By Myself and Then Some (10 page)

As soon as I got home. I rushed to the phone to call Betty Kalb. I told her every detail, every nuance in Kaufman’s dialogue, Max Gordon’s. I would tell it many times over, never tiring of the moment, the magic moment, when they said, ‘You’ve got the part.’ Life could be good, couldn’t it! The elation that coursed through my entire body made me understand what being five feet off the ground truly felt like. Was there anything that could match the joy of that day?

At last Mother came home from work. I threw my arms around her, sat her down, and told her every syllable that had passed anybody’s lips that day. Mother was not one to jump up and down – she was sane, and years of disappointments and hard work had taught her to close in rather than open out. But she was happy for me, she wanted me to have it all and knew that I could and would. That I could fulfill that promise for her meant everything to me, that her faith and support and self-deprivation should not have been in vain. She had had little pleasure in her life except me.

I called Grandma at Charlie and Rosalie’s, where she was staying. Even she was happy, and, as I had guessed, what pleased her most about it was the steady job, the weekly income. What she didn’t know, of course, was that rehearsal pay was less than salary – but she didn’t have to know that.

I went to sleep that night knowing I was an actress, that I knew something and felt something no one else knew or felt. I had it all figured out, of course, how during rehearsals Kaufman and Gordon would see how talented I was, how when we opened I would make a special impression, be singled out, get a leading role in another play, and have my name in lights in no time. Having one’s name in lights was so very important, part of acceptance. Part of ‘Cinderella’ and every other fairy tale we’ve ever read. Also part of having an identity – proof positive of making it. My need for favor, esteem, approbation was inordinate.

T
he next day I went
to Max Gordon’s office in the Lyceum Theatre, smiling happily as I walked from Eighth Avenue and 44th Street, past
Sardi’s – no more selling of
Actor’s Cue
, I thought – past Walgreen’s to Seventh Avenue with my secret. I suppose I wore an air of confidence unfamiliar in me. Confidence born of approval, of course – that hasn’t changed. The Gordon office was alive with the coming production. I asked if I might have a script. I thanked Gordon again and hugged him in gratitude. He said the contracts would be ready the following week and rehearsals would begin in about two weeks’ time, that I would hear from the stage manager about measurements for costumes, etc.

Of course I had to tell Paul Lukas. ‘See,’ he said, ‘I was right to tell you not to go on the road with
Claudia
. If you had, this wouldn’t have happened. Now you have an opportunity to work with a great director and producer and really learn something.’

For the next two weeks I spent my time reading and rereading the play, reading my lines to a mirror from all angles and dreaming the hours away as Adele Stanley. I continued my Monday-night hostess job at the Stage Door Canteen, had my coffee in Walgreen’s basement – with Fred Spooner, with Betty Kalb – but my attitude had changed. It was no longer ‘When will I get a part, what will I do if I don’t find something soon, who’s casting what?’ Rather it was ‘I’ve got a part, in a play being produced by Max Gordon, directed by George S. Kaufman.’ Everyone was congratulating me, my actor and usher friends. Buzz Meredith had called me and I told him about it – he was coming to town in a couple of weeks. I wrote Kirk about it. Leo Shull and I agreed that selling
Actor’s Cue
outside Sardi’s hadn’t been such a dumb thing to do. I didn’t think the time would ever pass until rehearsals began, but it did. Time always does.

I got the call to come to Max Gordon’s office for the signing of the contracts the week of August 8. Rehearsals were to start August 15. My contract was basic Equity minimum, written in language I did not understand then and do not understand now. I trusted Max Gordon and I was right. He was one of the few producers I have ever known who told the truth and who cared about quality. I gave my copy of the contract to my Uncle Jack, who kept it in his files for me. It promised me whatever the going rate for rehearsal was at the time, fifty dollars per week when we went out of town, and minimum daily living expenses on the road. We were to open in Wilmington, Delaware, on September 18, play one preview and four performances; then the Colonial Theater in Washington, D.C., for two weeks and the
Wilbur in Boston for two, then the Big Street – Broadway.

On the first day of rehearsal I was a wreck. Christ, I had the part, why was I so damn nervous? But I felt terrific at the start of the day. At the stage door of the Lyceum Theatre, the familiar face of the stage manager. New scripts were passed out, as there had been some changes. I saw Joyce Gates and Jacqueline Gately; we were all introduced to Dorothy Peterson, who played Mrs Ladd, the professor’s wife; to Sam Jaffe, the star. George Kaufman was onstage, Arthur Sheekman and the other authors, Ruth and Augustus Goetz, were onstage, Max Gordon was onstage. Chairs were placed along three sides of two long tables, where we were all told to sit. Kaufman welcomed us, told us we would just read through the play today, become familiar with one another and the parts we were playing, and tomorrow we’d start moving around. So the reading began. I kept taking deep breaths, telling myself to be calm, face buried in my script, thinking of everything but the character I was playing, trying not to shake or at least not to show that I was and praying that my voice would not quiver when the time came. The pros seemed very much in control, started to mark their scripts. Even at this reading there was a suggestion of what their characters would be like. My first cue came and a sound came out, not a true vocal sound, a totally forgettable sound. The other girls didn’t sound like that. I was shaking so, I felt sick. I kept my head down, didn’t dare look in the direction of Kaufman, the authors, or even the other actors. Well, it had to get better, God knows I couldn’t sound worse. We got through the first act, took a ten-minute break, the beginning of coffee in paper cups. I started then as I’ve continued all through my life – telling everyone how nervous I was, hoping that talking about it would make it go away. It doesn’t. It makes it worse. Later you discover that everyone is nervous. All actors are terrified – they just learn how to control it.

The second read-through was easier, but not by much for me. At day’s end George thanked us all, told us he’d see us tomorrow. I apologized for my nerves – he said, ‘Don’t worry, we have three weeks of rehearsal, no one expects perfection the first day, there’s time. Take it easy.’ Of course I had also learned that the first five days of rehearsal are a trial period for an actor – or can be. Any time during that period the producer or director can decide to replace you with no obligation on their part. So I’d gotten the job, but until four more days had
passed, disaster could strike. I went home, exhausted by my apprehensions and anxieties, started marking my script and studying my lines. The next day I’d have to stand up – walk around – without the protection of a table in front of me and people close on either side. On day number two I was there before ten. The stage manager was onstage putting tape on the floor to mark off the room – where the walls would be – and placing chairs opposite each other to signify a door, other chairs for a sofa, a window, etc. Immediately we had to begin to imagine where everything would be – what it might look like. Make-believe was beginning.

So the rehearsals went smoothly for the next three days. I began to make a bit more sense with my part. I’d sneak looks at Kaufman, Sheekman, the Goetzes to see if they disapproved. Every time they whispered or glanced in my direction I thought the end was near. George would pace up and down the center aisle with his arms bent and his hands under his armpits, wearing a terrible squinting expression that made him look as though he hated everything. He would always speak softly and individually to the actors when giving direction. If there was something in particular he wanted to say, he’d come onstage, put his arm around the actor’s shoulder, walk him off to one side and tell him what he wanted. It is the most graceful way of directing I have ever seen. No wonder he had been so successful and highly thought of – he did not embarrass or humiliate the actors, he instilled trust, and they gave their best to him. And he’d make a joke every now and then. One day he walked down the center aisle, to the edge of the stage and whispered, ‘There’s a Japanese spy in the house.’ All who understood laughed. He meant that Lee Shubert – one of the famed theatre owners – was in the back of the house. Shubert wore an inscrutable expression and sneaked around a lot. Clearly he was not a popular fellow. Just as clearly Kaufman was – the actors warmed to him, though Sam Jaffe seemed to be having some difficulty. Not acting difficulty, but something was not quite right. Each of us ingenues had to curtsy to him in the play – a formality observed as we started our day’s lessons. I remember how Sam Jaffe took my hand and pulled me down to a low curtsy and kept me there until he pulled me up. I did as he wanted – too scared not to.

On the fifth day of rehearsal we all streamed back after the lunch break. George Kaufman, in the orchestra, beckoned to me to come
over to him. ‘Oh God,’ I thought, ‘this is it. He doesn’t like me in the part. I won’t do. Oh, I’ll die right here and now!’ I nervously (what else?) walked downstage. He motioned me to squat down so he could talk to me. ‘Betty – we’ve been thinking …’ It never occurred to him I would be in such a panic, so unsure of myself that I would be telling myself, ‘Oh, this is it. I’m going to be fired! Don’t cry now, whatever you do.’ ‘We’ve talked it over – Arthur, Ruth and Gus, and myself – and we’d like you to try reading Maud instead of Adele. You and Jackie switch parts for the rest of the day.’

‘Was I doing something wrong, Mr Kaufman?’

He must have sensed my panic. ‘For heaven’s sake, no. We just think the other part is better for you – better for the play.’

‘Of course,’ I said. I felt some relief, didn’t totally fall apart, managed to stand up and prepare myself for the switch. He must have been right about my playing Maud, for I remember things about her and nothing about Adele. At the end of the day George came up to me and said, ‘You stick with Maud, it’s much better this way.’ And I did and it was.

So the rehearsals continued into the second week and so did I. They went smoothly. I was very happy playing Maud, but Sam Jaffe and Kaufman did not seem to be getting along. We supporting players were not privy to the facts, but we sensed it. A few days before we were to leave for Wilmington it happened. We arrived for rehearsal one morning and Kaufman announced that by mutual agreement Sam Jaffe had withdrawn. After much thought as to whether they should recast, they had decided to let the understudy, Reynolds Evans, play the part for the day and then make a final decision. What a burden for poor Reynolds Evans! All I cared about was that the play must continue. My first speaking part – I had to be heard on Broadway, otherwise how would I get those fabulous notices I had planned in my fantasies?

We got through the morning. The authors, producer, and director had a lengthy luncheon meeting, of course – then we continued through the afternoon. George worked with Reynolds Evans, kindly and helpfully as always. It was a relief to take the focus off oneself and concentrate on someone else. At the end of the second day with Reynolds we were asked to gather onstage. George then made the announcement: they were going all the way with Evans and felt sure
that he would do the job well and that the play would be a success. That led to a round of applause for Reynolds, who was all smiles. So it would go on, and we were all pulling for him, the play, Kaufman, and our jobs. The unity that exists in the theatre is what makes it the most special place on earth. Not in any other branch of the entertainment world does one get the sense of everyone pulling for the success of the whole. It’s a cooperative effort, an exchange between people – that’s what’s important, that’s what we all love about it…. At least that’s what the pros love about it.

Finally came the dress rehearsal and a chance to put on make-up. To put to practical use some of those hours spent at the American Academy. It was so exciting – the smell of the greasepaint. Corny but true. Greasepaint was still being used, and I bought all the necessary paraphernalia. It was great to be in make-up and costume and see everyone else that way – to work with props. We were not going to rehearse on the actual set until Wilmington, but we all were realizing what we would have to do then, and I thought it was the best play in the world. I’d forgotten I had thought
Johnny 2 × 4
was the best play in the world too – it was, I guess, until it opened.

Travel day was the following day – we were all to meet at Penn Station. Oh, glorious excitement! We all said, ‘See you in Wilmington … see you at the station … see you!’ I met Fred Spooner for a cup of coffee before heading home to pack, and of course Betty Kalb was there as well – Walgreen’s being ‘there.’ I was off on my first real adventure in the theatre, the first rung on the ladder – it was actually happening. Fred and Betty kissed me goodbye, wished me luck.

Of course I had no luggage of my own, so used a suitcase of Mother’s. I didn’t have much to take, but I packed what I had – one good dress, slacks, sweaters, skirt. I had never been anywhere without her but summer camp or school. Here I was going off on my own a few days before my eighteenth birthday on September 16, still a minor. Oh, it was a lot to absorb. Also, Buzz Meredith had called me. He was still in the Army and hadn’t got to New York during the rehearsal period, but he wanted to wish me luck – asked what theatre I was opening in, what day, and where in Washington. Said I must see the Lincoln Memorial by moonlight, and if he was there while I was, he’d take me. It was all too much to hope for.

Mother, of course, was worried that her baby might fall prey to
theatrical wolves. ‘Remember – never give anything away. No man really wants that. Every man wants his wife to be a virgin when he marries her.’ My ‘nice Jewish girl’ upbringing pounded into my head constantly. ‘Keep your distance – darling.’