I'll Cry Tomorrrow Page 9

  Although I was never too happy in furs and jewels, they were expected of a star, and so on Sundays I bedecked myself with them, and Willie and I made our appearance at our first port of call—Toots Shor’s Five O’clock club, where everybody who was anybody was always found at Sunday cocktail hour. Toots himself, whom I had met when I was fifteen, in Philadelphia, always gave us a warm welcome. We sat at my favorite post, a table near the entrancé, where we could see everyone and everyone could see us.

  Par for the course here was three old-fashioneds: four, if you were in the mood; I always was. Experts explained to me that old-fashioneds gave you the lift to swing into a scintillating evening. Their tartness awakened one’s palate, too.

  The hand of the clock moved on; and presently we were making our gay goodbyes and adjourned to the Stork Club, where everybody who was anybody was always found at Sunday dinner. Again our entrance, properly timed and skillfully executed: Lillian Roth, star of stage, screen and radio, and her adoring Willie, six feet of blond, handsome manhood.

  Naturally, it was not comme il faut to order dinner directly: the tang of the old-fashioneds had mellowed, and—so the best authorities held—nothing quite picked you up again as well as a straight rye—with a water chaser. That guaranteed an honest-to-goodness bon appétit.

  Then one ordered—steak chateaubriand for two, and a salade which your own lovely hands (stubby fingers forgotten) would mix, with just a soupçon of garlic. And while you waited—for Sherman Billingsley was undoubtedly standing at the broiler, stopwatch in hand, to assure the exact degree of succulence—perhaps a second rye, straight. A second rye went exquisitely with the crisp, gleaming celery, the delightfully bitter olives, the radishes red as your own flushed cheeks.

  Reluctantly, since all good things must come to an end, you turned to your food—and wines. Naturally you ordered sparkling Burgundy because everyone knew red wine complemented good red meat.

  For dessert—when the huge newspaper-size bill of fare was thrust into your hands and your eyes finally focused on the print—what else but cherry jubilee? Followed, as every gourmet knows, by a demitasse—with Benedictine. No sugar. Certainly no cream. Never cream in a demitasse, even if Willie wanted it.

  The violins sobbed, and the Huguette in me stirred and woke. How sweet, how tragic, how bitter-sweet we all are, everyone of us, in a world we never made! How warm I feel! How wonderful to float away on rivers mysterious as poems whose words just escape you, to float away, serene and queenly, into unseen beauties of heart and mind and soul…. The hum of voices, the warmth, the glow, the white tablecloths, the red wines, the walls, the sobbing violins all begin to spin….

  “Honey, I better take you home. Right now!” It’s Willie’s voice, from far away. A strong right arm to help me rise, unsteadily. How much I love the world! “Willie, I’m so hot!” Maybe I would make it to the ladies’ room, maybe not But I doubt if I was as beautiful in my exit as in my entrance.

  Willie worked out a plan. If we were to buy a plane— a three-passenger Curtis Wright, costing about $2,500— he could fly packages for a department store. I bought the plane. Willie had several forced landings while flying about seeking the contracts that never materialized. We argued hotly. I didn’t like him to fly. He might be killed and I would hold myself responsible.

  “O. K.” he said dejectedly. “I’ll go back to Pittsburgh and see if I can’t work out something in Dad’s lumberyard.”

  I drove him to the airport and saw him off. After he left, I thought, poor Willie. I wouldn’t let him accept a pilot’s job, and that was the one thing he had been trained for. I was ruining his flying career, and our lives were all mixed up. Our marriage will never work out, I thought, as I drove back to town.

  At night, after my performance, I drank heavily. I was out to forget something. I wasn’t sure it was David anymore, though I broke down thinking of him every night But I continued my work, and shortly went on tour of a number of Paramount’s Eastern Theatres.

  The day I was to open at the Newark Paramount, Katie and I passed the front of the theatre on the way to morning rehearsal. My name was up in lights as the headliner. When we returned, however, a large pennant fluttered conspicuously above the marquee. In enormous gold letters against a black field, it read: MILTON BERLE–IN PERSON!

  Katie stopped. “Where is he ‘in person’ from?” she demanded. “He’s never made a picture.” She walked backstage to find Mrs. Berle. “Sarah—I mean Sandra—” she said. “Where in the world did you get that flag?” Mrs. Berle laughed. “Oh, Katie, we always carry Milton’s flag with us.”

  Mother and I went into a fit of laughter in my dressing room. “Shall we ask the manager to take it down?” I asked. Mother dismissed the idea. “If Sarah—I mean Sandra—can drag that flag about, let her have it The audience knows who’s the headliner.”

  CHAPTER XI

  A COURTEOUS little man in a gaberdine coat was waiting when I returned late one night from Newark.

  “Miss Roth?” he said, and presented me with an envelope. In it was a summons to appear in municipal court. I owed a garage bill of $232 for repairs and storage for my old car during my trip abroad. I had refused to pay it, contending that all I owed was $32 for storage, since I had not requested any repairs. The summons was the garageman’s answer.

  Katie and I appeared in court the day I was to open at the Paramount Theatre in New York with Georgie Jessel, Burns & Allen and Bing Crosby. I was twenty, and although I looked the picture of innocence in a little black princess dress with big white organdy collar, and a little white, off-the-face hat, I was suffering from a violent hangover. My mouth felt as though it were lined with absorbent cotton.

  Waiting for the case to be called, I grew impatient. “Oh, Mom, let’s pay the money and get out of here,” I exclaimed. But Mother decided we ought to see it through. She added, “Look at the judge, Lilly. Doesn’t he look young to be sitting up there?”

  I was too bleary-eyed to see him clearly, so we moved up several rows. It was Judge Benjamin Shalleck, and he was young and good-looking, with warm, brown eyes. “Mom, I think I’ll stay,” I said.

  When my case was called, I went before him, and began, “Your Honor, I—”

  He interrupted me. “You have a lawyer to speak for you, Miss.” Well, I thought, isn’t he nasty! My lawyer requested an adjournment, pointing out that I would be busy for the next three weeks.

  “Is this so, Miss Roth?” His Honor asked. “Yes, Judge,” I said meekly. He looked at me for a moment, and then smiled—a captivating smile that made him look almost boyish. “There’s a great deal of unemployment about today, and if the young lady has work, we certainly don’t want to keep her from it Case adjourned until three weeks from today.”

  For the first time since David’s death my heart felt lighter. “Oh, Mom,” I whispered as we walked out. “I’ve just got to meet him. Isn’t he adorable?”

  She squeezed my arm. “He certainly is, darling.”

  Georgie Jessel, who was on the Paramount bill with me, didn’t know the judge. Neither did Burns and Allen, nor Bing Crosby, nor anyone else in the show whom I asked. Nearly three weeks later I came across Taps Shaurnstein, an agent, who knew him. “I see him in Lindy’s every night,” he said.

  “I’ve got to meet him,” I said breathlessly. “He’s the most adorable thing I ever saw.”

  Taps laughed. “Tell you what. After the show tonight, drop into Lindy’s casually with your mother and I’ll introduce you.”

  Lindy’s restaurant, on Broadway and 51st Street, was then as now one of Broadway’s most popular rendezvous for show people. That night it poured, but Mother and I arrived in style in our magnificent Hudson. Neither Taps nor the judge were in the restaurant. We waited for nearly an hour. Then a telephone message came for me.

  “We’re up here at Pomerantz’,” said Taps. “He changed his mind.”

  We hurried out, hailed my chauffeur, and drove wildly through the rain to Pomerantz’, anot
her restaurant some thirty blocks north on Broadway. When we entered I saw the judge at a table, and my heart began to thump. I began twisting my handkerchief like a 15-year-old.

  “I want you to meet Miss Lillian Roth and her mother,” said Taps, doing the honors. “This is Judge Shalleck and his brother Joe.”

  The judge had a little smile as he shook my hand. He knew I had come up in the downpour to meet him. There was silence for a moment. Joe Shalleck, who I’d heard was a well-known criminal lawyer, began the conversation.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Lillian Roth.”

  “I know that. But what do you do?”

  I stared at him coldly. “I walk a tightrope,” I said.

  “I see you bite your nails,” he went on blandly. “What are you so nervous about? Look what you’re doing to your handkerchief.”

  “That’s just a little idiosyncrasy of mine,” I retorted. “And anyway, look how you chew your cigar.” I was furious. I wanted to get up and walk out.

  “You’ve got a case coming up before my brother—tomorrow, isn’t it?” Joe pursued. I said, “Yes.” The judge, who had been sitting back smoking a cigar, spoke for the first time. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “No,” I said, ready to cry with mortification. “What’s $232 to me?”

  “It seems strange that we should meet the night before.”

  I rose. “I’m leaving. Can I drop you anywhere? I have a car outside.”

  They strolled out with me. “Is that your car—the red one?” demanded the judge, in a tone of disbelief. “I wouldn’t be seen riding in that fire-engine! Why, it’s the gaudiest thing I ever saw.”

  “It’s not red, it’s iridescent ruby,” I said icily. “As far as I’m concerned, you can both walk. It will do you good.” With that parting shot I assisted my mother into the car and followed regally; our chauffeur tipped his hat, and we drove off.

  “I hate men like that!” I almost wept. “I won’t go into that courtroom tomorrow.”

  In the morning, however, I was there, as I knew I would be. Judge Shalleck ruled against me; by the time I paid my lawyer, the case had cost me well over $400.

  The judge called me before him. “Are you satisfied with the verdict?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Well, if you want to be technical, perhaps not.”

  “You mean you’re having doubts about your decision? Isn’t that a strange admission for a judge?”

  He reddened slightly. “Miss Roth, you are morally responsible for this debt, even if you are a minor. And you’re able to pay it”

  “That’s perfectly all right with me,” I said curtly. “Goodbye.”

  “Now, now, wait a minute,” he said placatingly. “I’m just reading about you—in Winchell’s column.” He had the New York Daily Mirror spread open before him. I leaned over to read: “Lillian Roth and her flyer spouse are straining at the handcuffs.”

  “Well!” I said with some spirit, “no wonder I lost my case if you’re reading a paper while it went on!”

  He grinned. “Seriously,” he said, “is there any truth in it?”

  I drew on my gloves. “Well, in a way it’s so”

  He picked up his gavel and toyed with it “Be home tonight,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

  “Is that a court order?” I retorted.

  He laughed, and I laughed.

  We drank beer at a speakeasy the following evening. I felt as self-conscious as a little girl. I had headlined with famous personalities, I had seen police holding back crowds struggling to see me, I had signed hundreds of autographs—yet I was in awe of this 34-year-old judge of the municipal court bench.

  On the way home he asked, “When are you going to be divorced?”

  The question was completely unexpected. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t thought about divorce. “Well, I really don’t know,” I replied.

  “My brother can handle it for you,” the judge said. “Why don’t you see him tomorrow?”

  We were at the entrance of my hotel. “Goodnight,” he said, and kissed me. It was April, the first anniversary of my marriage to Willie.

  Joe Shalleck was helpfulness itself. A Mexican divorce could be arranged. All I was required to do was telephone Willie in Pittsburgh to sign the necessary papers.

  “I can’t do that,” I said unhappily. “I just couldn’t break it to him.”

  Joe Shalleck understood. If that’s the way I felt, he would handle that, too.

  Two days later a heartbroken Willie was in my hotel room, weeping. How could I do this to him? I wavered, on the verge of calling off the divorce. After all, I liked Willie and he was in love with me. The telephone rang. Judge Shalleck was in the lobby, waiting to take me for a drive.

  “Please,” Willie begged. “I’m sick, Lillian, I need you. I’ve lost twenty pounds, Lillian. I’ve got tuberculosis.”

  I knew he was playing on my sympathy, but I had too much experience with illness to dismiss his words. “All right, Willie,” I said “I’ll call your mother tonight and if what you say is true, I’ll go back with you.”

  I went out with the judge. Willie took a room at the hotel.

  His mother told me there was nothing wrong with Willie, when I called her. She understood my position: she agreed that we were not meant for each other.

  CHAPTER XII

  IF JUDGE SHALLECK wants me to divorce Willie, I reasoned, he must want to marry me. He was one of the town’s eligible bachelors, I knew. He had only recently been elected to the bench. He was proud of the telegram he showed me not long after our first meeting, from Governor Franklin D. Roosevelt, congratulating him. “From what the Counsel to the Governor has told me of your ability and experience and qualifications,” it read, “I am sure you will make a very splendid record.” Ironically, years later, in 1949, Ben Shalleck was defeated for Congressman on the democratic ticket by Franklin D. Roosevelt, Jr.

  I day-dreamed. I would be a judge’s wife. I would have a home, and children, and a warm family circle. My life would take on meaning and stability.

  The divorce went through on schedule. As a parting gift I gave Willie the plane he loved so much. I began seeing the judge almost nightly. His courtship was nothing to fill a girl’s diary. He arrived around nine o’clock, the Mirror and Daily News under his arm, and two nickle packages of mints for me. He greeted me, settled himself comfortably on the sofa, and lost himself in his newspapers. Once a week he took me to a fight or a hockey game.

  My grand passion began to subside. Was this how a man treated a woman whose divorce he had arranged? I felt like an iniquitous woman, for he never spoke of marriage.

  I went on a two-week tour. When I returned a friend told me the judge had been dining a girl he used to go with. I was furious. He rarely dined me. I was the girl he visited! Where was he now? In Chicago, at the Democratic National Convention, with his pal, Jimmy Hines, democratic leader in New York.

  I took the first plane for Chicago, marched into his hotel and rang him from the lobby. “This is Lillian. I’m downstairs”

  “Come up,” he said calmly.

  I walked into his room. Before he could get the cigar out of his mouth to kiss me, I demanded, “Is it true you’ve been taking someone else out while I was away?”

  He looked at me fora moment, and slowly replaced his cigar. “Do I ask you who you go out with?”

  “I haven’t been going out with anyone else, but if that’s the way it is, O. K. Goodbye!” I strode toward the door.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Wouldn’t you like to stay over for the nominations? Here with me?”

  I whirled on him. “No!” I screamed. “I nominate you Cad of 1932! You and your gavel and your cigar!” I slammed the door behind me.

  I took the next plane to New York, threw myself into my work, and tried to forget the judge. I was to open almost immediately at the Capitol Theatre,’ making personal appearances with Abe Lyman, Milton Berle and Bette Dav
is. As I hurried up Broadway to the Capitol, I saw that Milton’s name was above mine on the marquee.

  This was too much. The friendly feud we’d had through the years was all very well, but enough was enough. My contract called for first billing, and suddenly I was the Lillian Roth who walked out on Earl Carroll years before. I laid down an ultimatum to the Capitol management: I wanted my top billing.

  To those not in the profession, it may seem childish to take billings so seriously. But you work hard to become a star: you fight to keep the position you’ve won. When you drop from it, the thud echoes from Broadway to Hollywood.

  Inexplicably, Milton came down with a heart flutter in his dressing room. He was sure he couldn’t go on. It took high finesse to meet this crisis. While Milton rested in his room, an emissary was sent to me. Would I consent to split billing? My name would be first on the side of the marquee facing downtown. Milton wanted his first on the opposite side—facing Lindy’s restaurant.

  “All right,” I said. “Let Milton’s friends at Lindy’s see that he has top billing. I’d radier be first in the eyes of the people coming up from the subways.”

  The judge returned to New York and began telephoning me once a week. My feeling toward him had chilled: our conversations were almost impersonal. “Well,” he concluded each one, “I guess I’ll be seeing you around sometime.” “That’s right,” I replied coldly. “You’ll see me around—unless I see you first”

  I was not at a loss for dates. On the rebound from the judge, I met a tall, dark, handsome magician, Fred Keating, who was on the bill with Russ Columbo and me at the Brooklyn Paramount Fred was gay, witty, ready to do anything for a laugh: we were both out for a good time, and we had it together. I told him he had the magic to make me forget: he told me that not since Jeanne Eagels had a woman affected him so. Yet, inwardly I fumed. I wanted my revenge on the judge. Here I had lost Willie; and now the judge, who had encouraged my divorce, acted toward me as if I were just another casual love affair. Neither Fred nor drinking helped me put the judge out of my mind: I decided to return to Hollywood and resume my movie career.