I'll Love You When You're More Like Me (10 page)

“He didn't want to be an undertaker,” I said.

“A man without a profession is a man without more than about two hundred dollars in savings his whole life.”

“Maybe Uncle Albert doesn't want a big savings account,” I said.

“So long as his health lasts, maybe he doesn't,” said my father. “But what about the day sugar shows up in his urine, or the old ticker gives out, hmmmm? Both things run in the Witherspoon family. Albert ran out on his old age when he ran away those many years ago. He spit in the face of Fate.”

Fate, for the Witherspoons, according to my father (and my mother), is BEAMS.

BEAMS is Broadhurst Embalming and Mortician School.

“If you were ever so foolish as to consider running out on your old age,” my father always added, “I hope you'd realize that you'd be running out on me, your mother, Ann Elizabeth, the whole family, its tradition and its livelihood.”

Sabra finished autographing and turned back to me. “What were we talking about?” she said.

“I don't remember,” I lied.

“I remember. We were talking about what you were going to study after you got out of first grade.”

“It's too early to know,” I said.

“I knew what I was going to be since I was old enough to walk,” said Sabra.

“Some people are just lucky that way,” I said.

That was the point when Harriet sent Charlie over to cut in.

When I got back to the table, Harriet said, “Who's the couple she's with?”

“Her mother and a writer for the show,” I said. “Did we look stupid dancing?”

“Good,” she said. “You didn't look any more stupid than you used to look when Lauralei Rabinowitz towered over you.”

“Thanks a bunch,” I said. “Why did you say good?” “Charlie's going to ask her to join us,” Harriet said. “We'll save four dollars.”

10. Sabra St. Amour

When Charlie asked me to join them, I shook my head and rolled my eyes to the heavens and said Mama would just never hear of it. I said if Mama had her way I'd have tattoos all over me saying “Fragile,” “Keep Your Distance” and “No Trespassers.” Charlie persisted, saying I was almost old enough to drink, vote and get married, and I kept replying, “You don't know Mama!”

By the time Charlie asked Mama, all the Chartreuse she'd been drinking must have caught up with her. “I think that's a swell idea,” she said. “Why not? You go ahead, honey. Charlie, you see that she gets home safely, hear?”

I leaned down and whispered to Mama, “I can't stick you with Lamont.”

“I'm going to ditch him at The Seaville Inn in about ten minutes,” said Mama. “Then I'm going to sit out on the deck and watch the moon with my old pals Frankie and Perry and Tony and Andy, while they sing to me.”

Lamont pretended to cut something with an imaginary pair of scissors.

When I asked him what he was doing he said he was cutting the umbilical cord.

I don't know why I ever started discussing Lamont's stupid play when we got to Dunn's Drive-In. If the leading
critic for The
New York Times
reviewed it with nothing more than a series of Z's, why did I think I was going to come off any better telling Charlie, Wally and Her the plot? (Right from the start I sensed that I was going to have trouble with Her.) I was nervous, that was part of the reason I started on it. The only kids I'd ever been around were kids like me, who went to Professional Children's School in Manhattan.

I know you've probably all read and heard interviews with kids who do what I do for a living, either on T.V. or in the movies. There's always a line in those interviews about “offstage little Blah Blah is just another youngster, no different from other children.” If you believe that, you believe that rain is dry and the sun is wet. All of us little Blah Blahs are about as much like ordinary kids as Volkswagens are like Rolls-Royces. Ordinary kids don't have agents who take ten percent of their earnings; shrinks who charge fifty dollars an hour to listen to their problems; wardrobe people who help them dress and undress; makeup people who hide their blemishes; and fans who try to telephone them, write them, wire them and send them everything from chocolate layer cakes to bus tickets to Cincinnati. Most of us little Blah Blahs have huge scrapbooks, too, filled with press clippings.

Mama was my agent and my manager, so I was different from some kids: We kept it all in the family. But sometimes I wondered what it would be like to have one of those mothers you see on soaps or series who come out of the kitchen in an apron, asking how your school day went and warning you to wash up for dinner because it'd be served at six-on-the-dot. Those kind of mothers never spill green liqueurs down their cleavage, then call for another round in
a loud voice, waving a fifty-dollar bill.

I suppose when we got to Dunn's, I was trying too hard to act like just another normal teenager without having a clue what that really meant. There was a strong wind blowing, too, as we parked beside the other cars at Dunn's, and that was the way Lamont's play began, with this enormous wind.

I've known a lot of gay actors, so it was easy being with Charlie. I knew he was gay without anyone telling me because Charlie was the type we'd say came out of the closet without even a hanger trailing after him. He was all the way out. It was Wally and Her I was having trouble with. Wally had this defensive, wise-guy pose that made me want to forget I'd ever asked him to go to a movie with me, and She was what Mama would call a bitty and a half. When I got in the Fiat while we were leaving The Surf Club, She said you must be having a divine time seeing how the other half lives, and when I said you've got me all wrong, I hardly know how
anyone
lives, She said in this snide tone, “Tell me more.”

The moment I started on
The Wind of Reluctant Admissions,
I had the feeling there was a balloon over Her head with SNORE written inside it, and Wally kept acting as though he was afraid of what I was going to say because of what it would inspire Her to say back.

“Okay.” Charlie finally took over and tried to sum up what I was describing. “There's a mythical kingdom somewhere, and when the wind blows very strong like this wind tonight, people have to make reluctant admissions.”

“You have to admit whatever's on your mind,” I said, wishing I'd never started the whole thing.

“Reluctant Admission,” She said. “This game is stupid.”

“Oh you're sweet,” Wally said to Her. “You're known for it.”

“Reluctant Admission,” She said. “I'd like more mustard.”

Charlie bit into his hot dog. Then he said, “Reluctant Admission.”

“Well?” Wally said.

“I was going to try and make out with Easy Ethel tonight.”

“Reluctant Admission,” Wally said. “I'm a full-blooded Cherokee Indian.”

“I
was,
” Charlie said. “I thought I could use the experience.”

“Use it for what?” She said.

I bit into my hot dog. Then I said, “Reluctant Admission.”

“What is it?” Charlie said.

“I'm going to send back this hot dog,” I said. “It tastes like a piece of cooked inner tube.”

“They're always like this,” She said. “This is the sticks.”

“They're always awful,” Wally agreed.

“They're just tacky old Dunn hot dogs,” She said, eating hers with more enthusiasm than ever.

“It wouldn't do any good to send it back,” said Charlie.

“I always send something back when it's terrible,” I said. I got that from Mama. Mama likes to say if you give your best you have a right to expect the best, and you should never settle for less. Mama is always sending something back: forks because there's a spot on them; rolls because they're not warm; whipped cream because it's not real; salad
dressing because it's bottled; orange juice because it's not squeezed fresh. Mama says an important lesson is never be had, by anyone!

Harriet said, “What do you eat in New York City at the end of an evening?”

“That depends on where we go,” I said. “If we go to the Brasserie, I order onion soup with the thick cheese crust. Or quiche Lorraine. If we go someplace like the Algonquin, I order chicken crepes.”

“This must be a real downer for you,” Harriet said.

“I just wouldn't pay for it,” I said.

“Charlie's paying for it,” She said.

“
Harriet!
” Wally said.

“Send it back, Charlie,” Harriet said.

“Drop it, Harriet,” Wally said.

“Would you like me to get you something else?” Charlie asked me.

“Forget it,” I said. “It doesn't matter.”

“Reluctant Admission,” Harriet said. “We're fresh out of quiche Lorraine and chicken crepes. How about a sour pickle?”

“Their hamburgers aren't too bad,” Charlie said.

“I'm not really hungry, anyway,” I said.

“A dollar and a quarter later she tells us,” Harriet said.

“A dollar and a quarter for these?” I said. “Hey, let me treat,” and I reached for my purse. Mama had shoved two tens at me just before I left the table.

Charlie put his hand down on mine. “Don't,” he said gently.

“Let her if she wants to,” Harriet said. “She won't exactly have to pawn her fancy gold bracelet.”

“My, how the time passes when you're having fun,” Wally said.

“When does curfew ring tonight, Harriet?” Charlie said.

“One o'clock as usual, Charlie,” She said. “We won't have time to make the Algonquin, I fear, what a pity! . . . Reluctant Admission: One o'clock won't come soon enough where I'm concerned.”

All the way to Harriet's house, She and Wally didn't talk. Charlie made small talk compulsively, the way Fedora runs off at the mouth on the set, when an actor does something to displease her and she can't wait to get him alone and chew him out. Fedora always keeps up appearances, while she's seething inside.

Harriet didn't bother saying good night. She ran ahead of Wally while he was walking Her to the door.

“She's just jealous,” he said when he climbed back into the back seat.

“Of what?” I said. “Of me?”

“Of everything,” Wally said. “Of you because she doesn't have dates who pass out thick gold bracelets, or send back her food because it's terrible, or take her to the Algonquit for quiche Lorraine.”

“The
Algonquin
,” I said, “for chicken crepes.”

“The Waldorf Astoria,” Charlie said, “for creamed caviar over smashed brains.”

“The Astor,” Wally said, “for stuffed rooster under plexiglass.”

“The Paris Continental,” I said, “for asses' ears in green sauce.”

“Waiter!” Wally said. “Take back this aardvark nose, it's running.”

“Garçon!” Charlie said. “Remove this camel's eye, it's crying.”

It was my idea that the evening shouldn't end. Charlie and Wally and I were just beginning to loosen up and laugh, and I didn't want them to remember me as this spoiled Superstar-Creep who told old play plots in detail and wanted to send back a Dunn's hot dog because it tasted like a piece of cooked inner tube.

“Nightcaps at my place!” I sang out, the way Mama always invited people back to our place at the end of an evening. On the way I told them how Lamont came to visit our apartment in The Dakota and called it a lovely little
pied-à-terre.
I told them how we called him Lamont Bore on the set, and how he did this little dance of rage when anybody changed his lines, like old newsreel clips of Hitler's jig of joy when Germany invaded another country.

I didn't tell them anything about my ulcer. I doubted very much they knew many kids their age with ulcers; I didn't want to come off that far out or neurotic. I might have been able to tell Charlie about it because I had the feeling I could tell him anything, but there was something really laid back about Wally, where I was concerned. He seemed to answer all my questions with some wisecrack; I got the feeling he thought I thought I was Miss Grand from Videoland.

I suppose my shrink would point out that I didn't have anything to fear from Charlie because he was gay. My shrink didn't do a lot of pointing out—they don't, they mostly listen, which is why analysis goes on for years—but she wasn't
above hinting at the fact that my infatuations were with fantasy figures; I never let myself get involved with anyone who could threaten me. Threaten me! I'd say; yes, threaten you, she'd reply:
Move
you. I'd quoted Bette Davis once: “You can't have a career
and
a love life.” Dr. Mannerheim said, “Wasn't she married several times, though?” (If you know anyone who's ever won an argument with a shrink, send me her name. I'd like to frame it.)

“Congratulations on not smoking for the whole evening!” Wally said as we roared down Ocean Road toward the beach house.