I signed up for only two classes at the Playhouse, because I didn’t want to be away from Mark more than a few hours a day. In dialect class we learned the International Phonetic Alphabet, as well as Scottish, Irish, upper-crust British, Cockney, New Yorkese, and a limited but useful roster of other accents. Dance class was more like gym class. I was the lone female in third year. It was hard to find plays for five men and one little egg in search of a beater, so second-year girls sometimes rounded out our casts. The first show ran with good reviews. In the second play, I was cast as a raucous, drunken troublemaker. An exciting challenge! I was happy. Mark was happy. At last, life was working out.
Oh…really?
“I’m just too homesick to stay,” Ruthie Mae announced in October.
She wanted to leave the following week, but I persuaded her to hang on for a week beyond that while I searched desperately for a nanny who could be trusted to care for Mark for a price I could afford. After ten days of fruitless interviews, I called Mother, who came and got Ruthie Mae and Mark. To say my heart sank is an understatement. Parting with my baby again! The last thing I wanted. But that’s what happened. After Mother and that damn Ruthie Mae left for Oklahoma with my precious boy, I moved into a cheap one-bedroom apartment by myself.
Sexy, scrappy Troy Sanders was one of two particularly talented third-year actors.
“Come up to my place after rehearsal tonight,” he said. “We’ll have wine and run lines.”
But of course, he had something else in mind.
I found him attractive but said, “No, Troy, I don’t think so.”
“It’s perfectly safe. I’m medically unable to sire children,” he assured me, and under his persistent blandishments, the wine and I succumbed. Rating: B. (Twelve years later, while I was doing Maude, a former Pasadena Playhouse pal looked me up and, in the course of conversation, mentioned that Troy was married and living in the Valley with his wife—and three children. Hmm. Must have found a miraculous cure. I felt such a fool. But oooh, such a lucky fool!)
Bill McKinney, a blond hunk from Arkansas, was the other gifted third-year actor. He was Troy’s buddy, so I felt a little strange when Bill started coming on to me, but he was loaded with personality and very funny, despite his reputation for getting into bar fights. He was built like a bull with a lot of pent-up steam to blow off. After rehearsals, I always went home, but Bill and Troy often went out. Troy, who was only about five feet six, would pick a fight with some big guy in a bar, inviting the furious fellow to “step outside,” forcing Bill to come to his rescue. Troy was a lover not a fighter, and Bill was both, so together, they were like Mickey Rooney on steroids.
One night during our brief but very active affair, Bill and I were in bed at my apartment when a loud fracas began outside.
“McKinney!” someone was yelling. “Get out here!”
“That’s Troy!” Bill cried, leaping out of bed stark naked. He threw on a shirt and stomped outside to beat up whomever Troy had in tow, and I decided these two were just too much for me. No more shenanigans with either of them. Bill went on to a successful movie career—usually typecast as a threatening, dangerous redneck, with his thick Arkansas accent. He used to say to me, “That’s RAT!” Meaning “right.” He played the southern bully who tied Ned Beatty to a tree and ravaged him in Deliverance, and I don’t know about you, but that scene scared me! In fact, Maxim recently did a “50 Greatest Movie Villains” issue, and the #1 scariest guy of all time was—that’s rat!—Bill McKinney. I see him occasionally on late-night television reruns. Usually in fight scenes. That man was a brawler.
Matthew, on the other hand, was a charming first-year actor from New Jersey. Tall, brunet, handsome as all get-out. He said he was twenty-four, so I told him I was twenty-four, too (I was actually twenty-five). He was a real gentleman. And may I say, terrific in bed—a solid A.
That Thanksgiving, I made turkey and fixin’s for a bunch of friends. I was just serving everyone, wondering where Matthew was, when a knock came at my front door. There he stood, very agitated. He thrust a folded letter into my hand, made me promise I wouldn’t open it until he was out of sight, then took off running across the vacant lot next door.
Dear Rue, the letter read, I cannot go on with this deception. I lied. I am not twenty-four. I am eighteen, and it’s tearing me apart. I can’t see you anymore. Good luck. Love, Matthew.
I stood there, thinking, Good grief! I’ve been shtupping a teenager!
He was awfully sweet, though. I’ve often wished to look him up, but I can’t remember his last name, and I can’t very well advertise: “Seeking Matthew: a solid A!”
I went home for Christmas, a whole week with Mark, who had grown so much! He called me “Little Mama” and Mother “Big Mama.” Mother was spoiling him, and he missed me, which broke my heart. I determined then and there—in the final days of 1959—that I would get into a union show in 1960. Enough racing my engine and getting nowhere! By God and little green apples, I was going to become a bona fide Working Actress! And I would get Mark back!
Sure enough, just after New Year’s, I got a call to read for Malibu Run, a popular TV series starring Ron Ely. I went in to read on January 6, 1960, and—can you believe it?—was hired to play a waitress. (I had some experience at that by then.) Only one day’s shoot, but one of my two small scenes was with the guest star, Peter Falk. Wow! Now I could join Screen Actors Guild, which opened the door to jobs I couldn’t get before. My salary barely covered the cost of joining SAG. But having broken that union barrier over the next few years, I got cast as a waitress in a cowboy bar in a popular Western, as a waitress in a few other series, and as an actress in The People’s Court. These little jobs were few and far between, however, so I had to keep waiting tables in real life to make ends meet. I began to wonder if I was an actress playing waitresses, or a waitress sometimes playing an actress.
Also in January, we started rehearsals on Roadside by Lynn Riggs. I was cast in the marvelous role of Hannie, a bigger-than-life country gal. Our terrific director, Barney Brown, taught me a valuable piece of technique: “You have to be brave enough to go further than you feel safe. Let it all hang out. Go beyond your limits.”
Good advice in art and life.
Sir Laurence Olivier once said: “The first rehearsal, think of jumping into an ice-cold pool of water.” I rehearsed Hannie with all the gusto and guts I had in me. What a role! But one bleak morning, six days before Roadside was to open, Barney announced that Lynn Riggs’s estate had put a stop on any performance of Roadside. Stunned and dismayed, we had to come up with another play, rehearse it, and open in less than a week! Barney found a science-fiction one-act for the men, and for me he selected Before Breakfast, a bitter little one-act pill by Eugene O’Neill, in which a woman shuffles around a kitchen in a shapeless blouse and skirt, haranguing her unseen husband. For twenty-five merciless minutes. He never replies. Finally, she exits to the bedroom, lets out a bloodcurdling scream, staggers back on, and slumps onto the table. Curtain.
A real laugh riot.
“Can you learn it in five days?” asked the director who’d been brought in.
“Sure,” I said. “If I can find someone to drill me on lines for a few hours every day.”
I called George Kelley, who said he’d be glad to cue me. With his help, I learned the lines. With the director’s help, I created the character. With God’s help, we opened on time. The men’s play was a little shaky, but mine went flawlessly. George drove me home after the show, and I said, “George, I owe you a lot for the evening’s success. I wish I knew a way to repay you.”
He said he had a way. I liked him a lot, and he was gorgeous, but still…
I said, “Is that really what you want in return?”
He said, “It’s the only thing I want.”
So I gave it to him. Great sex, but I kept wishing he wanted me because he found me irresistible, instead of payment for a favor. I never saw George again, but that was some spectacular
swan song. He deserved the title of Mr. Pasadena, ooh my, yes. A, A, A!
One night, a pair of important agents—husband and wife—who had just seen Before Breakfast came backstage and said they were terribly impressed with my performance. I took my pictures and résumés to their office on Sunset Strip the next day, and they said they wanted to see how I looked on camera and had arranged for me to judge a dance contest on an afternoon show. No lines, just walking around looking at the contestants. So a few days later, I put on my prettiest bib and tucker and went walking around looking at the couples dancing, feeling somewhat foolish. The show was live, so I didn’t get to see it, but Mother, who’d brought Mark out for a short visit, said I looked pretty, of course. Days went by. I didn’t hear a word from the agents. They were never there when I called. Finally, they called me back to their office, and Mother, Mark, and I drove into Hollywood.
A receptionist in the outer office told me to have a seat, then got very, very busy.
I sat.
The wife was at the next desk, head down, also very, very busy. She finally glanced up and said, “My husband will see you in his office.”
I went in.
He also kept his head down—very, very busy. Finally, he looked up and said, “You don’t come across on camera. You’re not photogenic. You have no future in television. Here are your pictures and résumés. Thank you for coming in.”
Stunned and heartbroken, I stumbled down the stairs and got into the car in tears.
“Oh, Eddi-Rue. Honey, don’t feel bad,” Mother struggled to console me. “Remember, every kick’s a boost!”
That made me laugh. In fact, I used that quote in my acceptance speech when I won the Emmy in 1987. (Memo to Mr. and Mrs. No Future in Television: Fall in a hole.)
After Mother and Mark returned to Oklahoma, I was thrilled to hear that my cousin Sue and her family were moving to L.A. and would be glad to share a house with Mark and me! Well, hallelujah! I went to Oklahoma and fetched Mark back on the train, along with his little kitten, Grice, and we all moved into a large house in Glendale, which was…well, Glendale. Blandsville. But heck, it was half an hour from the Playhouse, with a fenced yard where the kids could play. Sue took care of the kids while I was at the Playhouse, and I spent hours on the patio and in the sandbox with Mark. Once again, everything was happy, happy, happy…uh-oh.
In February, Mark started crying and didn’t stop all day. He couldn’t talk enough to tell me what was wrong, and Sue had no idea. Frightened, I called Mother, who said to check his throat. I checked. White bumps. She said it was strep throat. I missed rehearsal and classes so I could be with him and swab his throat with medicine for a few days. It was miserable for poor Mark and scared me silly.
We were rehearsing the William Inge play Bus Stop, in which I played Cherie, the Kansas City chanteuse (“at the Blue Dragon nightclub, down by the stockyards”) abducted by love-struck rodeo daredevil Bo (played by Troy Sanders, with Bill McKinney as his gentle sidekick, Virgil). A snowstorm has forced the bus to stop at a café along the way to Topeka. Of course, Bo turns out to be a dear and Cherie falls in love with him. During the long night, she stands on a chair and sings “That Old Black Magic” quite badly. I loved my tacky costume—an abbreviated, black, sequined getup with black fishnet stockings, my long hair piled on top of my head with a flower over one ear. It is a delicious role in a delicious play. And something happened during one particular performance that was pure bliss. For a few seconds—perhaps fifteen or twenty—I found Rue gone and only Cherie there. I was completely inside her. Actors pray for an experience like that.
Just after we opened, I was at a restaurant Playhouse students frequented when someone stopped by my table and said, “Oh, Rue, I met your ex-husband, Tom Lloyd, the other day.”
The proverbial ton of bricks fell on my head.
“But…he used to be Tom Bish,” I said. “Are you sure it was my ex-husband?”
“Yes, that’s what he said. He’s living in Hollywood. You want his number?”
Well, one would think that I already had this guy’s number, but the moment I heard his name, my head was spinning with that old virus. I went unsteadily to a pay phone, and needless to say, he was surprised to hear my voice. We hadn’t seen or spoken to each other since that day at the hospital when he’d given what was apparently the best acting performance of his life.
“I was wondering…,” I said, my heart in my throat. “Would you like to meet Mark?”
“Sure, babe,” he said as casually as if I’d offered him a bag of peanuts.
That Saturday, I picked him up at his Hollywood apartment. Out he sailed, dressed in dazzling white.
“Hi, lady.” He slid me a sideways smile. “I didn’t think you’d ever speak to me again.”
Deep breath, Rue. Deep breath…
I drove him to Glendale to meet his seventeen-month-old son.
“Mark, this is Tom. Your daddy.”
We took Mark to the zoo and had a lovely time together. Breathe, Rue, breathe…
“Would you like to stay and see the closing performance of the play?” I asked, and he said, “Oh, yeah, baby. Cool.”
“You were great,” he said to me after the performance. “Hey, it’s late, and you’re tired. Why don’t I stay over, and you can take me home tomorrow?”
“Okay,” I said. That made sense. Just keep breathing. “Mark can sleep with me on the sofa. You can take his bed.”
We had a glass of wine and talked, he going on about trying to get his career started but needing an agent, me telling him wonderful things about our son.
“My mother never forgave me for leaving you until the day she died,” he said.
After another glass of wine, he fell into bed, instantly asleep. I lay awake for hours, acutely aware of him there in the dark. God almighty—who could breathe? In the morning, after breakfast, we played with Mark on the patio, like any little family out in the California sunshine.
“Thanks, babe. Mark’s a great kid,” Tom said when I dropped him off in Hollywood.
When I returned to Glendale, Mark started crying for “Daddy.” I told him Tom would visit him again, but he kept crying for “Daddy” off and on all day until he fell asleep. I called Tom repeatedly over that week and left messages, but got no reply. Then I got an idea.
“Hi, Tom,” I told his answering machine. “My agents are interested in seeing you.”
He called back lightning fast. “Hey, babe. So when can I meet them?”
“You know, they were interested,” I said tightly, “but the time has passed.”
And I hung up. He never called back. Mark stopped crying for him. And twenty-eight years later, so did I.
The third-year class started rehearsing A Streetcar Named Desire, with me as Blanche DuBois—a plum role I had always wanted to tackle.
So where’s that other shoe…isn’t it about to drop? Oh, yes. Here it comes.
“We aren’t happy in Glendale,” Sue announced. “We’re moving back to the Midwest.”
Well, dadblast the fladderapp! Determined to keep Mark this time, I hit the Glendale papers and found an ad: “Single mother with child to complete household of three mothers with children.” I’d have an upstairs bedroom and we’d all pay a lady to watch the children. With no alternative, I moved in, but I was shocked to learn that the kids were not allowed in the house during the day! They stayed in the backyard. All day. Bad enough for the five older children, but Mark was only eighteen months old! A toddler not allowed in the house? All bets off!
“This does not work for me,” I told them. “I’ll be out in a day or two.”
I scoured the papers again, increasingly desperate. No apartments I could afford. No nanny I could—or would—hire. Then I got a letter from Norman. He was coming out for a three-day leave. I found a tiny trailer house (ooh-la-la). Two trips with the station wagon and I had us moved in. After Tom’s latest rejection, Sue’s sudden departure, those three cold Glendale bitches, I was all b
ut beaten down. Norm arrived the next day, and being with this cheerful, devoted guy was like coming up for air. We decided to give our marriage a second try. It about killed me to drop out of Streetcar, but I did it. Good-bye Blanche DuBois, hello U-Haul. Norm helped me load the rented trailer, then flew back to base.
“We’re going to see Norman!” I told Mark as we set out for Denver the next morning.
I figured we could make the trip in two days. It was warm in Los Angeles, so I wore shorts. I popped Mark into his port-o-crib in the backseat with his kitten, Grice, singing, “We’re off to see the wizard!” We careened along the highway, dragging the weaving trailer with my station wagon. Mark enjoyed the whole thing mightily, but late the first day, a patrolman pulled me over.
“You sure you know how to handle the trailer, miss?”
“It’s my first time,” I told him demurely.
“Well, take it slow.”
He gave me a few more pointers—and didn’t ticket me, bless his heart. We checked into a motel in Arizona, sneaking Grice in. Early the next morning, we set out again. I was still in shorts, but I put a little sweater on Mark and he cuddled down in his crib with blankets. The steep Rockies now loomed ahead of us. We struggled slowly up Wolf’s Head Pass, reached the snowy top, and started the sharply winding descent. It began snowing as we struggled down the treacherous pass, my heart pounding all the way, and by the time we reached Denver at dusk, it was colder than a witch’s…nose. I was half frozen (the half in shorts) and woozy from fatigue, but grateful to be there in one piece. After dinner, I got Mark settled and fell groggily into bed. Norman began to make love to me. I was really too tired, and I wasn’t protected. For some reason, I expected him to pull out before coming to climax.
My First Five Husbands Page 9