I'll Cry Tomorrrow Page 23

  “You mean, instead of sitting in a bar all night, we go to all-night movies?”

  “That’s right,” he laughed.

  I was very much aware of Burt seated next to me in the theatre. I remonstrated with myself. This is silly Lillian. You’re an old bag. He’s only being kind, carrying out his twelve-step work helping an alcoholic—that’s all. Don’t get silly ideas.

  After the show we stopped for hamburgers. My appetite was slowly returning; at least I could handle food without nausea. When Burt took me to the entrance of my hotel, we talked for a few minutes. Then, as he left me, he said, “Lillian, remember, from this moment on, you’ll never walk alone again.”

  What a line, I thought, as I went up the elevator. He couldn’t possibly mean it. But if he didn’t, why did he say it? In the past the men in my life stood to gain by complimenting me. I had youth, glamor, money, then. Now I possessed nothing. I was 140 pounds of buxom woman, bloated, my complexion blotched with fine networks of broken blood vessels, testament to my innumerable drunks; my eyes were constantly bloodshot; I wheezed from inflamed sinuses; my hands still trembled. What had Burt to gain?

  I could hardly wait, however, until the next day to see him. But before he appeared at the clubhouse, John approached me. “Lillian,” he said, “I want to talk to you. As a friend.” He went on, after a moment, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you ought to know something about Burt McGuire before you fall for him. He’s from the Four Hundred, kid. His family has homes in Southampton and Palm Beach and Park Avenue. He’s real society. He’s here only because of his alcoholic problem. He’s had trouble with his family and they’ve disowned him until he gets out of it.”

  I understood what I was being told. You’ve been through the mill, kid. This family won’t have any part of you.

  Now I remembered. I’d read it in a Broadway column. This was the T. Burt McGuire, Jr., who helped Sherman Billingsley of the Stork Club select pretty debutantes for public events. He knew rich, young, beautiful girls. What kind of fairy tale was I building up for myself? To him I was just another broken-down, pitiable drunk that had to be helped, that was all.

  Burt, arriving a few minutes later, greeted me warmly. How did I feel? Would I like to take a walk? He’d been thinking, he said. Oughtn’t I think about resuming my career? Maybe rehearse a few songs? He would like to discuss my future with me.

  “Please,” I said. “I don’t feel like talking about impossible things.” I went to another table.

  When I rose to go, hours later, Burt approached me. “Can’t a few of the gang walk you home?” he asked. “Let’s all go over to your place and scramble some eggs and bacon.”

  The others chimed in. “Come on, Lillian.” I had to agree. About ten of us pooled our money to buy bacon, eggs and coffee cake, and later we sat around at my apartment until nearly three a.m.

  Presently only Burt remained. “Lillian,” he began “aren’t you going to let me really help you?”

  “That’s the only reason you’re here, of course,” I retorted bitterly. “It’s to help me. It couldn’t be any other reason.”

  He went on calmly. “You’re taking sleeping pills, aren’t you?”

  I was shocked. “How did you know?”

  “I could tell. You always have a bovine expression on your face.”

  Oh! Bovine! That’s how he saw me. As a big cow. Naturally. Him, and his pretty, young, slim debutantes.

  “I’d like to tell you something for your own sake, Lillian,” he was saying in his quiet, pleasant voice. “I like you. You are a nice person. I think you could be a wonderful person again. You know I observed you for six or seven weeks before I talked to you. I never thought you’d be able to stick it out. I thought you’d be on the street long ago. But you’ve stuck with it—and that’s why I’m saying this to you. If you’re going to take sleeping pills, you might as well go back to drinking. Because if you continue the pills, you’ll get involved with dope, and then you’ll really be on a merry-go-round.”

  “I know all about sleeping pills,” I said impatiently. “But liquor always meant more to me. Pills never bothered me.

  “Yes, but now you’re using them as a substitute. That’s something different, and more serious.” He shook his head. “I’m not telling you what to do, I’m telling you what you’re up against if you continue.” He sat there looking at me, very sweet, very earnest—and very right.

  “But what will I do now?” I asked contritely. “How can I stop? I can’t sleep. I can’t get through the nights— I never could.”

  “If you’ll let me, I’ll stay here every night until you can sleep without pills,” he said. I looked up at him quickly. “I promise I won’t bother you in any way.”

  He did not leave that night. Night after night he sat by my bed. Hour after hour he talked to me. “You know God is really watching over you and trying to see that you go to sleep. You know it. You’re on the road up, and nothing’s going to stop you now—nothing”

  Sometimes I slept, but there were nights when, toward dawn, I could endure it no longer. Then I said, “Excuse me, Burt,” hurried into the bathroom and swallowed a sleeping pill as once I had sneaked a drink of liquor. Within five minutes Burt knew what I had done. He said nothing. It was a struggle, and we both knew it.

  In August, 1946—I had been sober for eight weeks— Burt left to spend a month with his family in Southampton. He was invited to see them from time to time. I had learned by then that his parents were devout Catholics, and known for their Catholic philanthropies. His grandfather had contributed heavily to the building of Mary-knoll Seminary near Ossining, N. Y., one of the largest and best known for the education of foreign missionaries. Burt had all but broken his mother’s heart in two ways— his alcoholism, and the fact that he had virtually left the church, attending services only when in Southampton so as not to embarrass his family there.

  Before he left, he said, “You must try to get back to your career. Why not call on Milton Berle again? You’re well enough to make a real try now.” I followed his advice, but it was one of my most difficult steps. I called on Milton in his Brill Building office. I was accompanied by John, for in case of an emotional setback, his was the practiced hand that would keep me from the nearest bar. He waited downstairs in the lobby as I went up.

  I sat for half an hour outside Milton’s door. Show people came and went. Lillian Roth, the has-been, coming to her old friend Milton for a handout. I sat there and took it.

  Milton greeted me with all his old exuberance. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go to Lindy’s for a bite and then we’ll talk.” For a wild moment I wanted to scream. Why had it always to be Lindy’s! Why had I always to be put on display! We walked down Broadway, John trailing discreedy behind. Our journey was a steady succession of “Hi, Bill—Hi, Sammy—you remember Lillian Roth, don’t you?” I wanted to sink through the sidewalk. They saw me, Lillian Roth, fat, purple-faced, cheap dress, cheap shoes, she who got socked—-When we entered the restaurant, John lounged outside with a cigarette, pretending to be absorbed in the autographed photographs which filled Lindy’s Broadway window.

  When I emerged, I had a booking. Milton had proved a friend in need. An agent whom he knew would give me a one-shot chance, at a fee of $100, in a Catskill hotel— the Borscht Circuit.

  I rehearsed in my room to the accompaniment of a phonograph. Florence Lustig, who had been a member of the Charlanna League, and who owned an exclusive apparel shop, fitted me with a dress. “I can’t afford an expensive gown,” I told her. She let me have a $150 dress for $30. Katie gave me money to buy a pair of shoes. I was ready.

  I stood in the wings, trembling, clutching John’s hand. Through my performance he would stand in the wings, where I could see him, to give me courage, as Burt was to stand at every performance through the years to come. A roll of drums—and the announcement by the master of ceremonies: “And now—folks—someone you’ll all remember—a great singer and a great personality�
�Lillian Roth!”

  I was before an audience again, and one in which virtually every man and woman knew my story.

  I sang the numbers I had practiced to records, and I closed with “You Will Never Walk Alone,” because these were Burt’s words. The applause rolled toward the stage. I realized that it was sympathetic applause. The men in the audience were sorry for me, even as they were contemptuous, as perhaps every man is secretly contemptuous of a woman who has so far lost her femininity as to become a sprawling drunk. As for the women seated beside their men—no envy was in their hearts this night They could applaud without reservation. I certainly wasn’t competing with them. No husband watched me covetously, and every wife knew it. I was just a girl who had lost a good man in Judge Shalleck, a girl who had messed up her life.

  I sang automatically. Years of training came to my support, so though I cringed inwardly, outwardly I sang unconcerned.

  “Very good, Lillian,” were the words that greeted me as I came off the stage. If I wanted additional proof, here were two more bookings later in the month. Meanwhile, I held in my hand an envelope with $100 in cash. I sent $50 to Katie at once; and, back in New York, spent most of the remainder taking a group of AA’s to dinner. Dad would have done that, too. With $15 which was left, I bought a pair of beautiful shoes. I was on the way to becoming a woman again.

  I was booked at the Coronet Club in Philadelphia by Mickey Alpert, at $500 for a week’s engagement—more than I had dreamed of in years. Bobby Kroll turned out a number of tunes for me and I borrowed money from Milton Berle to buy two gowns,

  Again at the Coronet Club, as I stood on the stage, I thought, what is the audience thinking? They’re thinking, see that dame up there? Remember her? She used to be a big star. She’s been a lush for years….

  When I came off the stage, the fumes of liquor overwhelmed me. A dry alcoholic in a nightclub is like a diabetic in a candy factory; temptation—and breakdown-are an arm’s length away. One of the club owners was a jovial type. “Lil, you did a swell job. Don’t you want to celebrate,” he urged me. “Let’s have a drink.”

  “No, thanks, I’m on the wagon,” I said politely.

  He wasn’t satisfied. I raised a glass of orange juice to my hps and my nostrils were assailed by the unmistakable odor of bourbon. I felt the rush of blood to my face. “Oh, no,” I exclaimed.

  He grinned. “Oh, I thought I’d fool you. One little drink can’t hurt you.”

  I almost wept. “It’s poison to me!” I cried. “You might as well give me carbolic acid!”

  I sniffed every drink thereafter, but by the time my engagement was over and I returned to New York, I had almost succumbed. Only the presence of a few AA’s who dropped in at the club enabled me to get through the engagement. When Burt came back from Southampton a few days later, I exploded. “I can’t stand it,” I shrieked. “I don’t want to sing again. People don’t think of me any more as a talent. I’m just a freak to them!”

  Burt tried to soothe me. “It’s all in your mind,” he said. He took me to AA meetings; he took me to movies, night after night; he played bridge with me; and he talked, and talked, and talked.

  “Don’t be afraid of people,” Burt said. “You’re just as important to God as they are—maybe more, because you’re one of the sick ones.”

  To the one place I feared most—Lindy’s—I went again, at its most crowded hour. After a sandwich and coffee, on my way out I passed a woman I had known all through my married life with the judge. Her husband was a judge of the New York Supreme Court; she had been our guest many times; they had often taken part in my charity affairs; we, in turn, had visited their home. We were old friends.

  I went over to her and slid into the booth, next to her. I put out my hand. “Hello, Dorothy, how are you?”

  She looked through me. “I don’t know you,” she said icily, ignoring my hand.

  I was stunned. “Why, Dorothy, I’m Lillian, I was married to Ben Shalleck. Have I changed so much?”

  “I don’t know you,” she repeated coldly. “Please leave my table.”

  I barely managed to stand up. The room started to spin. Hot and cold waves came over me: I couldn’t swallow. All these people about me, who saw or heard or must know what had been said: the clatter of dishes; the movement of waiters—I had to get out that door. So Burt said I was as good as anyone else! Somehow I pushed my way out and paid my check.

  My eyes blinded with tears. I made my way to the clubhouse, to sob out my story to Burt. “You see, I’m not like other people! Decent people won’t have anything to do with me!”

  “Don’t let it throw you,” he said, comforting me. “You didn’t drink. You came here. That’s the important thing. You didn’t allow self-pity to drive you to a bar. As for her—she’s sicker than you are.” And so be buoyed me up again.

  But there were other experiences. A few days later, driven by a will I had believed long since broken, I walked into Lindy’s again. I’d show these people, how I could take it.

  An elderly waiter came to my table. “How are you today, Miss Roth?” he asked. I smiled at him. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “I hear you’re going to try to make a comeback,” he whispered. “Maybe you don’t remember me, but I know you well. I’ve watched you through the years. I knew you when you were a little girl, and I waited on you when you came in here with your mother and sister.” He paused, and leaned closer. “Look, Miss Roth, if you— well, if you ever need money for gowns or traveling, I can always loan you a few hundred—even more if you need it”

  Tears stung my eyes. How good people could be! But I couldn’t let him know how badly off I was. Instead, I said, “Oh, thank you, that’s sweet of you and I appreciate it, but really I don’t need a thing.” My heart overflowed.

  “Burt,” I said one afternoon, “remember the day you first came over and talked to me in the clubhouse? What did you really think of me?”

  He smiled, his blue eyes crinkling with amusement. “You won’t be flattered,” he said.

  I put my hand on his arm. “Tell me, anyway.”

  “Well, you were sitting there when a fellow came up to me and said, ‘Burt, when are you going to twelve-step Lillian Roth?’

  “I looked over at you again. I thought, she isn’t very pretty,” he went on, his voice belying his words. “The thought that came to me was, she looks so woebegone with those huge, sad, swollen eyes. I used to watch you then—I guess we all did. I never figured you’d make it. You were so high-strung and you seemed to pay no attention to what was being said. You had lost so much, and you had so little to gain, I thought, because it didn’t appear as if you’d ever go anywhere in show business even if you became sober.” He stopped. “I remember asking you how old you were, and you said thirty-four. I thought you were lying. ‘She’s closer to fifty-four,’ I said to myself.”

  “Oh, Burt!” Then I said, “Am I beginning to look better?”

  I was losing a year a week, he said, laughing. He went on seriously, “I mean it. You’re coming back and you’re going to be a big success again.”

  “Oh, please,” I said, almost impatiently. “Even if my complexion ever clears up again, even if I got the right songs and a chance to sing, I’m still thirty-four. I could never be a glamor girl again.”

  “You’re the type of woman who becomes more glamorous as she matures,” he said stoutly. “Think of Mary Martin, Ginger Rogers, Joan Crawford—”

  “Oh, Burt. You’re a man. It isn’t so hard for you”

  A few days later I said, “You don’t see much of your family, do you, Burt? Where do you live now?”

  He replied, “At the Pennsylvania.”

  One day, wanting to reach him, I telephoned the Pennsylvania Hotel. No Burt McGuire was registered there, nor had been for months. Why did he he to me? Perhaps he didn’t want me to know where he lived. But wasn’t honesty basic in the AA program? Too embarrassed to press him, I checked with John.

  John looked at me
for a moment. “Did he say Pennsylvania Hotel?”

  “That’s how I understood it,” I replied. “Pennsylvania.”

  “Well, he was right as far as he went. He probably would have told you sooner or later,” John said. “Burt, you know, is broke most of the time and he’s too proud to borrow. He used to spend most of his nights at the Pennsylvania Turkish Baths, until his family closed his account there. Now and then he sleeps in the waiting room of the Pennsylvania Station, with a ticket stub in his hat so they won’t kick him out.”

  I looked at Burt differently after that.

  He had his own overwhelming problem. He had been stricken with polio as an infant. It almost completely paralyzed him until he was nine years old. He was in braces until he was 16. His family tried to compensate him: he had his own ponies, his own boat, he travelled widely. Despite all this, he became an alcoholic at eighteen. “Liquor opened a world of fantasy to me,” he told me later. “I wasn’t the boy who always stumbled and fell, who couldn’t play baseball or football, whose speech nobody could understand until I was twelve…” During the war he tried to enlist, but was rejected. He volunteered to become an ambulance driver for the American Field Service attached to the British Army. He saw eighteen months’ service overseas. He was in action in El Alamein, in Eritrea and Syria. In Africa he was almost continuously drunk. Once, after the war, he awoke in a Toronto hotel with no memory of how he had gotten there. “The last thing I remembered had occurred five weeks earlier!” The shock of that sent him to AA. When he met me, he had been sober for nearly thirteen months. Meeting me, he said, gave him a new hold on himself. Now, he felt, he had someone at his side who made the fight against alcohol worthwhile.

  Later, he told me that in those months though the principle of AA was working for him—he was physically sober, but without spiritual understanding—he had prayed, hoping there was a God who would hear him, who would send him someone whom he could love and who would love him, for he was very lonely.