Rita Will_Memoir of a Literary Rabble-Rouser

by Rita Mae Brown

  It happened because of my Rolls-Royce.

  58

  A Rolls-Royce and Love

  Marlo Thomas hosted a stupendous party at her Beverly Hills home to support the Equal Rights Amendment. The amendment, passed by Congress, was now in the process of being ratified by the states. If fewer than three fourths of the states ratified it, then the amendment would not stand.

  The feminist euphoria intoxicated liberals and middle-of-the-roaders. As I said before, I didn’t believe that the amendment would pass in the South. However, a show of support was important.

  Marlo Thomas rounded up women and men in the industry willing to attach their names to the controversial amendment. Since most people are chicken, and actors especially, how she managed this beats me.

  Let me digress for a moment about why I think actors are chicken. For any role in any movie, play or television show there are hundreds of people who could perform the part. Disposability makes people fearful. For an actor, rejection is personal. It’s your face, your body, your voice that’s rejected. This does little for your sense of security.

  On the way up, if you’re fortunate enough to move up, a prudent person keeps politics out of the picture. Since you can so easily be replaced, why run the risk?

  There are those who groan when an actor espouses a cause or political opinion, yet say nothing when the head of United States Steel does the same. Why is it okay for the industrialist to be an active citizen but not okay for the actor?

  Naturally, this attitude grates on my nerves, but there is a cracked logic to it. Illusions again. If an actor speaks as a citizen, s/he moves forward as a real person. And we don’t want them to be real. We want them as fantasies, as their last role, as our dream lover or whatever. An actor walks a fine edge. If the public turns from them as a person, it’s a sure bet producers won’t hire them. Great talent is no defense, Vanessa Redgrave being an obvious example.

  However she did it, Marlo brought together hundreds of people, most of them young, at a time when few would admit to feminism; they risked being branded as lesbians. If Betty Friedan and Co. hadn’t wimped out of the lesbian issue and turned on us, the media wouldn’t have been so successful in exploiting the label.

  Benjamin Franklin said, concerning the Revolution, “We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately.” Our political enemies as well as reporters out for a good story knew how to rattle people. Betty, by going public about “the lavender menace,” handed them the issue on a silver platter. It’s one thing to fight amongst ourselves, it’s another to do it in public. Her mother never told her not to hang her dirty laundry in public.

  Hundreds of people crowded onto the deck built over Marlo’s pool. Robert Altman and Chevy Chase cut a swath through the ladies. Their support was genuine and much needed.

  Shirley MacLaine held court, ignoring anyone she didn’t think important enough for her attention. That meant she spoke mostly to Gloria Steinem and Bella Abzug. When Gloria introduced me to her, Shirley pointedly turned away. At that point in her life, Shirley apparently didn’t shake hands with lesbians, especially if there were photographers in evidence. Gloria, looking embarrassed, then introduced me to Marlo Thomas, who, having a set of brass ovaries, couldn’t have cared less. She was gracious.

  Another gutsy lady was Joan Hackett. She sat at a table, smoking her pipe, laughing uproariously. She had read Rubyfruit Jungle and was happy to talk about that and anything and everything. Her early death to cancer was a loss to those who appreciate good acting as well as to the feminist movement.

  But Shirley MacLaine shocked me because she’s from Virginia. Did she leave voluntarily or did the matrons drive her out due to bad manners?

  Kate Jackson, from Birmingham, did shake my hand when we were introduced but quickly moved on. It could have been that she knew who I was and also didn’t want anyone to take a photograph of us together, or it could have been that she was so hot at the time, thanks to Charlie’s Angels, that everyone wanted her attention. At least she didn’t pretend I wasn’t there. I gave her a lot of credit for being there in the first place.

  Other women apart from Gloria and Marlo noticed I was being frozen out. Lily Tomlin pushed her way through the crowds, kissed me, put her arm around me and said, “How good to see you.” She shamed the others. Lily, an original on every level, has a fighting heart. She guided me to a table of older women, one of whom headed a talent agency.

  They invited me to sit down. I was certainly glad to do it. I’d sucked up my fill of cowardice and rudeness.

  A reporter from the Los Angeles Times sashayed over to our table and said, “This must be the lesbian table.”

  I replied, “No, the other lesbians brought their husbands.”

  He got the hell out of there. Good thing. I’d have decked him. The ladies at the table laughed. Married or divorced and none of them actors, they didn’t give a damn.

  Marlo Thomas gives everything she’s got when she believes in a cause. Most fund-raisers are deadly dull. This was a terrific party. The hostess spared no expense.

  I watched the throng. Getting knocked around in movement fights toughened me, but then, those were intellectual battles. You could stand on your hind legs and slug it out. Betty Friedan never pulled her punches. She was up-front. By contrast, many of these people were engaged in cover-your-ass behavior. It had to do with their concept of their careers and not with personal or political beliefs. I preferred Betty. A fight can enable you. This felt cheesy, the fear. I was hardly the only lesbian or bisexual in the crowd. I was the only one honest about it.

  After thanking my host two hours later, I walked down the long drive to the valet parking area. Standing there, waiting for her car to be driven up, was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever beheld. Average height, curvaceous figure, china blue eyes, alabaster skin with peachy highlights and flaming red hair, she could have been Deborah Kerr’s double at the height of her beauty.

  I recognized her as she recognized me.

  “Rita Mae, what do you think of these transplanted Yankees?”

  “That my great-granddaddy was right to take potshots at them.”

  She hollered, “You know, I wish a big Rolls-Royce would come on up here and take me home.”

  At that precise moment, the valet purred up in my Silver Shadow.

  “Could I carry you home?”

  Her jaw was on her ample bosom. She sputtered a minute, then laughed that southern war whoop laugh we learn at our momma’s knee. “Girl, you got an angel on your shoulder or mojo.” She accented the -jo. She scribbled her number. I scribbled mine. Her all-black 350SL varoomed right up behind my stately mechanical carriage. “Girl, you call me. I wanna ride in your Rolls-Royce and I wanna write a book.”

  I fell in love with Fannie Flagg at first sight.

  59

  The Eternal Triangle

  Hailing from Birmingham, Alabama, Fannie’s real name was Patricia Neal. Since that name was taken by one of the best in the business, her aunt suggested she use the name Fannie since it was lucky in show business, i.e. Fanny Brice. Of course, then Patsy embellished it and she became Frances Carlton Flagg.

  Her momma still cooed “Patsy,” as did the rest of the family. A carbon copy of her flame-haired father, Bill, Fannie learned about the business hanging out with her daddy. A member of IATSE, he was the projectionist at one of the Birmingham theaters. Miz Neal, as she was addressed, doted on her lone offspring. Marion and Bill fought over Fannie or used her in their sniping contests. They were wildly funny even when being just awful. There was a lot I understood about Fannie without being told. Luckily, I had but one funny, though sometimes cruel, parent. Fannie shuttled between two. They also drank. The fuss escalated with the volume of alcohol consumed.

  It wasn’t that they were overtly cruel to her but that she’d hear Momma’s side of the story, then Daddy’s. The first time I met Bill Neal he couldn’t wait to throw me in the car, drive me to the theater and tell
me what a wretched life he had with the “beached whale” (Marion was fat). But when he walked back in the house, where Marion would be holding court in the living room, she’d purr, “Bill, honey darlin’, fetch me a cigarette,” and he would. “Bill, honey darlin’, I need me a cool refreshing libation.” He scurried for a drink with tinkling ice cubes. Then Marion turned her charms on Fannie.

  “Patsy, precious lamb, climb up into the attic and get out the family albums. I want to show Rita Mae our pictures.” Fannie crawled into the stifling, airless attic and obediently fetched the albums.

  Marion showed me each photograph, telling me every story, enduring interruptions from Bill as he rendered his version. She was amusing, imperious and in ill health when I met her. But then, how many southern women have used their delicate constitutions to run men ragged? Marion was many steps from death’s door.

  I adored her, but then I wasn’t her daughter. She sent Bill on an errand, a wild-goose chase, so she could tell me her version of the marriage and how every single person who ever laid eyes on her beautiful daughter just knew she’d be a movie star.

  Fannie loved and hated her parents. I think that’s true for each of us; the balance of the love and hate is what shifts, according to their behavior and our subsequent maturity.

  Like Juts, Fannie’s parents generated electricity, laughter and an endless stream of commentary on the state of the world. Like Juts and Dad, they worked hard for a living, spurning handouts. To take money from the government even when falling on hard times was a shame no amount of later success could erase. They were southern to the bones. Juts was a Marylander to her bones, which is a restrained variation of the Alabama species. The only people who think they are superior to Marylanders are Virginians and certain species abiding in the Palmetto State, South Carolina. Marion and Bill, relieved of the hard work that snobbery entails, could be purely southern. They never mentioned the Duke of Buckingham or the Queen of England once. Aunt Mimi would have amused them, but then she amused me.

  I first visited Mr. and Mrs. Neal after I’d known Fannie for six months.

  Fannie did want to write. I worked with her as much as I could while scribbling away for Roger Corman. As with most of us from the South, her view of life was and remains anecdotal. Hysterical as the stories are, anecdotes don’t substitute for structure.

  She’d say, “Well, I’ll tell the stories and you make it work.”

  “No. You’ll never learn that way.”

  Since Fannie is severely dyslexic, reading her pages nearly blinded me. She earned my respect for not whining about her disability, a genuine hardship for a writer.

  We’d meet at her small apartment in Westwood or my house on Outpost. I asked for no money. In fact, I’ve never asked for money in helping a writer. Literature is a calling, like the priesthood. I’ll make money from my work but not from someone struggling to learn. Writing is bloody hard work so you’d better love it.

  Fannie, original in her approach to material, truly had talent. I wasn’t blinded by love. Actually, I never am when it comes to whether a person has talent or not.

  We’d worked together for two months. I knew nothing about her private life. She never mentioned anyone. She owned a house in Montecito but I hadn’t seen it.

  One evening Arnie Reisman, who worked for WQBH, was in town from Boston and took Fannie and me to dinner. Emboldened by the presence of my friend, I decided to ask her direct questions once he left for the bathroom. But Arnie, enchanted with Fannie, had a cast-iron bladder. Finally I kicked him hard enough to raise a lump on his shin. He excused himself and went to the bathroom.

  As he did, Betty White and her husband, Allen Ludden, sidled over.

  Betty, who has a sharp sense of humor, gives as good as she gets. When Fannie said, “Betty, you have such beautiful skin—and there’s so much of it,” Betty howled. She and Allen left, and within two minutes a gaggle of street people rushed in, crowding our table and asking for Fannie’s autograph. Betty had sent them, making certain the maître d’ was in on the joke.

  By the time Arnie returned, I was helpless with laughter but I still knew nothing about Fannie other than that she had graduated from Ryder High School, did a funny impersonation of Lady Bird Johnson and now worked on Hollywood Squares.

  We lingered over dessert. When we’d finished, Arnie rose to collect our coats.

  Quickly I said, “Fannie, do you ever go out with women?”

  She cocked her head. “Of course, you silly twit.”

  She didn’t say she’d go out with me and I didn’t ask but she invited me to her home in Montecito the next weekend.

  Baby Jesus liked Fannie. For me, that was a strong recommendation because B.J. loathed humans. This isn’t to say she’d leap into Fannie’s lap; she wouldn’t even leap into mine. But she wouldn’t curl her lip when Fannie arrived to work in the library. A few times she sat on her papers, a good sign.

  Fannie never made light of my passion for horses or regaled me with stories about the one time she rode a horse. I don’t know why people do that but they do. Her friend Brett Somers prowled Santa Anita with her former husband. Jack Klugman, so Fannie had heard horse talk. She herself didn’t ride and didn’t want to, but she thought they were beautiful animals.

  She mentioned there were horses in Montecito. I knew about the polo.

  When I drove up to her house, a beautiful white frame house surrounded by large trees, the scent of eucalyptus swept me away. Montecito, serene, secure and spectacular, is rich in eucalyptus trees.

  Two crazed Dalmatians bounced out, one black-spotted, one liver-spotted, followed by a hollering Fannie.

  “You come back here!”

  The dogs vaulted onto me, which was fine. That’s what dry cleaners are for.

  The interior of the house was cozy, unpretentious and impeccably done. A gorgeous sofa in a floral print commanded a sitting room overlooking the pool. It really was a beautiful house and not the least bit garish.

  Kate O’Reilly, not her real name, greeted me. She’d been a star in a long-running TV program and had left to take a prominent role in a film. Almost white-blonde, with a heart-shaped face, blue eyes and a great figure, she appeared every inch a woman ready to become a major movie star. She had looks, talent and drive. What she lacked was the ability to kiss ass. Just when her career should have rocketed it began to drop to earth. Approaching forty added to the tension.

  Hollywood has never been kind to women who directly command their fates. Mary Pickford, the first international celebrity, directed, starred, produced (she was a fabulous producer) and got away with it because her mother, Charlotte, was the hatchet lady. So Mary maintained that outward femininity so important to the men of film. I don’t know why they can’t deal with women who are direct. Other men have learned how.

  Kate, minus a hatchet lady, couldn’t have hidden behind one anyway. She is a fundamentally honest person, a decent one.

  Word got about that she was difficult. That was amended to “difficult dyke.” It wasn’t too long before she languished in her beautiful shared Montecito home wondering what the hell had happened.

  Were Kate at the same career fulcrum today, she’d have a fifty-fifty chance of swinging up. In the mid-seventies, she had no chance. Today she’s back on television.

  Because she didn’t marry to play the game, she might as well have announced that she was gay. Other people announced it for her. She kept silent but stiff-armed any attempts to create a bogus heterosexual life. She and Fannie had been together for eight years. The cracks in their relationship widened under the pressure.

  Every relationship experiences rock and roll. A straight couple may elicit support from their community. A gay couple toughs it out in silence. Many of Kate and Fannie’s friends knew they were lovers, but many didn’t. The isolation, under the circumstances, had to have been extremely painful for Kate.

  My heart went out to her. After my initial visit, the three of us palled around together. The more
I knew Kate, the more I liked her.

  Fannie admitted being attracted to me and not just to me but to Kate, which says something about their relationship.

  Kate talked it over with me. She knew she was losing Fannie and she was bighearted enough to know if it hadn’t been me it would have been someone else. She loved Fannie.

  Fannie loved her, too, but Fannie would say, “I can’t live with her anymore.”

  If there had been a way for the three of us to live together, I would have tried it because I grew to respect Kate and to value her for the generous and kind person she is. Like her Irish forebears, she engaged her crisis with good humor and the hope that she’d learn something.

  Fannie hated Los Angeles. She’d figured out how to mask her beauty behind comedy. She hid her feelings, second nature to her given her childhood.

  Fannie made a good living in television, but the growing sense of emptiness frightened her. It was rotten luck for Kate and Fannie that they reached career crises at the same time. Their relationship probably would have survived otherwise, but each was so exhausted by her individual worries there was little left over for the other. And to make matters worse for Kate, when the roles dry up, so does the money.

  A time came when they decided to sell the house, which saddened me. Had I the money, I would have pitched in because that house suited them. It was too beautiful to lose. I wasn’t making much, enough to pay my mortgage and groceries but not enough to hoard a stash for moments such as this.

  The house sold in the twinkling of an eye. They rented a place in the Beverly Hills flats but the strain wore them down even further.

  During this time my house was robbed. The thieves backed up a moving van and cleaned me out of everything except my books (thank God), the huge sofa I’d hauled off the streets of New York, and my dining room table. Everything else was gone: clothing, cutlery, everything. Luckily I had stored a few things in Virginia.