Rita Moreno: A Memoir

by Rita Moreno

  Time passed and our days acquired a rhythm. I read the New York Times to Lenny most days. We occasionally watched sports on TV, talked politics with an old medical colleague, and discussed at length the sorry deterioration of this once great hospital. We concluded more than once that the day of the great hospitals was probably over. We entertained ourselves by playing games like hangman, and did crossword puzzles. And, twice daily, we would walk the halls of our floor, Lenny using his IV caddy as a cane on wheels while I steadied him, holding his elbow on the other side.

  I believed with all my heart that I would be taking Lenny home soon. Then he began to fail, just like that. People of his age are so susceptible to just about anything floating through the air, especially after surgery. He had entered the hospital with a bit of pneumonia and became a perfect petri dish for bacteria in search of a home. It happened so quickly; other infections invaded his vulnerable system.

  Lenny became very fragile. He was always a slender man, but he began to look frighteningly thin and frail. His stomach rejected any nutrition. Broth and more broth, and Jell-O was a positive feast. I grew alarmed by his extreme weight loss. At my behest, the doctors agreed to add intravenous proteins and vitamins.

  My darling Lenny became frightened, too. He was a doctor, after all, and he knew that he was on a downward descent. He wouldn’t voice his fear, so I didn’t voice mine, either, but it was the elephant in the room.

  From the beginning of the ordeal, Lenny continually thanked me for being by his side. He went into paroxysms of appreciation and appeared surprised at how well I was looking after him, thanking me over and over.

  This surprised, pleased, and dismayed me. How could I not care for him? Did he think I would slip away to go shopping?

  The sicker he became, the more Lenny pointed out my compelling fealty. It stung. I understood it: In his mind, I was still his little girl, and little girls aren’t capable of taking on difficult challenges. But it stung.

  Well before this ordeal, I had become emotionally distant from Lenny. I had reached the point of giving up on our relationship. We were such different people. I had planned to live out the rest of my life by his side, but not necessarily on his side. One thing was certain: I would never leave him. When Lenny got sick, for the first time in our forty-five years of married life I was actually allowed to look after my husband. He had no choice. The man who could accept nothing from me for nearly a half century of marriage—the man whose control regulated the direction of giving so that it was always from him to me—was finally allowing me to take care of him and love him back, to pour myself into him as he had done for me all those years of married life. Until now, he hadn’t understood that receiving is the yin to giving’s yang in a loving relationship.

  And here’s what happened as a result: I fell deeply in love with my husband all over again. I literally bathed in the glow of what felt like “first love.”

  I couldn’t do enough for him. I washed Lenny, brushed his hair, cut his nails, and groomed his beard with delight. I sang to him. I was deliriously happy. I felt young again. I covered him with kisses and professed my love to him over and over. It was one of the best times of my life under the shadow of something dark and fearsome.

  * * *

  As Lenny’s sickness progressed, he constantly fought for air. He couldn’t draw one decent deep breath. It was torture for me to see him gasp and choke and cough. I often dreamed that I couldn’t breathe, either, and would wake up gasping.

  The time had come: I had to make the most dreadful phone call of my life. I called Fernanda in choked sobs and said, “I think your daddy is dying.”

  I could sense her fighting hard to keep her composure. She told me that she was on her way and would bring our grandchildren and her husband, David. I suggested that she leave the two boys behind, since they were, after all, only ten and twelve, to spare them upset and pain. She took serious umbrage. Of course she was right.

  When they arrived, Justin, our firstborn grandson, observed Lenny’s frail body. This was his “Gramps,” with whom he had such an extraordinary relationship. His birth had provided Lenny with the son he had always wanted. They’d play chess and have long talks about life. Lenny would help with his math homework. And, oh, those wicked, sweaty games of Ping-Pong! Lenny was his best buddy and defender. But now those adoring grandpa eyes were unable to follow the boy who had come to visit one last time.

  I tried to welcome my boys as though it were a fine reunion. I put Lenny’s glasses over his eyes and roused him to see his beloved “little men” one more time. “Look, sweetheart, look who’s here,” I said as I brought the boys to his bedside.

  When Lenny saw them, he registered the dearest and tenderest smile I’d ever seen on his face.

  Cameron, the little one, touched his grandpa’s hand, lingered a moment, and then in stunned, tearful silence retreated to a chair.

  “Give Grandpa a spoonful of water,” I asked Justin, because Lenny’s throat was so dry from the oxygen tube.

  As Justin did, Lenny gave him a sweet smile and took the water like a little bird.

  Afterward, Justin put the spoon down on the bed, went to his chair, and let out an enormous silent scream as tears cascaded from his eyes—a boy who never cried. I wanted desperately to bear his pain for him.

  And then David did something that will stay with me always: He lifted Justin onto his lap and surrounded him with his arms. I shall love him forever for that.

  David and the boys returned to California. Fernanda stayed with me. She offered many times to stand guard and stay with her daddy. She and David had brought a blowup mattress, which happily replaced the sagging cot. But I needed to be there for Lenny, for me. By now I knew the hospital’s routine well, and should Lenny wake up, I knew that he would want to see my face.

  Fernanda and I talked earnestly about Lenny’s suffering. I shared how her dad would spend hours of each day gasping for breath, struggling for air. I told her how, every time Lenny’s throat became dry from the oxygen tube, he would ask for water to ease the discomfort. A drink was not possible for him, so water-soaked Q-tips became the best delivery system. Even that bit of water in his mouth would produce a coughing fit. How could we let this go on?

  * * *

  As infections multiplied, the doctors added additional antibiotics to his intravenous tubes. Lenny struggled to keep up, but couldn’t. No! No! This could not go on! Wasn’t that why Fernanda and I were there, to ease his way through this painful journey?

  After much deliberation, we both agreed with profound trepidation to ask the hospice people about ending Lenny’s suffering. No, not end his life—this was never our desire—but rather to ease his burden by giving him constant sleep. Hospice care workers were the most sensitive and thoughtful people in the hospital. They understood perfectly what Fernanda and I wanted for Lenny.

  “This is what I want you to do for me when it’s my time,” I told Fernanda.

  After the hospice intervention, Lenny slept peacefully twenty-four hours a day—no coughing, no gasping, no choking. I conversed with him in case he could hear me, relating stories about his adored grandchildren, his devoted daughter, and all of the latest news. Lenny had always enjoyed hearing the news; perhaps it would make him feel like he was still in touch with the world.

  His body began to get very cold. For years, before he was sick, there were times when I used to banish him to his side of the bed, because his body temperature was like an oven, but now the warmth was leaving. His youthful hands still had not a vein in sight, but they were cold and dry. Oh, so dry.

  One evening, as I was speaking to Lenny, I paused to hear his uneven breathing. I held his hand in mine and dropped to my knees. Aloud, I said, “Oh, my God! What have I done? What have I done?”

  I spoke to Fernanda the next day, and she reminded me that he was now only sleeping, not suffering.

  I used to go to sleep with Lenny’s steady breathing, but there came a time when the unevenness would
wake me up with a start. On the twenty-sixth day of our hospital stay, I was actually getting some deep sleep when the night nurse came in and woke me up. It took a number of shakes.

  “Mrs. Gordon? Mrs. Gordon, your husband has stopped breathing,” she said, uttering the words without any affect whatsoever.

  I jumped up from my blowup mattress and stood at the foot of Lenny’s bed. I just stared in disbelief at my still, nonbreathing Lenny. He looked so frail, almost tiny, this man who had loved too much. Can a man love too much?

  I sat down on the edge of his bed and kissed and caressed his elegant head over and over. I ran my hands through his silvery silken hair and cut off a lock of it to put in a tiny silk pouch.

  Then I went for my overnight bag and stood at the door for one last look. I saw a long montage of two lives wound around each other like a caduceus. Did Lenny take parts of me with him? I wondered whether he took the little girl, Rosita, still clinging, with him. How does that work, such an enormous, rich, complicated life emanating from this slender figure?

  No tears at this moment. I was cried out. It was more like an aching dry grief. I went to the door and took one last look. Can a man love too much? I’ll never know.

  I went outside into the stifling Manhattan night and hailed a cab.

  THE ATTIC

  A self-portrait is painted from a reflection on a mirror. But for much of my life, the mirror offered only a flat image without the necessary angles, shadows, and bending of light needed to produce a three-dimensional portrait.

  In 2004, while performing Master Class at the Berkeley Repertory Theatre in Berkeley, California, I met the producer and artistic director of the theater, the brilliant Tony Taccone. We became fast friends. I was drawn to Tony for his direct, unadorned style. He was forthright in his dealings with everyone, and I appreciated how he defended nonprofit theater in such an honorable way.

  It was Tony who invited me to consider cowriting a play with him about my life. At first I didn’t give the idea serious consideration. I thought I didn’t have much to say and my life wasn’t that interesting. But sometime later he broached the subject again. This time I brushed him off with an “I’ll think about it,” knowing that I wouldn’t. But I did. I found every excuse not to do it. First I blamed Lenny—He won’t want to know some of the stories; they’ll embarrass him. Then I considered the old wounds that it would open, and somehow I knew it would require me to feel unhappy, guilty, and sad. But Tony persisted and gave me one last nudge before I agreed. And about a year before Lenny passed I started working on the project, which would become a play about my journey, Life Without Makeup.

  It was hard work getting started. But with Tony as a faithful guide, I began to unwrap the story of my life. Remembering caused me to tap into experiences I had forgotten. I was moved as I saw the arc of my life and how my journey was the American story, the American dream. Dreams come in many flavors, and mine, as I expected, would include sadness, hurt, regret, and unexpressed grief. But there were also wonderful epiphanies as well. Even some mysteries were solved.

  The project was a success, first in its cathartic effect on me, and then for the theater; the play met with great success. It was wonderful to be onstage again. And it was especially moving to hear the shared stories of patrons who would come backstage after the show, or wait on the street to tell me their stories.

  Realizing the impact of the play, my manager at the time, David, urged me to consider writing this book. I protested much less. I enjoyed the honest sharing with my audience, and learned that when the rusty hinges were freed, the door swung wide-open, and their stories poured out to let me know that I was not alone. Perhaps a book would permit the same thing to happen for a wider audience. So I went back to the attic of my mind, which offers treasures not to be found anywhere else. It is a vast, powdery place; a beam of amber light shines through one window, displaying particles of memory like so much dust. This echo chamber of my memory is filled with moans and sighs, raucous laughter, squeals of delight.

  I pick up the scent, the moist fragrance of the rain forest. I inhale deeply and I go there, into the cathedral green, with the mystical hanging orchids. I hear once more the call of the wild birds, the whistle of the coquí.

  This is what I see: daguerreotypes of my maternal grandmother, Trinidad Lopez, a corseted patrician Spaniard. My mother is there, Rosa Maria Marcano, bent over a sewing machine. I see my little brother Francisco, three years old, my mirror image, grinning, his skin the color of shiny copper. I see Dennis giggling as I changed his diaper, Marlon squeezing me with those arms as I laughed till I cried, and friends from so many phases of my life. And Lenny, my dearest, my loyal husband and best friend: Lenny, always in my corner.

  Past sorrows, recent sorrows, and the looming specter of guilt—of feeling not good enough—made up the flat image I saw on the mirror. But now I see my life in full dimension.

  Yes, there are loose ends, but here I am, healthy, happy beyond what one reasonably expects, fully able to remember and reflect, and equipped to dream. I’m deeply grateful for the applause, and I thrive in the spotlight. Yes, I love the attention. But when the early morning fog blankets the hills where I live and the curtain lifts, I look out the window and see, far below, my daughter’s home filled with the lives of two budding little men, and my heart is full.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “Rita,” he said, “we should write a play about your life.” And after much hesitation on my part and steady perseverance on his, Tony Taccone, the Artistic Director of Berkeley Repertory Theatre, coaxed Rosita Dolores Alverio out of the shadows and onto that Berkeley stage to expose my Life Without Makeup. Tony, my dear friend, thank you for being an inspiration, guide and collaborator.

  “You must write a book, a chronicle of your life, the history of your career. Your story needs telling for posterity. Think of your grandchildren!” Those words, spoken by David Belenzon, sparked the genesis of this project. Because you valued my story, David, it encouraged me to tell it more fully.

  For my literary agent, Dan Strone, CEO of Trident Media Group, my thanks for introducing me to the able team at Penguin. Also, thanks to Dan’s assistant, Kseniya Zaslavskaya.

  Laura Shane Cunningham, my deepest gratitude for your intuitive observation. As an unrelenting romantic, you were the perfect cheerleader and collaborator; without you, I could never have translated passion to page.

  To the entire Celebra publishing group, expertly lead by Ray Garcia, publisher, muchisimas gracias to you and to Phil Wilentz, production manager; Alissa Amell, text designer; Craig Burke and Julia Flieschaker, publicists. And Denise Silvestro, my editor, what can I say? It was you who shepherded this project to a successful completion. You were endlessly patient with this first-time writer and thoughtfully constructive in helping sculpt the arc of the story. ¡Te aprecio!

  Patti Pirooz, because of your skilled direction during the audio recording, the manuscript was further fine-tuned. Reading it “out loud” certainly helped iron out the last kinks. Good ear! Great job!

  Allison Janice, thank you for researching and acquiring all the necessary photographic permissions for the book.

  Judy Katz, of Katz PR, my publicist and friend, it’s my turn to put you in print and say thank for your steady and faithful service.

  And finally, for John Ferguson, my guardian, consigliere, and purveyor of wisdom, my appreciation without end for seeing me through this difficult journey in unremitting pursuit of authenticity and fidelity. For asking the tough questions and demanding answers. For holding my hand through rivers of tears and ancient wounds.

  But most of all…most of all, for helping me get my joy back.

  Bracing myself against New York’s winter chill—it’s time to go home.

  My beautiful mami and me.

  A last memory of me, Mami, and Abuelo Justino.

  Showing off Mami’s needlework—stitched, I’m sure, with love.

  A smiling Dorothy on the outside, a conflicted R
osita on the inside.

  The “Liz look”—playing a role was easier than finding myself.

  A young actor is grateful when the photographer offers a free picture—this is that picture.

  Playing Indian princess number 36…or is it number 42? I lost count.

  The Deerslayer—I dreaded wearing those icy-cold buckskins.

  The Yellow Tomahawk—Noah Beery Jr. (to my right) and Rory Calhoun (far right).

  The King and I—that ten-pound headdress made a real impression on my scalp.

  “Who is this girl?…Find me that girl!”—Darryl F. Zanuck

  On top in “America,” the seminal role of my career.

  The happiest night of my life, until Fernanda arrived.

  Reportedly “the photo” found in Marlon’s home when he died.

  Before the I do’s—Lenny and me outside of New York’s City Hall.

  Holding Fernanda at a political rally—the babysitter didn’t show.

  Finding my voice, taking a stand.

  Loved by Lenny—encouraging me between acts.

  Fernanda “Nandy,” my beautiful daughter.

  Posing with my biggest fan—Mami.

  Adoring smiles, loving words, but so many things I wished I would have asked her.