Call Me Anna: The Autobiography of Patty Duke (30 page)

I lost some consciousness after a while, but I called Harry back, and I guess it was obvious from my speech that I was not acting, not kidding, but had indeed done it this time. He kept asking me where I was, and I wouldn’t say. I know this from his telling me the story later on; I don’t remember much of it myself. I finally relented, and after ruling out an ambulance because that would cause too much publicity, a car was sent for me. I was taken to the nearest hospital and I guess my stomach was pumped, but by then I wasn’t there, I was totally out.

Somehow Fred Coe convinced the hospital not to admit me. I was turned over to him and went to live in his apartment. I felt terribly guilty having done something like that to Fred and the other people on
Me, Natalie
. The sense of responsibility hit so strongly that I got myself up and went to work the next morning. And as much as Fred would have liked to throttle me, I know he respected the fact that I made it through a full day and did good work besides. Because,
while my mental state was deteriorating by the minute, a bunch of people were still trying to make a movie.

Unfortunately for them, this was only the beginning of my troubles. I made the rest of the picture extremely difficult for everyone involved. For several days in a row I’d be absolutely fine, then there would be another suicide threat or angry outburst on the set. And there were many, many times when the contemplation of suicide was absolutely serious but not broadcast. They must have felt they were living with a time bomb.

I had a big fight with Fred over my coming back to his apartment at four A.M. when my call was for five-thirty, and after that I left and went back to my apartment. My behavior was probably very similar to a cocaine user’s, but there were no drugs involved at all (except, of course, for the overdose tools I managed to get). Somewhere along the line I’d apparently kicked into a serious manic episode, because I was insomniac, I didn’t eat, my mind was racing, my body was racing, my mouth was racing, I was just running, running, running all the time.

Harry soon returned to Los Angeles. I really wasn’t much of a lure to keep him in Manhattan, and that’s putting it mildly. I became absolutely obsessed that I must have him back. I didn’t know why, it didn’t even matter anymore. And then I did have some affairs, I slept with a couple of guys. I don’t remember where or how, and I’d probably have to be hypnotized to come up with their names, if I even knew them in the first place. It was that kind of hysteria—“What’s the ugliest, most vicious thing I can do?”

Shooting on
Me, Natalie
lasted six weeks, and right near the end I had a big fight on the set with Fred Coe. It’s the scene where Natalie attempts suicide by jumping into the river because the guy she’s in love with is married. We were on a pier in Brooklyn, facing the New York skyline, and because it’s a deep river and I’m not a great swimmer and was wearing a dress and high heels, a lot of preparation was involved.

I’d already jumped into the river a couple of times, so I was filthy, and that and the delays put me in not the best of moods. Plus it was getting to be noontime and I was hungry.
I saw some people eating hero sandwiches and I asked if they’d run and get me one, and a beer. The food finally arrived, I sat down to eat when from the other end of the pier I heard someone yelling, “
You take that beer outta your mouth
!”

At first I couldn’t make out who it was, but then he came right up to where I was sitting. It was Fred Coe, and he screamed at me in front of everyone, “What do you think you’re doing? Nobody drinks beer on my set.” At which point I screamed back, “What do you think—you’re my father?”

And Fred went into a tirade, perfectly understandable to me now, about the time and the grief I had cost him. “We’re coming to the end of this goddamn movie and there will be no beer-drinking on my set!” I stood up, threw the bottle into the river, and told him in front of everyone to take his movie and shove it up his ass, I quit.

I got in my car and the Teamster driver, who’d been told not to take me anywhere, refused to move. So I grabbed my jeans and a top, hailed a cab, told the driver to take me to the William Morris Agency in Manhattan, and changed my clothes in the cab going over the bridge. I stormed in there as if I owned the place, really inexcusably arrogant, and demanded to see whoever it was who was king at the moment. When they said he wasn’t there, I demanded to see the next one down, and the next one, and finally someone realized that I was making a huge scene in the reception area and they’d better get some agent to see me.

Once I got in an office, pacing up and down with steam coming out of my ears, I realized I could see the Brooklyn location from there. So as soon as whoever was selected to deal with me walked in, I just pointed out the window and began screaming, “Do you see that bunch of assholes over there?” I don’t even know what I said after that, I just ranted and raved while the poor man tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

Finally, after I stopped insisting that I was going to take a beer anytime I goddamn well pleased and that I wasn’t going to jump into that goddamn river anymore, phone calls were made and a truce was arranged between me and Fred.
We agreed to finish the film, just to get it over with, and Fred and I would do our best to stay out of each other’s way. It was a hell of a way to act in and direct a movie, but that’s what it had come to.

There was obviously a great deal of pain on my side and on Fred’s, especially when you consider that our relationship dated back to
The Miracle Worker
days, but by the time we finished the movie I think there was a larger understanding, on his part especially, that as bad as my behavior was, it wasn’t malicious. This wasn’t a person out to be a bitch, this was a person in trouble.

I went back to Los Angeles when we wrapped and discovered that as far as Harry was concerned, the marriage was over. I begged a lot, but it didn’t do any good. We went to a lawyer and divvied up the house and the furniture and all that stuff. I kept thinking if I didn’t take anything, he would see how much I loved him and he’d take me back. We all know how well that worked out. So I took nothing and moved into an apartment in the Sierra Towers.

T
he torch I carried for Harry Falk took a long time dying. Nothing, not even moving into my own apartment in late 1968 and going through the motions of marital settlement agreements, could convince me to give up the ghost. It was impossible to believe that this was happening.

I retaliated by becoming Moby Wife. I tortured the man with phone calls, and I did truly infantile things, real high school antics like sending him pizzas he hadn’t ordered. I became more and more manic, even showing up where I knew he’d be, looking my best and trying to behave in a nonchalant manner. The man would be shooting pool at The Factory or some other private club and all of a sudden, there I’d be.

I got by during the days. I’d either spend hours and hours in bed, hung over and calling for takeout food, or else I was able to pull it together enough so that no one noticed what shape I was in, or so I thought. Acquaintances who were concerned about me would try to fix me up with dates or at least invite me to dinner parties. Sometimes I’d go, sometimes I’d say yes and then cancel and stay in bed. I spent a lot of time in bed.

I was hung over most of the day because I drank most of
the night. I’d go to various haunts until I met up with some group that I knew, and eventually, sooner or later, some guy would join us and both of us would be drunk enough to go back to my apartment. I went home with a lot of men, not on a nightly basis but compared to my life-style before and after, it was a lot. Part of it was simply escape—“somebody anesthetize me”—part of it my fury at Harry’s false accusation: “Okay, you think I screw around? I’ll show you screwing around.” They were cold acts, full of self-destruction. You don’t go to bed with someone you don’t know because you like him. It was anger, pure and simple, anger at myself, at men in general, and at Harry in particular. He was all I thought about.

For a while I dated a young man named Gene Kirk-wood. He was a young, good-looking guy, a great dancer with a lot of energy, who really wasn’t interested in me at first. We started seeing each other for lunch and developed a nice friendship and rapport.

Gene and I would drive for miles and miles and he’d tell me his dreams. He wanted to be a movie producer but his family was in the fish business; they used to keep telling him, “Come home and sell fish! Stop this craziness!” We’d go up to Mulholland Drive and he’d say, “This is where I’m going to have my house, and it’s going to be on this many acres, and it’s going to have this and that and the other thing.” You could knock him down, you could take his money, you could do anything to him, he was undaunted. He never doubted that his ship would come in.

I became more and more smitten with Gene and eventually we did go to bed together and became sort of a couple. I even cosigned a car lease for him for a Firebird. Eventually we broke up, and he ended up being one of the producers of the Rocky films. And he forgot all about that car lease. I saw him on television once, going to the Academy Awards, and I said to John Astin, “That’s him! That’s the guy with the Firebird!”

One night at the Sierra Towers I wasn’t feeling very well and I thought some soup might do me good. So I dressed in my black pants and my black turtleneck and went across the street to an Italian restaurant called Stefanino’s looking very
wan and pale, like something out of an Ingmar Bergman movie. Nicky Blair, who ran the place, came over to chat, but I didn’t feel like it, I just wanted to have some soup.

The door opened and in came Frank Sinatra with a group of about sixteen people. They sat down at a long table that’d been specially set up, and when Sinatra, whose date was a tall, statuesque blonde, sat down at the head he ended up looking directly at me. I was eating my soup and smoking my cigarettes and trying not to feel awkward because I’d noticed that he kept looking at me. There’s something about those eyes, I don’t know what the hell it is, but they are riveting. I thought to myself, “The next time he looks at me, I’m going to look at him.” He did, I did, we both smiled because it seemed so silly, and then we went through the whole thing all over again.

The next thing I knew he called Nicky Blair over. Nicky nodded, came over to me, and said, “Mr. Sinatra would like you to join his table.”

“Oh, no, Nicky. I just came from across the street to have some soup. But thank him very much, that’s very thoughtful of him.”

“I think you better join their table.”

“No, I really can’t. Just tell him how grateful I am for the invitation.”

Nicky went away, talked to Sinatra, nodded, came back, and said, “He’s not taking no for an answer.” I laughed and called to Sinatra, “That’s really nice of you, but I’m not dressed and I’m nursing a cold.” And he said, “I insist,” stood up, and began to walk over. Now I was really getting nervous. I stood up, met him halfway, and I said, “This is very sweet of you.” And a place was made for me toward the far end of the table.

After about half an hour, during which he kept really staring at me, Frank got up to go to the men’s room. As he passed my end of the table he leaned over and, without breaking his stride, said, “You are going home with me, aren’t you?” and I said, “Yes.” It happened just that fast. I thought, “I should be wondering what the hell I’m doing, but I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

He came back and declared that the party was moving
to his place, except, he whispered to one of his people, the blonde who was his date. And that was it, the blonde was out and I was in. He and I drove alone in a white station wagon to his house in Beverly Hills, with everyone else following.

There was a general sort of party hubbub at his place and then, all of a sudden, as if somebody had pushed a button, people disappeared. Nobody said, “Get out of here,” it was just shazam and they were gone. And there I was, saying to myself, this is insane, what am I going to tell Frank, Jr.? And he said, “Would you like to hear a new record I just made?” What am I going to say, “No, Mr. Sinatra, I really wouldn’t.” So he put it on and for the first time I heard “My Way.” Can you imagine? We were sitting next to each other on the couch, drinking the best champagne, and he said, “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

I suppose I could have said no, but it seemed to me I’d stayed so long there was no turning back, and I gave it not another thought. He had two bathrooms off his bedroom. He showed me one of them, handed me a robe, opened a drawer, and said, “There’s a toothbrush in there if you want it.” And indeed I had my choice of brand new toothbrushes in that drawer.

I took a shower, drank a lot more while I was in there, and as soon as I got back to the bedroom the phone rang. And Frank got very involved in a very serious conversation about his father, who was quite ill at the time. When he hung up he told me about the surgery his father was going to have, we talked for about two more hours until it was close to dawn, and then we went to sleep. Nothing happened.

When I woke up the next morning, I found my period had started during the night. I was mortified, I wasn’t as accepting of life and the human condition as I am now, but he couldn’t have cared less; he was much too sophisticated to worry about stuff like that. Also, he was very concerned about his father and soon back on the phone again. I went to the kitchen and Frank’s buddy Jilly Rizzo was there. He offered me aspirin and Coca-Cola for my hangover, which I badly needed.

When Frank came out he drove me home and said he’d
like to see me again. And sure enough the next day the phone rang and a voice said, “This is Francis Albert. Do you want to go to Palm Springs?” And I spent a few weeks with him off and on down there, we slept in the same bed, but never was there any sex. Anyone who was around in my life during those few weeks is convinced that I had an affair with Sinatra, and I did, of sorts. Considering my friendship with Frank, Jr., however, I was relieved at how things worked out, and I suspect that when it came right down to it, he couldn’t do that to his son. Also, he was still troubled about his father, and, in fact, that’s how it ended. There was an emergency call, he left with the jet to pick up his dad, and I never heard from him again. Maybe he didn’t want to get involved with someone who was trying to kill herself, especially since she was trying to kill herself over somebody else.