of changing and not too long after that mother told me that she’d accepted an appearance on the Jack Paar Show for me. She told me what to wear and had the show send over all the questions I’d be asked. She made Jack Paar himself promise her that he wouldn’t ask for any extemporaneous answers and then she coached me on what I was to say in response. The show was live in the East and delayed broadcast on the West Coast. Mother and daddy would be in Los Angeles the night I was supposed to appear, but they’d be watching.
Mommie Dearest Page 36
