Me and My Shadows

by Lorna Luft

  I must have driven my father crazy, but he was remarkably patient with me. All my memories of my dad during those early years are good ones. He was one of those dads who would throw you in the air and roughhouse with you. We had a big trampoline in the backyard, and Dad and Liza and I (and Joe when he got big enough) would bounce around on it together. Leslie Bogart or Sammy Cahn’s kids or Dean Martin’s kids would come over and jump on the trampoline, too. It was great. I thought my dad was the strongest man in the world. I remember him chopping down a tree in the backyard at Mapleton. The tree was really big, a tall eucalyptus. One weekend a couple of guys came over with a big electric saw, and my dad cut the tree down. I thought that was the coolest thing I had ever seen. My dad was a regular Paul Bunyan.

  It was always fun when my parents were around. When they had to go out of town for Mama’s concerts, it seemed too quiet until they got back. Every now and then, Joey and I would be allowed to go to one of our mother’s concerts, and that was the best of all.

  Concert nights were very special occasions. Joey and I would be dressed up in our best clothes and driven with our nanny to the theater a little while before the performance. Our nanny would take us backstage to our mother’s dressing room, where Mama would give us a kiss and then send us out front with the nanny while she got ready to go on. Guards would escort us to our seats in the front row, and then the concert would begin.

  Those were amazing, magical evenings. My mother was electric onstage, and I vividly recall the extraordinary power she had over her audiences. They would laugh and cry and cheer for most of the evening. My mom would look down at us regularly as she sang, and sometimes she even sang to us. That was really special. At some point in the performance she would bring us up onstage and introduce us to the audience. There is a famous picture of her lifting me up to the microphone at one of her concerts to say hello to the audience. I couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. The concerts never ended until way past our bedtime, and sometimes, in spite of the excitement, I would fall asleep before it was over. Joey, though, never fell asleep. Small as he was, our mother’s concerts so enraptured him that he would sit wide-eyed through the whole thing, his little legs sticking out over the edge of the theater seat. He remembers those early concerts as the best moments of his life. His face still takes on a nostalgic glow when he talks about them.

  My parents went out a lot at night in those years, but they gave a lot of parties at home as well. Sometimes we would give a barbecue outside in the afternoon, but usually the parties would be at night, dress-up parties with lots of celebrities. Kay Thompson would come, and the Bogarts, and Roger Edens and Frank Sinatra. To me, of course, the people who came were just friends of my parents. At that age I hadn’t seen their movies; I hadn’t even seen most of my mother’s movies. It’s not as if Frank Sinatra arrived in a sailor suit, ready to sing and dance for us. He was just Uncle Frank to me. The first one to arrive was always Roger Edens. I loved his deep voice and southern accent, and I’d go running to meet him when he came through the door. He’d always pick me up and throw me in the air and carry me around. He was the kind of man you could climb on if you wanted to be held, and he would pick you up and give you a hug. Humphrey Bogart, on the other hand, was something else entirely. Climbing on Humphrey Bogart was unthinkable, even though he was my best friend’s father. When he came in the door, it was always just “Hello, Mr. Bogart,” and remembering my manners.

  My parents felt very strongly about good manners. Liza and Joe and I were always told to be very polite, especially to adults. My mother was determined that we be respectful and well-behaved. She detested what she called the “B.H. [Beverly Hills] Brats,” and she would give us a sharp remark and a swat on the bum if we were rude. She had a way of looking at us with her big black eyes that made us straighten up. She was always the shortest adult in a room, but nobody crossed her, certainly not me.

  I had to go to bed before the parties got started, so the preparation was the best part for me. I got to stay up long enough to watch my mom put on her party clothes and makeup. It fascinated me to watch her turn into a movie star. Then I would go in the other rooms and watch the staff get things ready for the guests. The big den next to the living room was the center of the festivities. Card tables would be set up near the bar because the men always played poker. I still remember the smell of cigarettes and cocktails in that room the next morning. My dad always made his famous clam dip, which was delicious, and I got to taste it. My mother always put on records, usually her own or Sinatra’s, so the room would be filled with music when people arrived.

  I’d get to greet the very first guests, but then it was time for Joe and me to be in bed. Just about the time everyone got there, I’d have to get ready for bed. My nanny would whisk me away, put me in my nightgown, and take me back to my parents only long enough for a good-night kiss. Then it was off to sleep for me and Joe. People like to imagine me half asleep on a couch taking it all in, but it’s not true. (Frank Sinatra is the one who sometimes slept on the couch.) Liza got to stay up later because she was older. Sometimes she fell asleep under the piano, but I never knew because I was sound asleep myself. My mother usually sang at my parents’ parties; it was one of her favorite things to do, and Roger Edens would accompany her on our piano.

  It was at one of those parties at our house, in fact, that the idea of the Rat Pack got started. My parents would have these parties and invite everyone on the Hollywood “A List,” but they never invited the columnists. My parents didn’t like the press, and they saw no reason why they should have to invite these people into their home. Some of those they excluded were very powerful people who were used to being catered to. Columnist Sheilah Graham, angered by her exclusion from the guest list, referred to the guests at my parents’ parties as “that rat pack” in her gossip column. Irving “Swifty” Lazar (the famous literary agent and good friend of my parents’) thought the term was really funny. Instead of being offended by the reference, he suggested that they adopt it as their nickname. Swifty had little stickpins made, shaped like rats, with rubies for eyes, and he gave them to my parents and their friends. After that they would wear the rat pins when they came to our house, which must have made Sheilah even madder.

  The adults weren’t the only ones who got to have parties. The kids got to have parties, too. It seemed as though it was always someone’s birthday. However, all the parties seemed to be catered by the same Beverly Hills rent-a-party company because every single one had the exact same format and the same cast of characters. I laughed when I saw Christina Crawford’s birthday party in Mommie Dearest because I recognized it; I swear it was the same party.

  The parties were always held outside. This was southern California, remember. The caterers would arrive early and set up a carousel and some tables and chairs in the backyard. Then the children would arrive. There were usually fifteen or twenty of them, with their parents, so there were about forty people altogether. The kids always wore their best dress-up clothes. For the girls this meant party dresses and little white socks with black patent leather shoes. The boys wore little suits, and we all put on party hats. The celebrity mothers would all wear the same outfit, too: slacks with flats and those big, baggy blouses. I have a picture of me and my mom, with my best friend, Leslie Bogart, and her mom, all leaving one of the birthday parties together. My mom and Betty Bacall are wearing almost exactly the same thing, the uniform, as I like to call it. The only difference is that Leslie’s mom is wearing a scarf.

  They always served the same lunch, creamed chicken on toast, really disgusting and a very odd choice for kids. There were always clowns to entertain. We’d play games and ride on the carousel and blow out the candles on the cake, and finally we’d open the presents. Every year it was the same. It really was a case of “If you’ve been to one Beverly Hills party, you’ve been to them all.” Joey didn’t have many parties there because he was so young, but Liza did. The older kids got the same basic part
y, with the exact same caterer, just a slightly older version, which meant creamed chicken but no clowns. Liza’s parties were with Candice Bergen, Mia Farrow, Gail Martin, and their celebrity parents, and so on and so forth. Same place, same thing, slightly older cast.

  Not that I would have attended Liza’s party, you understand. People always want to know what I remember about Liza when she was young, and the answer is, “Almost nothing.” You have to remember that she is seven years older than me (nine years older than Joey), and when you’re little, that’s a huge difference. Liza was at school all day and was usually off doing things with her friends in the afternoons. A lot of the time she was at Vincente’s. Even when she was home, she was busy with her own things. What preteen girl wants to play with her preschool sibling? Sometimes the generation gap was especially obvious. I remember sitting at the dinner table with the nanny one night when Liza came racing to the dinner table late. My parents weren’t there; I think they were out that night. Liza seemed nervous, and as she dived quickly into her food, I noticed a strong menthol smell coming from under the table. I leaned down to look under the table, and there were Liza’s legs, all smeared with this awful-smelling white stuff that was partly scraped off. I had no idea what it was. I straightened back up in my chair and started to say something when I saw Liza look daggers at me. She didn’t say a word, but it was clear to me that if I said anything about what I’d seen, I was dead. I clammed up and ate my meat loaf as best I could amid the odor of menthol. It wasn’t until years later that I realized I’d witnessed my sister’s first, failed attempt to shave her legs.

  Most of the time, I played with Leslie Bogart. She’s my oldest friend, my only real childhood friend because my family moved around so much after I was eight. Leslie lived two doors down, and we were always running back and forth to each other’s houses. Our parents were friends, too, and that made it easier. The Bogarts had a pool, and Leslie and I would go swimming there. My parents didn’t want a pool when I was small because they were afraid Joey or I would fall in, so in the summer I would go to Leslie’s house to swim. I remember that girls always had to wear rubber bathing caps in those days, and I didn’t see why. They pinched my temples and hurt my head. I can still picture Betty Bacall, Leslie’s mom, in her white bathing cap. In those days I still called her Mrs. Bogart. Leslie and her older brother, Steve, and their parents had put their handprints and footprints in the cement by the steps when they built the pool, and I thought that was really cool. I understand that the marks are still there, barely visible by the pool steps. It was great fun going swimming, though I was intimidated by Leslie’s parents. Leslie’s mom was nice to me, but she wasn’t the kind of woman you’d want to make mad at you. Mr. Bogart (it was never “Bogie” or anything informal) had this really deep, gravelly voice, and he scared me. Whenever I passed him in the house, I would just say, “Hi, Mr. Bogart,” and he would say, “Oh, hello, hello,” rather absentmindedly, and that was that. He was a lot older than most dads, and he had this way about him. You automatically knew not to jump around Leslie’s father. Nobody had to tell you that.

  In some ways we were the typical American family of the 1950s, only the upscale version.

  We even had a dog. He wasn’t Lassie, but he was close. He was half collie and half German shepherd. My mom brought him back from a party one night because he needed a home. His name was Sam. Out of everyone in the neighborhood when I was little, I remember Sam the most clearly. Sam used to get into fights with the Bogarts’ two boxers pretty regularly, but with us he was always gentle. Joey learned to walk holding tightly onto Sam to keep his balance. Sam was very big and very, very protective. He would never let Joe or me leave the house without him. It was extraordinary. If it looked as though we were going to leave the yard unattended, if we even got too near the front wall or the edge of the driveway, Sam would be there to growl and warn us back. I swear he’d frown at those moments. If my father called him when Sam was outside watching us, Sam would just ignore Dad. He had no intention of going off and leaving us alone. At night he’d stand guard outside the house. He never slept inside; he wouldn’t. Instead he sat on the front porch of our house and kept watch every night of his life. No one came near our house without Sam’s permission. Nobody was going to harm us as long as Sam was around. My whole family remembers him so clearly. He was one of the family.

  Even the disasters were fun in those days. The first fire I remember was at Mapleton. My mother had a tendency to fall asleep smoking. She would take a sleeping pill and then climb into bed with a book and a cigarette, and sometimes she fell asleep with the cigarette still burning. There were several close calls. One night she fell asleep and the mattress caught on fire. The smoke started spreading through my parents’ end of the house. Sam started barking and woke my father up. My dad grabbed my mom and ran to make sure we children were all right while someone called the fire department. I vaguely remember being awakened and carried outside with Joey, both of us in our pajamas. The next thing I remember, we were on the front lawn with Mama and Liza and the whole staff. Dad had gone back into the house with the butler to try and put out the fire. I remember being very confused and not quite sure how we got there. I also remember thinking how odd it was to be on the front lawn in our pajamas in the middle of the night. The firemen came to put out the fire, and eventually somebody took us back to bed. The smoke had never even gotten to our end of the house. It wasn’t what you’d call an inferno; it wasn’t even scary. I remember being half-asleep but still thinking, “This is really exciting.”

  Everything was exciting in those days, or at least happy. I know now that there were problems behind the scenes, but I didn’t know it then. I was loved and protected by both my parents. I was safe, and I was cherished.

  I wish it could have lasted.

  Collection of the author

  The family at home in London, autumn 1960.

  CHAPTER 5

  London Town

  It’s funny how time changes your perspective. When I was a little girl, the happiness of my life seemed a natural thing, as inevitable as the coming of spring. Like all happy children, I took life for granted, never questioning what was placed before me so lovingly each day. What I didn’t know then was that my father had shouldered a tremendous burden, both financially and emotionally, when he and my mother created the pristine little nursery world of Mapleton Drive. My father was, in fact, the Atlas who held our world firmly on his broad shoulders. For a long time he was able to hold it steady. Eventually, though, even the strongest man begins to break down. My father was no exception.

  One of my happiest memories of the Mapleton years comes near the very end of that time. It’s a memory that has taken on symbolic value only in retrospect. Our whole family had gone to Las Vegas to spend time playing in the sun while my mom performed at the New Frontier Hotel. Vegas was still small then; the only hotels were the Flamingo and the Frontier. We had a grand time, swimming and playing with my dad or the nanny all day long. The best part of the trip for me and Joey was the tumblers. The opening act for my mom was two Egyptian tumblers named Yehad and Yaheed. They were brothers. Yehad was very muscular, and Yaheed was very light. They were amazing. Joey and I thought these acrobats were the greatest thing in the world, and since they were staying at the same hotel we were, we got to play with them during the afternoon. They were extremely nice to us. They’d flip us in the air and show us how to do handstands, and we’d have a great time. Since my dad is very strong, too (after all, he was the guy who’d grown up doing the Charles Atlas weight-lifting routine), Sid got in on the act. Dad could easily press a 125-pound guy, so he learned how to lift Yaheed over his head and hold him there in a handstand. After a while the acrobats even worked Dad into the act, having him come up onstage and lift Yaheed for the crowd. I can still picture Dad standing there, holding Yaheed effortlessly over his head. What I didn’t know then was that he was holding us all up, Mama included, and had been for years. Sadly for us all, the famil
y balancing act had begun to totter.

  The problems had been escalating for a long time. My mother’s concerts during those years were very successful, but they didn’t provide the income necessary to maintain our lifestyle at Mapleton. Vern Alves says my dad kept trying to cut back on the number of servants and other amenities, but my mother was accustomed to having a large staff around and wouldn’t hear of it. She was also used to custom-made clothes, limousines, and the finest restaurants. It was the only life she had known since her days at MGM. Those were the days before the money earned by child stars was put in trust for their adulthood, so my mother had nothing to show for her MGM years but a string of successful movies and an empty bank account. Once she left Metro, she lost the luxuries that had been provided for her at studio expense. Dad was always trying to put together new projects, constantly on the lookout for new investments; he eventually worked with an inventor to develop a new type of stereo sound system. He also owned racehorses, but as expenses at Mapleton mounted, he began selling them off. He was also limited by the need for him to manage my mom’s career. Both he and my mother thought Dad should manage her during those years, and in the beginning he did a wonderful job. It was time-consuming, though, and my mother was a very high maintenance woman in other respects. As the years passed, Dad took out a second and then a third mortgage on our Mapleton house as he and my mom sank further and further into debt. With debts piling up, taxes went unpaid as well. Eventually, our entire financial situation was hopeless.

  I was about six years old when it all began to disintegrate. Until then Joe and I had been safely tucked away on the children’s side of the house with our nanny, and since the Mapleton house was so large, we were very unlikely to hear a fight between our parents if there was one. Even at that age we knew that although Dad might have been a foot taller than my mom, it was Mama who had the real power in the family. Mama always had, no matter which family it was. When Baby Gumm started belting out “Jingle Bells” at two years old and refused to leave the stage, she was already in charge of her parents and sisters. Luckily my mom was still small enough in those days for my grandfather to pick her up and carry her out. The situation was a little more complicated for my dad. My aunt Jimmy once said that what Baby wanted, Baby usually got. Baby Gumm was sweet, but she was also spoiled. Louis Mayer eventually found out that even he had limited control over what my mother chose to do. She may have had a studio system running her life during her teens, but she also had an entourage of people on call twenty-four hours a day whose job it was to keep her happy. Anybody who thinks my mother was powerless didn’t know my mother. She learned young that if you scream long enough and loud enough, you get what you want.