Lady Blue Eyes Page 6

  Zeppo was such an enthusiastic gambler that he placed bets on the outcome of almost every game of golf. Being such a good player, he usually won, which drove one of his opponents, the comic writer Danny Arnold, crazy. Desperate, Danny went to see a “golf psychiatrist,” who told him that he’d never beat anyone wearing or using the color red. So, for their next game, Danny insisted Zeppo discard his red and white golf bag as well as the red socks he slipped over his clubs. Zeppo agreed, and Danny had the best game of his life. They were almost through to the final green when Zeppo dropped his pants to show his scarlet shorts. Needless to say, Danny lost.

  One day, Zeppo took me to Harpo’s house to meet his brothers. I’d heard so many stories about their mother, Minnie, and father, Sam, a hopeless tailor with one short leg and one short arm. Unable to pay the rent, the family was kicked out of every house they lived in and made money however they could. Harpo and Chico were almost identical, but Chico was a much more versatile pianist, so he would audition for jobs in houses of ill repute but send Harpo (who knew only one tune) to work. Those boys would probably still be working in brothels but for Minnie, who put them on the stage in vaudeville acts because she knew they were naturally so funny. She was right.

  At Harpo’s house, El Rancho Harpo, Zeppo introduced me to Gummo and his wife, Helen, as well as Groucho and Chico. Chatting with them, I learned about the nicknames they’d chosen for themselves when they were in vaudeville. Zeppo (whose real name was Herbert) was named after the zeppelin. Groucho (Julius) got his name because they were usually paid in cash and he’d put it in what was called a “grouch bag.” Chico (really Leonard) was so named because he chased the “chicks” even more than the others. Gummo (Milton) got his name because he wore rubber-soled gum shoes, and Harpo, who was christened Arthur, played the harp.

  Zeppo was too young for the stage when they began and joined the troupe only as a last-minute stand-in when Gummo joined the army. Zeppo was due to go out with a friend that night on a double date with some Irish girls, but instead he had to cancel and hop on a train to Texas. A few hours later, his friend was shot dead by an Irish gang who took exception to a Jewish boy dating one of their own. Show business truly saved Zeppo’s life, and he stayed on as the stooge when Gummo decided to quit and go into manufacturing after the war.

  When I was first presented to Groucho, he rolled his eyes at Zeppo and flapped his thick black eyebrows at me in true Groucho style. “Mmm!” he said with a leer, licking his lips. “Quite a dish!” He was the most outspoken of the brothers, very much in charge, and could be gruff at times, but he and I got along just fine.

  After a while, I asked, “Where is Harpo?”

  “Under the table,” his wife replied. I knew the Marx Brothers were known for their off-the-wall comedy, but I didn’t realize it extended to their personal lives. When Zeppo discovered where his brother was, he went over to the table, got down on his hands and knees, and began talking to him.

  Looking up at me from all fours, Zeppo said, “Hey, Barbara! Come on over, I want you to meet Harpo.” So I went over and stood by the table, but Zeppo insisted, “You have to get down.” So I got down on my hands and knees alongside him, and there was Harpo under the table with his head pressed to it.

  “Hi, Harpo,” I said, feeling like an idiot. “Nice to meet you.… Tell me, why are you down here?”

  He laughed. “I made a little shelf under the table for my glasses, so that I can see the television. I glued it and was holding it in place, but then my head got stuck to it, so here I am!” Harpo was so funny. I loved him. He was the sweetest of all the Marx Brothers. After we’d had our chat, we stood up and carried on as if there was nothing unusual about our host being glued to the table.

  Just as Bob Oliver had before him, Zeppo took me to meet his family only because he was pressing me to be his wife. Whenever I saw he was getting up steam to propose, though, I quickly changed the subject or began an argument—anything to distract him. I didn’t want to be backed into a corner and have to turn him down, so I stalled him repeatedly. He was kind and generous, but I really didn’t want to marry him.

  One of my chief reasons for avoiding his impending proposal, though, was that he wasn’t great with Bobby. Zeppo had no paternal instincts whatsoever, despite having adopted two children in his previous marriage. Although he tried for my sake to connect with my son, he always seemed relieved when Bobby went back to the military academy or to visit his grandparents. I’d already lived with a man who hadn’t taken to my son, and I didn’t want to have to go through all that again. Besides, I was relatively young and missed having my own money and a career. I had too much fire in me to live a dull life of retirement. Modeling in L.A. had never lost its allure and still seemed a realistic possibility, so after five months in the idyllic date palm oasis, I scooped up Bobby, kissed Zeppo good-bye, and headed a hundred miles west.

  FOUR

  My wedding day to Zeppo Marx, surrounded

  by my famous brothers-in-law.

  COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR

  All or Nothing at All

  Hoping to make at least enough to continue to pay for Bobby’s education, I presented myself at the Mary Webb Davis model agency on Sunset Boulevard. Camera-ready in my finest clothes, I sat waiting sometimes all day until they’d send me for a go-see.

  Fortunately, I soon had bookings for runway shows at stores like Saks and Robinsons, modeling for some of those who made movie costumes during the Golden Age of Cinema. They liked me so much that they took me with them on the road. Traveling the globe for a fortnight at a time, we’d set up in fancy hotel suites, where I’d do a series of quick changes and show off the latest collections to prospective buyers.

  The hours were long, from seven in the morning to midnight. The shoes were always the wrong size, and my feet hurt so much that I’d sit on the edge of the tub and run them under hot and cold water before easing them back in. My employers included Helen Rose and Irene Lentz (who went by their first names) as well as Howard Greer and Richard “Mr.” Blackwell. Howard designed for Joan Crawford, Katharine Hepburn, and Rita Hayworth. After hours, Howard and his significant other, Bruce, dressed me up and used me as their beard. They told one bartender in a drag club that I was really a man and had to pull him off me when he went to check me out.

  Helen Rose designed the most elegant clothes and went on to become head costume designer at MGM Studios. She made the clothes for Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Judy Garland in Meet Me in St. Louis, and Grace Kelly in High Society and The Swan. When Grace married Prince Rainier of Monaco, she had Helen design her wedding dress. Irene Lentz was also a brilliant tailor. One of her biggest clients was Doris Day, and it was my frame Irene used to design the outfits Doris wore in the thriller Midnight Lace with Rex Harrison. I even made a small appearance in the film’s trailer as Doris’s double. My one and only moment on the silver screen had my face in shadow with no lines to stumble over. One night Irene fell asleep with an electric blanket covering her head and woke up with her face paralyzed. A few years later, she slashed her wrists and jumped out of a hotel window.

  I never really liked Richard Blackwell, who designed for Jayne Mansfield, Dorothy Lamour, and Jane Russell, even though he used me as the fitting model on which he cut and draped many of his designs. He was mean to everyone around him, especially his boyfriend Spencer. In hotel suites, he’d have me slip in and out of up to thirty different outfits an hour with the help of my stylist Sidney while he gave a running commentary. I had to be available at any hour, so it was not unusual for Blackwell to drag me out of bed to model for prospective clients after he’d wined and dined them.

  These colorful characters were gay, but it never bothered me, even coming from such a small-town background. My father always believed in the maxim live and let live, so that’s what I did.

  • • •

  In spite of the hours, my working life was exciting, well paid, and the realization of all my teenage dreams. I knew I
was a good model once I’d mastered the theatricality of it. I was able to afford the rent on a 1920s bungalow in Beverly Hills. Something was still missing, though. It wasn’t that I was unhappy; how could I be when my son was such a joy to me? I had plenty of friends too but was secretly lonely inside.

  Not that I was allowed to be for long, because one day Sidney, now my former stylist, turned up on my doorstep unemployed and never left. He took over my life, rearranged my furniture, and redecorated my home. He scrawled swearwords five feet high on the living room walls, insisting they were “beat,” and when two coats of paint wouldn’t cover them, he draped sheets of linen over his graffiti instead. He also pretended to be my butler in the most outrageous outfits whenever anyone came to call.

  One day, it was Zeppo, who’d driven into town in his Rolls-Royce to take me out to dinner. Zep stood in the doorway as elegant as anything with flowers and candy in his hand when Sidney opened the door, wearing a Hawaiian muumuu. At that moment, I flushed the toilet in the lean-to part of the duplex just above Zeppo, and the leaky plumbing piddled water straight onto his head. Being a Marx brother, he loved the wackiness of the whole scene. When he returned for our next date, though, he was well prepared. I opened the front door to find him sheltering under a large umbrella.

  Once Zeppo saw the sheet-draped living room, he cried, “My God, I’m in a coffin!” Zeppo could always make me laugh, and I couldn’t help but love him for that. There had been so little laughter when I was a child that I craved it my whole life. Whenever Zep was in town, he’d come around and take me out. He was witty and handsome, claimed to adore me, and nothing I could do or say seemed to distract him from his goal of making me his wife. Being with Zeppo reminded me that there was another life, far away from leaky cisterns and my punishing schedule, meeting the payments on my car and the house, as well as taking care of Bobby.

  “I’ve been torching you for over a year,” Zeppo finally reminded me one night in Chasen’s restaurant. “Why not move back to Palm Springs and use my penthouse in Beverly Hills if you still feel the need to work?”

  “But I don’t play golf or tennis,” I protested lamely.

  “You could learn,” he suggested gently.

  “But there’s Bobby—” I began to protest.

  “Enroll him in any school you like,” Zeppo interrupted. “I’ll pay. During term time, you and I can fly off to Europe together or sail somewhere in my yacht. Whatever you want.”

  He was very convincing, and when he saw my hesitation, he added softly, “I’ll take good care of you, Barbara.”

  I looked into his smiling eyes. Zeppo was offering me security, the likes of which I’d never known. Life would be good. Bobby’s future would be secure, and he’d be educated in the finest schools. “But you haven’t really proposed,” I pointed out.

  Just as had happened to me once before, my dinner date got down on one knee in the middle of a crowded restaurant and took my hand in his. “Will you marry me?” he asked.

  I took a deep breath. “Sure,” I heard myself saying. “I’ll marry you, Zep.”

  Feeling suddenly very happy and realizing how much I’d come to care for him, I added, “I’ll make you a good wife, darling. I promise.” As I leaned forward and kissed him, I meant every word.

  On September 18, 1959, Zeppo and I were married in the place where we met—the Riviera Hotel in Vegas. It was a quiet affair with Bobby, my parents, my sister and her husband, and a few close friends. Zeppo had already bought me a six-carat emerald-cut diamond engagement ring, and on our wedding day he presented me with a simple gold band. We’d both been married before and didn’t want a fuss. Although I was a Methodist and had been married into a Catholic family, Zeppo didn’t mind, and he never asked me to convert to Judaism. He said I became Jewish by injection.

  After the ceremony, we went straight to the tables, where I used to help dress the room. Ida and Penny were still around, and we had a drink and caught up with all the news. Zep and I spent the rest of our weeklong honeymoon taking in shows like the one at the Copa Room of the Sands with Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis, Jr. I sat next to Mary Benny, the wife of Jack, and the two of us laughed so hard at the impromptu way those three fed off one another. One would sit in the audience and suddenly jump up to say something; another might break into a song or pretend to be drunk. It was all unscripted, and you could tell they were having as much fun as we all were.

  I moved into Zeppo’s Palm Springs house, and he immediately added a room outside for Bobby, which impressed me enormously until I realized that it was to keep my son out of the way. But Zeppo could be sweet, charming, and as funny as anything when he wanted to be. One night early on in our relationship, after we’d come in from dinner at a restaurant, he watched me as I undressed. First I slipped off my dress, and then I undid the long blond hairpiece I’d worn that night and placed it in a drawer. Carefully, I peeled off my eyelashes, and then I reached into my bra and pulled out the falsies I sometimes wore to give me a little extra boost. They too went into the drawer. Laughing, Zeppo said, “I don’t know whether to get into bed or the drawer!”

  He bought a new yacht, which he named the Barbara Ann, and kept it at the Salton Sea Club or down at the Balboa Bay Club near Newport. We’d sail to Catalina Island and I’d water-ski, but I’d never been much of a sailor since the Queen of Bermuda days, and my namesake ended up as a party boat for Zeppo. In his sixth decade, my husband didn’t have to work, even after he claimed to have lost $6 million one night alone at the craps table. Having trained as an engineer, Zeppo had made most of his money with a company named Marman, which machined parts for the war effort. He’d helped invent the Marman screw clamp, which was used to secure bombs and fitted to fuel lines in just about every airplane made during World War II. He also produced a two-cylinder motorized bicycle. He patented a wristwatch that could tell if someone was about to have a heart attack, although nothing ever came of it. When he wasn’t tinkering around with bits of metal and springs, he’d run a talent agency with Gummo, representing writers and actors, including Barbara Stanwyck. He always said that the only clients he didn’t like to handle were his brothers.

  I continued working in Palm Springs and L.A. whenever I could, but Zeppo didn’t like it. Through his showbiz friends, I was offered a couple of minor television roles and walk-on parts. In one brief appearance I made on The Jack Benny Program, I was in a sketch with the comedian Ernie Kovacs. Ernie was wearing a huge false mustache, which I was supposed to find ticklish when I kissed him. Just as in my screen test for Fox, I got an attack of giggles the minute I stepped in front of the camera, and when Ernie made some ad-lib wisecrack, I cracked up, only this time it was incorporated into the show.

  Although Zeppo bought me a car and a mink coat, he wasn’t extravagant with his gifts and only ever gave me one important piece of jewelry—a ruby and diamond bracelet. He didn’t want me to have my own money. It was jealousy, I think, and fear that, if I had the means, I might escape. I should have remembered Marsha in Vegas and learned how to stash. Just like Bob and Joe before him, Zeppo also had quite a temper on him. He reminded me of a little banty hen we’d kept back in Bosworth. We’d have a fight every time a bill came in; he’d even call up my girlfriends to confirm how much I’d lost at gin rummy, and we only ever played for dimes. In the end, I made sure that all the bills came in at the end of each month so I could get his hour of yelling at me over with.

  For my part, I tried to embrace his Palm Springs life as much as I could and enrolled in golf and tennis lessons. With practice and the best teacher—Zeppo—I became a good gin rummy player. My golf playing, however, infuriated him. “You’re lousy,” he’d tell me. “I never want to team up with you again! I’ve been playing this course for years, yet whenever I’m with you I see corners of it I didn’t even know existed.” He wanted me to concentrate on my golf, but tennis was more fun with a younger set and I wasn’t about to give that up. I’d become friends with several member
s of the Racquet Club who were closer to my age, including Hollywood’s golden couple—the actors Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh—as well as the singer Dinah Shore.

  Dinah was one of the greatest ladies in the world, and we had so many laughs together. She looked like Miss Apple Pie Goody Two-shoes but had a wicked sense of humor and loved to party. Each summer in Palm Springs, when the clubhouse was closed and everyone had left, Dinah and I would don bikinis, go out onto the golf course barefoot, and play golf. It was so hot that we’d hit one ball, then run into the backyards of our friends’ empty houses and jump into their pools to cool off. We’d always leave our left hands out of the water with our golfing gloves on. By the time we got back to the ball, we’d be dry.

  Janet Leigh was a great gal too, a terrific lady on and off the tennis court. When I first met her, she’d just won the Golden Globe for her role in Hitchcock’s Psycho and been nominated for an Oscar. Despite her enormous presence on-screen, she was so thin she could hardly control her two Great Danes, who’d come lumbering up and lick us all over. Her husband was a drop-dead handsome guy. Such a charmer and extremely flirtatious, Tony Curtis had a strong Bronx accent, and in one movie he had to say the line “Yonder lies the castle of my father,” but instead he said, “Yonder lies the castle of me fodder.” We’d rib him mercilessly about that. He was a great storyteller and would regale us with the tale of the time he made his first movie, in 1948, with the screen siren Yvonne De Carlo. Afterward, he had a limousine driver take him to his old neighborhood, where all his buddies still knew him as Bernie Schwartz. Hearing them call out hellos and ask him about life in Hollywood, Tony rolled down the window and shouted, “I fucked Yvonne De Carlo!”