Les Peterson, who was still with us, never introduced me as Mickey Rooney’s wife, which pissed me off. I knew he was only doing what Mayer had told him to do—as Eddie Mannix was only doing what Mayer told him to do when he put the skids under my dreams of a white wedding. That was another thing that pissed me off: everybody obeyed Louis B. Mayer.
Les said all I had to do was sit on the arm of Mick’s chair at the press conferences and keep looking at him like a fan, like I was one of the bloody bobby-soxers—oh, and I had to make sure the reporters got a good look at my pins! He was incorrigible. “I’m only doing my job, honey,” he’d say whenever I put up a squawk.
But I was enjoying myself, so was Mickey. We were two young kids having a whale of a time. We never for a minute forgot that it was our honeymoon! We were discovering new things about each other all the time—as I said, there was plenty of scope for that! Like he was athletic in the sack, and I was pretty verbal, and we were both very, very loud!
It was a hoot, and we made sure there was always time for a quickie. I was seeing and doing things I never thought I would do and see in my life.
In Boston we had dinner at the mayor’s house. It was a very formal affair, with silverware out to here on this side and out to there on that side. I was on my best behavior but terrified about using the wrong knife and fork.
There again you see, if I’d been drinking in those days, the shyness wouldn’t have been so bad, and I wouldn’t have gotten into such a panic. At least I’d learned not to wipe my knife and fork on the napkin! I swear to Christ, that’s what I did at the first smart dinner party Mickey took me to in Hollywood!
He said to me afterward, “You made a little faux pas at dinner, sweetheart.” I was too dumb even to know what a faux pas was. But I learned pretty fast.
From Fort Bragg we took a little side trip to Raleigh to visit Mama. I hadn’t seen her since Bappie and I took off for Hollywood the previous August. She had been too ill to go to our wedding. She was bedridden, and we all knew it was cancer by that time. My sister Inez and her husband had set her up in a little den next to the front room. This was the first time she had met Mickey, and she’d gotten herself dressed up to the nines. He made such a fuss of her. He was marvelous. My whole family turned out for him: my brother, all my sisters, nieces, and nephews. And Lord, when Mick had an audience was he good. He did his impersonations, he sang, he danced. He clowned. He was the complete movie star and Mama loved her movie stars! He made her the center of attention. It was probably the last truly great day of her life, although she survived for another year. I’ve never been able to express my gratitude for the things that touch me deeply and nothing had ever touched me as deeply as Mickey’s performance for Mama that day. He treated her like a queen.
Driving up to Washington that evening—we had been invited to President Roosevelt’s sixtieth birthday party at the White House—I tried to tell Mick how much his show for Mama had meant to me. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get the words out. Finally, I just said, “I’m so pleased I married you, Mickey Rooney.”
He said, “Of course you are, sweetheart. Who wouldn’t be?”
He made a joke of everything, but I meant it. I don’t often blub, but I wept twice that weekend: once for Mama, because of her joy; and once for Daddy, because I missed him so. He would have been so proud to see me at the White House, having dinner with his hero, FDR. We watched the president give one of his famous Fireside radio broadcasts and all I could think was, Daddy would have loved this, he would have been so proud of me.
I was still working when the phone rang. It was 2 A.M. I knew it would be Ava.
“Why are you still up at this hour?” I said, picking up immediately.
“I can’t sleep, honey.”
“What’s troubling you?”
“I have such a fucking headache. It’s not even a hangover either.”
I said I was sorry to hear that.
“What are you doing up, hon?” she said.
“Working on your book,” I said nobly. Encouraged by a “honey” and a “hon” on the trot, I wondered whether she would say sorry for having accused me of dragging my feet. “I work better at night,” I said.
“How far have you gotten?” she said.
I wasn’t going to get an apology. But neither, apparently, did she plan to fire me on the spot.
“I’m wrapping up the story of your honeymoon, you and Mick visiting your mother in Raleigh,” I told her.
“Have you written about going to the White House for Roosevelt’s sixtieth birthday?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ve covered the highlights of that marriage, honey,” she said philosophically.
I knew she was deadly serious, but I laughed anyway.
“It went downhill so fucking fast from there.” She laughed, too. Nobody could laugh the way she did. But the disintegration of her first marriage always seemed to fascinate her, as if she still couldn’t figure out why it had gone sour so quickly. “If the sex hadn’t been so good, it wouldn’t have lasted as long as it lasted. It’s a pity nobody believes in simple lust anymore,” she said.
I started making notes. Although I suspected that she had said it before, or something very much like it, I wanted to make sure I remembered it. I would certainly use it. After a longish silence, she said wearily: “Oh Peter, I’m so depressed. I’ve made so many fucking mistakes in my life, honey.”
“Christ, we all make mistakes, Ava.”
“Do you love me?” she said. “The truth.”
“Of course I do.”
“It doesn’t matter… as long as you’re still my friend.”
“I’m still your friend.”
“I wake up at night thinking of all the fuckups I’ve made. I wish I could turn them into funny stories. The way Dorothy Parker used to. Maybe you can do that for me? Make me sound witty and not so fucking dumb every time I open my mouth?”
“You’re not at all dumb. You make me laugh.”
“I may have to marry you,” she said.
“It’s a pity nobody believes in simple lust anymore,” I repeated her line, but she didn’t seem to recognize it. She didn’t seem to find it funny, anyway.
“How’s your head?” I asked. We had been talking for about an hour.
“I’ve taken a tablet.”
I heard her yawn. “You should try to get back to sleep,” I said.
“I will. A drink might help. But I can’t be bothered to get out of bed.”
“You shouldn’t drink, not if you’ve taken a tablet,” I said.
“Okay,” she said.
“Promise?”
“Yeah. Good night, hon,” she said quietly and put down the receiver.
I made a few more notes, and went to bed. The next morning I typed up the notes of our conversation and went back to her story.
It’s a shame that it didn’t work out with Mick. The idea of being married had always appealed to me, and I was hopelessly in love with him by this time. We lived in a tiny apartment on Wilshire and Palm Drive in Westwood that we’d rented from Red Skelton. One bedroom, living room, kitchen, and a tiny dining room. (There’s a big high-rise there now.) We were out all the time, all the time. Oh God, Mickey and I were out practically every night of our lives together. We danced, he drank a fair amount—I was catching on pretty fast. But Mick was working every day, too. He was carrying the weight of the studio on his shoulders. I don’t know how he did it. We had a damn good goosefeather mattress, I suppose that helped the boy!