MARY, MARY WAS winding down. I’d been with the production four years. Roger Stevens came to me and said everybody—and that included Jean Kerr—had decided I should play Mary for the last months of the run. It would close in July.
I thought that by now playing a starring role on Broadway on a regular basis would be anticlimactic, but it wasn’t. It was thrilling. I was achieving a dream I’d had ever since I was a kid. I loved walking into my big dressing room backstage, being fussed over immediately by a maid, getting my hair done, and being served a light supper on a tray from Sardi’s after every matinee.
I’d grown into the part. I was thirty; I had more confidence in myself as a performer—actually I had more confidence in myself, period. I was more relaxed (Lee had taught me that); I didn’t suffer from such crippling stage fright, so I could focus on the role. It felt good to belt out the laugh lines and hear the audience roar as I bantered back and forth with the current “Bob” (Murray Hamilton). I liked having the power to make the house go totally silent when I recited Mary’s poignant monologue in the second act. As a character she has always hidden behind wisecracks; now she gets serious, almost emotional, when a stranger gives her a sudden kiss.
The curtain would go down and I’d take my solo bow, my heart pumping from exertion. The applause was enthusiastic; lots of my friends from the Studio came to cheer me on, like Marty and Susie and Lils. So did many of my former Sarah Lawrence classmates. Garson Kanin came with Ruth Gordon, and afterward they took me out to the Russian Tea Room to celebrate.
Across the street at the Lunt-Fontanne, Richard Burton was starring as Hamlet. Every night I’d leave my show and immediately be engulfed by hundreds of fans waiting to catch a glimpse of Burton with his new bride Elizabeth Taylor on his arm.
As I pushed my way through the crowds to the subway I thought, How ironic. I’d just played a starring role on Broadway and nobody cared. That’s when I knew I’d made the right decision to leave acting.
NOT LONG AFTER that, Clay phoned to tell me that he’d taken the rambling, unfocused character sketches I’d written about egomaniacal Broadway stars and edited their stream-of-consciousness dialogues into two snappy features. He then published them in New York and they attracted some attention.
The day the magazine came out on the stand, I was in Bloomingdale’s going up on the escalator when I ran into Diane Arbus. I hadn’t seen her for a number of years. She immediately congratulated me on the pieces and said she liked my writing.
“It’s so alive,” she said.
OF COURSE, I wasn’t an overnight success as a writer. It took me fifteen years to get my first book published. I fell into jobs: one at Holiday (a travel magazine), where I learned to compose elegant captions and short takes; then I graduated to movie-star profiles and editing astrology columns when I moved to McCall’s.
But I never left the theatre world. I became part of it in a different way while I freelanced for the New York Times under the guidance of arts editor Seymour Peck, who became my mentor and taught me how to research and shape a piece. Sy gave me dozens of assignments—about Harold Pinter, Kurt Vonnegut, the rise of black theatre, and Joe Papp taking over Lincoln Center. I found myself reporting smack-dab in the middle of a huge cultural shift. I had tea with the Beatles in London at the height of Beatlemania; their earlier triumph in America had made them a worldwide phenomenon.
And I got married to Mel on February 15, 1966. Howard and Elena gave us a reception at their apartment in the Dakota and, although Mama disapproved, she behaved herself and concocted some delicious hors d’oeuvres.
I was in a momentary state of bliss. I’d had my hair done à la Jackie Kennedy and I wore a violet silk shift. As we were having our pictures taken, I looked at my new husband and thought, You are so beautiful and we love each other. You understand me. Isn’t that the important thing? Then I thought some more as he hugged me tight and I said to myself, And he’s a writer! How could I not be married to a writer? Who else is going to put up with my self-absorption?
WE MOVED INTO a floor-through on West Thirteenth Street and went on with our lives. By now, the war in Vietnam was escalating; Mel and I joined demonstrations and once even traveled to Washington, DC, to hear veterans speak against the violence.
In the midst of this we were trying to have a baby. I had a hard time conceiving. We went to fertility doctors. Mel’s sperm count was low because he smoked so much; I had miscarriages. Specialists said my uterus was too delicate; something might be the matter with my cervix. We talked about adoption but ended up agreeing that we didn’t want to go that route. By this point I’d told Mel I’d had an abortion and Mel had admitted he’d found his schoolteacher ex-girlfriend in L.A. and she’d had his child, a son.
“He looks like me except he’s black as the ace of spades,” Mel told me somberly.
He would send them money every month, and I assumed he saw his son whenever he went to California to write a TV show, but he never mentioned it. I felt very, very sad. I once asked, “Why can’t I meet your little boy? Could you ever bring him to New York? Maybe we can take care of him for a while.” Mel shook his head.
It was a strange melancholy situation, one we never shared with anyone. I felt guilty about not being a mother, especially when one friend who had six kids clucked, “I feel so sorry for you. You have missed something very important in a woman’s life.” I thought I probably had.
As I grew older, when I taught creative nonfiction at Columbia University’s School of Journalism, I started mentoring various students, both male and female. I became close to some of them; I’d bring them home and feed them, listen to their problems, try to give them advice, and I’d feel maternal and loved. I still keep tabs on some of these students. I’ve watched them grow up—marry, raise families, finally succeed in what they want to do. Some of them have published books. They give me great joy.
IN 1974, I signed a contract to write a biography of Montgomery Clift. In retrospect I’d been preparing to do this for two decades. I’d performed in umpteen shows; I’d hung around the Actors Studio taking notes, experimenting with craft, learning from Lee; I’d written a ton of journalism. When I sat down with Brooks Clift (Monty’s older brother), taping the myriad anecdotes he had about their childhood, I realized that I was approaching writing as I had approached acting. I used the same tools—observing, listening, asking questions, discovering the subtext in a given situation. I’d always been insatiably curious (Mel called me “nosy”). I collected gossip and secrets; I was patient, tenacious, willful. But it took a long time piecing together the puzzle of Monty’s life.
“Writing is another kind of performance,” John Guare told me. “When you’re a writer, you get to play all the parts.”
When finally my writings about Montgomery Clift flowed onto the page, what I was trying to express blossomed in print from both an inner need and a conviction that I had been able to tell the story and solve part of the mystery of someone else’s life. But not yet mine. That would come later.
Afterword
IN 1984 I flew out to Sacramento to visit my brother’s grave. It had taken me many years to do this. Mel had wanted to come with me, but I decided I had to be alone and he understood.
My cousin Jim Wiard drove me to the cemetery, a beautiful, tranquil place high on a hill surrounded by gnarled old trees. I’d brought some flowers—red roses, because we used to pick fragrant baskets of them for Mama in Aptos.
So there I was, after so many years. I knelt down and put the flowers next to Bart’s gravestone. The two Barts—father and son, buried side by side. It seemed ironic. In life they had never been close, never spent much time together, and now they were deep in the earth together for all eternity.
“I’m sorry it’s taken so long,” I whispered.
Don’t apologize. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.
The wind rustled the leaves. Sun glanced off my arm.
“I have to ask: Were you ever happy?”
You mean when I was alive?
I nodded.
Once. When I was making those wings.
“Oh, God. I remember how you said you wanted to fly like Icarus.”
He didn’t know his own limits. He flew too close to the sun.
“You were determined to build those wings . . . You constructed them on the nursery floor.”
Took me five goddamn months, and then they were too big. You tried to help me put them on.
“We both fell on the floor.”
But I wouldn’t give up.
“You tore them up and then started all over again.”
Mama and Daddy used to come up to the nursery to see what was going on.
“They’d stay a short time—they were usually late for a party.”
They pretended to be interested, but they really weren’t.
“But they’d hug and kiss us, remember? And later we’d have our supper served to us on trays by our nanny . . . It was quite beautiful, wasn’t it?” I heard my voice quavering.
Don’t get so choked up. The beauty didn’t last.
“But why were you so happy when you were building those wings?”
Because you helped me, stupido. I couldn’t have done them without you.
I’d forgotten I’d helped. “All I did was bring you the paste and the string.”
But you were the only one who believed I could do it. You were there for me. Everybody else thought I was nuts.
“I don’t remember being so helpful.”
Believe it. You were.
“I’m glad.”
Silence.
“And now you can fly. You’re an angel—you have wings.”
I never said I was an angel and I never said I had wings. Don’t be so sentimental, Attepe.
We both laughed. Suddenly I wondered, “Do you and Daddy talk more now?”
Long silence.
“Hey! Are you going to tell me you and he still don’t communicate?”
He tries. I try. But some things never change.
“Even in heaven?”
Even in heaven.
Acknowledgments
I HAVE BEEN WRITING this memoir off and on throughout my entire life, so I have a debt to many people who helped and inspired me.
To my beloved parents, Daddy and Mama, who always believed in me. To my brother—his story inspired this book.
To friends and colleagues no longer with us, who accompanied me on my journey: Robert Anderson, Anne Bancroft, Patricia Collinge, Jane Cooper, Mildred Dunnock, Nora Ephron, Clay Felker, Marty Fried, Betsy von Furstenberg, Arthur Gelb, Barbara Goldsmith, Philip Goodman, Ruth Gordon, Marcia Haynes, Audrey Hepburn, Gene Hill, Anne Jackson, Garson Kanin, Elia Kazan, Bela Kornitzer, Warner LeRoy, Daniel Massey, Sandy Meisner, Mike Nichols, Geraldine Page, Seymour Peck, Arthur Penn, George Plimpton, Alastair Reid, Mary Rodgers, Gene Saks, Gerry Sarracini, Bessie Schönberg, Marian Seldes, Susan Stein, John Stix, Lee Strasberg, Susan Strasberg, Elaine Stritch, Gore Vidal, Eli Wallach, Tennessee Williams, Shelley Winters, and Fred Zinnemann.
I’m especially grateful to: Jenny Allen, Hilton Als, Terry Ashe-Croft, James Atlas, Thomas Beller, Susan Brownmiller, Ellen Burstyn, Ina Caro, Robert Caro, Janet Coleman, Judy Collins, Andrew Coppa, Susan Dryfoos, Martha Fay, Emily Feyder, Jack Garfein, Leslie Garis, Gary Giddins, Lee Grant, Tammy Grimes, Molly Haskell, Linda Healey, Robert Heller, Maria Cooper Janis, Joyce Johnson, Charles Kaiser, Frances Kazan, Arthur Kopit, Wayne Lawson, Susan Lehman, Aaron Lehmann, Lily Lodge, Philip Lopate, Jane Maas, Daphne Merkin, Edmund Morris, Richard Morse, David Nasaw, Victor Navasky, Estelle Parsons, Austin Pendleton, Barbara Quinn, Anne Roiphe, Lucy Rosenthal, Mark Rydell, Joan Schenkar, Gail Sheehy, Dinitia Smith, Gloria Steinem, Gay Talese, Nan Talese, and Robert Weil.
During the years that form the setting of this memoir, I was fortunate enough to meet the fascinating individuals who would become the subjects of my biographies: Montgomery Clift, Diane Arbus, Marlon Brando, and Jane Fonda. I owe them enormous thanks; writing about their amazing lives helped me to inform and shape my own.
I owe a special debt to my assistant, Jaime Lubin, tireless, steadfast, and true. Dedicated to accuracy, she worked with me on every draft of this memoir and helped me discover essential truths.
Special thanks to Till Osterland, who keeps my office running. He is my go-to expert on technology and the calm in the eye of the storm.
I am forever indebted to my agent, Betsy Lerner. She believed in this book since its inception.
Heartfelt thanks to Douglas Schwalbe.
Last but not least, to my wonderful editor, Gail Winston, whose enthusiasm for this project never waned. Patient and gentle, she has guided me through every level of this memoir, helping me be specific and giving me valued perspective on the huge amount of material that I had to draw from. Thank you for always being there for me.
Index
The pagination of this electronic edition does not match the edition from which it was created. To locate a specific entry, please use your e-book reader’s search tools.
Note: Fictional characters and people with unknown surnames are listed under first names.
abortion, 158–61, 163, 263–72, 285–86, 297, 304, 341
Actors Studio
atmosphere at, 171–72, 185, 250, 325
Kazan’s betrayal of members of, 173–74, 185
Meisner on, 254–55
Mel Arrighi at, 310–11, 312
Patricia’s audition for, 144–50
Patricia’s challenges at, 185–87, 251–54
Patricia’s encounters with Kazan, 181–84
Patricia’s first scene at, 180–82
Patricia’s friendships at, 187–89, 253–54
Patricia’s note taking at, 175, 176, 206, 360
Playwright/Directors Unit, 250, 310–11
public image of actors at, 250–51
spring party and cab ride following, 151–57
Strasberg’s ruling of, 174–76, 187–88
Adams, Bret, 143–44, 210
Adams, Neile, 178, 180
Adam’s Rib (film), 302
Adler, Luther, 308
Adler, Richard, 239–40
Advertisements for Myself (Mailer), 326
Albee, Edward, 310–12
Alger Court apartment (Bronxville)
Bart Jr. and, 68
Patricia’s life at, 59–61, 74–75, 77, 87
Patricia’s moving to and from, 56, 100, 112
All That Jazz (Gazzo’s play), 250, 251–52
Amanda (in Glass Menagerie), 192, 194, 197, 199–200, 201, 204, 207
An American in Paris (film), 42–43
Ames, Leon, 313
Anderson, Robert, 265, 280, 281
Andrews, Julie, 152
Antigone (Sophocles), 191–92
Antonio, Lou, 311, 351
Anything Your Little Heart Desires (Bosworth), 333
Aptos, California (country home at), 14–20, 27, 207, 229, 361
Arbus, Allan, 73, 74
Arbus, Diane, 73–74, 90, 357–58
Aronson, Boris, 235
Arrighi, Mel
at Actors Studio, 310–11, 312
Bartley Crum and, 306–8, 309, 310, 317, 319, 322
career frustrations of, 335–37
The Castro Complex, 338
child of, 304, 359
Gertrude Crum and, 320, 358
Arrighi, Mel (cont.)
mystery novels, 338
An Ordinary Man, 312
Patricia reunited with, 352–54
Patricia’s career and, 326–27, 331, 332
Patricia’s early relationship with, 216–17, 218, 221, 302–8
Patricia’s introduction to, 194–96
Patricia’s marriage to, 358–59, 360, 361
Patricia’s relationship problems and break-up with, 326–27, 336–41, 342
personality of, 325, 349
Peter Maas and, 326–28
Art Students League
(Manhattan), 42, 43, 62
Ashcroft, Peggy, 265
Ashe, Terry, 20–21, 332–33
Ashley, Elizabeth (Liz), 350
Astaire, Fred, 107
Austin, Lyn, 160
Aviva, Dr., 86–88, 93, 97
Baby Doll (film), 172, 194, 203
Baker, Carroll, 194
Ball, Lucille, 70
Ballad of a Sad Café (play), 351
“Banana Boat Song,” 151–52
Bancroft, Anne, 171–72, 251
Barefoot in the Park (play), 350
Barrymore Theatre, 229, 237
Barton, James, 238, 240, 248–49
Barton, John, 196
Bean, Faith, 57
Bean family and, 61, 63, 85, 112
Patricia’s friendship with, 76–77
Patricia’s sharing of duties with, 59–60, 74–75, 85, 89
Bean, Jason
Bart Jr. and, 47–51, 59, 68–69, 110, 117–18, 119, 136–37
Bartley and, 53–56, 65, 75, 90, 108, 112–14, 118
bird found by (Lucky), 105–7, 112, 115–16, 119, 140, 206
Gertrude and, 45–46, 53–56, 75, 77–79, 108–9, 117–18
Patricia’s dating relationship with, 41–48
Patricia’s last call from, 138
Patricia’s marriage to
abuse in, 88, 90–91, 108–9, 119–20, 125–26, 252
end of, 114–17, 123–29
living with Bean family, 56–65, 74–77, 89, 101–3, 105–7
proposal and wedding, 48–51
separation and reconciliation, 97–98, 99–101
sex in, 62–63, 85, 99–101
unhappiness in, 85–88, 89–90, 110–11
Bean, Judith, 64, 101–3
The Men in My Life Page 32
