by Sid Luft
31
THE CONTRACTORS ROLLED in daily to fill in the backyard. This work would take two years to complete. I’d oversee the comings and goings when I had the time. The kids were on the trampoline; Judy was lolling about the house. Johnny and I would watch the trucks roll in and dump the dirt. I had a strong sense of family and property in those moments. By 1955, the retaining wall was up, an eighteen-foot-high wall of concrete block and steel.
I was constantly working on the house as a kind of hobby. I hired Miro Korsik, who alternated between helping me rebuild the house and working as our cook and butler. We rebuilt Judy’s wardrobe room, installing glass doors. I custom designed my bathroom in the spirit of my love affair with lifestyle. Jokingly, when A Star Is Born went under I commented to Judy that I could always work on renovations and probably make more than in the film business. But I didn’t really believe that. Star was not the success we’d anticipated, but we were not about to disappear off the scene no matter how dejected we were. We continued to entertain and go out while I conjured up business.
One night we were at Romanoff’s and Nick “the Greek” Dandolos sent over a bottle of expensive champagne. Nick lived right around the corner from Romanoff’s at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, and he was famous for sending over champagne and picking up checks. Judy didn’t know about him and I explained: Nick gambled for a living, shuttling between Las Vegas and Beverly Hills. He was proud of his lifestyle; his attitude was what intrigued everyone. Judy was amused.
The parties thrown by Edie and William Goetz were without a doubt the pinnacle of the A-list in Hollywood. Edie was Louis B. Mayer’s daughter, famous worldwide as a hostess; cynics found it hard to believe that Mayer, an immigrant, could produce such a social leader. The Goetzes were sophisticated people who lived in great style. Their art collection was famous for its masterworks. Everyone who was invited came to their black tie affairs without fail. Invariably, one hour after dinner, the men smoking cigars and bullshitting, Edie would ask, “Judy, one song?” And depending on how Judy was feeling she’d sing two or three songs. It would also depend on who was there, how formal the occasion. And there was applause. In those years as one was led into the main salon by the butler you could pretty much count on the same scene in the huge room where everybody gathered. You’d find Gable in one corner with his group, and in another corner was Gary Cooper and his group. Kirk Douglas, the one guest who was not in formal attire, the Goldwyns, the Zanucks, and Jack Warner. That would be the list. Judy was there because she sang and was witty.
Later I discovered Judy and Edie had a telephone pal relationship and shared speed connections. Pills were popular—diet pills, Dexedrine, Seconal. Like today, people relied on stimulants, and some got hooked. Many of the women were taking Dexamyl, no longer on the market. Dexamyl was a mild combination of upper and downer, very popular. Someone who was not a substance abuser could take Dexamyl and not be threatened. Judy would merely add it to her list, and if she mixed it with alcohol she could fall into an irreversible mood, so any pill was a threat.
Fortunately Judy hadn’t suffered from postpartum depression after Joey was born—she was in good health. And she continued to express a vague interest in attending AA meetings. It was the one and only stretch in our long relationship when she acknowledged her dependency. She would, in the future, ask for help when she was desperate, even check herself into a clinic for a week’s detoxification, but she would never admit she was a substance abuser. I had psyched myself out to think of Judy’s addictive nature as a sort of chronic disease. Nevertheless, I looked forward to the day she would mature and leave these habits behind. I believed it was possible. But now that our lives had been turned around by the financial failure of Star, things were off track.
Because she wasn’t working, she stayed up through the night sometimes, not going to sleep until midmorning. She was not aggressive; she would often leave me a note of apology:
Honey—
It’s about time for me to try to sleep—10 A.M.—
So good night my darling—
See you later
I love you,
Judy
I’d hear her laughing in her bathroom as she listened to Bob and Ray on the radio. She’d have spent the night in her rooms while I slept or stayed in the den wondering, was she on pills, and if so how did she get them? Judy would go through these periods and then come around and we’d be back to normal. Her mood could shift with a “goofball,” the mix of upper and downer. But our life had extremely wholesome aspects which I was intent on maintaining.
We made it to one AA meeting in Pasadena, way the hell out in a big old house where she was not recognized. We were offered coffee and cake. Everyone was saying in chorus, “I’m an alcoholic.” Before the meeting ended we took one look at one another and said, “Let’s get out of here,” and we left, laughing.
I said to Judy, “Are we going to the second meeting?” Judy avoided the subject. The Pasadena evening was like a church social compared to our experience with Narcotics Anonymous. The fledgling group met somewhere in the San Fernando Valley, in a room lit by spooky blue lights—everyone was in silhouette, faces hidden; it had the atmosphere of an opium den. Judy remarked, “It’s enough to make a person wanna stay bombed forever.”
Judy did have a sort of support group: her telephone pals like Edie Goetz. Judy’s friendships were limited to people we knew in common. She was not one to have close relationships with women, but when she wasn’t working and up at night, she was often on the telephone with other women who were insomniacs. They were on pills and had no place to go. They’d encourage each other, try to buck up their spirits. Most of all, they’d gossip. The conversations were meant to be confidential, but Judy, who by nature had a hard time keeping anything but her personal feelings to herself, would relay the gist of the schmooze the next day. From Jean Peters, after she separated from Howard Hughes: “He’s a brilliant guy, awkward to be married to, doesn’t like sex.” Jean was fascinated by Judy’s talent—and her problems, which at this stage of her life perversely intrigued many people rather than turning them away.
Who’s doing what to whom was the general theme. Judy would communicate what she considered the juiciest gossip. I’d wonder what in hell she was telling the girls about her own problems. Judy would find a way to make the information funny—she’d be laughing so hard she couldn’t finish the story. I was happy Judy was getting through the night without me, as I needed about five years of sleep.
Lee Gershwin, Ira’s wife, was an aggressive, intelligent woman and another of Judy’s phone pals and speed connections. So was Gary Cooper’s wife, Rocky. Marilyn Monroe, who visited the house, was another late night telephone buddy.
Marilyn would also visit us at the house. She’d sit by the fire, not talking much; she was a quiet presence. It was work bringing her out, but of course she may have been on some pill. Marilyn was sweet and very unhappy. She’d chat with Judy and play with the children, hang out. She was separated from one of her husbands, whom she complained was a nice person but, sadly, didn’t know how to make love to a woman. She’d been forced to go down on him as the one means of getting him aroused to orgasm. She’d hoped this pattern would change when they married. She was frustrated and disappointed.
We did not give a lot of formal parties. Friends were in the den, about the house, or around Judy at the piano. Dean was there, Frank, Marilyn, the Bogarts, Charlie and Peggy Whittingham, my pal Charlie Wacker, Freddie Finklehoffe . . .
One day Judy’s relatives on her father’s side arrived in our circular drive unannounced. They were obese people, about six of them. I was amazed they fit in one car. They were short and fat with huge behinds, wide-ettes all the way from Oklahoma. And the cousins were eager to see Judy. I went upstairs to Judy’s private bath and sitting room, where she was closeted. Judy told me to tell them to go away. There were many relatives on both sides of the family, and she never felt like seeing any of them. She’d reach out to
her sisters every so often and they’d respond to their baby sister, as they adored her, but Judy wasn’t interested in what they thought; neither sister could influence her.
I cooked up a mild performance schedule for Judy, a West Coast tour of seven cities, two concerts a week over a three-week period. We’d travel by train; Judy could relax. Initially, Judy’s enthusiasm was high: “Let’s have some fun, put on a show, darling.” I was happy—she was in great physical shape and she was excited about performing. So I arranged the Seven City Tour beginning with San Diego. We’d wend our way up the coast. When Judy sang at the Long Beach Auditorium, Sinatra came down with friends: Bogie and Betty, Sammy Davis, and others. She was surrounded by loving, supportive peers. Judy was “at home.”
Eugene, Oregon, found Judy performing in a gymnasium with a bunch of college kids in the audience. I’d sent out PR people to set up the promotion, and I saw nothing demeaning in the grassroots approach. I didn’t suspect Judy would resist regional audiences. I thought of this tour as a regeneration of her concert skills, much like the tour in the British provinces. But Judy had come to think of the Seven City Tour as a comedown. In Portland, she announced out of the blue, “I can’t work today. My throat’s scratchy.” It was Sunday and I tried to reason with her, explaining that although the show was not sold out, I’d hoped she’d be a good sport; otherwise we’d have to return everyone’s ticket money. I was counting on her as a trouper. Judy’s reaction was “Forget about it. Tell ’em they’ll get their money back.”
Judy was never concerned about losing money. She didn’t care. She was not to be bothered about business; she wasn’t interested in investments, costs, payments, income. Like royalty, she didn’t carry an amount of money on her person, maybe just five dollars or so. I was unable to discuss financial matters of any sort with her. She simply refused.
I dreaded facing the Portland audience with the news “Miss Garland is ill.” I pulled out every diplomatic move I knew: “Look, don’t sing, people want to see you. Tell a funny story, whistle, say hi, a song will come to your mind, your throat’ll get better. Tell a joke.” But nothing worked, so we had to cancel Portland.
However, Vancouver, British Columbia, was wonderful. Judy was in great voice. My old pal Simmons from my knock-em-down Beverly Wilshire Hotel days had been living in Vancouver and attended the show. We went out afterward, and Judy had a marvelous time.
Seattle was the last city, and it too was a smash hit. She’d long forgotten Portland. I was paying attention: my little diva was not content with small cities. I’d have to come up with exceptional bookings. Loving fans were not enough.
The scales tipped when we returned from the tour. Judy went on a bender.
I couldn’t figure out where the pills were coming from or what it was she was swallowing, but it left her aggressive, often telling me to “get the fuck out” of the room and not to butt into her business. She was calling Dr. Pobirs to come out in the middle of the night and give her something to stop the migraine. And the nighttime distress was genuine: she wasn’t eating and she couldn’t sleep. She’d caught herself by the tail. Fred recommended she get in the car and go to an anonymous clinic in Orange County for three or four days to get back on schedule.
But meanwhile we’d RSVP’d for one of Edie and Bill Goetz’s dinner parties. Again it was a black tie affair. Judy looked gorgeous. She was wearing a spectacular outfit, and I was in a dinner jacket and black tie. We got into the Mercedes, and I observed Judy’s eyes were more chocolate than usual. They were heavily glazed, and when I brought it up she resisted answering me. We got through the evening, although Judy didn’t sing that night. We left the party in a crashing downpour. She asked me if we could go for a ride. I laughed at her. “Darling, it’s not a night for tooling around in a car, for Christ’s sake.”
“Hnnn, it’s a perfect night, darling.” I was annoyed with her but relieved she was talking to me, so I drove from Beverly Hills out toward Venice in the heavy rain. The world looked emptied. We drove through abandoned streets, sped down the Harbor Freeway, and came out in Venice. Now Judy wanted a nosh. That too was a good sign. I found an all-night taco place. Judy remained in the car while I went in to buy some food. There wasn’t an umbrella in the car, so I threw my dinner jacket over my head and ran into the dive. I waited for the double order of burritos, listening to the rain crash down in steel sheets. With the steaming burritos in hand, I ran out. Neither the car nor Judy were anywhere in sight.
I returned indoors, furious. Five minutes went by and still no sign of Judy. I ate both burritos and ordered a coffee in the hopes the rain would slack off and my wife would return for me. There was no way I could get a taxi, and I couldn’t think of bringing anyone out in this night; it was far too late for a favor. I began to worry about how she’d handle the gears, which I had rigged in a special way. I realized I’d have to walk back to Holmby Hills. It took a long time to get home. I prepared myself for disaster as I dragged myself through the dark, wet streets. When I arrived at the house, the first thing I saw was that the Mercedes was perfectly parked in the garage. I looked in the bedroom, and Judy was sound asleep. I laughed—somehow she’d managed those gears.
The trick was so rotten I was not going to address it. Late in the day, Judy said, “Hi, darling,” all smiles and giggles. “How’d you get home?”
Judy and I spent many an evening at Peter and Pat Kennedy Lawford’s beach house in Santa Monica. The house was once owned by Louis B. Mayer. Peter Lawford may have inherited his mother’s penurious mantle, as a young man never buying a girl dinner, but he married someone who didn’t need to have dinners bought for her, nor did she seem to care. Peter was handsome, witty, a delightful presence to be around. Lots of charm. If no cookies were distributed in Lady Lawford’s house, Peter and Pat Kennedy Lawford were the opposite: wonderfully hospitable.
Along with the cheap gene, Peter also had a sense of honor. He had bought Pat a beautiful, costly engagement ring, which took him a long time to pay off. But when they divorced, Peter would not accept anything. It was later when he became an addict that he’d look for money from anyone, including strangers.
It was at the Lawfords’ beach house that I was introduced to grass. I was hoping Judy might enjoy a joint; it would have been much better for her. She refused to smoke, having tried it some years ago at MGM. She said it made her sick. I wasn’t a smoker either, but it wasn’t as though I didn’t try to be, since it was all around.
As long as JFK was alive and Pat had the beach house where both her brothers, Jack and Bobby, relaxed and played when they were on the West Coast, Peter was important. He was important when he had a production company. There were films—Ocean’s 11 and Salt and Pepper, with Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. The greatest impediment to his growth as a human being was the destruction of his brother-in-law, JFK, his most revered and intimate friend.
The scenes at the Lawfords’ were heady—at times Jack was there or Teddy or some other member of the Kennedy clan. I was never quite sure why they so enjoyed show business, why they felt the need to hang around movie stars. Nevertheless, there they were. Peter knew damn well if he brought girls around, Jack would take over. He’d steal any girl in sight.
Anyone Judy was fond of—the Edenses, Cukor, the Lawfords—she’d welcome with a warm embrace and a kiss on the mouth. An affectionate hug from Judy and you knew you were accepted by this rare creature; you felt as though you’d never been appreciated before. When she was introduced it was a real handshake, and she was polite, courteous. Judy was aware of her fame. And Jack Kennedy responded to Judy’s warmth and vivaciousness. He looked quite different from the skinny guy we’d had dinner with in New York, when he’d seemed just a preppie freshman until he spoke. And Judy brought out his wit and charm. Judy even said, “You’re going to be president!” Over the years she’d say this about Jack to different people, always getting the reaction “Impossible. A Catholic?” As time passed, and we’d run into one another at the Lawford
home, Judy became even more convinced.
Jack was in constant pain—he was unable to sit through a movie, even if it was good. He could never sit longer than twenty minutes; he’d have to get up from the rocking chair. Maybe he just felt better lying down. I generally saw him kibitzing horizontally from the Lawfords’ pool, afloat.
Eventually Judy did make a short trip to a clinic, and she returned feeling well. She lolled about the house while I concocted business deals.
She liked to keep books piled up on the table next to the chaise lounge in her sitting room. She’d read one book halfway through, put it aside, and pick up another; in this fashion she’d alternate two or three books until she’d read them all. She was a rapid reader and remembered the text easily, just as she could commit to memory scripts, lyrics, poems, after one reading. Her mind did work differently from the rest of us mortals. I was especially impressed by her ability to write backward as easily as forward. Such abilities may easily have befuddled her mother rather than bewitched her as Judy had done to me.
Our neighbor Horace Dodge invited us to dinner, and this time we couldn’t refuse. Judy wasn’t eager—she found him a boring drunk, as opposed to a “stimulating lush.” I thought he was nice. Though Horace was the Chrysler heir, his chorus girl wife unfortunately didn’t help him cut the mustard on the party circuit. Horace was a pleasant dullard but his wife was considered uninteresting; when Horace died she married a policeman and found happiness. Judy didn’t last the evening and made an early exit. I decided to finish the night at Bogie’s, where the talk was about Frank. Sinatra was playing at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas. He’d invited friends to attend, always a splendid host, creating a festive and luxurious environment. Frank also owned an interest in the Sands at the time.
Later Sinatra organized a posse to attend Noël Coward’s opening night at the Desert Inn. We flew up with Charlie Feldman and Capucine, the Bogarts, the Romanoffs, David and Hjordis Niven, and Swifty Lazar, who was with actress Martha Hyer. I had asked the Lawfords to join us. As most of our mutual friends were going, it seemed silly they were not invited, but Frank would periodically be mad at Peter for one reason or another, and for the moment they were not speaking. I thought Frank might suck it up and be civil to Peter in Vegas, but it didn’t happen. JFK’s nomination and subsequent presidency would bring them closer, but that didn’t last either. Peter suffered Frank’s rejection until he died.
