Not Young, Still Restless (2 page)

A few short months later Mother’s health started to decline and we first heard the ugly words “uterine cancer.” Today she would have stood a great chance of beating it. Back then it was a cruel, hopeless series of trips back and forth from home to the hospital, a three-year war that she finally lost on August 21, 1945. I was sixteen years old.

In a way, her death meant the end of any security and stability I’d found in my family. Jack had long since started a family of his own and then marched off to fight in World War II. Evelyn had married Everett, an army man she’d known throughout her high school years. Now my mother was gone, and because she had no health insurance, her medical bills left us virtually penniless. When Dad got a job offer from an oil company in Edmonton, Canada, he wasn’t about to turn it down, and I wasn’t about to move yet again and spend my senior year in high school surrounded by yet another group of strangers. So I waved good-bye to the last remaining member of my immediate family, spent my senior year living with my friend Faye Krause and her family, graduated from Bakersfield High School in the top third of my class, and never looked back.

I
t probably should have been harder for me than it was to let my father move to Canada without me when, in a way, he was all I had left. But very early in my life, because we never seemed to stop relocating, I developed a very effective defense mechanism for coping with the “saying good-bye” process to keep it from being too painful—I learned to avoid getting all that attached to begin with.

In the first eighteen years of my life I lived in Taft, Fellows, Pumpkin Center, Pixley, Porterville, Tupman, Panama, Redondo Beach, Bakersfield, and Pasadena, not necessarily in that order. At one point Dad even moved us to a five-acre farm so that Jack, Evelyn, and I could learn to truly appreciate animals and the land. Jack was given a cow named Rose, Evelyn had chickens, and I raised rabbits, with whom I won more than one blue ribbon at the California State Fair, thank you very much.

I had a special bond with Jack’s cow. Rose had beautiful eyes and was such a calm, gentle, reliable presence that for a few years she was my best friend and closest confidante—I could tell her anything without having to worry about her judging me or betraying my confidence, and she always let me do all the talking.

When it came to human friends, I gravitated more toward my teachers and other adults than I did toward children my age. Dolls and tea parties with teddy bears and playing dress-up were never my idea of a good time, and when there were no adults around to hang out with, I was lucky enough, for as long as I can remember, to enjoy my own company and not rely on anyone else to make me happy.

Not for one minute, though, did I let that deprive me of the sweet joy and the heartbreaking anguish of falling in love.

C
harles Clark and I were eleven years old when we met as classmates. He was a gifted athlete and a good student, with a smile that sent a thrill through me from the first moment I saw it, and we were the poster children for every book, song, movie, and poem ever written about first loves. I adored him, and I adored how it felt to love him and be loved by him. In fact, it was Charles who inspired my lifelong belief that those of us whose first loves were significant and lasted awhile spend the rest of our lives trying to re-create that same intensity, that sweet sense of purpose and focus and completeness, that perpetual excitement of always having something to look forward to, because just being together, or talking on the phone, or seeing each other in the hall between classes, felt like special occasions. I’m sure I spent the rest of my love life trying to re-create the “high” of Charles Clark, and at the risk of ruining the suspense, I’ll tell you right now it never happened.

Charles and I mutually agreed on two conditions when we officially started our relationship. The first was that if either of us found ourselves wanting to be with someone else, we would tell the other immediately. The second was that no matter how tempted we might be, he would respect my insistence on being a virgin when I got married. That wasn’t some hysterical reaction to the two molestation experiences I’d had, or a blind acceptance of one of Mother’s religious rules whether it made sense to me or not. It was my idea, my belief that my virginity was too valuable to forfeit for anything less than a lifelong commitment. Charles, hormones and all, respected that without question or complaint, which, of course, only deepened my faith in him and made me love him more.

To add to the perfection, our parents approved, so there was no sneaking around or lying or other family drama to complicate things. We spent a lot of time at each other’s houses, and Charles’s mother even drove us to Bakersfield one night to see the premiere of an impossibly romantic movie called
Gone with the Wind
. (I still remember how shocked I was to hear the word “damn” come out of someone’s mouth on-screen, let alone Clark Gable’s.) And when Charles’s father was transferred to another town and his family moved away, I loved going there to spend weekends with my boyfriend and with the people I was sure were my future in-laws.

So when he called one day and said he had something to tell me and it had to be in person, I was so excited about seeing him for the first time in almost a month that I conveniently ignored the weight in his voice and simply started deciding what to wear.

He didn’t kiss me hello when he got there. He barely looked at me as he stepped past me into the house and stood in the living room like a stranger, studying the floor. And when I finally broke the silence between us and asked what was wrong, he took a few long, deep breaths before he answered me.

He told me her name, but I was too stunned to hear it. He may have told me everything about her, and how long they’d been seeing each other, for all I know. All I heard was a steady, deafening, horrible buzzing noise in my ears until he got around to the two words I heard loud and clear: “She’s pregnant.”

I was sure the ground was falling away beneath my feet, and I felt sick from the pain and rage that instantly welled up in me. But I guess I instinctively refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that, because all I said, in the calmest, steadiest voice you’ve ever heard, was, “I understand.” Not bad for a sixteen-year-old girl whose world had just exploded, don’t you think?

And then I completely outdid myself by accepting his invitation for me to meet her. No, not someday, not even later that day. What luck, she was sitting outside in his car at that very moment. Shock is an amazing phenomenon, isn’t it? Without a single beat of hesitation, I walked out of the house with him, head held high, and marched up to the car and looked right at her when he introduced us, although I couldn’t tell you a thing about her. She probably had hair, and a face. She probably said something, and I probably said something back. Maybe we shook hands, maybe not. The one thing I’m sure of is that I gave her my best smile for that two- or three-minute encounter, a smile I hoped said, “If you think you’re the winner in this situation, guess again.”

Then I waved good-bye to both of them, walked back into the house, closed the door behind me, and cried until there were no more tears left in me.

From what I heard, they got married soon after that, a marriage that lasted until shortly after the baby was born.

He tried several times to get in touch with me, but I never saw or spoke to him again.

It became a lifelong pattern, personally and professionally: I don’t care who you are, you don’t get more than one chance to betray me, and as this book should make apparent, I have a very long memory.

I
’m not sure how I would have made it through the end of Charles and me, or Mother’s death, if it hadn’t been for another great love of my life, one that started when I was thirteen and continues to sustain me to this day: the love affair between me and an audience.

I was in eighth grade, and I was chosen for a small part in the class play. I think it was called
Annabel Steps In
, or something equally compelling. I’ve had several colleagues over the years who knew from the day they were born that they were destined, even driven, to be actors. That wasn’t the case with me. Acting had never occurred to me. I thought no more of learning my lines and rehearsing for
Annabel Steps In
than I thought of doing the rest of my homework and, because I’m an overachiever, doing it well. But then, on opening night, I stepped onstage in front of an audience and it changed my life. It changed me.

It wasn’t just the novelty of being the center of a whole lot of attention that felt so utterly joyful. From those very first moments, it felt like an unspoken agreement between me and the audience: the more pleased they were with whatever it was I was doing and saying, the more I wanted to please them, so that we fed off each other and created a unique experience together that neither of us could have created on our own. It was uncomplicated, reciprocal, and unconditional, a real connection and an exchange of energy I never saw coming and that I continue to treasure to this day. It fulfilled me, it made sense to me, it impelled me, and it gave me something I’d yearned for and wasn’t sure I would ever find—I finally had a place to point to and say from the heart, “I belong here.”

I immediately became addicted to learning everything there was to know about the theater, from performance skills to the material itself. I voraciously read and wrote reports on every play in the library. I especially fell in love with the works of Noël Coward and had the pleasure of performing in a Bakersfield Community Theatre production of his wonderful play
Blithe Spirit
during my high school years. In fact, I leapt at every opportunity to appear onstage, and by the time I graduated, I’d decided with absolute certainty on the course my future would take: I would study and prepare and work hard to save money, and at the first opportunity I would move to New York and spend the rest of my life as a deliriously happy, utterly fulfilled stage actress. That never happened, of course, which should teach us all a good lesson about the words “absolute certainty.”

I headed straight from Bakersfield to the Pasadena Playhouse College of Theatre Arts, which my father could never have afforded without the help of my mother’s only sister, my aunt Della. She lived in Los Angeles and was kind enough to offer me a free place to stay. I’d also been active enough in theater to earn a lifetime membership in the International Thespian Society, so I hit the ground running in Pasadena and loved every minute of it, soaking up every bit of knowledge, education, and experience that came my way. It was a joyful time—I was in my element and growing more confident with every class, every performance, every new friend who shared my dream—and I was devastated when, at the end of my first year, Aunt Della announced that she was moving away, and Dad informed me that without the room and board she provided, he couldn’t afford for me to stay at Pasadena Playhouse College any longer.

There’s a wonderful old saying that goes, “When God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.” I doubt if whoever coined that saying was thinking of Stockton, California, at the time. But just as I was mourning the loss of my education, and possibly my theatrical career in New York, my sister, Evelyn, and her husband, Everett, invited me to stay with them in Stockton. There I could take extension courses through the theater department of College of the Pacific, get credits for performances, and explore the incredible array of theater, ballet, opera, and other creative arts that Stockton had to offer.

I sadly waved good-bye to Pasadena, and was still drying my tears when I arrived with my luggage on Evelyn and Everett’s doorstep and embarked on four of the happiest, most stimulating years of my life.

Eager to start supporting myself, I got a job in an appliance store and scheduled my theater and improv classes around my shifts.

I did play after play after play, particularly such light opera classics as
Naughty Marietta
and
Song of Norway
. Randy Fitz, a College of the Pacific professor, also wrote several plays and cast me in every one of them.

I wrote and cohosted a radio show about campus life with my friend Jerry DeBono, cleverly called
Jeanne & Jerry
.

Jerry and I teamed up with our friends Donny Dollarhyde and Pat McFarland to perform sketches for visiting conventioneers.

I wrote and performed in the Stockton centennial show.

I became part of a wonderful, talented, informal group of theatrical performers, directors, and playwrights who made occasional trips to Los Angeles to check out the theater world there, while similar groups regularly made the trip from Los Angeles to Stockton to see what was going on with us. It wasn’t long before strong, lasting friendships evolved between the two groups—in my case, such great pals from L.A. as Tony Kent, Jerry Lawrence, Janet Stewart, Clarence Stemler, and Billy Lundmark would change my life whether I wanted them to or not.

And oh, yes, I almost forgot, I got engaged. His name was Owen Chain. He was a smart, exciting, talented man from a very influential family, and we met one night when he came to say hello to the director of a play I was rehearsing. He quickly became a part of our inseparable theater circle and a part of my life as well, so supportive and well connected that he got me admitted to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London. I passed, having no desire to leave the comfort, friendships, and success I’d worked hard to achieve in Stockton. After a whirlwind two-month engagement, I also passed on marrying Owen, having no desire to tie myself down with a marriage to him or anyone else. Two more things I then knew with “absolute certainty”: I would happily stay in Stockton for the rest of my life, and I would never get married. (Are we sensing a pattern here?)

O
wen wasn’t the only person trying to persuade me to leave Stockton. My L.A. friends had begun trying to convince me to move there. “You can do so much more,” they would say. “You’re a big fish in a small pond. In Hollywood you can be seen by people who can open up a whole new world of opportunities.” Even Randy Fitz, my College of the Pacific professor, had been telling me that four years in Stockton was quite enough and it was time for me to spread my wings.