Read My Lips (20 page)

W
HILE
I
WAS IN
N
EW
Y
ORK
G
RACE
M
IRABELLA, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
of
Vogue,
contacted me. Grace offered me a ten-page spread in her magazine, one that would include modeling some furs for
my “cousin” David Bennett, who now had his own shop. It would have been wonderful exposure for me, great publicity for David, and a lot of fun. I loved being around Grace who, despite her prestigious job, was a warm, real, down-to-earth girl. She was one of fashion’s triumvirate of divas, succeeding Diana Vreeland at the magazine and preceding Anna Wintour. I sometimes thought that, if the acting went south, maybe I could work for her. Whenever I was in the
Vogue
office, there was someone buzzing around with belts for shoots, belts for advertisements. Someone always seemed to be looking for the right belt.
Maybe I could be the belt person,
I thought.

I called Rick to let him know that I wanted to extend my stay a few days in New York so I could do the
Vogue
shoot. He was furious.

“What about me?” he said. “You’ve been out there nineteen days. You need to come back.”

I was terrified of losing Rick. I didn’t want to upset him. But when I told my agent, the legendary—and notoriously somewhat prickly—Sue Mengers, that I was going to pass on Grace’s offer, she was beside herself. She was as furious with me about passing up the
Vogue
shoot as Rick was about me taking it. She knew very well that, after your Oscar exposure, a window of opportunity opens wide for you, but it doesn’t remain open long. What did I think, that
Vogue
was going to ring up and offer me another ten pages the following week or month . . . or ever, for that matter? They never have again, or at least not so far.

It was a horrendous choice, but ignoring everyone’s better judgment—including my own—I finally told Grace no. I’m sure I lost her respect and cost David a great opportunity to expand his business. But at that point I just couldn’t stand up to Rick.

Before leaving New York I did some interviews about
Last of the Red Hot Lovers,
a few other films I had in the works, and my budding music career. My first album would be out soon, and I was so excited. But was I insightful? Not very. I saw a quote of
mine recently that was published in December 1971, a year after Rick and I got married:

“I am finally all put together,” I told a reporter. “I couldn’t be happier.”

Yep. I was an Academy Award nominated actress, all right. Happy? If they bought that, they would buy anything I was selling.

The problem was, I bought it too.

I
T’S HARD TO POINT TO JUST ONE THING THAT FINALLY UNDOES
a marriage. Although I was annoyed at Rick for helping sabotage my career—intentionally or not, but certainly with my acquiescence—probably the straw that finally broke my back was the issue of Claire, my sister Diana’s seven-year-old daughter. I wanted to play a bigger part in Claire’s life.

Claire was still living with Ian in Santa Monica. Diana was far away now. She and Gloria had decided to leave not only Los Angeles but the United States. They were living in the south of France, where Diana had lived before and where she and Gloria felt more comfortable. Furthermore, it would be some time before Claire reached eighteen, the age when, according to Ian and Diana’s agreement, she would be able to see her mother.

I knew that Ian was struggling—physically, emotionally—to take care of Claire. What had initially appeared to be some sort of depression—Ian was sleeping all the time, not working—was becoming much worse. What we did not know then was that he had Parkinson’s. Very little was understood about that disease at the time. I would run over to Ian’s place whenever I could to cook or take Claire out, but now that Rick and I were settled in a lovely rented house with a yard in the Hollywood Hills, I found myself longing to be with her more permanently. So I had Claire over often, but I must confess that those visits sometimes took a tragicomic turn.

I still hadn’t shaken the horror of the Manson murders. Every time I heard a car making its way down our sleepy little street in the Hills when Claire and I were outside, I’d fly into a panic.

“DOWN CLAIRE!!!” I’d shout. For some reason I felt compelled to make sure that the approaching driver could not see that a child was playing behind our white picket fence. It didn’t matter to me what kind of neighborhood we lived in or how much money we had; there was still that residual fear that maybe there were some people from the Manson gang that they hadn’t yet found.

Then, not long after we began renting our house, a group of men moved next door.
What’s going on over there
? I wondered.
What kind of group living situation is this
? There weren’t any women around, and none of the men seemed to have jobs. They brought in very little furniture. The men just stayed indoors all day, and occasionally I heard loud music. I was convinced they were some sort of cult, part of the Manson gang. Whenever I was in the yard and I saw one of the men leave the house—to go to his car or take a walk—I’d grab Claire and shuttle her inside as fast as I could.

“Down, Claire! Get in the house, Claire!”

Poor girl. She was only seven or eight years old. I know I must have scared her to death. But I just wanted to keep her safe. Luckily, she had great spirit.

One day I was gardening with Claire. The weather was lovely, and I was enjoying the sun and the breeze and the flowers in our small yard. Suddenly I looked up. It was one of them! I whipped around and scanned the yard. Oh my God! Where was Claire?! I finally spotted her. I ran over, but the Dangerous Man was already on the move. He wasn’t going to his car. Oh God, Oh God, he was walking toward my house, toward us.
Oh no, oh no
. . . I was thinking. I tried, but I couldn’t grab Claire and make it back in the house in time.

“Excuse me . . .” the man said.

I turned around. He was still walking toward us.

“Excuse me . . .”

I froze.

“I just wanted to say hi,” he called out to me. “We’re going to be living next door for a while. We’re in a band called Bread.”

Ah yes. The murderous cult/soft-rock band that sang love songs like the number-one hit, “Make It with You.”

I introduced myself and blurted out my entire insane story. Thank God the man laughed. I’m surprised he didn’t start running into his house to hide from me.

Okay, so maybe my maternal instincts were a little off at times. But I loved Claire. I didn’t know how I could live without her.

More and more I hated her situation with her ailing father. She would call sometimes and say something like, “Aunt Sally, I have gum in my hair . . .”

“Sorry, Rick, I have to go see Claire,” I’d say. I’d hop in the car, drive over to the apartment she shared with Ian in Santa Monica, and by time I got there, she would have already lopped off a huge chunk of her lovely chestnut hair with a pair of scissors.

After the gum incident, while I was taking a walk in the neighborhood with Rick, I told him that I wanted to spend more than few days here and there with Claire.

“She needs me,” I said, biting my nails and fearing his reaction.

“If you want her, fight me for her,” Rick said.

“Okay, then I want her here on weekends.”

I started having Claire spend weekends with us, but the battle wasn’t over. Everything had to be a fight in our house. One fight I almost lost related to having Claire come for Christmas, which was two months off. Rick agreed to let Claire come, but her father, Ian, who was suffering from Parkinson’s, was not welcome. I would never have Claire spend Christmas apart from her father.

We then learned that we could no longer stay in the house. The lease was up, and the landlord didn’t want to renew. I hated the thought of losing that house. It was so lovely, so quiet, and having a yard meant everything to me. I was still a country girl from the orange groves of the Valley. I needed my grass. I needed my trees.

We had friends in the neighborhood who offered to put us up until we found a place that really suited us. But Rick wouldn’t have it; he was intent on finding a house that was big enough not only for us but also for his four daughters from his first marriage. They still lived back east in the Bronx. The house he found was enormous. I hated it—all house, no yard. No land whatsoever. But again, I didn’t stand up to him the way I should have. I didn’t say no.

Instead, I took it out on him. In my mind we lived precisely four days in that house before we split up. Maybe it was longer. Maybe not. We were already going in such different directions. I know that, even though Rick was the one who physically walked out of that house, I was making it as unpleasant as possible for him to stay—even if he had still wanted to.

Looking back, when Rick and I met, he was recovering from a marriage that had produced four children. I was on the rebound from a relationship that only existed in my mind. I don’t think either of us loved ourselves enough to have a relationship. When I was younger, I blamed Rick for everything. Today, I see clearly my part in it.

My marriage was over. It was for the best. And Claire and Ian came to Christmas and all was right in the world.

M
Y FIRST DATE AFTER SPLITTING FROM
R
ICK?
H
ENRY
K
ISSINGER.

It was all Jennifer Jones’s doing.

At that point I was all over the map, so out of touch with myself. I was in the midst of my divorce, wondering why I had ever married Rick and why we’d bought this huge Spanish-style house with six bedrooms, six baths, and a living room the size of Dodger Stadium when we had no furniture to fill it. The house had been on the market for two years before we moved in. Now I was trying to turn around and sell it again. I was determined.

I did what I could to make it look attractive to anyone who might stop by. I hung scarves from the windows. I would come home from work and get the fireplace going, turn up the music, and sip a split of champagne. I did my best to make it feel homey, but I had never wanted to live there in the first place.

I was there alone, except for weekends, when I had Claire. Claire loved the house. With no furniture to get in the way, she could do all the cartwheels, headstands, and backbends she could dream of. But I couldn’t wait to get that white elephant of a house, with no yard and all those empty rooms full of unhappy memories, off my hands.

Meanwhile, I was keeping busy. I was working on the film
Lost Horizon
and had just finished shooting two other movies,
Reflection of Fear
with Robert Shaw and
Slither
with James Caan. Both men were rascals, each in his own distinct way. I loved them both dearly.

William Fraker, who had been the camera operator on
Outer Limits
and another love of mine, was the director on
Reflection.
On the first day of shooting I had to take a long walk across the lawn. It was my first shot.

The assistant director called, “Roll it!”

“Relax, Sally! It all depends on you!” Robert Shaw yelled out in the middle of the scene. “Everything is pointing right at you!”

Thanks, Robert.
I thought. Now
I don’t feel self-conscious at all.

Another day Robert came into the makeup trailer and said, “God! You look gorgeous!” In his enthusiasm he walked over, picked me up, threw me over his shoulder, and tromped me off to the set, with my hair blowing in the wind. I’d just spent forty-five minutes fixing my hair because I’m neurotic. But still, his caveman act was utterly endearing,

I’d have to say Robert Shaw was an alcoholic. He said, “I only drink when I’m acting. It’s so boring.” But he was also very funny and sweet. One night on the set he kept telling me, “You should have a glass of wine, Sally, to help you relax.” I kept saying no, and he kept insisting, “Don’t be silly.” So I had a glass of red wine. I guess I felt guilty. I ended up getting as drunk as he was, and Bill could have killed us. I have since only had a glass of wine on set one other time, with Harry Dean Stanton.

Slither
was James Caan’s first film after
The Godfather.
I almost didn’t get the part. “You don’t have to hire me,” I had said to the director, Howard Zieff. “How about we take ten minutes and have a meeting, just talk about things?”