Leaving Home

by Anne Edwards

  “Why?”

  “I took a piece of your life,” he replied in a dramatic manner.

  These were words exchanged by the lovers in Brief Encounter, the film we had seen together in New York. We both caught what we had done and broke out laughing. When we finally reached Spalding Drive, we sat quietly in the front seat of Excalibur a few moments while he held my hand. Finally, he broke the silence. “We’ll always have New York,” he said with a small smirk on his face. He was referring to the early rush of love between us, the seeming innocence of it all then. I told him not to get out of the car to see me to the door as it was still light. As soon as I stepped onto the sidewalk, he called out to me, “Hey, Red?” I turned.

  He waved, and I waved back and then made my way as quickly as I could across the front courtyard to the door to the penthouses. Once inside my apartment, I went over to the lanai windows that looked out onto the street. Excalibur was still there. I stood for several minutes watching until finally, in a sudden grinding and whooshing, it bolted forward with a roar of its powerful motor and was immediately out of sight—if not sound.

  • 14 •

  Judy, Judy, Judy!

  The end of an adulterous affair can affect the participants in many disparate ways. In the case of Rod and myself, I believe we reacted very much in the same fashion by throwing ourselves into the creative work that had always had first claim on our lives. Miklos Alexandrovitch Is Missing (the story of the Russian ballet dancer who defects in Paris) was in its editing stage. I was ready to go forward and had decided on the themes and setting of the two remaining books of my three-book contract. Both had European backgrounds, for which I would have to do considerable foreign research. I chose as my immediate project Haunted Summer, a fictionalized version of Lord Byron and Mary and Percy Shelley’s summer of 1816 together in Switzerland, during which Mary wrote Frankenstein and Byron his epic poem, “The Prisoner of Chillon.” My story and characters were clear in my head, as was the way I planned to approach them. The book was to be written in the first person as though Mary Shelley was the narrator of her own life. I now wonder how I had the nerve to step into her shoes and—so to speak—write with her pen in my hand.

  The work to follow Haunted Summer was tentatively titled Post Mortem and would be the novel I had waited so long to write, set among the expats in London during the McCarthy years. I put Mary Shelley, who was long in her grave, first as I was still not fully prepared to rake up the ghosts of the more recent past, or to expose—however much fictionalized—the lives and feelings of McCarthy’s survivors who were close friends.

  My agreeing to deliver each of the books in two years meant I had a heavy schedule for the next four years. Also, neither book could be successfully written without my returning for long periods to both London and Switzerland. Cathy had decided to do her first university year in Switzerland at Leysin, to obtain an International Baccalaureate diploma which would, when completed, give her a one-year credit to most European universities if she chose to continue her education abroad, as well as to schools in the States. Her choice also figured into my selecting Haunted Summer as my initial project. She did, however, have her last year at Beverly Hills High School to complete.

  I don’t know what I would have done without Jay. Never before had I the luxury of a secretary who could transcribe my handwritten pages at the end of a writing day (usually about three p.m.) so that I could edit them the following morning. Jay was also a brilliant organizer and a steadfast researcher, could drive me where I needed to go (I don’t drive), and always managed to crowd in household tasks, like taking the dogs to the vet, as well. He was a one-man staff. He agreed that if my decision was to return to Europe, he would accompany me, for he had never been abroad and felt that now in his late forties it was time he spread his wings and saw a bit of the world.

  Leon and I were corresponding, but my letters contained no mention of the subjects and backgrounds of my two new projects. I was fearful that he might use this as an added reason as to why we should reconcile. I did not feel that my presence on the same continent should invite any such outcome, but Leon was persistently adding logs to the fire—an English school would be a good choice for Cathy. London was no farther from Washington, DC, for Michael to travel to see me than was Los Angeles. I had left behind close friends who were always asking about me and when I would return. Sidney had spent four days in London, having dinner with Leon three of the nights, and talked endlessly about how much he missed my help on his new project. Actually, I had heard from Sidney and was clear that I did not want to work on any film project—at least while I got my new career as a novelist established—and he had been supportive of my decision.

  Mary Shelley had been of strong interest to me for a long time. About five years earlier, I had attempted a short story dealing with her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, famous for her Vindication of the Rights of Woman and staunch believer in free love. She had a child out of wedlock before her marriage to William Godwin, revolutionary, writer, publisher, whose great work Political Justice influenced the intellect of the youth in his era. Mary W. died shortly after their daughter Mary’s birth. Godwin remarried a Mrs. Clairmont (whose daughter Claire would become Lord Byron’s mistress). The Godwins’ London home had drawn young men of revolutionary spirit, such as the poet, Percy Shelley, with whom Mary eloped (although he was married and the father of two children). In the short story, I had dealt mainly with Godwin and his two wives during an earlier time. Now I wanted to carry the story forward with Godwin’s daughter, Mary, and his stepdaughter, Claire. The idea that these two stepsisters had been the lovers (and in Mary’s case, wife) of two of the greatest and most controversial poets of their time was compelling.

  The last time I was in Klosters, I had taken the rather long train ride to the brooding castle of Chillon with its grim underground chambers where evidence remained of the wall chains that once had manacled prisoners left to starve and die. Chillon haunted me. It was there, in the summer of 1816, that the runaway lovers with Byron, Claire, and Dr. Polidori, an enigmatic infatuate and drug supplier of Byron’s, had often spent their nights exchanging self-composed horror stories and Mary’s Frankenstein had been created. My first sketchy outline of Haunted Summer had been written shortly after the publication of The Survivors, but I could not get a proper handle on it and had put it aside and moved on to Miklos instead.

  Over time, I had made, re the McCarthy-era story, copious notes in my journals, recorded memories of conversations, descriptions of people and places—my observations on the changes and confrontations between the members of our group. Since Bob Rossen’s death, I had known the story would start with the death of the protagonist (which is why I had given it the working title Post Mortem) and then would flash back to his early Hollywood years, Washington, DC, during the HUAC hearings, and then to the great wave of talented Hollywood writers and directors who had washed up on the shores of Europe. It seemed ironic to me that less than two decades earlier, Hollywood had been the safe harbor for European filmmakers a step away from being victims of the Holocaust. Except for the technical artists (camera, sound, etc.) who had not been allowed into the unions of their crafts, these men and women had been brought into the studios, and their cinema style incorporated into what would be called film noir and had greatly influenced Hollywood’s steady output of dark detective, murder, and horror stories. Now it was the reverse. The invasion of American film artists to Europe had given birth to Italian spaghetti westerns and epic dramas (the latter much in the style of Cecil B. DeMille).

  I missed Europe: the age of it, the beauty of its architecture, the culture that changed whenever one crossed a border. There was always something new to see, to learn—and something old to discover; history that came alive. What I liked best about Los Angeles (and Beverly Hills, although an incorporated city, is just a section of LA with no visible division except a corner sign that indicates you are either leaving or entering one or the other) were the Spanis
h/Mexican architectural influences, presently being replaced street by street with modern buildings. Most of the seedy artifacts like the Garden of Allah apartments and the motels along with restaurants in shapes of derby hats and giant hot dogs were gone, as were nut burgers (no meat served) and the flashy drive-ins with girls in skimpy costumes that had proliferated in the earlier days of the movie industry, captured so well in Nathanael West’s The Day of the Locust. Lost were the glamorous nightclubs like Ciro’s, the Mocambo, and the Trocadero where the great stars of an earlier, more glamorous Hollywood had once graced such spots with their regal and splendiferous selves. Perhaps odd, but the detritus of those years still held a spell over me.

  Growing up, I had been an avid biker and with my high school buddy, Greta Markson (an aspiring actress), spent every Saturday we could pedaling our way to the beach from Beverly Hills and back again, the wind in our face as we raced down the least traveled streets, each time trying a new route. Everything about Los Angeles, especially my corner that was Beverly Hills, was familiar to me. Each street I now turned down (on foot or in a car) brought back memories. I had old friends with whom I had never lost touch. Still, I had been away for a long time and had lived in such a different world from theirs that the adjustment was difficult at times. Political activism was now in the hands of a much younger generation. This was the time of the flower children, LSD, and other hallucinogenic drugs (which had also been part of the Shelleys’ and Byron’s generation); the time of civil unrest and protest (as was the background of Miklos). The years of the blacklist were not yet forgotten (certainly not by its victims)—but it was not a part of current life—especially among older liberal Hollywoodites who had escaped the sharklike jaws of HUAC. What irritated me most were the younger members of the Hollywood colony who treated former victims, now returned “home,” as though their experience (which had caused them such great losses—a divorced mate, financial ruin, a career upended, their identity stolen) should be worn as a badge of honor. How crazy was that?

  The expats I knew who had returned to California were trying desperately to bury those dark days. This was difficult when they still found doors shut to them (their credits too far in the past—their names not yet restored on more recent work). It did not help to be confronted every day by the very people who had betrayed them—who were doing very nicely, thank you! Harold and Ruth Buchman were in LA. Harold was trying to find a writing assignment with not much success. He had depended on Sidney for years, and his brother had extended a hand whenever possible—hiring Harold for a first draft of a proposed project at times. This had caused considerable sibling resentment on Harold’s part. He had hoped to make it back on his own once in California, but it was not happening. Joyce Jameson (not a HUAC victim) had recovered (at least temporarily) from the throes of her depression and was now in love with the actor Robert Vaughn (nominated for a supporting Oscar for The Young Philadelphians and having given a fine performance in the recent Bullitt), who was extremely bright and politically active. I enjoyed his company and was pleased that Joyce (truly a better talent than her career offerings supported) seemed happy. We had shared our teens, our dreams, and many of the difficulties that our individual, complicated childhoods had involved. Despite our physical distance, Joyce had always looked to me for counsel (through voluminous letters when I was abroad). I never felt quite adequate to the task, for Joyce needed professional help, but I did step up to the plate and tried my best. Joyce had a bit of Marilyn Monroe in her (she would later play her in a Broadway takeoff) mixed with a natural intelligence that she had abused—and that the troubling circumstances of her life had caused. Joyce was always looking for someone or something to save her—a lover, a friend, fame, religion (later she was addicted not only to pills, but to television evangelical preachings).

  As Christmas 1968 approached, and Rod and I no longer seeing each other, I decided to give a Christmas Eve party to cheer myself up. Michael would be home for the holidays and we three would be together, something I much looked forward to. The day before the party, I cooked up a storm. I had invited somewhere between twenty-five to thirty guests. A Mexican theme dominated the food to be served (this was Los Angeles, after all!). I made a huge pot of the now-famous Chasen’s chili along with pots full of other remembered recipes. Lucy had recently married a fine gentleman, who mixed a great margarita and took care of the bar.

  We were a rather giddy group that included friends from disparate parts of my life. Besides Joyce, Robert Vaughn, Harold and Ruth, Bill and Betty Graf were present. The Grafs had been at my wedding to Leon, and Bill had only recently returned to the States after the international success of his film A Man for All Seasons. There was also another old friend, actor Jack Kruschen (nominated for an Oscar for his role as the neighbor and doctor in The Apartment), Nick Dunne, Jay, of course, and many more new and old friends. Both Cathy and Michael played host with me. As the midnight hour neared, I asked Michael to go upstairs and bring down a box of small gifts I had tagged for each of my guests. He did as asked and suddenly raced down the staircase, empty handed, and grabbed my arm.

  “You have to come upstairs,” he ordered, his voice in control, but with a sense of urgency.

  “What is it?”

  “Biba.”

  That was our toy poodle. “Biba?” I repeated inanely.

  “She’s under your desk and either she has a furry mouse or she has just delivered a pup and she is in great pain.”

  I must have looked dazed, not quite understanding what he had said.

  “Please come with me,” he added sotto voce.

  So I followed, making as graceful an exit as I could so as not to gain anyone’s attention. I entered my bedroom, where my desk was located, and stopped in awed surprise. Biba was, indeed, under my desk—which was an elongated, Spanish-style dining table that I had converted for my use as I could spread many pages out on it. She was whimpering and writhing—a tiny, apricot ball of fur trembling beside her. Thank God—it was alive, as was Biba. The whole thing was a complete mystery. The dogs’ vet had told me that Biba had been spayed and that, anyway, a dog of Sandy’s size would never attempt sex with a dog of her minuscule proportions. However, since Biba was never allowed off the leash when outside for fear of the heavy traffic, Sandy had to be the father. And, as she was a furry ball herself, I had not been aware that her stomach was swollen with pup—although she had been acting a bit churlish lately and when I thought about it, had some trouble going up and down the stairs.

  I immediately started dialing vets from the Yellow Pages as it seemed that Biba had yet another pup to birth and could not do it on her own. However, this was Christmas Eve; no replies. Finally, I reached a live person and calmly explained the situation—as it seemed, to no avail. I became more dramatic. I knew it was a holiday, but our little dog had delivered one pup and we thought she had another but could not do it without help. I started to cry. “She could die!” I could not contain myself and sobbed mightily. Worn down, the man acquiesced but explained that as he lived in Santa Monica, it would be at least twenty minutes before he arrived. I put Michael back on and the vet told him what to do to make Biba as comfortable as possible until he got to us.

  When the vet finally appeared at the door, there was a rush to greet him and escort him upstairs. He pulled back and shouted furiously at them, “Is this some sort of Hollywood joke?” for he had recognized one or two of his escorts as Hollywood players. He turned to leave but someone grabbed him by the arm. “This is not the least bit funny! It’s Christmas Eve and I’ve left my family. . . ,” he said as he attempted to break loose. A slight man, he was almost carried up the steps. He paused only for a moment as he took in the reality of the scene before him and then demanded everyone but Michael depart the room. My son—with absolutely no medical experience—was to be his assistant. Biba was gently lifted onto the top of the cleared desk, a clean, doubled sheet now covering it, as the vet prepared to perform a surgery to bring the reluctant pup for
ward and out into the world.

  All’s well that ends well, as Shakespeare wrote. Biba had a second female pup (ascertained by the vet who joined the party, got pretty drunk, and seemed to have a very good time). She was weak but alive, and her progeny were settled into a small basket lined with a heating pad turned on low, Sandy crouched beside it. Biba could not yet nurse so the pups were fed from an eyedropper. We named the firstborn Chrissy, the second—Noel. It turned out that Biba was a terrible mother. She truly hated Noel. One day, when she was quite recovered, she pushed the tiny creature down the staircase. Thankfully, Noel seemed none the worse for the fall. But as soon as was possible I gave her to my hairdresser, a dear man who had just lost his dog. Chrissy was a hardy sort and survived her mother’s abuse and, in fact, followed Biba wherever she went. She grew to be much larger than her mother, and about half the size of her father. They were quite a curious trio.

  In the weeks leading up to the Christmas Eve party, I had not been feeling too well. Since it was holiday time and we three united, I decided to put off seeing a doctor until the festivities were over. On New Year’s Day the Grafs gave a party. As it was somewhat open-ended, I decided I would go but leave early. They lived in a glamorous new tower building above Sunset Boulevard, their apartment overlooking the city from ocean to mountains to downtown. I was happy for them, pleased to be there (they had always been favorites of mine). Suddenly, I felt dizzy, weak; a pain stabbed through me. I made it into the nearest bathroom where I collapsed (in a pool of blood I was later told). The next thing I knew I was in an ambulance on my way to hospital where I was rushed into Emergency. I had suffered a massive hemorrhage and after tests were conducted, was told I had a tumor in my uterus the size of a grapefruit.

  The doctor who had delivered Cathy sixteen years earlier (and actually had taken care of me when I was a young woman), a man in whom I had great trust, was still in practice. I had the hospital call him. He told me I needed immediate surgery. It meant removing my uterus and ovaries. After examining me, he explained carefully what this involved and asked me if I approved. I did. Everything was arranged for early the next morning. At dawn, a hospital executive appeared by my bedside, clipboard in hand.