Not Young, Still Restless (6 page)

O
f far more importance, though: so much for my old concern about having to choose between my child and my career. I went back to work as soon as possible, but with even more passion than before. I’d always worked for my own benefit—for rent money, for groceries, for a car, for a respectable wardrobe. Working for the benefit of my brand-new little boy made it so much more worthwhile. I couldn’t wait to get to a soundstage or location first thing in the morning to earn my paycheck and earn it well, and I couldn’t wait to get home to spend every second with my son. I did start a tradition with Corbin that I continued with my next two children as well, though—I took six months off when they were about to start walking, because I didn’t want to miss all the “firsts” that go along with that incredible phase of a baby’s life. And not a day went by when I didn’t appreciate being able to afford that luxury, believe me.

Harry, in the meantime, was proving to be a really extraordinary agent, natural-born salesman that he was. He also loved the doors my success opened for him in a business where it really does often boil down to who you know, while at the same time resenting the fact that I was outearning him. It put me in the impossible position of feeling as if I was supposed to apologize for one of his favorite things about me. But I don’t play when I know it’s impossible for me to win, and I had a beautiful baby who needed me as much as I probably needed him, so I let Harry go about his business without paying as much attention as I should have. He was gone a lot, which was frankly easier than having him around. At least when he was gone I didn’t have to make excuses for his inattentiveness toward the precious new life in our home.

We’d moved to an apartment on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood next door to Ciro’s, one of the most popular nightclubs in the city. The Ciro’s parking lot was essentially Corbin’s playground for the first couple of years, and he took maximum advantage of it—he was as outgoing and personable as any child I’ve ever seen and especially loved being in the company of adults. Artists who were booked to perform at Ciro’s could count on a very friendly greeting from the tiny Mr. Corbin Bernsen when they arrived for rehearsals, particularly Sammy Davis Jr., who would actually look for Corbin (escorted by his mother, of course) if he wasn’t on hand for an exuberant hello and a hug before Sammy disappeared through the stage door. My friend Sylvia Browne has always said that because all our souls are the same age, created at exactly the same time an eternity ago, the term “old soul” refers to one who’s been on earth for several incarnations. Corbin was definitely an old soul, running into far more pals than strangers from the moment he was (re)born.

I
t was at Corbin’s first birthday party that Harry, almost in passing, said, “Let’s get married.”

I replied, “Yeah, okay.”

And if you think that’s romantic, wait till you hear about the wedding.

Of course, people had been asking since Harry and I started living together when we were getting married, and I always responded with some vague, joking answer, because the truth was I was in no hurry to get married, or to get married at all, for that matter. But now there were three of us, one of whom hadn’t asked to be born and deserved the very best we could give him, and parents who’d legalized their commitment to each other didn’t seem like that much to ask. Looking back, I can see with crystal clarity that I wasn’t in love with Harry when I married him. If we hadn’t had a child together I wouldn’t have even considered it. But at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do, and I still had a tenuous grip on the belief that I could somehow be so supportive and so encouraging of Harry’s best qualities that he’d become a man I could admire in spite of himself.

And so it was that we left our year-old son with his beloved babysitter and headed off on the four-hour drive to Tijuana to get married, sparing ourselves the time, energy, and expense of a full-blown wedding in Los Angeles that neither of us cared about to begin with. We’d been to Tijuana for occasional long weekends, and we liked the Palace Hotel there, so it seemed like a reasonable “why not?” destination.

The wedding itself went like this: we arrived at the courthouse, walked up a couple of flights of stairs, signed some paperwork, and left the courthouse legally married. No music, no flowers, no photographer, no vows, no exchange of rings, no cake. I can’t even begin to tell you what I wore, other than definitely not a gown. Our witnesses were two total strangers who happened to work there and may or may not have spoken a word of English. Harry, who clearly didn’t understand the “civil ceremony” concept, was somehow shocked at the lack of guests, decor, and opportunity to be the center of attention.

“That’s it?” he said as we waved adios to our witnesses, Senor and Senora Whoever-They-Were, and left the cramped, cluttered office.

To the best of my recollection, I just gaped at him, for neither the first nor the last time in my life.

The honeymoon complemented the wedding—in that there wasn’t one. Harry had to be back in Los Angeles for a meeting on Monday. After a night in the presidential suite at the Palace Hotel, we were back in the car, paperwork in hand, for the four-hour drive home.

To answer the question I know you’re asking yourself right now, yes, it really was exactly as glamorous as I’ve made it sound.

M
y baby boy and my career were thriving in the mid- to late 1950s. Corbin was enthralling and funny and the light of my life, and I had the stimulating pleasure of working on a couple of feature films and a wide variety of television series, including classics like
Playhouse 90
,
The Ford Television Theatre
, and
The George Sanders Mystery Theater
. Harry, in the meantime, began making regular trips to Europe, especially Rome, where he was supposedly looking into setting up a branch office of the agency. Unfortunately, like many of his colleagues, he also decided that, instead of focusing all his energy on being a successful, very gifted agent, he wanted to be a producer. And frankly, he had no talent for that at all, primarily because he couldn’t let the crews he hired do their jobs—his ego was so enormous by then that he was mistakenly convinced he was better at those jobs than they were. But he loved the title and its unearned prestige far too much to give it up and commit himself to the agency business where he belonged.

He was home from time to time, though, as evidenced by the fact that, in the summer of 1957, we got the joyful news that I was pregnant again. My second pregnancy was as perfect as my first—same strict diet, same rabid cravings for tomatoes, same lack of need for maternity clothes, and same ability to work until two weeks before I gave birth. In fact, I distinctly remember a rehearsal for
Zane Grey Theater
in which Dick Powell (one of the nicest people I ever met, by the way) pulled me into his arms so tightly that my baby gave him a swift kick from the womb, prompting Dick to ad-lib, “Alone at last, just the three of us.”

Collin Bernsen was born on March 30, 1958. He was a breech baby, so by definition it was a more difficult delivery than Corbin’s. And according to Harry, poor Collin was “deformed” as well, with a few marks on his face from the obstetrician’s forceps and one eye that didn’t open as soon as Harry thought it should have. But by then the hospital staff knew better than to withhold Collin from me, and sure enough, he was gorgeous, just like his brother.

Collin’s arrival made it apparent that our family had outgrown our apartment, so it was off to a beautiful new home in Beverly Hills, complete with a guest house and pool, that Harry bought for us (I thought). As an added bonus, our guest house was going to be occupied by Harry’s two aunts, Mamie and Elsie.

I know. You wouldn’t necessarily expect that to be good news, would you? But they were two fabulous women. I don’t know what we would have done without them. (Actually, I do—we would still have been living in a cramped apartment, for one thing. It seems that Harry, after his usual “don’t tell Jeanne” warm-up speech, had convinced his aunts to loan him the down payment on our house in exchange for his promise that Auntie Mamie and Aunt Elsie would have a place to live rent-free for the rest of their lives.) I adored them, and my children, whom they helped raise, adored them every bit as much. Elsie had worked as a grocery store clerk and loved her beer. Mamie and her late husband had owned a bar in Chicago and she could have been cast as a gangster’s wife. She was a strict disciplinarian with the children and was also fiercely protective of them. Both women were fun and funny and just plain Good People, and we were blessed to have them with us for many years.

I was quickly back to work after Collin’s birth, happily going from episode to episode of one television series after another, including
State Trooper
,
Tales of Wells Fargo
, and the iconic
Twilight Zone
. And speaking of
The Twilight Zone
, I do have a confession to make: I didn’t cheat on my husband when I shot that episode, but I most definitely thought about it.

It was the first time I’d ever worked with Dan Duryea. I knew he was a wonderful actor, but I had no idea I would find myself so attracted to him. He had the most irresistible puppy-dog eyes, and an aura that was both intensely masculine and romantic. And he made absolutely no secret of the fact that the attraction was mutual—we hadn’t finished our first day of filming before he became openly flirtatious and asked me to dinner.

I was tempted, what can I say? I was excited by him and by being wanted by him, and frankly, the thought of being naughty was suddenly very appealing. I’m sure it took longer than it should have for me to say, “I’d love to, but I’m married.”

Imagine my surprise when he replied, “Okay, so bring your husband.”

As we say in scripts, cut to Harry, me, and Dan Duryea in a quiet, elegant restaurant, Dan shamelessly ignoring Harry and draping himself all over me, making comments like “Where were you when I was ready to get married?”

I would have been a little embarrassed and put a stop to it if it had been making Harry angry or uncomfortable. But no—he thought it was great and thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. I don’t understand a thing about that. Dan must have thought I was married to a complete wuss, and I was beginning to wonder myself. The only possible explanation I could come up with was that maybe it was exciting to Harry to see how desirable his wife was to another man. But if some woman sat right in front of me and threw herself at my husband like that, I promise you, she and I would go off together for a little talk, and only one of us would come back.

In the end, nothing ever happened between me and Dan Duryea, and I guess I’m glad that I did the Right Thing. I don’t mind admitting, though, that I was sad when we finished filming and we went our separate ways, and I’ll always wonder . . .

I
took my usual six months off when it was almost time for Collin to take his first steps. Just as so much of Corbin’s personality was apparent from the beginning, it was obvious even then that my second son was highly charged, very funny, and utterly determined—no matter how many times he fell while he learned to walk, he doggedly got back up again. With apologies for getting ahead of myself, it still makes me laugh to remember him at the age of five, emptying out his closet every morning during the week to study his options and put together exactly the right outfit for that day at kindergarten.

I wouldn’t trade my two boys for anything in this world. I was in love with both of them while they were still in my womb, and I would lay down my life for them with a smile on my face. And I must say, even though he had no idea how to interact with them, let alone feed them, change their diapers, or rock them to sleep, I never doubted for a moment that Harry loved his sons too.

But I’d begun to yearn for the one thing that seemed to be missing from my life: a daughter. I dreamed of a little girl to fuss over and dress up and have pretend tea parties with, another feminine presence in a house full of testosterone.

That dream came true on August 17, 1960, with the birth of my sweet, gorgeous Caren Bernsen, after another easy pregnancy that allowed me to keep working almost until it was time to head for the delivery room. It was no secret that I was hoping for a daughter, and my hospital room was so filled to the brim with congratulatory flowers from friends and family that I finally asked the nurses to start delivering them to other patients.

There’s no doubt about it, Harry loved her. But he still had no clue what to do with babies, and the fact that she was a girl made her even more mystifying to him, so he rarely interacted with her on the rare occasions when he was around. More often than not, though, he was away—on business trips, he said—for weeks at a time. As independent as Caren was from the moment she was born, she was also more sensitive than her two rowdy big brothers and more of an introvert, and I know it hurt her when she was a child that her father was absent so often and so seemingly disinterested in her.

Let’s see . . . a little girl with two older siblings and a father who always seemed to be off somewhere working instead of home with his family. I admit it, it took me years to figure out why, in addition to adoring her, I always felt a special connection to her—as different as our personalities have always been, raising her was like watching my own childhood repeat itself right before my eyes.

I can’t begin to count the number of times I begged Harry to spend time with his children, especially Corbin and Collin as they got old enough to start really wanting and needing their dad. Play with them, I said. Get to know them. They’re fabulous, funny, wonderful boys. I know you love them, but you’ll also enjoy them if you’d give yourself a chance to find out who they are.

And so it was that when Corbin was about eight years old and Collin was four, Harry decided that on Saturday mornings when he was home, he would go on outings with his boys. What that translated to on the Planet Harry was that he would take his sons with him to do what he always did on Saturdays anyway—drop off and pick up his laundry (which for some reason he loved and wouldn’t dream of letting anyone else do for him), get a haircut, and go to the car wash. After the third or fourth Saturday of this, Collin finally asked his father if they could please not play with him anymore because it wasn’t any fun. To the best of my recollection, that about wrapped up the father-son bonding between Harry and the boys until they were old enough to play Little League baseball, which Harry did enjoy, especially when he discovered what gifted athletes our sons were.