passion brought the crowd to the boiling point, just like his union organizer in
Waiting for Lefty
. Almost two thousand people crowded into that room cheered him. They would have followed him anywhere.
A week after Clifford Odets spoke at Joe Bromberg’s memorial, he met with the committee and gave names.
I went to a meeting at Actors’ Equity. Leon Janney was sitting in front of me.
“Well, you made the list,” he said.
“What list?”
He was holding the new
Red Channels
, a directory of left-wing actors and “subversives.” My name was in it. I could feel the blood drain from my head. My remarks from the memorial were quoted. From that day forward, for twelve years, I was blacklisted from film and TV. And Arnie left Margie for the last time.
• • •
A few weeks after Arnie and I returned from California in the Packard, he moved into a nice residential hotel near the Theater District. I spent time with him there, but not sleepovers. I still lived with my parents and was careful not to reveal too much about him. It seemed Arnie was trying to figure out his family situation, his relationship with Margie. My friend Anne Jackson, with her woolen hat squishing her red hair, would stop by our apartment and ring the bell. “Can Lee come out to play?” she would call out, and the two kids we really were would escape the adult world and run down the street laughing, holding our stomachs.
Melanie and Darren McGavin had a little apartment above a Chinese restaurant on 52nd Street. They were married, which none of the other young actors were, and they tortured each other with theirflirtations and flaunted their affairs. It made me swear to myself that in any future relationship, I would make a life agreement to tell nothing and ask to hear nothing.
One day, Melanie and I were heading somewhere and saw a big metallic sign in front of a kind of semi-mansion. It said PLASTIC SURGERY, RHINOPLASTY . We wrote down the number and called. I had a bump on my nose that I wanted removed. Melanie wanted her nose shorter. The nurse said the operation was done right there in the mansion, in a kind of barber chair. We should come prepared to spend the night, but if the swelling went down we might go right home. We looked at each other—cool! Let’s do it and not tell anybody.
I was in my bedroom on 52nd Street, packing my little overnight bag, hoping to get out of the house before my mother came home, when she opened the door to my room. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to get my nose done. It’s all arranged. I’ll be home later. Don’t try to talk me out of it, blah, blah.”
She sat on the bed very quiet, very calm. “Darling, you are going to a butcher. This is your face, and if you are determined to do this, let me call our doctor and find a surgeon and a hospital that does this operation.”
“I told Melanie I’d meet her.”
“Call her, stop her,” said my mother.
The cold water hit me. I was frightened by the rashness of what I had been about to do.
Our doctor set me up with the medical group that had operated on the Hiroshima women. He scraped the bone. My face swelled. I spent at least two nights in the hospital.
Melanie McGavin heard my warning call but decided to go through with it anyway. The tip of her nose was cut off, operated on by a charlatan.
My Parents Demand to Meet Arnie
M y parents demanded to meet with Arnie. He agreed, since I wanted very much for them, especially my father, to see what an extraordinary man he was—how lucky I was to have him as a friend, how caring and concerned he was. Arnie came in the door. I don’t think anybody shook hands.
My parents were on the couch. We sat opposite them. It was that time of day when they seemed in silhouette; the windows, hung with thin white curtains, threw a cool light. I don’t remember Arnie’s preamble, possibly something mild: “I really care about your daughter . . .” Trying to warm them, charm them. The
Waiting for Lefty
. Almost two thousand people crowded into that room cheered him. They would have followed him anywhere.
A week after Clifford Odets spoke at Joe Bromberg’s memorial, he met with the committee and gave names.
I went to a meeting at Actors’ Equity. Leon Janney was sitting in front of me.
“Well, you made the list,” he said.
“What list?”
He was holding the new
Red Channels
, a directory of left-wing actors and “subversives.” My name was in it. I could feel the blood drain from my head. My remarks from the memorial were quoted. From that day forward, for twelve years, I was blacklisted from film and TV. And Arnie left Margie for the last time.
• • •
A few weeks after Arnie and I returned from California in the Packard, he moved into a nice residential hotel near the Theater District. I spent time with him there, but not sleepovers. I still lived with my parents and was careful not to reveal too much about him. It seemed Arnie was trying to figure out his family situation, his relationship with Margie. My friend Anne Jackson, with her woolen hat squishing her red hair, would stop by our apartment and ring the bell. “Can Lee come out to play?” she would call out, and the two kids we really were would escape the adult world and run down the street laughing, holding our stomachs.
Melanie and Darren McGavin had a little apartment above a Chinese restaurant on 52nd Street. They were married, which none of the other young actors were, and they tortured each other with theirflirtations and flaunted their affairs. It made me swear to myself that in any future relationship, I would make a life agreement to tell nothing and ask to hear nothing.
One day, Melanie and I were heading somewhere and saw a big metallic sign in front of a kind of semi-mansion. It said PLASTIC SURGERY, RHINOPLASTY . We wrote down the number and called. I had a bump on my nose that I wanted removed. Melanie wanted her nose shorter. The nurse said the operation was done right there in the mansion, in a kind of barber chair. We should come prepared to spend the night, but if the swelling went down we might go right home. We looked at each other—cool! Let’s do it and not tell anybody.
I was in my bedroom on 52nd Street, packing my little overnight bag, hoping to get out of the house before my mother came home, when she opened the door to my room. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to get my nose done. It’s all arranged. I’ll be home later. Don’t try to talk me out of it, blah, blah.”
She sat on the bed very quiet, very calm. “Darling, you are going to a butcher. This is your face, and if you are determined to do this, let me call our doctor and find a surgeon and a hospital that does this operation.”
“I told Melanie I’d meet her.”
“Call her, stop her,” said my mother.
The cold water hit me. I was frightened by the rashness of what I had been about to do.
Our doctor set me up with the medical group that had operated on the Hiroshima women. He scraped the bone. My face swelled. I spent at least two nights in the hospital.
Melanie McGavin heard my warning call but decided to go through with it anyway. The tip of her nose was cut off, operated on by a charlatan.
My Parents Demand to Meet Arnie
M y parents demanded to meet with Arnie. He agreed, since I wanted very much for them, especially my father, to see what an extraordinary man he was—how lucky I was to have him as a friend, how caring and concerned he was. Arnie came in the door. I don’t think anybody shook hands.
My parents were on the couch. We sat opposite them. It was that time of day when they seemed in silhouette; the windows, hung with thin white curtains, threw a cool light. I don’t remember Arnie’s preamble, possibly something mild: “I really care about your daughter . . .” Trying to warm them, charm them. The
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