Make 'Em Laugh

by Debbie Reynolds

  Donald loves show business. Back in Jersey, his family is slightly related to Hoboken’s favorite son, Frank Sinatra. His father’s brother’s wife’s sister’s husband is Ol’ Blue Eyes’s first cousin. Really.

  I am so fortunate to have Donald in my life. He takes care of everything. No matter what the problem, he finds a way to handle it. I’ve been lucky to have exceptional, devoted assistants who are great at what they do. Another was Jenny Alavolasiti, who worked with me for many, many years. I always call her Jen. I never use her last name because I can’t pronounce it.

  PORTRAIT OF JENNY

  One of my favorite things about the Las Vegas hotel was unwinding in the lounge following my show in the Star Theater. We called the lounge Jazz and Jokes, named by Rip Taylor, who supplied a lot of the humor in those days. It was open all the time, so people stopped by to hear music and join in the fun. I liked to mingle with the audience.

  Jen and her husband, Keith, were on vacation when they dropped into Jazz and Jokes for an afternoon of piña coladas and music. Jen loved music. She loved great singers of all descriptions, current stars Midler and Streisand but also classic artists like Marilyn Maye and Frances Faye.

  Jen was a lovely, tall blonde gal with sparkling blue eyes. Her husband looked like he’d stepped right out of a high school yearbook—a clean-cut, sweet man. They were both teaching school near Jen’s hometown of Nacogdoches in East Texas. I sat down with them at their ringside table and we listened to the Jazz and Jokes resident trio. Jen was taken with an antique pavé diamond ring I always wear. As a fellow Texan, I had an easy time chatting and laughing with the couple. They were going to be in Vegas for a few days, so I invited them to come to see my show.

  Jen and Keith drove back to Texas in time for the start of the school year. But Jen was feeling the beat of a different drum. The bright lights were calling. She soon gave up teaching and relocated to Las Vegas. Keith and her mother, Jean, came out to visit, but Jen was hell-bent to be out of Texas. Keith supported Jen’s decision, even though it meant they spent less time together. He came to visit her whenever he could.

  Jen got a real-estate license and moved into a condo in the same complex as mine. As my hotel sank into the desert, Jen was one of the people I turned to as I began to put my life back together. She became a night owl, and we shared some of my famous after-midnight-chat calls. I was happy to have a new friend.

  After I returned to live in Los Angeles, Jen started working for me full-time, taking care of all the details in my hectic life. She juggled everything: my travel, packing, scheduling, scripts, contracts, the dog, my kids. There was nothing she couldn’t learn to handle. She had a zest for life that made her fun almost every minute. Of course we locked horns occasionally; we were both born under the sign of Aries.

  One night we were in a hotel in Culver City for some job when Jen confided in me that I was about to lose my current hairdresser. Sammy lived in Vegas but he would join me on the road when I needed him.

  “Why would you say that?” I said. “He’s a great hairdresser and he loves show business. Why would he leave?”

  “He’s going to do Liza.”

  “He’s going to work with Liza?”

  “No, he’s going to be Liza. In a drag show in Vegas.”

  Sammy was always entertaining us with his jokes and impressions, but this was news to me.

  “I didn’t know he did Liza.”

  “He’s got a job in Boylesque.”

  Boylesque was a big drag revue that played at different hotels around town.

  “Don’t worry,” Jen said. “I’m learning to do your wigs.”

  Two shocks in one night.

  But darn if she didn’t learn how to be a hairstylist in addition to her many other duties.

  After years of living in a little apartment, Jen moved into a rental house next door to my friend Leon, whom I’ve known since we were seven years old. She and I furnished it with things from my storage units at the studio. We hung my pictures on the walls. It was fun having her so close to Leon.

  Jen was happy with her new life. She had the love and support of her Texas family while working with me. She loved her job and she was great at it.

  In February 2012, to work on my memoir Unsinkable, I rented a place in Tahoe, a three-story house nestled in the side of a mountain overlooking the lake. Todd and Catherine (who was then still his girlfriend) drove up from the ranch with the family dogs Yippee and Dwight. Todd loves to ski and was looking forward to a month in the beautiful mountains. My friend and coauthor, Dori Hannaway, flew in from LA, dragging along reference books, computers, and blank recording tapes. We settled in for a writing retreat combined with a ski vacation for Todd.

  Jen took Dwight out for long walks down the mountain every morning. They didn’t seem to mind the freezing weather or the altitude. One morning Jen lifted a microwave oven that we’d bought for the rec room out of the car and carried it into the house. In doing so, she hurt her back.

  She was in so much pain, she went to an urgent care facility. They prescribed strong painkillers. Although the extreme pain persisted, she wouldn’t let us take her to the emergency room. After a few days, she willed herself out of bed to walk Dwight while I was still asleep. In long-distance calls to her mother Jen assured Jean that she was going to be all right. Keith was worried, but no one could tell Jen what to do.

  She handled all the unpacking when we got back to Los Angeles while getting us ready for some upcoming dates. She promised she would go to her chiropractor when she had time. She pushed herself in spite of the constant pain. Finally she went to a doctor my good friend Margie Duncan recommended, who did extensive tests and X-rays.

  The news wasn’t good. Jen had breast cancer that had spread to her brain and spine. When she’d picked up that microwave, two of the now-fragile bones in her back had broken. Jen was only a few days away from her forty-fourth birthday. Judging by the way the disease had spread, the doctors told her that she had probably had it for more than ten years. She had no reason to suspect it since there was no history of breast cancer in her family.

  Jen underwent surgery to put two steel rods on either side of her backbone so she wouldn’t fracture it, which could have paralyzed her. Then she began a brave but agonizing journey to overcome her cancer.

  If determination could save her, Jen had it in spades. After chemotherapy, radiation, and brain surgery, she still wanted to continue working in spite of what she called her “chemo brain” and sheer exhaustion from all the treatments. Everyone around her wanted to help, but she wanted to keep up with her job.

  Unsinkable was published in the beginning of April 2013. As part of my book tour we spent a week in New York, where I made appearances and did interviews. By then, Jen was doing her own wigs as well as mine. On Friday we attended the first preview of I’ll Eat You Last, Bette Midler’s one-woman show about Sue Mengers, written by John Logan. Jen was radiant that night. As the houselights went down, Liza Minnelli appeared on the aisle and slipped into the empty seat in front of us. She was the first person out of her seat at the end, dashing up the aisle to the rear of the house as the crowd rose to give Bette an ovation. We saw her again when we went backstage. Meeting Bette was a thrill Jen had dreamed of for years. Bette took a picture with the two of us, which made Jen’s heart sing.

  At six the next morning Jen was in urgent care, to make sure she would be able to fly home that night with all the pain and nausea she was having. We did fly back to Los Angeles but Jen wasn’t able to work much after that. She still wanted to go on the road but she wasn’t up to it. She was afraid that I would “kick her to the curb.” Such an irrational fear about losing the job she loved so much. Quite the opposite: I loved Jen and did everything I could to make her comfortable. Keith and Jean moved in for the summer, which turned into fall.

  On October 8 Jen lost her valiant battle. She’d been moved back to her house after a long stay in the hospital, her mother and husband by her side. She le
ft us too soon. Leon and I were right next door, in disbelief that we had lost our dear friend.

  Jen would hate being in the spotlight here. She avoided attention. As much as she loved everything going on around her, she thought only of my needs and how to take care of me. When she died, all of her friends were shattered by the loss. How could this happen to someone as strong and vital as Jen? She never had a symptom until her vertebrae cracked from the cancer. So as much as she would hate to tell her own story, I tell it for her. Because I love her and miss her. And because I hope that some other girl in her thirties who has no history of cancer in her family might read this and decide to have a mammogram. It might save you even though you think you’re too young or that this could never happen to you.

  Jen lived her best life. She followed her heart when she left Nacogdoches, and managed to keep the love of her husband while spending time doing what she loved.

  All of us who knew her loved her spirit. She is on to the next adventure.

  Jen was so young when we lost her. I’m eighty-three years old as I write this, and am thankful that the friends I’ll tell you about next all lived longer before they moved on.

  THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR

  One of the nicest things about working as an actress is making friends. My dearest friend on my 1963 movie My Six Loves was Max Showalter. He lived in Laurel Canyon, in a mansion that once belonged to Carole Lombard. His home was on the way to mine, so I would often stop by when I was out driving around late at night. I would throw stones at the window like Cary Grant in The Philadelphia Story. Max would answer the door in his pajamas, with his little black French bulldog. He really loved that dog. It was a sweet animal but oversexed—a humper. My leg or any part of the furniture would do for that little guy. Well, he was French.

  Max enjoyed a long career as a character actor in theater, movies, and TV. He appeared with top women stars such as Susan Hayward, Betty Grable, Carol Channing, Lucille Ball, and twice with Marilyn Monroe (in Niagara and Bus Stop). And Doris Day. It was while filming It Happened to Jane on location with her and Jack Lemmon that he fell in love with the area of Connecticut where he eventually retired. They made that movie in the late 1950s, when Max was appearing under the name Casey Adams.

  In addition to acting, Max was a brilliant painter as well as a gifted composer, pianist, and singer. He had two pianos in the living room. He’d play and we’d sing songs all night. He was a Renaissance man. I just adored him.

  In 1986 he moved to an eighteenth-century farmhouse in Chester, Connecticut, the same town where Katharine Hepburn lived. He became involved in local musical theater, and wrote, produced, and directed a Christmas musical that played every year somewhere in the state.

  Max died of cancer in July 2000. I happened to call him the day before.

  “You know I’m dying, Debbie,” he said. “We’ll have to make this short.”

  “I didn’t know it, Max. You shouldn’t have taken the call,” I said.

  “Your call I will take because we won’t be able to talk tomorrow,” he responded.

  So I said, “Well, Max, don’t forget you promised to leave me those porcelain figurines of Napoleon and his soldiers on horseback, for Todd’s collection. I’m not asking for any paintings”—his house was full of very expensive paintings—“I just want the five pieces.”

  I actually reminded him on his deathbed, I was that nervy.

  He had a very dear friend, a special friend, named Peter, and Peter sent them to me. That’s the kind of person Max was.

  When Max first moved to Chester he presented a small film festival there. Miss Hepburn came to this little theater in that long cape she wore all the time, and stayed for the whole evening. After the screening I gave a talk. I told jokes and tried to be amusing. I came across the letter I wrote when I got back to LA that I hope shows my friendship with Max wasn’t just one way when it came to giving.

  Feb. 25, 86

  Dear Miss Hepburn,

  Max Showalter and I were so thrilled that you would find the time to share your day with us in Chester for his little film festival.

  Like so many millions you have always been my inspiration, as an actress and courageous woman. We all seem to need a strong image in order to survive certain very difficult times in our lives and you have helped me through a “few” of my moments.

  My friend, Max, who is a writer of music, has always loved Connecticut but lived in Los Angeles being an actor also. He is now 69 years and has made this enormous decision to move to Chester, where he knows no one.

  I have been told that the residents of certain areas that are small and private do not take to strangers easily, so when Max invited me to help him do this film festival I wanted to be with him so that perhaps the local residents would see how giving and loving Max is and receive him into their hearts and homes more readily.

  He did a lovely job!

  Max is happy and everyone loves him.

  Thank you for helping us.

  We both love you. Me more!

  Love, Your friend

  Debbie Reynolds

  P.S. I hate to impose but would you sign the enclosed photos for me, for my home. I would cherish them. Or if you have another you prefer, fine—gratefully. Thank you.

  Miss Hepburn was one of my idols. She was very reclusive, but she and Max wound up becoming good friends. I was thrilled when she sent me back a signed photo—and a note!

  III-19-1986

  Dear Debbie

  You did a really fine job that night. Any ass can handle a big crowd— But you just made a really tough situation work. Bravo!

  Kate Hep

  Like most movie fans, I love having autographs from my favorite stars. I was always sending off pictures in the hope of getting them back signed. Many of them were portraits taken by Clarence Bull, the head of the photography department at MGM for many years. They were wonderful pictures—and expensive. I sent two or three beautiful Clarence Bull photos to Marlene Dietrich, at her suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel. She sent me back a lovely note each time, but no signed picture. I was happy to add to her collection, but that wasn’t why I had sent them to her.

  Miss Dietrich and I were never friends, but a star who was my friend used to do the same thing: Bette Davis. I sent many Clarence Bull portraits of Bette to her to sign for me. She would always send me back a thank-you note telling me how lovely the picture was, and like Marlene Dietrich add it to her own collection. After a few tries with the expensive photos, I ran out of Bull. So I just sent a regular publicity shot, which Bette signed and returned to me. Now I find myself doing the same thing if a fan sends me something great that I don’t have. I thank them and send them one of my publicity stills. Like Bette said, “Learn from the greats.”

  Speaking of Bette . . .

  ALL ABOUT BETTE DAVIS

  Bette Davis and Katharine Hepburn were the great actresses of my time. Now we have the marvelous Meryl Streep; but from the 1930s until her death in 1989, Bette dominated the acting scene with her many diverse performances. She was Warner Brothers’ biggest star for many years.

  In 1954 Bette took a lead role with Ernest Borgnine in The Catered Affair at MGM. The film includes my first dramatic role. Our director was horrible to me, as I wrote about in Unsinkable. Bette and Ernie, who play my parents in the movie, decided to protect me. They coached me on my scenes with them, which was wonderful training. Their reassurance meant so much to me.

  After Eddie and I were married, we rented a house in the Pacific Palisades, a converted barn called All Hallows Farm. The place was rustic with a lot a farmland around it. Bette used to visit us there with her two children. B.D. and Michael were very young at the time, around eight and five, I think. Bette and I would walk outdoors with the youngsters while talking like girlfriends. She was married to Gary Merrill then but he never came with her. I believe they were having problems. In a way, he was like having another child for Bette; he required a lot of attention.

  Be
tte had a funny habit: when you called her on the phone, she would answer in that distinctive voice, but overlaid with a foreign twist, pretending to be a French or Spanish assistant.

  “Allô. This is Miss Davis’s home. Who is calling?”

  “Hello, it’s Debbie Reynolds,” I would answer, playing along.

  “Just a minute. I’ll see if Miss Davis is in.”

  Bette would put the phone down, pretending to go find herself. A minute later she’d be back on the line with a cheerful “Hello, Daugh-ter.” (She always called me that after The Catered Affair.) Then we would settle in for a nice chat.

  One of the impressions I do is of Bette. The audience always laughs when I walk along the stage using her signature tiny steps. When Bette saw my act, she was very complimentary. And she gave me notes on how to be her:

  “It has to be bigger, more dramatic. Wave your arms around more.”

  After all, in a way I was competing with every drag queen who worked the stage in the 1950s and beyond.

  Once the bell rang when I was getting things ready for a party at my home on Greenway Drive. I went to answer the door, and was surprised to see my first guest.

  “Bette, you’re an hour early,” I said.

  “Better early than late,” she declared as she moved past me into the house.

  She settled herself in a chair next to a table with an ashtray while I went about finishing up dressing and getting ready. She perched there all night, a cigarette in one hand and her drink in the other, as all our other guests arrived for the party. (Bette smoked constantly throughout her life. But in her dressing room when she was performing, the ashtrays were always empty, because visitors snatched her lipstick-stained cigarette butts for souvenirs. Luckily that didn’t happen at my party.)