Love, Lucy

by Lucille Ball

  Desi went with me to see Grandfather’s little house in Celoron. The yard was still spacious, ringed with great lilac bushes, but the house had shrunk recognizably. The front staircase now had only fifteen short steps; the living room would barely hold a sofa and two armchairs and a TV set; the kitchen shed had been torn down.

  Pauline accompanied us to the old Celoron Amusement Park, now waist-high in weeds, its grand promenade a maze of cracked and broken cement, the Ferris wheel, once the world’s largest, long since carted off to California. Even the trolley tracks were gone—my onetime road to Jamestown and freedom, whenever I could scrape together the ten-cent fare.

  The festivities wound up with a charity ball. I wore my finest feathers, and my old classmates sang “Celoron Will Shine Tonight” while tears dissolved my mascara.

  The next day Marion Strong, my old chum and former New York roommate, asked me to dinner. Amid the ambrosial smell of freshly baked Swedish rye bread, we dined two feet from scores of noses and eyes pressed against the windowpanes. The next morning Marion’s front lawn looked as if Ringling Brothers had tarried there. The kid from the Celoron whistle-stop had “arrived” in Jamestown. What an emotional wallop that packed.

  * * *

  As we began the 1956–1957 season, the I Love Lucy show still on the top of the heap, we were faced with a headachy decision: to retire or not to retire. Originally we had planned a five-year stint with television, and all our contracts had been written with this deadline in mind. Then we had planned to quit, take the kids, and sail leisurely around the world.

  But like most idyllic dreams, this one didn’t seem too practical on closer inspection. It was tremendously exciting building a new company; from seven employees we had grown to one thousand, and not one of them had resigned in Desilu’s five years of existence. It was a young organization—our employees’ average age was thirty-two—and a sense of family was always emphasized, between company picnics, bowling contests, trips to Disneyland, and New Year’s Eve parties at the ranch, where Desi presided like a grand patron.

  Besides I Love Lucy, we owned six other shows on television. Filming took place on our lot for the Wyatt Earp and Danny Thomas shows, December Bride, the Eve Arden and Red Skelton shows, and The Real McCoys. Often, during the busy season, we had two thousand people on our payroll. Could we turn our backs on them and sail away?

  And how do you quit a number-one show? I wasn’t ready to sit gazing at Mount San Jacinto. And Desi didn’t seem to enjoy the same kind of leisure activities anymore. A few years ago, he’d look forward to spending his weekends happily puttering around the ranch. Evenings we’d have friends in for dinner and charades. I still preferred to spend my weekends resting, playing cards, and sitting on the floor with the kids. But now, by the weekend, Desi was too keyed up and restless for such simple pleasures. After we finished filming the show Friday nights, a limousine and station wagon transported the sleeping children, Desi’s mother, and Desi and me to our home at Del Mar or Palm Springs. Desi would make sure that we were all comfortably at home, and then he’d disappear. It was go, go, go all the time: to the golf links, to his new motel, the gambling tables, or his yacht.

  He stopped discussing any of our personal problems. I had to dig and dig to discover what caused his rages, and generally it had nothing to do with anything I’d done. I wanted to help him, find out where I was at fault. But as soon as I started questioning, he’d stalk angrily out of the room. Or the house.

  On the set, my attention to detail began to annoy him. He was spending six hours at his desk for every two hours in rehearsals, and there were constant interruptions with phone calls and meetings.

  Finally, we decided to stay on as president and vice president of Desilu but to cut down the work schedule. In the spring of 1957, we finished the last of the half-hour I Love Lucy shows and signed a $12 million contract with Westinghouse for a series of monthly one-hour comedy specials, starting in the fall. (The following year, we would negotiate the sale of the 179 I Love Lucy shows back to CBS for more than $5 million, another significant addition to our working capital.)

  In September 1957, I flew to New York to talk to Dr. Norman Vincent Peale. He steered me to the codirector of his American Foundation of Religion and Psychiatry, the well-known psychiatrist Dr. Smiley Blanton, the author of Love or Perish.

  Dr. Blanton was a frail, slight man who spoke in a penetrating whisper. For most of September I saw him two or three hours a day. We kept trying to get Desi to see Dr. Blanton too, but with no luck. Finally, in October, Desi gave in to my entreaties and flew to New York. Dr. Blanton came to our suite at the Hampshire House at nine one morning and remained with us until six in the evening.

  I was grateful that Desi was finally facing some of our personal issues. It was like old times at the ranch, both of us pacing up and down the hotel room yelling at the top of our voices, then doubling over with laughter, and kicking chair legs and throwing pillows. The discussion was simply great; we both felt so much better by dinnertime. We left the apartment arm in arm and went on to have a perfectly marvelous evening, while Dr. Blanton went home to have a good, long rest.

  Desi saw Dr. Blanton a few times after that, but he never really warmed to analysis and he refused to admit that he had any problem. He went back to Hollywood while I stayed in New York another month for sessions with Dr. Blanton. Cleo moved into the Hampshire House with me and we stuck close to our suite most of the time, venturing out only to see all the new Broadway shows.

  A month later I was back at work on the new hour-long Lucy-Desi comedy specials. One day in late November, Desi was detained at his office for an unusually long time. Finally he phoned down to tell me why. I hung up and told the director and the cast, “Desi will be late.” I added, “He’s buying RKO.”

  I learned that Dan O’Shea of RKO had phoned to ask Desi if he wanted to buy all their properties for $6,500,000. Desi had never even considered such a thing, but we badly needed more space.

  That night, November 27, 1957, between the second and third acts of our show, we closed the deal for $6,150,000. The next day, Desi toured the RKO studios like a kid discovering Disneyland. We now owned thirty-three more soundstages, or eleven more than 20th Century-Fox and four more than MGM. We had fabulous permanent sets, including the Southern plantation, Tara, from Gone With the Wind, fire-scarred and weather-beaten but still majestic. In the wardrobe department were gowns once worn by Carole Lombard, Irene Dunne, and Katharine Hepburn, and even a few of mine from Roberta and Big Street. Desi found an entire warehouse full of wallpaper. “No more paper at ninety dollars a roll!” he told me jubilantly. But when he came home that night and learned that I had just ordered a new white grand piano for the living room, he flipped. “We’ve got nineteen grand pianos at RKO!”

  In January 1958, we signed the final escrow papers. As I signed away $6,150,000, my hand shook. But in our business, money becomes an exchange of legal documents; I never saw much real cash and never really felt rich either.

  Despite the big transaction, we stuck to our decision about cutting back on work. Now, for the first time in five years, I had two free weeks every month, even during the busy season, and three months free every summer. Finally I had time to attend to matters I’d long neglected. With the help of a professional cutter from the studio, I tackled our twenty-eight thousand feet of home color movies. After four weeks of hard work, we had thirty consecutive hours of film, from the babies’ first hour and first step and tooth through every family birthday and holiday. Next I tore through the house weeding out closets, until the household staff was in a frenzy.

  In the fall of 1958, I was invited to address a class in Hollywood on comedy techniques; I went once and then was invited back for twenty-two weeks.

  That summer, I damn near went crazy. I had too much on my mind and too much time on my hands. I started redecorating the whole studio, changed the color schemes in all the ladies’ rooms, and repainted the reception building . . . twice! I
had to put all this restless energy to some good use. That’s when I remembered how much I had enjoyed my teaching experience and decided to reactivate Lela Rogers’s theater workshop on the RKO lot. Her original theater was still standing, although it cost $90,000 to put it back into shape. My idea was to give some talented youngsters a boost into show business. I wanted to get a group who would work well together. This took me five weeks, auditioning eight hours a day. I finally chose twenty-one kids, of whom five didn’t work out. Most of the group were in their twenties. All talented, eager, and tireless. Eventually, nine of our original sixteen landed television and movie contracts. I found out you have to be a lay analyst to direct, however. Inevitably you get all involved in their personal lives. Carole Cook, for example, a dynamite musical comedy talent, lived in our home for a while and I was matron of honor at her wedding. Running the workshop became a round-the-clock job, but I found that rehearsing ten and twelve hours a day was a constructive way to take my mind off my troubles. Fortunately, Desi was busy too, so we were able to pretty much stay out of each other’s way.

  At that time, Desi was the studio’s top salesman, chief executive officer, and programming director. He had just concluded our company’s most successful year with a $24 million gross business and net profits over $800,000. Things had never been better for Desilu. We wished we could say the same for Desi and Lucy.

  In November 1958, the Hollywood Friars’ Club honored Desi and me with a hilarious roasting. Harry Einstein, otherwise known as Parkyakarkas, had just finished a screaming monologue when he was stricken with a heart attack. Art Linkletter asked if there was a doctor in the audience, and five heart specialists rushed up. In a back room they fought for two hours to save Harry’s life, but failed. Desi, upon acknowledging the Friars’ honor, said, “This meant so much to me. Now it means nothing. They say the show must go on. Why must it?”

  The following spring, I made my last effort toward a reconciliation with Desi. We took the children, then seven and six; their nanny; Cleo and her husband, Kenny Morgan; Harriet; and forty-eight pieces of luggage to Europe: Paris, Rome, Capri, and London.

  In England I had my first experience with the British press. I Love Lucy was one of the top shows in the British Isles, and we had warm demonstrations from fans wherever we went. But that press conference was something else again: “How much money do you have?” “How old are you? . . . Really? Well, if you admit to that, you must be five years older.” Unbelievable. I just looked at them. I turned from one to the other with a cold, impassive stare. Then some woman grabbed little Lucie and took her behind a potted palm. “What’s it like to be rich?” she asked. “Is it true your father and mother fight all the time?” I went behind the palm and took Lucie’s hand. “If you don’t mind,” I told that monstrous woman of the tabloid press. On the other side of the room were five perfect ladies and gentlemen from the London Times and the Manchester Guardian. “May I see all of you tomorrow?” I asked them. They said yes, of course, and left, terribly embarrassed for their colleagues.

  Big Desi was restless, uncommunicative, and bored. When he wasn’t drinking, he spent most of his time on the phone with the studio or checking the Del Mar racetrack, where his horses were running. I was completely disenchanted, bitter, and unforgiving . . . and the kids saw and heard way too much.

  Desi and I came back from our trip not speaking. He moved into the guesthouse and then went abroad again, alone this time, for several months.

  I realized we never really liked each other. We had a great attraction going for each other in the beginning but we didn’t approve of each other. He disapproved of my moderation and my conservatism. I was square, he said. I disapproved of the way he worked too hard, played too hard, and was never moderate in anything. It was like living on top of a volcano; you never knew when it would erupt or why.

  I was able to accept the situation for many years because it was our secret. Anonymity is a great thing when you’re unhappy. But when Desi made it public domain, I knew I couldn’t be publicly embarrassed any longer. My only to-die moments in life have been when I’ve lost my self-respect. And Desi’s conduct toward me in front of other people became more and more humiliating.

  I’m all activity on the outside, but I have fewer inner anxieties than Desi. I have my grandparents and DeDe to thank for that. I’m a strong, independent woman, but making myself weaker didn’t help Desi. I had to realize that deep down he wanted to make all the mistakes in the book and wanted to suffer the consequences. He needed to punish himself. Toward the end of our marriage, he was practically jumping out windows.

  I was at fault too. I had lost my good humor and sense of proportion. When you’re too mad and too rattled to see straight, you’re bound to make mistakes. You can’t go on and on for years being miserable about a situation and not have it change you. You get so you can’t stand yourself.

  I decided to divorce Desi.

  During this period, Vivian Vance was getting her divorce from Phil Ober, and she was upset and miserable, too.

  Vivian and I have always been extraordinarily compatible, so we were especially close during this time of misery. Occasionally, however, our tempers grew short; this was a very rough spell for all of us.

  One day Vivian and I had a disagreement on the set and stopped speaking. The silence went on much longer than either of us anticipated. It got to be a nuisance, since we were so used to listening carefully to each other’s lines and making suggestions. But this particular Thursday we spent in stony silence.

  Finally it was only an hour before the actual performance. We usually spent this time buoying each other up to get into the proper relaxed and joyous mood for performing. We sat side by side, putting on our makeup. Although not a word had been spoken, I suddenly blurted out, “Vivian, you know that line”—I repeated it—”you’re not reading it right. It should be . . .” And I gave her my interpretation.

  “Gee,” she replied, “you’re right. Why didn’t you say so before?”

  “Well,” I replied heatedly, “we weren’t speaking, and I’d be damned if I’d tell you!”

  Our eyes met in the mirror and we collapsed into laughter. We could never stay cross with each other for very long.

  By the spring of 1960, Desi and I were totally estranged, although he still had to be both actor and director on the show. The good-natured kidding that used to animate the set disappeared entirely. The fun was gone. It saddened Vivian and Bill and our entire crew to watch the painful disintegration of what had been our Camelot. I remember Irma Kusely, our hairdresser, saying, “We all knew it was over. It was so sad. There was nothing anyone could do.” Finally I stopped speaking to Desi altogether. “Lucy dear,” he’d say with elaborate politeness, “would you please step over here when you say that line?” and I’d follow his directions without a word.

  In one of our last shows I played a geisha girl. My face was covered with white powder. My eyes were red from hours of weeping. Whenever I looked at Desi, I could feel my expression hardening. Cold, implacable hate oozed through every pore, for Desi, and for myself too. I loathed my new self, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask Desi for a divorce. He had to be the one to make the break.

  Soon after this episode was shot, Desi asked me for a divorce. I had a lawyer in his office in twenty minutes. The day I filed for the divorce, on grounds of “extreme mental cruelty”—March 3, 1960—we were filming an hour show with Ernie Kovacs and his wife, Edie Adams. In the episode, Lucy tries to get Ricky on Ernie’s TV show. To disguise myself, I wore a chauffeur’s uniform with cap and mustache. In the final scene, Desi was supposed to pull me into an embrace, mustache and all, and kiss me.

  When the scene arrived and the cameras closed in for that final embrace, we just looked at each other, and then Desi kissed me, and we both cried. It marked the end of so many things.

  * * *

  I wasn’t in great shape physically, having suffered two bouts of pneumonia that year, but now I threw myself into
work with a vengeance. I planned to do a movie with Bob Hope that summer called The Facts of Life, then a Broadway musical, Wildcat. I had considered doing a play based on Dorothy Parker’s Big Blonde, but decided it had too much pathos for my depressed state of mind. I wanted something joyful and upbeat. The role of Wildcat Jackson, “the cat with more bounce to the ounce,” seemed right.

  After that, the children and I would live in Switzerland, I decided. I would sell both the Beverly Hills and Palm Springs places and make my permanent base in Europe amid all that lovely white snow and clear mountain air. I wanted to get as far away from Hollywood and Desi as humanly possible. He could run Desilu and I would remove myself permanently. It didn’t work out that way, but that was my original idea.

  When unhappiness piles up, work has always been my salvation. I threw myself into my next few projects, eager to lose myself in work. It helped me mentally, but physically I wound up worse off.

  In The Facts of Life, my first film project after the breakup, Bob Hope and I had a hilarious script and inspired direction from Mel Frank and Norman Panama. We played a couple of old family friends who find themselves accidentally thrown together on a vacation and fall helplessly in love. The comic aspects develop when their romance soars melodiously, only to hit a succession of sour notes. Dumping the old spouse for a new one turns out to be more trouble than it’s worth.

  We were filming the movie at Desilu, and using the same Stage 12 where I was used to doing I Love Lucy. Everything went along merrily until we came to the scene where Bob and Kitty, out fishing, realize they’re falling in love. Kitty catches her first fish. In her excitement, she turns to Bob and throws her arms around his neck. During this scene we had the six-foot tank underneath the stage filled with water and a real boat floating on it, tied to a fake pier.

  Bob and I did the scene and then the director, Mel Frank, decided he wanted an extra little look of trepidation between us after our first kiss. To get this, the cameras and lights had to be rearranged, so Bob and I stepped off the boat.